[Illustration: DOG-TRAIN FOR THE NORTH.

                                        _Frontispiece._
]




  The Wild North Land

  THE STORY OF A WINTER JOURNEY WITH
  DOGS ACROSS NORTHERN NORTH AMERICA

  BY LIEUTENANT-GENERAL

  SIR WILLIAM FRANCIS BUTLER, G.C.B.

  AUTHOR OF

  “THE GREAT LONE LAND” AND “RED CLOUD, THE SOLITARY SIOUX”


  “I cannot rest from travel. I will drink life to the lees.”
  “I am become a name for always roaming with a hungry heart.”


  _WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAP_


  TORONTO
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF
  CANADA, LTD.
  1910

[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM BUTLER’S WILD NORTH LAND.

  Part of
  BRITISH
  NORTH AMERICA
  _to illustrate_
  “THE WILD NORTH LAND”

                              Weller & Graham L^{td}. Litho, London

BURNS & OATES.]




PREFACE.


People are supposed to have an object in every journey they undertake
in this world. A man goes to Africa to look for the Nile, to Rome
to see the Coliseum or St. Peter’s; and once, I believe, a certain
traveller tramped all the way to Jerusalem for the sole purpose of
playing ball against the walls of that city.

As this matter of object, then, seems to be a rule with travellers, it
may be asked by those who read this book, what object had the writer
in undertaking a journey across the snowy wilderness of North America,
in winter and alone? I fear there is no answer to be given to the
question, save such as may be found in the motto on the title-page, or
in the pages of the book itself.

About eighteen months ago I was desirous of entering upon African
travel. A great explorer had been lost for years in the vast
lake-region of Southern Central Africa, and the British Nation--which,
by the way, becomes singularly attached to a man when he is dead, or
supposed to be dead--grew anxious to go out to look for him.

As the British Nation could not all go out at once, or together, it
endeavoured to select one or two individuals to carry out its wishes.

It will be only necessary to state here, that the British Nation did
not select the writer of this book, who forthwith turned his attention
from African tropic zones to American frigid ones, and started out upon
a lonely cruise.

Many tracks lay before me in that immense region I call “The Wild North
Land.” Former wandering had made me familiar with the methods of travel
pursued in these countries by the Indian tribes, or far-scattered
fur-hunters. Fortunate in recovering possession of an old and
long-tried Esquimaux dog--the companion of earlier travel--I started in
the autumn of 1872 from the Red River of the North, and, reaching Lake
Athabasca, completed half my journey by the first week of March in the
following year. From Athabasca I followed the many-winding channel of
the frozen Peace River to its great cañon in the Rocky Mountains, and,
journeying through this pass--for many reasons the most remarkable one
in the whole range of the Rocky Mountains--reached the north of British
Columbia in the end of May. From thence, following a trail of 350 miles
through the dense forests of New Caledonia, I emerged on the 3rd of
June at the frontier station of Quesnelle on the Frazer River, still
400 miles north of Victoria.

In the ensuing pages the story of that long tramp--for it was mostly
performed on foot--will be duly set forth. Written by camp fire, or in
cañon, or in the little log-house of a northern fur fort, when dogs and
men rested for a day or two in the long icy run, that narrative will
be found, I fear, to bear many indications of the rough scenes ’mid
which it has been penned; but as, on a former occasion, many critics
passed in gentle silence over the faults and failings of another story
of travel in the Great Lone Land, so now it may be my fortune to tell
to as kindly an audience, this record of a winter’s walk through more
distant wilds--for in truth there has been neither time for revision
nor correction.

Fortune, which eighteen months ago denied me African adventure, offers
it now with liberal hand.

I reached the Atlantic from the Pacific shore to find an expedition
starting from England against Ashantee; and long ere this story finds
a reader I hope to be pushing my way through the mangrove swamps which
lie between the Gold Coast and Coomassie. To others even must fall the
task of correcting proofs, while I assume my part in the correction and
revision of King Koffi Kancalli, and the administration to his subjects
of that proof of British prowess which it has been deemed desirable to
give them.

Meantime, my old friends Chief Kar-ka-konias, Kalder, and Cerf-vola,
will be absent from this new field; but, nevertheless, there will be
present many companions of former travel, and _one_ Chief under whose
command I first sought the Great Lone Land as the threshold to remoter
regions.

                                                  W. F. BUTLER.

         LONDON,
 _September 21st, 1873_.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.
                                                                    PAGE
  The Situation at Home--The West again--A Land of Silence             1


  CHAPTER II.

  Powder versus Primroses--The American Lounger--“Home, sweet
    Home”                                                              8


  CHAPTER III.

  Fort Garry under new aspects--Social Societies--An old
    Friend--Pony “the perverse”                                       12


  CHAPTER IV.

  The Wilderness--A Sunset Scene--A white Savage--Cerf-Vola the
    Untiring--Doggerel for a Dog--The Hill of the Wolverine--The
    Indian Paradise--I plan a Surprise--Biscuits and Water            21


  CHAPTER V.

  The Forks of the Saskatchewan--A perverse Parallel--Diplomatic
    Bungling--Its Results                                             36


  CHAPTER VI.

  Our Winter Home--A Welcome--I start again--The Hunter’s
    Camp--In quest of Buffalo on the Plains--“Lodge-poling” leads
    to Love                                                           43


  CHAPTER VII.

  An Ocean of Grass--The Red Man--Whence comes he?--The
    Buffalo--Puritans and Pioneers--The Red Man’s Friend              49


  CHAPTER VIII.

  Buffalo Hunts--A Picture once seen long remembered--L’Homme
    capable--A wonderful Lake--The lost Indian--An Apparition--We
    return Home                                                       57


  CHAPTER IX.

  Strange Visitors--At-tistighat the Philosopher--Indian
    Converts--A Domestic Scene--The Winter Packet--Adam and his
    Dogs                                                              70


  CHAPTER X.

  A _tale_ of Warfare--Dog-sleds--A Missing Link--The North
    Sea--“Winterers”--Samuel Hearne                                   83


  CHAPTER XI.

  A Dog of no Character--The Green Lake--Lac Ile à la Crosse--A
    Cold Day--Fort Ile à la Crosse--A long-lost Brother--Lost
    upon the Lake--Unwelcome Neighbours--Mr. Roderick
    Macfarlane--“A beautiful Morning”--Marble Features                95


  CHAPTER XII.

  The Clearwater--A bygone Ocean--A Land of Lakes--The Athabasca
    River--Who is he?--Chipewyan Indians--Echo--Major succumbs at
    last--Mal de Raquette                                            118


  CHAPTER XIII.

  Lake Athabasca--Northern Lights--Chipewyan--The real Workers of
    the World                                                        137


  CHAPTER XIV.

  A Hudson’s Bay Fort--It comes at last--News from the outside
    World--Tame and wild Savages--Lac Clair--A treacherous
    Deed--Harper                                                     143


  CHAPTER XV.

  The Peace River--Volcanos--M. Jean Batiste St. Cyr--Half a Loaf
    is better than no Bread--An oasis in the Desert--Tecumseh and
    Black Hawk                                                       158


  CHAPTER XVI.

  The Buffalo Hills--A fatal Quarrel--The exiled
    Beavers--“At-tal-loo” deplores his Wives--A Cree Interior--An
    attractive Camp--I camp alone--Cerf-vola without a
    Supper--The Recreants return--Dunvegan--A Wolf-hunt              171


  CHAPTER XVII.

  Alexander Mackenzie--The first Sign of Spring--Spanker
    the Suspicious--Cerf-vola contemplates Cutlets--An
    Indian Hunter--“Encumbrances”--Furs and Finery--A “Dead
    Fall”--The Fur Trade at both Ends--An old Fort--A Night
    Attack--Wife-lifting--Cerf-vola in Difficulties and
    Boots--The Rocky Mountains at last                               191


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  The wild Animals of the Peace River--Indian Method of hunting
    the Moose--Twa-poos--The Beaver--The Bear--Bear’s Butter--A
    Bear’s Hug and how it ended--Fort St. John--The River
    awakes--A Rose without a Thorn--Nigger Dan--A threatening
    Letter--I issue a Judicial Memorandum--Its Effect is all that
    could be desired--Working up the Peace River                     206


  CHAPTER XIX.

  Start from St. John’s--Crossing the Ice--Batiste le
    Fleur--Chimeroo--The last Wood-buffalo--A dangerous
    Weapon--Our Raft collapses--Across the Half-way River            225


  CHAPTER XX.

  Hudson’s Hope--A Lover of Literature--Crossing the Peace--An
    unskilful Pilot--We are upset--Our Rescue--A strange Variety
    of Arms--The Buffalo’s Head--A glorious View                     236


  CHAPTER XXI.

  Jacques, the French Miner--A fearful Abyss--The Great Cañon of
    the Peace River--We are off on our Western Way--Unfortunate
    Indians--A burnt Baby--“The Moose that walks”                    247


  CHAPTER XXII.

  Still Westward--The Dangers of the Ice--We enter the main
    Range--In the Mountains--A Grizzly--The Death of the
    Moose--Peace River Pass--Pete Toy--The Ominica--“Travellers”
    at Home                                                          263


  CHAPTER XXIII.

  The Black Cañon--An ugly Prospect--The vanished Boat--We
    struggle on--A forlorn Hope--We fail again--An unhoped-for
    Meeting and a Feast of Joy--The Black Cañon conquered            279


  CHAPTER XXIV.

  The Untiring over-estimates his Powers--He is not particular as
    to the Nature of his Dinner--Toil and Temper--Farewell to the
    Ominica--Germansen--The Mining Camp--Celebrities                 294


  CHAPTER XXV.

  Mr. Rufus Sylvester--The Untiring developes a new Sphere of
    Usefulness--Mansen--A last Landmark                              304


  CHAPTER XXVI.

  British Columbia--Boundaries again--Juan de Fuça--Carver--The
    Shining Mountains--Jacob Astor--The Monarch of
    Salmon--Oregon--“Riding and Tying”--Nation Lake--The Pacific
                                                                     310


  CHAPTER XXVII.

  The Look-out Mountain--A gigantic Tree--The Untiring retires
    before superior Numbers--Fort St. James--A strange Sight in
    the Forest--Lake Noola--Quesnelle--Cerf-vola in civilized
    Life--Old Dog, good-bye!                                         327


  POSTSCRIPT                                                         343


  APPENDIX                                                           349




ILLUSTRATIONS.


  Dog-Train for the North                                 _Frontispiece_

                                                                    PAGE
  Cerf-Vola, the Esquimaux Dog                                        16

  View from the Spathanaw Watchi                                      31

  “Our Hut at the Forks of the Saskatchewan”                          43

  Sunset Scene, with Buffalo                                          57

  Tent in the Great Prairie                                           69

  The Valley of the Peace River                                      158

  Alone in the Wilderness                                            181

  Night into Day                                                     187

  The Wolf-Chase                                                     189

  Clinging to the Canoe                                              239

  Mount Garnet Wolseley and the Peace River                          266

  Cutting up the Moose                                               271

  Running stern foremost the Black Cañon                             283

  “The Look-out Mountain”                                            327




THE

WILD NORTH LAND.




CHAPTER I.

    The Situation at Home.--The West again.--A Land of Silence.


There had never been so many armies in England. There was a new army,
and there was an old army; there was an army of militia, an army of
volunteers, and an army of reserve; there were armies on horse, on
foot, and on paper. There was the army of the future--of which great
things were predicted--and far away, lost in a haze of history (but
still more substantial than all other armed realities, present or
future), there lay the great dead army of the past.

It was a time when everybody had something to do with military matters,
everybody on the social ladder, from the Prime Minister on the topmost
round to the mob-mover on the lowest.

Committees controlled the army, Departments dressed it, Radicals railed
at it, Liberals lectured upon it, Conservatives condemned it, Peers
wrote pamphlets upon it, Dukes denounced it, Princes paraded it, and
every member of Parliament who could put together half a dozen words
with tolerable grammatical fluency had something to say about it.

Surely such a period must have been one in which every soldier would
have recognized the grandeur and importance of his profession, and
clung with renewed vigour to a life which seemed of moment to the
whole British nation. But this glowing picture of the great “nation of
shopkeepers,” suddenly fired by military ardour, had its reverse.

The stream of advancement slowly stagnating under influences devised
to accelerate it, the soldier wearied by eternally learning from
masters the lesson he could have taught, the camp made a place of
garrison routine and not of military manœuvre, the uniform harness
which had galled a Burton, a Palgrave, a Ruxton, and a Hayward,
from ranks where the spirit of adventurous discovery sickened under
chilling regulation--this harness made more unrelaxingly irksome; a
system of promotion regulated by money--the offspring, it is true, of
foul corruption, but which had become not a little purified by lapse
of time; this system, supplanted by one of selection theoretically
pure, but destined to fall into that lowest of all corruptions,
the influence of political jobbery: all this formed the leading
features in that order of things, old and new, which the spectacle
of a neighbouring nation, struck suddenly to the ground by a mighty
army, had caused the panic-stricken British people to overhaul and to
reconstruct.

Taken any way one can, an army on paper is not a satisfactory
profession. It is subject to sudden and unlooked-for bursts of military
zeal; it is so bent upon nervously asserting itself fit for anything;
it is from its nature so much akin to pen, ink, and envelope of a
common-place type; it has such disagreeable methods of garrisoning the
most pestilential spots upon the earth, and abandoning to republican
bluster whole continents called colonies; those who shape its destinies
are so ready to direct it against matchlock monarchs and speared
soldiery; while arms are folded before those conflicts which change the
past and future of the centuries; all these considerations go a great
way towards making the profession of arms, on paper, at any time an
anomaly.

But when there was also present to the memory of one who thus regarded
the new order of military life, the great solitudes, the inland oceans,
the desolate wilds, the gloomy forests of a far-away land, through
which his former wanderings had carried him; when thought re-sought
again those vast regions of the earth where Nature has graven her image
in characters so colossal, that man seems to move slowly amidst an
ocean frozen rigid by lapse of time, frozen into those things we name
mountains, rivers, prairies, forests; man a mere speck, powerless so
far to mark his presence, in blur of smoke, in noise of city, in clash
of crank, or whirl of wheel: when these things came back in pictures
touched by the soft colours Memory loves to limn with, there were not
wanting dull professional outlooks and dearth of service to turn the
footsteps gladly into the old regions again, there to trace new paths
through the almost exhaustless waste which lies between the lonely
prairies of the Saskatchewan and the icy oceans of the North.

What shall we call this land to those who follow us into its depths?

It has prairies, forests, mountains, barren wastes, and rivers; rivers
whose single lengths roll through twice a thousand miles of shoreland;
prairies over which a rider can steer for months without resting
his gaze on aught save the dim verge of the ever-shifting horizon;
mountains rent by rivers, ice-topped, glacier-seared, impassable;
forests whose sombre pines darken a region half as large as Europe;
sterile, treeless wilds whose 400,000 square miles lie spread in awful
desolation. How shall it all be called?

In summer, a land of sound, a land echoing with the voices of birds,
the ripple of running water, the mournful music of the waving
pine-branch; in winter, a land of silence, a land hushed to its inmost
depths by the weight of ice, the thick-falling snow, the intense rigour
of a merciless cold--its great rivers glimmering in the moonlight,
wrapped in their shrouds of ice; its still forests rising weird and
spectral against the Aurora-lighted horizon; its notes of bird or brook
hushed as if in death; its nights so still that the moving streamers
across the northern skies seem to carry to the ear a sense of sound, so
motionless around, above, below, lies all other visible nature.

If then we call this region the land of stillness, that name will
convey more justly than any other the impress most strongly stamped
upon the winter’s scene.




CHAPTER II.

    Powder _versus_ Primroses.--The American Lounger.--“Home, Sweet
        Home.”


It was just time to leave London. The elm-trees in the parks were
beginning to put forth their earliest and greenest leaves; innumerable
people were flocking into town because custom ordained that the country
must be quitted when the spring is at its finest; as though the odour
of primroses had something pestilential about it, and anything in
the shape of violets except violet powder was terribly injurious to
feminine beauty.

Youthful cosmopolites with waxed moustaches had apparently decided to
compromise with the spring, and to atone for their abandonment of the
country by making a miniature flower-garden of their button-holes. It
was the last day of April, and ere the summer leaves had yellowed along
the edge of the great sub-Arctic forest, my winter hut had to be hewn
and built from the pine-logs of the far-distant Saskatchewan.

In the saloon or on the after-deck of a Cunard steamship steering west,
one sees perhaps more of America’s lounging class than can be met with
on any other spot in the world; the class is a limited one, in fact it
may be a matter of dispute, whether the pure and simple lounger, as we
know him in Piccadilly or Pall Mall, is to be found in the New World;
but a three, or six, or twelve months’ visit to Europe has sufficiently
developed the dormant instincts of the class in the New York or Boston
man of business, to give colour to the assumption that Columbia
possesses a lounger.

It is possible that he is a lounger only for the moment. That one
glimpse of Bunker, one echo of Wall Street, will utterly banish for
ever the semblance of lounging; but for the present the Great Pyramid
_minus_ Bunker’s Hill, the Corso _minus_ Wall Street, have done
something towards stamping him with the air and manner of the idler.
For the moment he sips his coffee, or throws his cigar-end overboard,
with a half-thoughtful, half-_blasé_ air; for the moment he has
discovered that the sun does not rise and set exclusively in the United
States, and that there were just a few shreds and patches of history
in the world prior to the declaration of American independence: still,
when the big ship has steamed on into the shallow waters which narrow
into Sandy Hook or Plymouth Sound, and the broad panorama twixt Long
Island and Staten, or Plymouth and Nahant opens on the view, the old
feeling comes back with the old scenes again.

“Sir, the Bay of New York closely resembles the Bay of Naples.” There
is not the slightest use in telling him that it is quite as like the
Bey of Tunis, or the Hospodar of Bulgaria--so we let it be.

“There, sir, is Bunker’s Hill.”

“Ah, indeed!” drawled a genuine British lounger, with that superb
ignorance only to be attained after generations of study, as he quietly
scanned the ridge through his lazily-arranged eye-glass. “Bunker--who
was Bunker? and what did he do on his hill?”

Yet, ere we hasten away to the North, another word anent our cousin.
These things are, after all, the exception; the temptation to tell a
good story, or what we may deem such, must not blind us to the truth;
the other side of the question must not be forgotten. An English
traveller in America will have so much to thank American travel for
that he can well afford to smile at such things.

It was an American who painted for us the last scenes of Moorish
history, with a colouring as brilliant as that which the Hall of
the Lions could boast of in the old days of Grenada’s glory. To-day
an American dwelling in Rome recalls for us in marble the fierce
voluptuous beauty of the Egyptian Queen. Another catches the colouring
of Claude, in his “Twilight in the Wilderness.” And if, as I have
somewhere heard, it is to the writer of the ballad-song that true
poetic fame belongs, that song which is heard at lonely camp-fires,
which is sung by sailors at the wheel as the canvas-clouded ship reels
on under the midnight gloom through the tumbling seas,--the song which
has reached the heart of a nation, and lives for ever in the memory of
a people,--then let us remember, when we listen to those wondrous notes
on whose wings float the simple words, “Be it ever so humble, there is
no place like home;” let us remember the land whose memory called them
forth from the heart of an American exile.

And now we must away.




CHAPTER III.

    Fort Garry under new aspects.--Social Societies.--An Old
        Friend.--“Pony” the perverse.


The long, hot, dusty American summer was drawing to a close. The
sand-fly had had his time, the black-fly had run his round, the
mosquito had nearly bitten himself to death, and during that operation
had rendered existence unbearable to several millions of the human
race. The quiet tranquil fall-time had followed the fierce wasting
summer, and all nature seemed to rest and bask in the mellow radiance
of September.

It was late in the month of September, 1872, when, after a summer of
travel in Canada and the United States, I drew near the banks of the
Red River of the North. Two years had worked many changes in scene and
society; a railroad had reached the river; a “city” stood on the spot
where, during a former visit, a midnight storm had burst upon me in the
then untenanted prairie. Three steamboats rolled the muddy tide of the
winding river before their bluff, ill-shapen bows. Gambling-houses and
drinking-saloons, made of boards and brown paper, crowded the black,
mud-soaked streets. A stage-coach ran north to Fort Garry 250 miles,
and along the track rowdyism was rampant. Horse-stealing was prevalent,
and in the “city” just alluded to two murderers walked quietly at
large. In fine, the land which borders the Red River, Minnesota, and
Dakota, had been thoroughly _civilized_.

But civilization had worked its way even deeper into the North-west.
The place formerly known as Fort Garry had civilized into the shorter
denomination of “Garry;” the prairie around the Fort had corner
lots which sold for more hundreds of dollars than they possessed
frontage-feet; and society was divided in opinion as to whether the
sale which called forth these prices was a “bogus” one or not.

Representative institutions had been established in the new province
of Manitoba, and an election for members of Parliament had just been
concluded. Of this triumph of modern liberty over primeval savagery, it
is sufficient to say, that the great principle of freedom of election
had been fully vindicated by a large body of upright citizens, who,
in the freest and most independent manner, had forcibly possessed
themselves of the poll-books, and then fired a volley from revolvers,
or, in the language of the land, “emptied their shooting-irons” into
another body of equally upright citizens, who had the temerity to
differ with them as to the choice of a political representative.

Civilization had also developed itself in other ways. Several national
societies had been founded, and were doing prosperously. There was a
St. George’s Society and a St. Andrew’s Society, and, I think, also a
St. Patrick’s Society. Indeed the memory of these saints appears to
be held in considerable reputation in the New World. According to the
prospectus and programme of these societies, charity appears to be
the vital principle of each association: sick Scotchmen, emigrating
English, and indigent Irish, were all requested to come forward and
claim relief at the hands of the wealthier sons of St. Andrew, St.
George, and St. Patrick. Charity, which is said to begin at home,
and which, alas! too frequently ends there also, having thus had its
commencement in the home circle, seemed determined to observe all
home-like institutions; and the annual dinner was of necessity a very
important item in the transactions of each society.

Amidst all these changes of scene and society there was one thing still
unchanged on the confines of the Red River. Close to the stream, at
the place known as the Point of Frogs, an old friend met me with many
tokens of recognition. A tried companion was he through many long days
of wintry travel. There, as fresh and hearty as when I had parted from
him two years before, stood Cerf-vola, the Esquimaux dog who had led
my train from Cumberland, on the Lower Saskatchewan, across the ice
of the great Lakes. Of the four dogs he alone remained. Two years is
a long time in the life of any dog, but still a longer period in that
of a hauling-dog; and Cerf-vola’s comrades of that date, Muskeymote,
Cariboo, and Tigre had gone the way of all earthly things.

To become the owner of this old friend again, and of his new companions
Spanker and Pony, was a work of necessity; and I quitted the Point
of Frogs by the steamboat “Selkirk” with three hauling-dogs in my
possession. Strong and stout as of yore; clean-limbed, long-woolled,
deep-chested; with ears pointed forward and tail close curled over his
broad back, Cerf-vola still stood the picture of an Esquimaux.

Of the other two dogs, Pony was a half-breed, and Spanker, sharp, keen,
and restless, was like his leader, a pure Husky; but, unlike the older
dog, his nature was wild and fierce: some malignant guardian of his
youth had despoiled him of the greater part of his tail, and by doing
so had not a little detracted from his personal appearance.

[Illustration: CERF-VOLA, THE ESQUIMAUX DOG.]

As these three animals will be my constant companions during many
months, through many long leagues of ice and snow, I have here sketched
their outward semblance with some care. Civilization and a steamboat
appeared to agree but poorly with my new friends. Spanker, failing in
making his teeth emancipate his own neck, turned all his attention
towards freeing his companion, and after a deal of toil he succeeded
in gnawing Pony loose. This notable instance of canine abnegation (in
which supporters of the Darwinian theory will easily recognize the
connecting link between the Algerine captives assisting each other to
freedom, &c., &c., after the manner of the Middle Ages), resulted in
the absconding of the dog Pony, who took advantage of the momentary
grounding of the steamer to jump on shore and disappear into the
neighbouring forest.

It was a wild, tempestuous night; the storm swept the waters of the Red
River until at length the steamboat was forced to seek her moorings
against the tree-lined shore. Here was a chance of recovering the lost
dog. Unfortunately the boat lay on the Dakota side, and the dog was at
large somewhere on the Minnesota shore, while between the stormy water
heaved in inky darkness. How was the capture to be effected?

As I stood on the lower deck of the steamboat, pondering how to cross
the dark river, a man paddled a small skiff close to the boat’s side.
“Will you be good enough to put me across the river?” I asked.

“I’ve no darned time to lose a night like this,” he answered, “but if
you want to cross jump in.” The lantern which he carried showed the
skiff to be half-filled with water, but the chance was too good to be
lost. I sprang in, and we shot away over the rough river. Kneeling in
the bottom of the boat I held the lantern aloft, while my gruff comrade
paddled hard. At last we touched the shore; clambering up the wet,
slippery bank, I held the light amidst the forest; there, not twenty
paces distant, stood Pony.

“Pony, poor fellow, good dog, come, Pony, cess, cess, poor old boy.”
Alas! all the alluring dogisms by which we usually attract the animal
were now utterly useless, and the more I cried “Here, here,” the
more the wretch went there, there. Meanwhile my boating friend grew
impatient; I could hear him above the storm shouting and cursing at me
with great volubility: so I made my way back to the shore, gave him
his lantern, and went back into the forest, while he shot out into the
darkness of the river.

Every now and again I heard the brute Pony close to me in the
brushwood. For some time I wandered on; suddenly a light glimmered
through the wet trees: approaching the light I found it to issue from
an Indian wigwam, and at my summons two or three half-clad creatures
came out. There was a dog lost in the woods, would they get lights and
help me to catch him? a dollar would be the reward. The dollar threw
a new light upon the matter. Burning brands were instantly brought
forth from the wigwam fire, but with little result; the vagabond Pony,
now utterly scared out of all semblance of dog wit, sought safety in
the deepest recesses of the forest, from whence he poured forth howls
into the night. I returned to the river, and with the aid of my wigwam
friends regained the steamboat. Half an hour later the man on watch saw
a dark object swimming around the boat; it was the lost dog. Cerf-vola,
tied in the rain as a lure, had continued to howl without intermission,
and the vagrant Pony had evidently come to the conclusion that there
were worse places on a wet autumnal night than the warm deck of the
steamboat “Selkirk.”

In the earliest days of October all phases of civilization were passed
with little regret; and at the Rat Creek, near the southern shore of
Lake Manitoba, I bid good-bye to society. The party was a small one--a
member of the Imperial Legislature, well known in Ireland, now _en
route_ to get a glimpse of the great solitudes ere winter had closed
in, his servant, mine own, five horses, and two carts.




CHAPTER IV.

    The Wilderness.--A Sunset-Scene.--A white Savage.--Cerf-vola
        the Untiring.--Doggerel for a Dog.--The Hill of the
        Wolverine.--The Indian Paradise.--I plan a Surprise.--
        Biscuits and Water.


It was the 4th of October, bright with the warmth of the fading
summer--that quiet glow which lingers over the face of nature, like the
hectic flush upon a dying beauty, ere the wintry storms come to kill.

Small and insignificant, the Musk-Rat Creek flows on towards Lake
Manitoba amidst bordering thickets of oak and elm trees. On each
side, a prairie just beginning to yellow under the breath of the cold
night wind; behind, towards the east, a few far-scattered log-houses
smoke, and a trace of husbandry; the advanced works of that army whose
rear-guard reaches to the Vistula; before, towards the west, the sun
going down over the great silent wilderness. How difficult to realize
it! How feeble are our minds to gauge its depths!

He who rides for months through the vast solitudes sees during the
hours of his daily travel an unbroken panorama of distance. The
seasons come and go; grass grows and flowers die; the fire leaps with
tiger bounds along the earth; the snow lies still and quiet over hill
and lake; the rivers rise and fall, but the rigid features of the
wilderness rest unchanged. Lonely, silent, and impassive; heedless of
man, season, or time, the weight of the Infinite seems to brood over
it. Once only in the hours of day and night a moment comes when this
impassive veil is drawn from its features, and the eye of the wanderer
catches a glimpse of the sunken soul of the wilderness; it is the
moment which follows the sunset; then a deeper stillness steals over
the earth, colours of wondrous hue rise and spread along the western
horizon. In a deep sea of emerald and orange of fifty shades, mingled
and interwoven together, rose-coloured isles float anchored to great
golden threads; while, far away, seemingly beyond and above all, one
broad flash of crimson light, the parting sun’s last gift, reddens
upwards to the zenith. And then, when every moment brings a change, and
the night gathers closer to the earth, and some waveless, nameless lake
glimmers in uncertain shore-line and in shadow of inverted hill-top;
when a light that seems born of another world (so weirdly distant
is it from ours) lingers along the western sky, then hanging like a
lamp over the tomb of the sun, the Evening Star gleams out upon the
darkening wilderness.

It may be only a fancy, a conceit bred from loneliness and long
wandering, but at such times the great solitude has seemed to me to
open its soul, and that in its depths I read its secrets.

Ten days dawned and died; the Mauvais Bois, the Sand Ridges,
western shore of an older world’s immense lake, the Pine Creek, the
far-stretching hills of the Little Saskatchewan rose, drew near, and
faded behind us. A wild, cold storm swept down from the north, and,
raging a day and a night, tore the yellow leaves from the poplar
thickets, and scared the wild fowl far southward to a warmer home.

Late on the 10th of October we reached the Hudson’s Bay Company’s post
of Beaver Creek, the western limit to the travels of my friend. Here,
after a stay of three days and a feast of roasted beaver, we parted; he
to return to Killarney, St. Stephen’s, and Denominational Education--a
new name for the old feud between those great patriot armies, the
_Ins_ and the _Outs_; I to seek the lonely lands where, far beyond the
distant Saskatchewan, the great Unchagah, parent of a still mightier
stream, rolls through remote lakes and whispering pines its waters to
the Polar Seas.

With one man, three horses and three dogs, and all those requisites of
food, arms, and raiment with which a former journey had familiarized
me, I started on the 14th of October bound for the North-west. I was
virtually alone; my companion was a half-breed taken at chance from
the wigwam at the scene of the dog Pony’s midnight escapade on the
Red River. Chance had on this occasion proved a failure, and the man
had already shown many symptoms of worthlessness. He had served as a
soldier in an American corps raised by a certain Hatch, to hold in
check the Sioux after the massacre of Minnesota in 1862. A raid made by
nine troopers of this corps, against an Indian tent occupied by some
dozen women and children, appears to have been the most noteworthy
event in the history of Hatch’s Battalion. Having surrounded the wigwam
in the night, these cowards shot the miserable inmates, then scalping
and mutilating their bodies they returned to their comrades, bearing
the gory scalp-locks as trophies of their prowess.

Hatch is said to have at once forwarded to Washington a despatch,
announcing “a decisive victory over the Sioux by the troops under his
command.” But a darker sequel to the tale must remain in shadow, for,
if the story told to a Breton missionary rests on a base of truth,
the history of human guilt may be searched in vain for a parallel of
atrocity.

I had other companions besides this _ci-devant_ trooper, of a far
more congenial nature, to share my spare time with. A good dog is so
much a nobler beast than an indifferent man that one sometimes gladly
exchanges the society of one for that of the other.

A great French writer has told us that animals were put on earth to
show us the evil effects of passions run riot and unchecked. But it
seems to me that the reverse would be closer to the truth. The humanity
which Napoleon deemed a dog taught to man on Bassano’s battle-field is
not the only virtue we can learn from that lower world which is bound
to us by such close ties, and yet lies so strangely apart from us. Be
that as it may, a man can seldom feel alone if he has a dog to share
his supper, to stretch near him under the starlight, to answer him with
tail-wag, or glance of eye, or prick of ear.

Day after day Cerf-vola and his comrades trotted on in all the freedom
which summer and autumn give to the great dog family in the north. Now
chasing a badger, who invariably popped into his burrow in time to
save his skin; now sending a pack of prairie grouse flying from the
long grass; now wading breast-deep into a lake where a few wild ducks
still lingered, loath to quit their summer nesting-haunts.

Of all the dogs I have known Cerf-vola possessed the largest share of
tact. He never fought a pitched battle, yet no dog dared dispute his
supremacy. Other dogs had to maintain their leadership by many a deadly
conflict, but he quietly assumed it, and invariably his assumption
was left unchallenged; nay, even upon his arrival at some Hudson Bay
fort, some place wherein he had never before set foot, he was wont
to instantly appoint himself director-general of all the Company’s
dogs, whose days from earliest puppyhood had been passed within the
palisades. I have often watched him at this work, and marvelled by what
mysterious power he held his sway. I have seen two or three large dogs
flee before a couple of bounds merely made by him in their direction,
while a certain will-some-one-hold-me-back? kind of look pervaded his
face, as though he was only prevented from rending his enemy into small
pieces by the restraining influence which the surface of the ground
exercised upon his legs.

His great weight no doubt carried respect with it. At the lazy time
of the year he weighed nearly 100 pounds, and his size was in no way
diminished by the immense coat of hair and fine fur which enveloped
him. Had Sir Boyle Roche known this dog he would not have given to a
bird alone the faculty of being in two places at once, for no mortal
eye could measure the interval between Cerf-vola’s demolishment of two
pieces of dog-meat, or Pemmican, flung in different directions at the
same moment.

Thus we journeyed on. Sometimes when the sheen of a lake suggested the
evening camp, while yet the sun was above the horizon, my three friends
would accompany me on a ramble through the thicket-lined hills. At such
times, had any Indian watched from sedgy shore or bordering willow
copse the solitary wanderer who, with dogs following close, treaded the
lonely lake shore, he would have probably carried to his brethren a
strange story of the “white man’s medicine.” He would have averred that
he had heard a white man talking to a big, bushy-tailed dog, somewhere
amidst the Touchwood Hills, and singing to him a “great medicine song”
when the sun went down.

And if now we reproduce for the reader the medicine song which the
white man strung together for his bushy-tailed dog, we may perhaps
forestall some critic’s verdict by prefixing to it the singularly
appropriate title of

DOGGEREL.

   And so, old friend, we are met again, companions still to be,
   Across the waves of drifted snow, across the prairie sea.
   Again we’ll tread the silent lake, the frozen swamp, the fen,
   Beneath the snow-crown’d sombre pine we’ll build our camp again:
   And long before the icy dawn, while hush’d all nature lies,
   And weird and wan the white lights flash across the northern skies;
   Thy place, as in past days thou’lt take, the leader of the train,
   To steer until the stars die out above the dusky plain;
   Then on, thro’ space by wood and hill, until the wintry day
   In pale gleams o’er the snow-capped ridge has worn itself away,
   And twilight bids us seek the brake, where midst the pines once more
   The fire will gleam before us, the stars will glimmer o’er.
   There stretch’d upon the snow-drift, before the pine log’s glare,
   Thy master’s couch and supper with welcome thou wilt share,
   To rest, unless some prowling wolf should keep thee watchful still,
   While lonely through the midnight sounds his wail upon the hill.

   And when the storm raves around, and thick and blinding snow
   Comes whirling in wild eddies around, above, below;
   Still all unmoved thou’lt keep thy pace as manfully as when
   Thy matchless mettle first I tried in lone Pasquia’s glen.
   Thus day by day we’ll pierce the wilds where rolls the Arctic stream,
   Where Athabasca’s silent lakes, through whispering pine-trees gleam.
   Until, where far Unchagah’s flood by giant cliffs is crown’d,
   Thy bells will feed the echoes, long hungering for a sound.
   Old dog, they say thou hast no life beyond this earth of ours,
   That toil and truth give thee no place amidst Elysian bowers.
   Ah well, e’en so, I look for thee when all our danger’s past,
   That on some hearth-rug, far at home, thou’lt rest thy limbs at last.

A long distance of rolling plain, of hills fringed with thickets, of
treeless waste, and lakes spreading into unseen declivities, stretches
out between the Qu’Appelle and Saskatchewan rivers. Roamed over by but
few bands of Indians, and almost bereft of the larger kind of game,
whose bleached bones cover it thickly, this expanse lies in unbroken
solitude for more than three hundred miles. Through it the great trail
to the north lays its long, winding course; but no other trace of man
is to be found; and over lake and thicket, hill and waste, broods the
loneliness of the untenanted.

Once it was a famous field of Indian fight, in the old days when
Crees and Assineboine strove for mastery. Now it has almost lost the
tradition of battle, but now and again a hill-top or a river-course,
whose French or English name faintly echoes the Indian meaning, tells
to the traveller who cares to look below the surface some story of
fight in bygone times.

The hill of the Wolverine and the lonely Spathanaw Watchi have
witnessed many a deed of Indian daring and Indian perfidy in days not
long passed away, but these deeds are now forgotten, for the trader
as he unyokes his horses at their base, and kindles his evening fire,
little recks of such things, and hails the hill-top only as a landmark
on his solitary road.

Alone in a vast waste the Spathanaw Watchi lifts his head, thickets
and lakes are at his base, a lonely grave at top, around four hundred
miles of horizon; a view so vast that endless space seems for once
to find embodiment, and at a single glance the eye is satiated with
immensity. There is no mountain range to come up across the sky-line,
no river to lay its glistening folds along the middle distance, no dark
forest to give shade to foreground or to fringe perspective, no speck
of life, no track of man, nothing but the wilderness. Reduced thus to
its own nakedness, space stands forth with almost terrible grandeur.
One is suddenly brought face to face with that enigma which we try
to comprehend by giving to it the names of endless, interminable,
measureless; that dark inanity which broods upon a waste of moorland
at dusk, and in which fancy sees the spectral and the shadowy.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE SPATHANAW WATCHI.]

Yet in this view from the Spathanaw there is nothing dimly seen; the
eye travels to the farthest distance without one effort of vision, and,
reaching there, rests untired by its long gaze. As the traveller looks
at this wonderful view he stands by the grave of an Indian, and he sees
around him for four hundred miles the Indian Paradise. It was from
scenes such as this, when the spring had covered them with greensward,
and the wild herds darkened them by their myriads, that the shadowy
sense of a life beyond the tomb took shape and form in the Red man’s
mind.

It was the 25th of October when I once more drew near to the South
Saskatchewan.

Amidst its high wooded banks the broad river rippled brightly along,
as yet showing no trace of that winter now so close at hand. Two years
before, all but a few days, I had reached this same river, then shored
by dense masses of ice; and now, as I looked from the southern shore,
the eye had no little difficulty in tracing through the lingering
foliage of the summer the former point of passage, where on the
cold November morning my favourite horse had gone down beneath the
ice-locked river.

Crossing to the southern shore I turned eastward through a rich
undulating land, and riding hard for one day reached the little
mission station of Prince Albert, midway between the Red River and the
Rocky Mountains.

Those who have followed me through former wanderings may remember a
spot where two large rivers unite after many hundred miles of prairie
wandering, and form one majestic current on the edge of the Great
Northern Forest. To this spot, known as the “Grand Forks of the
Saskatchewan,” I was now journeying, for there, while the autumn was
yet younger, two friends had preceded me to build at the point of
confluence a hut for our residence during the early winter.

The evening of the 28th of October found me pushing hastily through a
broad belt of firs and pines which crosses the tongue of land between
the rivers some ten miles from their junction; beyond this belt of
trees the country opened out, but, as it finally narrowed to the point
of confluence, the dark pine-clumps, outliers of the dense Northern
Forest, again rose into view. With these features a previous visit had
made me acquainted; but the night had now closed in ere yet the fir
forest had been passed, and the rain, which all day had been ceaseless,
settled down with darkness into a still heavier torrent. As we emerged
from the pines my baggage-cart suddenly broke down, and there only
remained the alternative of camping by the scene of the disaster, or
pushing on for the river junction on foot.

Unfortunately the prospect of unexpectedly walking in upon my friends,
housed in the depths of the wilderness, amidst the wild rain-storm
of the night, proved too strong a temptation; and having secured the
cart as best we could against weather and wolves, we set out into the
darkness. For more than an hour we walked hard through undulating
ground intermixed with swamps and beaver dams, until at length the land
began to decline perceptibly.

Descending thus for nearly a mile we came suddenly upon a large,
quick-running river, whose waters chafed with sullen noise against
boulder-lined shores, and hissed under the wild beating of the rain.
With cautious steps we groped our way to the edge and cast a dry branch
into the flood; it floated towards the left; the river, then, must
be the South Saskatchewan. Was the junction of this river with the
northern branch yet distant? or was it close at hand? for if it was
near, then my home was near too.

Making our way along the shore we held on for some time, until suddenly
there rose before us a steep bank, at the base of which the current ran
in whirling eddies. To climb up a high bank on our left, and thus flank
this obstacle, next became our toil; soon we found ourselves in a
dense wood where innumerable fallen trees lay in endless confusion. For
another hour we groped our way through this labyrinth in a vain attempt
to reach the upper level, until at last, exhausted by hours of useless
toil, wet, hungry, and bruised, I gave the reluctant word to camp.

To camp, what a mockery it seemed without blankets or covering save our
rain-soaked clothes, without food save a few biscuits. The cold rain
poured down through leafless aspens, and shelter there was none. It was
no easy matter to find a dry match, but at length a fire was made, and
from the surrounding wood we dragged dead trees to feed the flames.
There is no necessity to dwell upon the miserable hours which ensued!
All night long the rain hissed down, and the fire was powerless against
its drenching torrents. Towards morning we sunk into a deep sleep,
lying stretched upon the soaking ground.

At last a streak of dawn broke over the high eastern shore, the light
struggled for mastery with the surrounding darkness and finally
prevailed, and descending to the river showed the broad current
sweeping on to the north-east. Quitting without regret our cheerless
bivouac, we climbed with stiff limbs the high overhanging bank, and
gained the upper level. Far away the river still held its course to
the north-east, deep sunken 300 feet below the prairie level: we were
still distant from the Forks.

Retracing our steps through miles of fallen timber we reached the cart,
but the morning had worn on to mid-day before our long-wished-for
breakfast smoked in the kettle. Three hours later on, during an evening
which had cleared sufficiently to allow the sun to glint through cloud
rifts on pine forest and prairie, I reached the lofty ridge which
overlooks the Forks of the Saskatchewan.




CHAPTER V.

    The Forks of the Saskatchewan.--A perverse Parallel.--
        Diplomatic Bungling.--Its results.


Two hundred and fifty feet above water level, the narrow tongue of
land rises over the junction of the two Saskatchewan rivers. Bare and
level at top, its scarped front descends like a wall to the rivers; but
land-slip and the wear of time have carried down to a lower level the
loose sand and earth of the plateau, and thickly clustering along the
northern face, pines, birch, and poplar shroud the steep descent. It is
difficult to imagine a wilder scene than that which lay beneath this
projecting point.

From north-west and from south-west two broad rivers roll their waters
into one common channel, two rivers deep furrowed below the prairie
level, curving in great bends through tree-fringed valleys. One river
has travelled through eight hundred miles of rich rolling landscape;
the other has run its course of nine hundred through waste and arid
solitudes; both have had their sources in mountain summits where the
avalanche thundered forth to solitude the tidings of their birth. And
here at this point, like two lives, which, coming from a distance, are
drawn together by some mysterious sympathy, and blended into one are
henceforth to know only the final separation, these rivers roll their
currents into one majestic stream, which, sinking into a deep gorge,
sweeps eastward through unbroken pine forest. As yet no steamboat
furrows the deep water; no whistle breaks the sleeping echoes of these
grim scarped shores; the winding stream rests in voiceless solitude,
and the summer sun goes down beyond silent river reaches, gleaming upon
a virgin land.

Standing at this junction of the two Saskatchewan rivers, the traveller
sees to the north and east the dark ranks of the great sub-Arctic
forest, while to the south and west begin the endless prairies of the
middle continent. It is not a bad position from whence to glance at the
vast region known to us as British North America.

When the fatal error at Saratoga had made room for diplomatists of
Old and New England, and removed the arbitrament of rebellion from
the campaign to the council, those who drew on the part of Great
Britain the boundary-lines of her transatlantic empire, bungled even
more conspicuously in the treaty-chamber than her generals had failed
in the field. Geographical knowledge appears ever to have been deemed
superfluous to those whose business it was to shape the destinies of
our colonial dominions, and if something more tangible than report be
true, it is not many months since the British members at a celebrated
conference stared blankly at each other when the free navigation of
a river of _more than two thousand miles in length_ was mooted at
the Council Board. But then, what statesman has leisure to master
such trifles as the existence of the great river Yukon, amid the
more important brain toil of framing rabbit laws, defining compound
householders, and solving other equally momentous questions of our
Imperial and Parochial politics? However to our subject. When in
1783 the great quarrel between Britain and her Colonies was finally
adjusted, the northern boundary of the United States was to follow the
49th parallel of latitude from the north-west angle of the Lake of the
Woods to the river Mississippi, and thence down that river, &c., &c.

Nothing could possibly have been more simple, a child might comprehend
it; but unfortunately it fell out in course of time that the 49th
parallel was one of very considerable latitude indeed not at all a
parallel of diplomatic respectability, or one that could be depended
on, for neither at one end or the other could it be induced to approach
the north-west angle of the Lake of the Woods or the river Mississippi.
Do all that sextant, or quadrant, or zenith telescope could, the 49th
parallel would not come to terms.

Doggedly and determinedly it kept its own course; and, utterly
regardless of big-wig or diplomatic fogie, it formed an offensive
and defensive alliance with the Sun and the Pole Star (two equally
obstinate and big-wig disrespectful bodies), and struck out for itself
an independent line.

Beyond the Mississippi there lay a vast region, a region where now
millions (soon to be tens of millions) draw from prairie and river flat
the long-sleeping richness of the soil. Then it was a great wilderness,
over which the dusky bison and his wilder master roamed, in that fierce
freedom which civilization ends for ever.

To the big-wigs at the Council Board this region was a myth--a land so
far beyond the confines of diplomatic geography that its very existence
was questioned. Not so to the shrewd solicitor, admiral, auctioneer,
general conveyancer, and Jack-of-all-trades in one, who guided the
foreign policy of the United States.

Unencumbered by the trappings of diplomatic tradition, he saw, vaguely
perhaps, but still with prescient knowledge, the empire which it was
possible to build in that western wild; and as every shifting scene in
the outside world’s politics called up some new occasion for boundary
rearrangement, or treaty rectification, he grasped eagerly at a fresh
foothold, an additional scrap of territory, in that land which was to
him an unborn empire, to us a half-begotten wilderness. Louisiana,
purchased from Napoleon for a trifle, became in his hands a region
larger than European Russia, and the vast water-shed of the Missouri
passed into the Empire of the United States.

Cut off from the Mississippi, isolated from the Missouri, the unlucky
boundary traversed an arid waste until it terminated at the Rocky
Mountains.

Long before a citizen of the United States had crossed the Missouri,
Canadian explorers had reached the Rocky Mountains and penetrated
through their fastnesses to the Pacific; and British and Canadian
fur traders had grown old in their forts across the Continent before
Lewis and Clark, the pioneers of American exploration, had passed
the Missouri. Discovered by a British sailor, explored by British
subjects, it might well have been supposed that the great region along
the Pacific slope, known to us as Oregon, belonged indisputably to
England; but at some new treaty “rectification,” the old story was once
more repeated, and the unlucky 49th parallel again selected to carry
across the Mountains to the Pacific Ocean, the same record of British
bungling and American astuteness which the Atlantic had witnessed sixty
years earlier on the rugged estuary of the St. Croix.

For the present our business lies only with that portion of British
territory east of the Rocky Mountains, and between them, the Bay of
Hudson and the Arctic Ocean.

From the base of the great range of the Rocky Mountains, the Continent
of British America slopes towards North and East, until, unbroken by
one mountain summit, but in a profound and lasting desolation, it dips
its shaggy arms and ice-bound capes into a sea as drear and desolate.

Two great rivers, following of necessity this depression, shed their
waters into the Bay of Hudson. One is the Saskatchewan, of which
we have already spoken; the other, that river known by various
names--“English,” because the English traders first entered the country
by it; “Beaver,” from the numbers of that animal trapped along it in
olden time; “Churchill,” because a fort of that name stands at its
estuary; and “Missinipi,” or “much water,” by the wild races who dwell
upon it. The first river has a total length of 1700 miles; the last
runs its course through worthless forest and primeval rock for 1200
miles.

[Illustration: “OUR HUT AT THE FORKS OF THE SASKATCHEWAN”]




CHAPTER VI.

    Our Winter Home.--A Welcome.--I start again.--The Hunter’s
        Camp.--In quest of Buffalo on the Plains.--“Lodge-poling”
        leads to Love.


At the foot of the high ridge which marks the junction of the two
Saskatchewans, deep in pines and poplars, through which vistas had
been cut to give glimpses along the converging rivers, stood the
winter hut of which I have already spoken. From its chimney blue smoke
curled up amongst the trees into the lower atmosphere, and the sound
of wood-cutting came ringing from below, a token of labour not yet
completed in our wild and secluded resting-place.

I stood for a moment looking down on this scene--a home in the great
wilderness--and then a loud shout echoed into the valley to carry
tidings of our arrival to the inmates of the hut. In an instant it
was answered from below, and the solitudes rang with many a note of
welcome, while half a dozen dogs bayed furious defiance at my pack,
already become boisterously jubilant on the ridge above. When friends
meet thus, after long travel and separation, there are many questions
to ask and to answer, and the autumn evening had worn to midnight ere
the pine-log fire threw its light upon a silent hut.

The winter season was now at hand; our house was nearly completed, our
stores put away, our dogs kennelled; but one most pressing want had yet
to be supplied--our winter stock of meat had to be gathered in, and
there was no time to lose about obtaining it.

It was the last of October, just one day after my arrival at the Forks,
when we turned our faces westward in quest of buffalo. They were
said to be a long way off--200 miles nearer to the setting sun--out
somewhere on that great motionless ocean, where no tree, no bush breaks
the vast expanse of prairie; land to which the wild men of the West and
those who lead wild lives there have turned for many an age in search
of that food which nature once so generously scattered over the plains
of Central North America.

Journeying slowly towards the west--for already the snow had begun to
fall in many storms, and the landscape had become wrapt in its winter
mantle--we reached in five days one of those curious assemblages of
half-breed hunters which are to be found in winter on the borders of
the great plains.

Huts promiscuously crowded together; horses, dogs, women, children,
all intermixed in a confusion worthy of Donnybrook Fair; half-breed
hunters, ribboned, tasselled, and capôted, lazy, idle, and, if there is
any spirit in the camp, sure to be intoxicated; remnants and wrecks of
buffalo lying everywhere around; robes stretched and drying; meat piled
on stages; wolf-skins spread over framework; women drawing water and
carrying wood; and at dusk from the little hut the glow of firelight
through parchment windows, the sound of fiddle scraped with rough
hunter hand, and the quick thud of hunter heel as Louison, or Bâtiste,
or Gabriel foot it ceaselessly upon the half-hewn floors.

Unquestionably these French half-breeds are wild birds--hunters,
drinkers, rovers, rascals if you will--yet generous and hospitable
withal; destined to disappear before the white man’s footprint, and ere
that time has come owing many of their vices to the pioneer American,
whose worst qualities the wild man, or semi-wild man, has been ever too
sure to imitate.

After a delay of three days in this hunter’s camp, which by some
strange anomaly was denominated “la mission,” its sole claim to that
title being the residence of a French priest in the community, we
started on our journey further west.

The winter had now regularly set in; the broad South Saskatchewan
was rolling thick masses of ice down its half-closed channel, the
snow-covering had deepened on the landscape, the wind blew keenly over
the prairie. Many of our horses had been too poor to take upon this
journey, and the half-breed whom I had brought from Red River, dreading
the exposure of the plains, had taken advantage of the hunter’s camp
to desert our service; so another man had been engaged, and, with
three fresh horses and an urchin attendant in the shape of a little
half-breed, designated by our new man as “l’homme capable,” and for
whose services he demanded only the moderate sum of five shillings per
diem, we held our course along the South Saskatchewan towards the Great
Prairie.

Xavier Bâtoche was a fair sample of his class. The blood of four
nationalities mingled in his veins. His grandfather had been a
French Canadian, his grandmother a Crow squaw; English and Cree had
contributed to his descent on his mother’s side. The ceremony of
taking a wife in the early days of the north-west fur trade was not an
elaborate performance, or one much encumbered by social or religious
preliminaries. If it did not literally fulfil the condition of force
implied by the word “taking,” it usually developed into a question
of barter; a horse, a flint gun, some white cloth and beads, could
purchase the hand and heart of the fairest squaw in Prairie land.
If she did not love after one of these valuable “presents” had been
made to her father, the lodge-poles were always handy to enforce
that obedience necessary to domestic happiness--admirable idea, the
roof-tree contributed to the peace of the hearth-stone, and jealousy
fled before a “lodge-poling.” To return to Bâtoche; Crow and Cree,
French and English, had contrived to produce a genial, good-humoured,
handsome fellow; the previous year had been one of plenty, buffalo had
once more appeared in vast herds on the prairies of the Saskatchewan;
wolf-skins, robes, and pemmican had fetched high prices, and Bâtoche
was rich and prosperous.

Two days’ journeying brought us to the edge of the great prairie;
silent, vast, and desolate it spread away into unseen space; the snow
but scantily covered the yellow grass, and the November wind sighed
mournfully through the wrecks of summer vegetation as it sped along its
thousand leagues of unmeasured meadow. At the last copse of poplar and
willow we halted for a day, to bake bread and cut wood sufficient for
a week’s food and fuel, and then we launched our ocean ships--horses
and sleds--out into the great meadow.




CHAPTER VII.

    An Ocean of Grass.--The Red Man.--Whence comes he?--The
        Buffalo.--Puritans and Pioneers.--The Red Man’s Friend.


The general term “prairie” comprises many varieties of open landscape.
There are the level, alluvial prairies of Illinois, long since settled
and colonized; there are the low, fertile prairies of the Red River,
where the rich black mould, fallow under five months of snow, puts
forth the rank luxuriance of a hot-bed during the half tropic heat of
summer; there are the sandy prairies of the Assineboine and Qu’Appelle,
intermixed with clusters of aspen and of willow, and broken by lakes
and saline ponds: but above each and all--exceeding all other prairies
and open spaces--wild, treeless, and ocean-like in everything save
motion, there stands forth in dreary grandeur the Great Prairie.

What the Irish Sea, the Channel, the Baltic, and the Mediterranean are
to the Atlantic, so are these various outlying regions of plain to the
vast rigid ocean of the central continent. It is true that on the Red
River, or the Qu’Appelle, or along the line I have lately passed, one
may frequently “get out of sight of land;” there are spaces where no
tree or bush breaks the long monotony of the sky-line; but all these
expanses are as nothing compared to the true prairie.

The unending vision of sky and grass, the dim, distant, and
ever-shifting horizon; the ridges that seem to be rolled upon one
another in motionless torpor; the effect of sunrise and sunset, of
night narrowing the vision to nothing, and morning only expanding it to
a shapeless blank; the sigh and sough of a breeze that seems an echo in
unison with the solitude of which it is the sole voice; and, above all,
the sense of lonely, unending distance which comes to the _voyageur_
when day after day has gone by, night has closed, and morning dawned
upon his onward progress under the same ever-moving horizon of grass
and sky.

Only two wild creatures have made this grassy desert their home.

Back, since ages at whose birth we can only guess, but which in all
human probability go deeper into the past than the reign of Arab in
Yemen, or Kirghis in Turkestan, the wild red man has roamed these
wastes: back into that dark night which hangs for ever over all we
know or shall know of early America. “The time before the white man
came,” what a measureless eternity lies hidden under the words! This
prairie was here when the stones of the pyramid were unhewn, and the
site of Babylon was a river meadow--here as it is to-day, treeless,
desolate, and storm-swept. But where and whence came the wild denizens
of the waste? Who shall say? Fifty writers have broached their various
theories, a hundred solutions have been offered. The missionary claims
them as the lost tribes of Israel, one ethnologist finds in them a
likeness to the Tartar, another sees the Celtic eye, another the Roman
nose, another traces them back to Japan, or China, or Australasia;
the old world is scarcely large enough to give them room for their
speculations. And what say we? Nothing; or if aught, a conjecture
perhaps more vague and shadowy than the rest. It has seemed to us when
watching this strange, wild hunter, this keen, untutored scholar of
nature, this human creature that sickens beneath our civilization,
and dies midst our prosperity--it has seemed to us that he was of a
race older and more remote than our own, a stock coeval with a shadowy
age--a remnant, perchance, of an earlier creation which has vanished
from the earth, preserved here in these wilds--a waif flung by the
surge of time to these later ages of our own.

This New World is older than our old one. Its 30,000 feet in depth of
Arzoic rock tell us of an age when nought of living form moved over
the iron earth. And here, probably first of all, the molten sands
rose above the boiling floods, and cooled and crusted into a chaotic
continent.

These are but idle speculations; still the antiquity of the Indian race
rests upon other foundations. Far to the south, where the prairies rise
into the lofty plateau of New Mexico, ruined monuments, weed-grown, and
hidden beneath ivy and trailing parasites, stand like spectres from
the tomb of time. Before these mouldering rock-hewn cities conjecture
halts; the past has drawn over them a veil that no research can pierce,
no learning solve. Inscrutable as the vestiges of an earlier earth they
stand, the lonely, ruined wrecks of the Red man’s race.

So much for the earlier existence of the human dweller on the prairie;
to us he is but a savage--the impediment to our progress--the human
counterpart of forests which have to be felled, mountains which must be
tunnelled, rivers whose broad currents are things to conquer; he is an
obstacle, and he must be swept away. To us it matters not whether his
race dwelt here before a Celt had raised a Druid altar. The self-styled
heirs to all the centuries reck little of such things.

And now let us turn for a moment to that other wild creature which has
made its dwelling on the Great Prairie.

Over the grassy ocean of the west there has moved from time immemorial
a restless tide. Backwards and forwards, now north, now south--now
filling the dark gorges of the Rocky Mountains--now trailing into the
valleys of the Rio del Norte--now pouring down the wooded slopes of the
Saskatchewan, surged millions on millions of dusky bisons.

What led them in their strange migrations no man could tell, but all
at once a mighty impulse seemed to seize the myriad herds, and they
moved over the broad realm which gave them birth as the waves of the
ocean roll before the storm. Nothing stopped them on their march;
great rivers stretched before them with steep, overhanging banks, and
beds treacherous with quicksand and shifting bar; huge chasms and
earth-rents, the work of subterraneous forces, crossed their line of
march, but still the countless thousands swept on. Through day and
night the earth trembled beneath their tramp, and the air was filled
with the deep bellowing of their unnumbered throats.

Crowds of wolves and flocks of vultures dogged and hovered along their
way, for many a huge beast, half sunken in quicksand, caught amidst
whirling ice flow, or bruised and maimed at the foot of some steep
precipice, marked their line of march, like the wrecks lying spread
behind a routed army. Nearly two millions of square miles formed their
undivided domain; on three sides a forest boundary encircled it, on
the fourth a great mountain range loomed up against the western sky.
Through this enormous area countless creeks and rivers meandered
through the meadows, where the prairie grass grew thick and rank,
and the cotton woods spread their serpentine belts. Out in the vast
prairie the Missouri, the Platte, the Sweet Water, the Arkansas, the
South Saskatchewan, the Bighorn, the Yellowstone, rolled their volumes
towards the east, gathering a thousand affluents as they flowed.

Countless ages passed, tribes warred and wandered, but the life of the
wilderness lay deep beneath the waves of time, and the roll of the
passing centuries disturbed not its slumber.

At last the white man came, and soon from south and north the restless
adventurers of Latin Europe pierced the encircling forests, and beheld
the mighty meadows of the Central Continent. Spaniards on the south,
Frenchmen on the north, no one in the centre; for the prudent Plymouth
Puritan was more intent on flogging witches and gathering riches
than on penetrating the tangled forest which lay westward of his
settlement. No; his was not the work of adventure and discovery. Others
might go before and brave the thousand perils of flood and forest; he
would follow after, as the Jew pedlar follows the spendthrift, as the
sutler dogs the footsteps of the soldier.

What though he be in possession of the wide dominion now, and the names
of France and Spain be shrunken into a shapeless dream; _that_ only
proves what we knew before, that the men who lead the way to a great
future are fated never to reap the golden harvest of their dreams.

And ever since that advent of the white man the scene has changed;
the long slumber of the wilderness was broken, and hand in hand with
the new life death moved amidst the wild denizens of the Prairies.
Human life scattered over a vast area, animal life counted by tens
of millions, take a long time to destroy; and it is only to-day--370
years after a Portuguese sailor killed and captured a band of harmless
Indians, and 350 since a Spanish soldier first beheld a herd of
buffaloes beyond the meadows of the Mississippi--that the long,
hopeless struggle of the wild dwellers of the wilderness may be said to
have reached its closing hour.

In thus classing together the buffalo and the red man as twin dwellers
on the Great Prairie, I have but followed the Indian idea.

“What shall we do?” said a young Sioux warrior to an American officer
on the Upper Missouri some fifteen years ago. “What shall we do? the
buffalo is our only friend. When he goes all is over with the Dacotahs.
I speak thus to you because like me you are a Brave.”

It was little wonder that he called the buffalo his only friend. Its
skin gave him a house, its robe a blanket and a bed, its undressed hide
a boat, its short, curved horn a powder-flask, its meat his daily food,
its sinew a string for his bow, its leather a lariot for his horse,
a saddle, bridle, rein, and bit. Its tail formed an ornament for his
tent, its inner skin a book in which to sketch the brave deeds of his
life, the “medicine robe” of his history. House, boat, food, bed, and
covering, every want from infancy to age, and after life itself had
passed, wrapt in his buffalo robe the red man waited for the dawn.

[Illustration: SUNSET SCENE WITH BUFFALO.]




CHAPTER VIII.

    Buffalo Hunts.--A Picture once seen, long remembered.--L’Homme
        capable.--A wonderful Lake.--The lost Indian.--An
        Apparition.--We return home.


It was mid-November before we reached the buffalo; the snow had
deepened, the cold had become intense, and our horses under the
influence of travel, cold, and exposure, had become miserably thin.
To hunt the herds on horseback would have been an impossibility; the
new-fallen snow hid the murderous badger holes that covered the prairie
surface, and to gallop weak horses over such ground must have been
certain disaster.

Buffalo hunts on horseback or on foot have frequently been the theme
of travellers’ story. Ruxton and Palliser, and Mayne Reid and Catlin,
have filled many a page with glowing descriptions of charge and
counter-charge, stalk and stampede. Washington Irving has lighted with
his genius the dull records of western wanderings, and to sketch now
the pursuit of that huge beast (so soon to be an extinct giant) would
be to repeat a thrice-told tale.

Who has not seen in pencil sketch or pen story the image of the huge,
shaggy beast careering madly before an eagle-feathered red man, whose
horse decked like its rider with the feathered trophy, launches himself
swiftly over the prairie? The full-drawn bow, the deadly arrow, the
stricken animal, the wild confusion of the flying herd, the wounded
giant turning to bay;--all these have been described a thousand times;
so also has the stalk, the stealthy approach under the wolf-skin
covering, the careful shot and the stupid stare of the startled animals
as they pause a moment to gather consciousness that this thing which
they deemed a wolf in the grass is in reality their most deadly enemy,
man. All these have found record from pen and pencil; but I much doubt
me if it be possible to place before a reader’s mental vision anything
like a true picture of the sense of solitude, of endless space, of
awful desolation which at times comes to the traveller’s mind as he
looks over some vast prairie and beholds a lonely herd of bisons
trailing slowly across that snow-wrapt, endless expanse, into the
shadows of the coming night.

Such a sight I have beheld more than once, and its memory returns
at times with the sigh of the south wind, or the waving of a pine
branch. It is from moments such as these that the wanderer draws
the recompence of his toil, and reaps in after-time the harvest of
his hardship. No book has told the story, no picture has caught the
colouring of sky and plain, no sound can echo back the music of that
untainted breeze, sighing so mournfully through the yellow grass, but
all the same the vision returns without one effort of remembrance:
the vast plain snow-wrapt, the west ablaze with gold, and green, and
saffron, and colours never classed or catalogued, while the horizon
circle from north to east and south grows dim and indistinct, and, far
off, the bison herd in long, scattered file trails slowly across the
blue-white snow into the caverns of the sunset.

We carried with us a leather tent of eight skins, small of its kind,
but capable of sheltering the five individuals comprising our party.
This tent, pitched in some hollow at sunset, formed the sole speck
of life amidst the vast solitude. Ten poles resting on the ground,
and locked together at the top, supported the leather covering. An
open space at the apex of the tent was supposed to allow the smoke
to escape, but the smoke usually seemed to consider itself under no
restraint whatever in the dim interior of our lodge, and seldom or
never took advantage of the means of freedom so liberally provided for
it. Our stock of fuel was very limited, and barely sufficed to boil
a kettle and fry a dish of pemmican at the opening or close of each
day. When the evening meal was finished, we sat awhile grouped around
the small fire in the centre. “L’homme capable” ran round our line of
traps, returning with a couple of kit foxes, the fattest of which he
skinned and roasted for his supper. Then we gathered the blankets close
together, and lying down slept until the dawn came struggling through
the open roof, and cold and hungry we sat again around the little fire.
Thus we journeyed on.

Scattered over the wide prairie which lies between the South
Saskatchewan and the Eagle Hills roamed many herds of buffalo. But
their numbers were very far short of those immense herds which, until a
few years ago, were wont to cover the treeless regions of the west. Yet
they were numerous enough to make the onlooker marvel how they still
held their own against the ever-increasing odds arrayed against them.

Around the wide circle of this prairie ocean lay scattered not less
than 15,000 wild people, all preying with wasteful vigour upon these
scattered herds; but the numbers killed for the consumption of these
Indian or half-Indian men formed but a small item in the lists of
slaughter. To the north and east the denizens of the remote parts of
the great regions locked in savage distance, the land of fur, the
land which stretches to the wintry shores of the Bay of Hudson, and
the storm-swept capes of the Arctic Ocean, looked for their means of
summer transport to these wandering herds in the, to them, far distant
Saskatchewan. What food was it that the tired _voyageur_ munched
so stolidly at nightfall by the camp fire on some long _portage_
of the Winnipeg, the Nelson, or the Beaver Rivers, or ate with so
much relish ere the morning sun was glinting along the waves of far
Lake Athabasca; and his boat, rich laden with precious fur, rocked
on the secluded shore of some nameless bay? It was buffalo pemmican
from the Saskatchewan. And what food was it that these dozen hungry
dogs devoured with such haste by that lonely camp fire in the dark
pine forest, when all nature lay in its mid-winter torpor frozen to
the soul; when the pine-log flared upon some snow-sheeted lake, or
ice-bound river in the great wilderness of the north? It was the same
hard mixture of fat and dried buffalo-meat pounded down into a solid
mass which the Indians called “pemmican.” Small wonder then that the
great herds had dwindled down to their present numbers, and that now
the once wide domain of the buffalo had shrunken into the limits of the
great prairie.

Yet, even still, the numbers annually killed seem quite incredible;
12,000 are said to fall to the Blackfeet tribes alone; in a single
hunt the French half-breeds, whose winter camp we had lately visited,
had killed 600 cows. The forts of the Hudson’s Bay Company were filled
with many thousand bags of pemmican, and to each bag two animals may
be counted; while not less than 30,000 robes had already found their
way to the Red River, and fully as many more in skins of parchment or
in leather had been traded or consumed in the thousand wants of savage
life; and all are ruthlessly killed--young and old, calves and cows,
it matters little; the Indian and the half-breed know no such quality
as forethought. Nor, looking at this annual havoc, and seeing still in
spite of all the dusky herds yet roaming over the treeless waste, can
we marvel that the Red man should ascribe to agencies other than mortal
the seemingly endless numbers of his favourite animal?

South-west from the Eagle Hills, far out in the prairie, there lies a
lake whose waters never rest; day and night a ceaseless murmur breaks
the silence of the spot.

“See,” says the red man, “it is from under that lake that our buffalo
comes. You say they are all gone; but look, they come again and again
to us. We cannot kill them all--they are there under that lake. Do you
hear the noise which never ceases? It is the buffalo fighting with
each other far down under the ground, and striving to get out upon the
prairie--where else can they come from?”

We may well ask the question where can they come from? for in truth the
vast expanse of the great prairie seems too small to save them from
their relentless foes.

The creek of the Eagle Hills winds through the prairie in long, lazy
bends. The beaver has made his home under its banks; and in some of the
serpentine bends the bastard maple lifts its gnarled trunk, and the
willow copses grow thickly. It is a favourite ground for the hunter in
summer; but now, in mid-November, no sign of man was visible, and we
had the little thicket oasis all to ourselves.

It was in this spot, some two years ago, that the following event
occurred. In a band of Crees travelling over the plains there happened
to be a blind Indian. Following the band one day he lagged behind, and
the party dipping over a ridge on the prairie became lost to sound.
Becoming suddenly alarmed at having thus lost his friends, he began to
run swiftly in hope of overtaking them; but now his judgment was at
fault, and the direction of his run was the wrong one--he found himself
alone on the immense plains. Tired at last by the speed to which
feverish anxiety had urged him, he sat down to think over his chances.
It was hopeless to attempt to regain his party; he was far out in the
grassy ocean, and south, west, and east, lay hundreds of miles of
undulating plain; to the north many days’ journey, but still near, in
relative distance, lay the forts of the white man, and the trail which
led from one to the other. He would steer for the north, and would
endeavour to reach one of these forts. It was midsummer; he had no
food, but the carcases of lately-killed buffalo were, he knew, numerous
in that part of the prairie, and lakes or ponds were to be found at
intervals.

He set out, and for three days he journeyed north. “How did he steer?”
the reader will ask; “for have you not told us the man was blind?”
Nevertheless, he steered with accuracy towards the north. From sunrise
he kept the warm glow on his naked right shoulder; six hours later the
heat fell full upon his back; towards evening the rays were on his
left side; and when the sun had gone, and the damp dew began to fall,
he lay down for the night: thus he held a tolerably correct course. At
times the soft mud of a lake shore cloyed his feet; but that promised
water, and after a drink he resumed his way; the lakelet was rounded
and the course pursued. There was no food; for two days he travelled
on patiently, until at last he stumbled over the bones of a buffalo.
He felt around; it had been killed some time, and the wolves had left
scant pickings on ribs or legs, but on the massive head the skin was
yet untouched, and his knife enabled him to satisfy his hunger, and to
carry away a few scraps of skin and flesh.

Thus recruited he pressed on. It was drawing towards evening on the
fifth day of his weary journey when he found himself reduced to
starvation, weak from protracted hunger and faint from thirst; the day
had been a warm one, and no friendly lake had given him drink. His
scanty food had been long exhausted, and there seemed but little hope
that he could live to feel the warm sun again. Its rays were growing
faint upon his left shoulder, when his feet suddenly sank into soft
mud, and the reeds and flags of a swamp brushed against his legs:
here was water, he lay down and drank a long, long draught. Then he
bethought him, Was it not better to stay here while life lasted? here
he had at least water, and of all the pangs that can afflict the lost
wanderer that of thirst is the hardest to bear. He lay down midst the
reeds, determined to wait for death.

Some few miles distant to the north-east lay the creek of the Eagle
Hills. That evening a party of hunters from the distant fort of À
la Corne, had appeared on the wide prairies which surrounded this
creek; they were in search of buffalo, it wanted an hour of sunset.
The man in charge looked at the sinking sun, and he bethought him of
a camping-place. “Go to such and such a bend of the creek,” he said
to his hunters, “unyoke the horses and make the camp. I will ride to
yonder hill and take a look over the plains for buffalo; I will rejoin
you at the camp.”

The party separated, and their leader pushed on to the hill-top for
a better survey of the plains. When he reached the summit of the
ridge he cast a look on every side; no buffalo were to be seen, but
to his surprise, his men, instead of obeying his orders as to the
route, appeared to be steering in a different direction from the one
he had indicated, and were already far away to the south. When he
again overtook them they were in the act of camping on the borders of
a swampy lake, a long way from the place he had intended; they had
mistaken the track, they said, and seeing water here had camped at
sunset.

It was not a good place, and the officer felt annoyed at their
stupidity. While they spoke together thus, a figure suddenly rose
from the reeds at the further side of the lake, and called loudly
for assistance. For a moment the hunters were amazed at this sudden
apparition; they were somewhat startled too, for the Blackfeet bands
were said to be on the war-trail. But presently they saw that there
was only a solitary stranger, and that he was blind and helpless: it
was the lost Cree. He had long before heard the hunters’ approach,
but not less deadly was the fear of Blackfeet than the dread of death
by starvation. Both meant _death_; but one meant scalping, therefore
dishonour in addition. It was only when the welcome sounds of the Cree
language fell on his ear that he could reveal his presence in the
reed-fringed lake.

I have told this story at length just as I heard it from the man who
had been in charge of the party of hunters, because it brings home to
the mind of the outsider, not only the power of endurance which the
Indian displays in the face of physical difficulties, but also the
state of society produced by the never-ending wars among the Indian
tribes. Of the mistake which caused the hunters to alter their course
and pitch their camp in another direction than that intended by their
leader I have nothing to say; chance is a strange _leader_ people say.
Tables are said to be turned by unseen powers seemingly like the stars
in the song, “because they’ve nothing else to do;” but for my part I
had rather believe that men’s footsteps are turned south instead of
west under other Guidance than that of chance, when that change of
direction, heedless though it be, saves some lost wanderer who has lain
down to die.

It was the 3rd of December, when with thin and tired horses, we
returned to the Forks of the Saskatchewan. We found our house wholly
completed; on the stage in front safe from dogs and wolves the produce
of the hunt was piled, the weary horses were turned loose on the ridge
above, and with a few books on a shelf over a rude but comfortable bed,
I prepared to pass the next two months of winter.

It was full time to reach home; the snow lay deep upon the ground; the
cold, which had set in unusually early, had even in mid-November fallen
to thirty degrees below zero, and some of our last buffalo stalks had
been made under a temperature in which frozen fingers usually followed
the handling, with unmittened hands, of rifle stock or gun trigger.

Those who in summer or autumn visit the great prairie of the
Saskatchewan can form but a faint idea of its winter fierceness and
utter desolation. They are prone to paint the scene as wanting only
the settler’s hut, the yoke of oxen, the waggon, to become at once
the paradise of the husbandman. They little know of what they
speak. Should they really wish to form a true conception of life in
these solitudes, let them go out towards the close of November into
the treeless waste; _then_, midst fierce storm and biting cold, and
snow-drift so dense that earth and heaven seem wrapped together in
indistinguishable chaos, they will witness a sight as different from
their summer ideal as a mid-Atlantic mid-winter storm varies from a
tranquil moonlight on the Ægean Sea.

[Illustration: TENT IN THE GREAT PRAIRIE.]

During the sixteen days in which we traversed the prairie on our return
journey, we had not seen one soul, one human being moving over it; the
picture of its desolation was complete.




CHAPTER IX.

    Strange Visitors.--At-tistighat the Philosopher.--Indian
        Converts.--A Domestic Scene.--The Winter Packet.--Adam
        and his Dogs.


December passed away, the new year came, the cold became more intense.
The snow deepened and the broad rivers lay hushed under their sparkling
covering; wide roadways for our dog sleighs. At times there came a
day of beautiful clearness, the sun shone brightly, the sky was of
the deepest blue, and the earth sparkled in its spotless covering. At
night the moon hung over the snow-wrapt river and silent pines with
the brilliancy of a fairy scene; but many a day and night of storm and
bitter tempest passed, and not unfrequently the thermometer placed
against the hut wall marked full 70 degrees of frost.

Towards the end of the year four of our horses died, from the depth
and hardness of the snow. The others would have soon followed if left
to find their own sustenance, but a timely removal to the Fort à la
Corne, twenty miles lower down the river, saved them.

When the year was drawing to its close two Indians pitched their
lodge on the opposite side of the North River, and finding our stage
pretty well stocked with food they began to starve immediately. In
other words, it was easier to come to us for buffalo meat than to hunt
deer for themselves: at all hours of the day they were with us, and
frequently the whole family, two men, two squaws, and three children,
would form a doleful procession to our hut for food. An Indian never
knocks at a door; he lifts the latch, enters quietly, shakes hands with
every one, and seats himself, without a word, upon the floor. You may
be at breakfast, at dinner, or in bed, it doesn’t matter. If food be
not offered to him, he will wait until the meal is finished, and then
say that he has not eaten for so many hours, as the case may be. Our
stock of food was not over sufficient, but it was impossible to refuse
it to them even though they would not hunt for themselves; and when
the three children were paraded--all pretty little things from four to
seven years of age--the argument of course became irresistible.

It was useless to tell them that the winter was long, that no more
buffalo could be obtained; they seemed to regard starvation as an
ordinary event to be calculated upon, that as long as any food was
to be obtained it was to be eaten at all times, and that when it was
gone--well then the best thing was to do without it.

January drew to a close in very violent storms accompanied by great
cold. Early one morning “At-tistighat,” or as we called him Bourgout
No. 1, arrived with news that his brother had gone away two days
before, that he had no blanket, no food; and that, as it had not
been his intention to stay out, he concluded that he had perished.
“At-tistighat” was a great scoundrel, but nevertheless, as the night
had been one of terrible storm, we felt anxious for the safety of his
brother, who was really a good Indian. “Go,” we said to him, “look for
your brother; here is pemmican to feed you during your search.” He took
the food, but coolly asserted that in all probability his brother had
shot himself, and that consequently there was no use whatever in going
to look for him; “or,” he said, “he is dead of cold, in which case it
is useless to find him.”

While he spoke a footstep outside announced an arrival, the door
opened, and the lost Bourgout No. 2 entered, bearing on his back a
heavy load of venison.

At-tistighat’s line of argument was quite in keeping with the Indian
character, and was laughable in its selfish logic. If the man was
alive, he would find his own way home; if dead, there was nothing
more to be done in the matter: but in any case pemmican was not to be
despised.

But despite their habits of begging, and their frequently unseasonable
visits, our Cree neighbours afforded us not a little food for amusement
in the long winter evenings. Indian character is worth the study,
if we will only take the trouble to divest ourselves of the notion
that all men should be like ourselves. There is so much of simplicity
and cunning, so much of close reasoning and child-like suspicion;
so much natural quickness, sense of humour, credulousness, power of
observation, faith and fun and selfishness, mixed up together in the
Red man’s mental composition; that the person who will find nothing in
Indian character worth studying will be likely to start from a base of
nullity in his own brain system.

In nearly all the dealings of the white man with the red, except
perhaps in those of the fur trade, as conducted by the great fur
companies, the mistake of judging and treating Indians by European
standards has been made. From the earliest ages of American discovery,
down to the present moment, this error has been manifest; and it is
this error which has rendered the whole missionary labour, the vast
machinery set on foot by the charity and benevolence of the various
religious bodies during so many centuries, a practical failure to-day.

When that Christian King Francis the First commissioned Cartier to
convert the Indians, they were described in the royal edict as “men
without knowledge of God, or use of reason;” and as the speediest mode
of giving them one, and bringing them to the other, the Quebec chief
savage was at once kidnapped, carried to France, baptized, and within
six months was a dead man. We may wonder if his wild subjects had
imbibed sufficient “reason” during the absence of the ship to realize
during the following season the truth of what they were doubtless told,
that it was better to be a dead Christian than a live savage; but no
doubt, under the circumstances, they might be excused if they “didn’t
quite see it.” Those who would imagine that the case of Menberton could
not now occur in missionary enterprise are deceived.

Menberton, who is said to have been a devout Christian in the early
days of Acadie, was duly instructed in the Lord’s Prayer; at a certain
portion of the prayer he was wont to append a request that “fish and
moose meat” might also be added to his daily bread. And previous to
his death, which occurred many years after his conversion, he is said
to have stoutly demanded that the savage rites of sepulture should be
bestowed upon his body, in order that he might be well prepared to make
vigorous war upon his enemies in the next world. This is of the past;
yet it is not many years since a high dignitary of the Church was not a
little horrified by a request made by some recently converted Dog-Rib
Chiefs that the rite of Baptism should be bestowed upon three flaming
red flannel shirts, of which they had for the first time in their lives
become the joint possessors.

But all this is too long to enter upon here; enough that to me at
least the Indian character is worth the trouble of close examination.
If those, whose dealings religious and political with the red man are
numerous, would only take a leaf from Goldsmith’s experience when he
first essayed to become a teacher of English in France, (“for I found,”
he writes, “that it was necessary I should previously learn French
before I could teach them English,”) very much of the ill success which
had attended labours projected by benevolence, and prosecuted with zeal
and devotion, might perhaps be avoided.

Long before ever a white man touched the American shore a misty idea
floated through the red man’s brain that from far-off lands a stranger
would come as the messenger of peace and plenty, where both were so
frequently unknown. In Florida, in Norembega, in Canada, the right hand
of fellowship was the _first_ proffered to the new comer; and when
Cartier entered the palisaded village where now the stately capital
of Canada spreads out along the base of the steep ridge, which he
named Royal after that master whose “honour” had long been lost ere on
Pavia’s field he yielded up all else, the dusky denizens of Hochelaga
brought forth their sick and stricken comrades “as though a God had
come among them.”

Three centuries and a half have passed since then; war, pestilence and
famine have followed the white man’s track. Whole tribes have vanished
even in name from the continent, yet still that strange tradition of
a white stranger, kind and beneficent, has outlived the unnumbered
cruelties of ages; and to-day the starving camp and the shivering
bivouac hears again the hopeful yet hopeless story of “a good time
coming.”

Besides our Indians we were favoured with but few visitors, silence
reigned around our residence; a magpie or a whisky-jack sometimes
hopped or chattered about our meat stage; in the morning the
sharp-tailed grouse croaked in birch or spruce tree, and at dusk, when
every other sound was hushed, the small grey owl hooted his lonely
cry. Pleasant was it at night when returning after a long day on
snow shoes, or a dog trip to the nearest fort, to reach the crest
of the steep ridge that surrounded our valley, and see below the
firelight gleaming through the little window of our hut, and the red
sparks flying upward from the chimney like fire-flies amidst the dark
pine-trees; nor was it less pleasant when as the night wore on the home
letter was penned, or the book read, while the pine-log fire burnt
brightly and the dogs slept stretched before it, and the light glared
on rifle-barrel or axe-head and showed the skin-hung rafters of our
lonely home.

As January drew towards a close, it became necessary to make
preparations for a long journey. Hitherto I had limited my wanderings
to the prairie region of the Saskatchewan, but these wanderings had
only been a preliminary to further travel into the great northern wilds.

To pierce the forest region lying north of the Saskatchewan valley, to
see the great lakes of the Athabasca and that vast extent of country
which pours its waters into the Frozen Ocean, had long been my desire;
and when four months earlier I had left the banks of the Red River and
turned away from the last limit of civilization, it was with the hope
that ere the winter snow had passed from plain and forest my wanderings
would have led me at least 2000 miles into that vast wilderness of the
north.

But many preparations had to be made against cold and distance. Dogs
had to be fattened, leather clothing got ready, harness and sleds
looked to, baggage reduced to the very smallest limit, and some one
found willing to engage to drive the second dog sled, and to face the
vicissitudes of the long northern road. The distance itself was enough
to make a man hesitate ere for hire he embarked on such a journey.
The first great stage was 750 miles, the second was as many more, and
when 1500 miles had been traversed there still must remain half as
much again before, on the river systems of the North Pacific, we could
emerge into semi-civilized ways of travel.

Many were the routes which my brain sketched out during the months of
autumn, but finally my choice rested between two rivers, the Mackenzie
rolling its waters into the Frozen Ocean, the Peace River piercing the
great defiles of the Rocky Mountains through the cañons and stupendous
gorges of Northern British Columbia. A chance meeting decided my course.

One day at the end of October I had camped during a snow-storm for
dinner in the Touchwood Hills. Suddenly through the drift a horseman
came in sight. He proved to be an officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company
from the distant post of Dunvegan on the Peace River: of all men he
was the one I most wished to see. Ninety days earlier he had left his
station; it was far away, but still with dogs over the ice of frozen
rivers and lakes, through the snow of long leagues of forest and muskey
and prairie, I might hope to reach that post on Upper Peace River in
sixty days; twenty days more might carry me through the defiles of the
Rocky Mountains to waters which flow south into the Pacific. “Good-bye,
_bon voyage_,” and we went our different ways; he towards Red River, I
for Athabasca and the Peace River.

And now, as I have said, the end of January had come, and it was
time to start; all my preparations were completed, Cerf-vola and his
companions were fat, strong, and hearty. Dog shoes, copper kettles,
a buffalo robe, a thermometer, some three or four dozen rounds of
ammunition, a little tobacco and pain-killer, a dial compass, a
pedometer, snow shoes, about fifteen pounds of baggage, tea, sugar,
a little flour, and lastly, the inevitable pemmican; all were put
together, and I only waited the arrival of the winter packet from the
south to set out.

Let me see if I can convey to the reader’s mind a notion of this winter
packet.

Towards the middle of the month of December there is unusual bustle
in the office of the Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort Garry on the Red
River; the winter packet is being made ready. Two oblong boxes are
filled with letters and papers addressed to nine different districts
of the northern continent. The limited term district is a singularly
unappropriate one: a single instance will suffice. From the post of the
Forks of the Athabasca and Clear Water Rivers to the Rocky Mountain
Portage is fully 900 miles as a man can travel, yet all that distance
lies within the limits of the single Athabasca district; and there are
others larger still. From the Fort Resolution on the Slave River to the
ramparts on the Upper Yukon, 1100 miles lay their lengths within the
limits of the Mackenzie River district.

Just as the days are at their shortest, a dog sled bearing the winter
packet starts from Fort Garry; a man walks behind it, another man some
distance in advance of the dogs. It holds its way down the Red River
to Lake Winnipeg; in about nine days’ travel it crosses that lake to
the north shore at Norway House; from thence, lessened of its packet of
letters for the Bay of Hudson and the distant Churchill, it journeys in
twenty days’ travel up the Great Saskatchewan River to Carlton House.
Here it undergoes a complete readjustment; the Saskatchewan and Lesser
Slave Lake letters are detached from it, and about the 1st of February
it starts on its long journey to the north.

During the succeeding months it holds steadily along its northern way,
sending off at long, long intervals branch dog packets to right and
left; finally, just as the sunshine of mid-May is beginning to carry a
faint whisper of the coming spring to the valleys of the Upper Yukon,
the dog train, last of many, drags the packet, now but a tiny bundle,
into the enclosure of La Pierre’s House. It has travelled nearly 3000
miles; a score of different dog teams have hauled it, and it has camped
for more than a hundred nights in the great northern forest.

The end of January had come, but contrary to the experience of several
years had brought no packet from Fort Garry, and many were the surmises
afloat as to the cause of this delay. The old Swampy Indian Adam who,
for more than a score of years had driven the dog packet, had tumbled
into a water-hole in the ice, and his dogs had literally exemplified
one portion of the popular saying of following their leader through
fire and water; and the packet, Adam, and the dogs, lay at the bottom
of the Saskatchewan River. Such was one anticipated cause of this
non-appearance.

To many persons the delay was very vexatious, but to me it was
something more. Time was a precious article: it is true a northern
winter is a long one, but so also was the route I was about to follow,
and I hoped to reach the upper regions of the Rocky Mountains while
winter yet held with icy grasp the waters of the Peace River Cañon.

The beginning of February came, and I could wait no longer for the
missing packet. On the 3rd, at mid-day, I set out on my journey. The
day was bright and beautiful, the dogs climbed defiantly the steep
high point, and we paused a moment on the summit; beneath lay hut and
pine wood and precipitous bank, all sparkling with snow and sunshine;
and beyond, standing motionless and silent, rose the Great Sub-Arctic
Forest.




CHAPTER X.

    A _tale_ of warfare.--Dog-sleds.--A missing link.--The North
        Sea.--“Winterers.”--Samuel Hearne.


During the three months which had elapsed since his arrival at
the Forks, Cerf-vola had led an idle life; he had led his train
occasionally to Fort à la Corne, or hauled a light sled along the ice
of the frozen rivers, but these were only desultory trips, and his days
had usually passed in peace and plenty.

Perhaps I am wrong in saying peace, for the introduction of several
strange dogs had occasioned much warfare, and although he had
invariably managed to come off victorious, victory was not obtained
without some loss. I have before remarked that he possessed a very
large bushy tail. In time of war this appendage was carried prominently
over his back, something after the manner of the plumes upon casque of
knight in olden times, or the more modern helmet of dragoon in the era
of the Peninsular War.

One day, while he was engaged in a desperate struggle with a bumptious
new-comer, a large ill-conditioned mongrel which had already been
vanquished, seeing his victor fully occupied, deemed it an auspicious
moment for revenge, and springing upon the bushy tail proceeded to
attack it with might and main. The unusual noise brought me to the door
in time to separate the combatants while yet the tail was intact, but
so unlooked for had been the assault that it was found upon examination
to be considerably injured. With the aid of a needle and thread it was
repaired as best we could, Cerf-vola apparently understanding what
the surgical operation meant, for although he indulged in plenty of
uproar at every stitch no attempt at biting was made by him. He was now
however sound in body and in tail, and he tugged away at his load in
blissful ignorance that 1500 miles of labour lay before him.

I know not if my readers are acquainted with the manner in which dogs
are used as draught animals in the great fur regions of the north. A
dog sled is simply two thin oak or birch-wood boards lashed together
with deer-skin thongs: turned up in front like a Norwegian snow shoe,
it runs when light over hard snow or ice with great ease; its length
is about nine feet, its breadth sixteen inches. Along its outer edges
runs a leather lashing, through the loops of which a long leather line
is passed, to hold in its place whatever may be placed upon it. From
the front, close to the turned portion, the traces for draught are
attached. The dogs, usually four in number, stand in tandem fashion,
one before the other, the best dog generally being placed in front, as
“foregoer,” the next best in rear as “steer-dog.” It is the business
of the foregoer to keep the track, however faint it may be on lake or
river. The steer-dog guides the sled, and prevents it from striking or
catching in tree or root. An ordinary load for four dogs weighs from 2
to 400 lbs.; laden with 200 lbs. dogs will travel on anything like a
good track, or on hard snow, about thirty or thirty-five miles in each
day. In deep or soft snow the pace is of necessity slow, and twenty to
twenty-five miles will form a fair day’s work.

If any one should ask what length of time dogs will thus travel day
after day, I refer them to the following chapters, wherein the fortunes
of Cerf-vola and his brethren, starting out to-day on a long journey,
are duly set forth.

Some few miles west of the mission station called Prince Albert I
parted from my friend Captain M----, who thus far had accompanied me.
He was to return to Red River and Canada, _viá_ Cumberland and the
lakes; I to hold my way across the frozen continent to the Pacific.
For many months each day would place a double day’s distance between
us, but we still looked forward to another meeting, even though between
us and that prospect there lay the breadth of all the savage continent.

A couple of days later I reached the Hudson’s Bay Company’s fort of
Carlton, the great rendezvous of the winter packets between north and
south. From north and west several of the leading agents of the fur
company had assembled at Carlton to await the coming of the packet
bearing news from the outer world. From Fort Simpson on the far
Mackenzie, from Fort Chipewyan on the lonely lake Athabasca, from
Edmonton on the Upper Saskatchewan, from Isle à la Crosse, dogs had
drawn the masters of these remote establishments to the central station
on the middle Saskatchewan. But they waited in vain for the arrival of
the packet; with singular punctuality had their various trains arrived
within a few days of each other from starting-points 2000 miles apart;
yet after a few days’ detention these officers felt anxious to set out
once more on their journey, and many a time the hill-side on which the
packet must first appear was scanned by watchers, and all the boasted
second sight and conjuring power of haggard squaw and medicine man was
set at work to discover the whereabouts of the “missing link” between
the realms of civilization and savagery. To me the delay, except for
the exigencies of time and distance, was not irksome. I was in the
society of gentlemen whose lives had been passed in all portions of
the great north, on the frozen shores of Hudson’s Bay, in the mountain
fastnesses of the Chipewyan range, or midst the savage solitudes that
lie where, in long, low-lying capes, and ice-piled promontories, the
shore of America stretches out to meet the waves of the Northern Ocean.

There was one present who in the past seven months had travelled by
horse and canoe, boat and dog train, full 4000 miles; and another,
destined to be my close companion during many weeks, whose matchless
determination and power of endurance had carried him in a single winter
from the Lower Mackenzie River to the banks of the Mississippi.

Here, while we await the winter packet, let me sketch with hasty and
imperfect touch the lives of those who, as the “winterers” of the great
Company of Adventurers trading into Hudson’s Bay, have made their homes
in the wilderness.

Two hundred and sixty-two years ago, a French adventurer under the
banner of Samuel de Champlain wintered with an Indian tribe on the
shores of the Upper Ottawa. In the ensuing spring he returned to
Montreal, recounted his adventures, and became the hero of an hour.
Beyond the country of the Ottawas he described a vast region, and from
the uttermost sources of the Ottawa a large river ran towards the north
until it ended in the North Sea. He had been there he said, and on the
shore lay the ribs of an English vessel wrecked, and the skeletons of
English sailors who had been drowned or murdered. His story was a false
one, and ere a year had passed he confessed his duplicity; he had not
been near the North Sea, nor had he seen aught that he described.

Yet was there even more than a germ of truth in his tale of wreck and
disaster, for just one year earlier in this same North Sea, a brave
English sailor had been set adrift in an open boat, with half a dozen
faithful seamen; and of all the dark mysteries of the merciless ocean,
no mystery lies wrapt in deeper shadow than that which hangs over the
fate of Hudson.

But the seventeenth century was not an age when wreck or ruin could
daunt the spirit of discovery. Here in this lonely North Sea, the palm
of adventure belonged not to France alone. Spain might overrun the
rich regions of the tropics, Richelieu (prototype of the great German
chancellor of to-day) might plant the _fleur-de-lis_ along the mighty
St. Lawrence, but the north--the frozen north--must be the land of
English enterprise and English daring. The years that followed the
casting away of the fearless Hudson saw strange vessels coasting the
misty shores of that weird sea; at first, to seek through its bergs
and ice floes, its dreary cloud-wrapt fiords and inlets, a passage to
the land where ceaseless sunshine glinted on the spice-scented shores
of fabulous Cathay; and later on, to trade with the savages who clad
themselves in skins, which the fairest favourites of Whitehall or
the Louvre (by a strange extreme wherein savagery joined hands with
civilization) would be proud to wrap round their snowy shoulders.

Prosecuted at first by desultory and chance adventurers, this trade in
furs soon took definite form and became a branch of commerce. On the
lonely sea-shores wooden buildings rose along the estuaries of rivers
flowing from an unknown land. These were honoured by the title of fort
or factory, and then the ships sailed back to England ere the autumn
ice had closed upon the waters; while behind in Rupert’s Fort, York
Factory, Churchill, or Albany (names which tell the political history
of their day), stayed the agents, or “winterers,” whose work it was to
face for a long season of hardship, famine, and disease, a climate so
rigorous that not unfrequently, when the returning vessel rose upon
the distant sea line, scarce half the eyes that had seen her vanish
were there to watch her return. And they had other foes to contend
with. Over the height of land, away by the great lakes, and along the
forest shores of the St. Lawrence, the adventurers of another nation
had long been busy at the mingled work of conquest and traffic. The
rival Sultans of France and England could, midst the more pressing
cares of their respective harems, find time occasionally to scribble
“Henri” or “Charles” at the foot of a parchment scroll which gave a
continent to a company; it little mattered whether Spaniard, Frenchman,
or Briton had first bestowed the gift, the rival claimants might fight
for the possession as they pleased. The geography of this New World was
uncertain, and where Florida ended or Canada began was not matter of
much consequence. But the great cardinal, like the great chancellor,
was not likely to err in the matter of boundaries. “If there should be
any doubt about the parts, we can take the whole,” was probably as good
a maxim then as now; and accordingly we find at one sweep the whole
northern continent, from Florida to the Arctic Circle, handed over to a
company of which the priest-soldier was the moving spirit.

Thus began the long strife between France and England in North
America,--a strife which only ended under the walls of Quebec. The
story of their bravery, their endurance, their constancy, their
heroism, has been woven into deathless history by a master-hand.[1]
To France belongs the glory of the Great West--not the less her glory
because the sun has set for ever upon her empire. Nothing remains
to her. Promontory or lonely isle, name of sea-washed cape, or
silent lake, half mistily tells of her former dominion. In the deep
recesses of some north-western lake or river-reach the echoes still
waken to the notes of some old French _chanson_, as the half Indian
_voyageur_, ignorant of all save the sound, dips his glistening paddle
to the cadence of his song. But of all that Cartier and Champlain, De
Monts, La Salle, Marquette, Frontenac, and Montcalm lived and died
for--nothing more remains.

    [1] Francis Parkman.

Poor France! In the New World and in the Old history owes thee much.
Yet in both hast thou paid the full measure of thy people’s wrong.

But to return. The seventeenth century had not closed ere the sea
of Hudson became the theatre of strife, the wooden palisades of the
factories were battered or burnt down; and one fine day in August,
1697, a loud cannonade boomed over the sullen waters, and before the
long summer twilight had closed, the “Hampshire,” with her fifty-two
guns on high poop or lofty forecastle, lay deep beneath the icy sea,
her consorts the Frenchman’s prize. Nor had she gone down before a foe
more powerful, but to the single frigate of Le Moyne d’Iberville, a
child of Old and New France, the boldest rover that e’er went forth
upon the Northern Seas. Some fifteen years later France resigned her
claim to these sterile shores. Blenheim, Ramilies, Oudenarde, and
Malplaquet had given to England the sole possession of the frozen north.

And now for nigh seventy years the English Company pursued unmolested
its trade along the coast. A strong fort, not of wood and lath and
stockade, but of hard English brick and native granite hewn by English
hands, rose near the estuary of the Churchill River. To this fort the
natives came annually along the English river bearing skins gathered
far inland, along the shores of the Lake of the Hills, and the borders
of the great river of the north.

With these natives wandered back an Englishman named Samuel Hearne; he
reached the Lake Athabasca, and on all sides he heard of large rivers,
some coming from south and west, others flowing to the remotest north.
He wandered on from tribe to tribe, reacted a great lake, descended a
great river to the north, and saw at last the Arctic Sea.

Slowly did the Fur Company establish itself in the interior. It was
easier to let the natives bring down the rich furs to the coast than
to seek them in these friendless regions. But at last a subtle rival
appeared on the scene; the story of the North-West Fur Company has
often been told, and in another place we have painted the effects
of that conflict; here it is enough to say that when in 1822 the
north-west became merged into the older corporation, posts or forts had
been scattered throughout the entire continent, and that henceforth
from Oregon to Ungava, from Mingan to the Mackenzie, the countless
tribes knew but one lord and master, the Company of Adventurers from
England trading into Hudson’s Bay.

What in the meantime was the work of those wintering agents whose homes
were made in the wilderness? God knows their lives were hard. They
came generally from the remote isles or highlands of Scotland, they
left home young, and the mind tires when it thinks upon the remoteness
of many of their fur stations. Dreary and monotonous beyond words was
their home life, and hardship was its rule. To travel on foot 1000
miles in winter’s darkest time, to live upon the coarsest food, to see
nought of bread or sugar for long months, to lie down at night under
the freezing branches, to feel cold such as Englishmen in England
cannot even comprehend, often to starve, always to dwell in exile
from the great world. Such was the routine of their lives. The names
of these northern posts tell the story of their toil. “Resolution,”
“Providence,” “Good Hope,” “Enterprise,” “Reliance,” “Confidence;” such
were the titles given to these little forts on the distant Mackenzie,
or the desolate shores of the great Slave Lake. Who can tell what
memories of early days in the far away Scottish isles, or Highland
glen, must have come to these men as the tempest swept the stunted
pine-forest, and wrack and drift hurled across the frozen lake--when
the dawn and the dusk, separated by only a few hours’ daylight, closed
into the long, dark night. Perchance the savage scene was lost in a
dreamy vision of some lonely Scottish loch, some Druid mound in far
away Lewis, some vista of a fireside, when storm howled and waves ran
high upon the beach of Stornoway.




CHAPTER XI.

    A dog of no character.--The Green Lake.--Lac Ile à la
        Crosse.--A cold day.--Fort Ile à la Crosse.--A long-lost
        brother.--Lost upon the Lake.--Unwelcome neighbours.--Mr.
        Roderick Macfarlane.--A beautiful morning.--Marble features.


On the night of the 11th of February, under a brilliant moonlight, we
quitted Fort Carlton; crossing the Saskatchewan, we climbed the steep
northern bank, and paused a moment to look back. The moon was at its
full, not a cloud slept in the vast blue vault of heaven, a great
planet burned in the western sky; the river lay beneath in spotless
lustre; shore and prairie, ridge and lowland, sparkled in the sheen
of snow and moonlight. Then I sprung upon my sled, and followed the
others, for the music of their dog-bells was already getting faint.

The two following days saw us journeying on through a rich and fertile
land. Clumps of poplar interspersed with pine, dotted the undulating
surface of the country. Lakes were numerous, and the yellow grass
along their margins still showed above the deep snow.

Six trains of dogs, twenty-three dogs in all, made a goodly show; the
northern ones all beaded, belled, and ribboned, were mostly large
powerful animals. Cree, French, and English names were curiously
intermixed, and as varied were the tongues used to urge the trains to
fresh exertions. Sometimes a dog would be abused, vilified, and cursed,
in French alone; at others, he would be implored, in Cree, to put forth
greater efforts. “Kuskey-tay-o-atim-moos,” or the little “black dog”
would be appealed to, “for the love of Heaven to haul his traces.”
He would be solemnly informed that he was a dog of no character;
that he was the child of very disreputable parents; that, in fact,
his mother had been no better than she should have been. Generally
speaking, this information did not appear to have much effect upon
Kuskey-tay-o-atim-moos, who was doubtless well satisfied if the abuse
hurled at him and his progenitors exhausted the ire of his driver, and
saved his back at the expense of his relations.

Four days of rapid travelling carried us far to the north. Early on
the third day of travel the open country, with its lakelets and poplar
ridges, was left behind, and the forest region entered upon for the
first time.

Day had not yet dawned when we quitted a deserted hut which had given
us shelter for the night; a succession of steep hills rose before us,
and when the highest had been gained, the dawn had broken upon the dull
grey landscape. Before us the great Sub-Arctic Forest stretched away to
the north, a line of lakes, its rampart of defence against the wasting
fires of the prairie region, lay beneath. This was the southern limit
of that vast forest whose northern extreme must be sought where the
waters of the Mackenzie mingle with the waves of the Arctic Sea.

We entered this forest, and in four days reached the southern end of
the Green Lake, a long narrow sheet of water of great depth. The dogs
went briskly over the hard snow on the surface of the ice-covered lake,
and ere sun set on the 15th of February we were housed in the little
Hudson’s Bay post, near the northern extremity of the lake. We had run
about 150 miles in four days.

A little more than midway between Carlton and Green Lake, the traveller
crosses the height of land between the Saskatchewan and Beaver Rivers;
its elevation is about 1700 feet above the sea level, but the rise
on either side is barely perceptible, and between the wooded hills,
a network of lakes linked together by swamps and muskegs spreads in
every direction. These lakes abound with the finest fish; the woods
are fairly stocked with fur-bearing animals, and the country is in many
respects fitted to be made the scene of Indian settlement, upon a plan
not yet attempted by American or Canadian governments in their dealings
with the red man.

On the morning of the 17th February we quitted the Green Lake, and
continued on our northern way. Early on the day of departure we struck
the Beaver or Upper Churchill river, and followed its winding course
for some forty miles. The shores were well wooded with white spruce,
juniper, and birch; the banks, some ten or twenty feet above the
surface of the ice, sloped easily back; while at every ten or fifteen
miles smaller streams sought the main river, and at each accession the
bed of the channel nearly doubled in width.

Hitherto I have not spoken of the cold; the snow lay deep upon the
ground, but so far the days had been fine, and the nights, though
of course cold, were by no means excessively so. The morning of the
19th February found us camped on a pine ridge, between lakes, about
fifteen miles south of Lac Ile à la Crosse, by the spot where an ox
had perished of starvation during the previous autumn, his bones now
furnishing a night-long repast for our hungry dogs. The night had been
very cold, and despite of blanket or buffalo robe it was impossible
to remain long asleep. It may seem strange to those who live in warm
houses, who sleep in cosy rooms from which the draught is carefully
excluded, and to whom the notion of seeking one’s rest on the ground,
under a pine-tree in mid-winter, would appear eminently suicidal; it
may seem strange, I say, how in a climate where cold is measured by
degrees as much _below_ the freezing point as the hottest shade heat of
Carnatic or Scindian summer is known to be _above_ it, that men should
be able at the close of a hard day’s march to lie down to rest under
the open heavens. Yet so it is.

When the light begins to fade over the frozen solitude, and the first
melancholy hoot of the night owl is heard, the traveller in the north
looks around him for “a good camping-place.” In the forest country
he has not long to seek for it; a few dead trees for fuel, a level
space for his fire and his blanket, some green young pines to give him
“brush” for his bed, and all his requirements are supplied. The camp
is soon made, the fire lighted, the kettle filled with snow and set to
boil, the supper finished, dogs fed, and the blankets spread out over
the pine brush. It is scarcely necessary to say that there is not much
time lost in the operation of undressing; under the circumstances one
is more likely to reverse the process, and literally (not figuratively
as in the case of modern society, preparing for her ball) to _dress_
for the night. Then begins the cold; it has been bitterly cold all day,
with darkness; the wind has lulled, and the frost has come out of the
cold, grey sky with still, silent rigour. If you have a thermometer
placed in the snow at your head the spirit will have shrunken back
into the twenties and thirties below zero; and just when the dawn is
stealing over the eastern pine tops it will not unfrequently be into
the forties. Well then, that is cold if you like! You are tired by a
thirty-mile march on snow shoes. You have lain down with stiffened
limbs and blistered feet, and sleep comes to you by the mere force
of your fatigue; but never goes the consciousness of the cold from
your waking brain; and as you lie with crossed arms and up-gathered
knees beneath your buffalo robe, you welcome as a benefactor any
short-haired, shivering dog who may be forced from his lair in the snow
to seek a few hours’ sleep upon the outside of your blankets.

Yet do not imagine, reader, that all this is next to an impossibility,
that men will perish under many nights of it. Men do not perish thus
easily. Nay even, when before dawn the fire has been set alight, and
the tea swallowed hot and strong, the whole thing is nigh forgotten,
not unfrequently forgotten in the anticipations of a cold still more
trying in the day’s journey which is before you.

Such was the case now. We had slept coldly, and ere daylight the
thermometer showed 32 degrees below zero. A strong wind swept through
the fir-trees from the north; at daylight the wind lulled, but every
one seemed to anticipate a bad day, and leather coats and capôtes were
all in use.

We set off at six o’clock. For a time calmness reigned, but at sunrise
the north wind sprang up again, and the cold soon became more than one
could bear. Before mid-day we reached the southern end of Lac Ile à la
Crosse; before us to the north lay nearly thirty miles of shelterless
lake, and down this great stretch of ice the wind came with merciless
severity.

We made a fire, drank a great deal of hot tea, muffled up as best we
could, and put out into the lake. All that day I had been ill, and with
no little difficulty had managed to keep up with the party. I do not
think that I had, in the experience of many bitter days of travel, ever
felt such cold; but I attributed this to illness more than to the day’s
severity.

We held on; right in our teeth blew the bitter blast, the dogs with
low-bent heads tugged steadily onward, the half-breeds and Indians
wrapped their blankets round their heads, and bending forward as they
ran made their way against the wind. To run was instantly to freeze
one’s face; to lie on the sled was to chill through the body to the
very marrow. It was impossible to face it long, and again we put in to
shore, made a fire, and boiled some tea.

At mid-day the sun shone, and the thermometer stood at 26° below zero;
the sun was utterly powerless to make itself felt in the slightest
degree; a drift of dry snow flew before the bitter wind. Was this
really great cold? I often asked myself. I had not long to wait for
an answer. My two fellow-travellers were perhaps of all men in those
regions best able to settle a question of cold. One had spent nigh
thirty years in many parts of the Continent; the other had dwelt for
years within the Arctic Circle, and had travelled the shores of the
Arctic Ocean at a time when the Esquimaux keep close within their
greasy snow huts. Both were renowned travellers in a land where bad
travellers were unknown: the testimony of such men was conclusive, and
for years they had not known so cold a day.

“I doubt if I have ever felt greater cold than this, even on the
Anderson or the Mackenzie,” said the man who was so well acquainted
with winter hardship. After that I did not care so much; if _they_ felt
it cold, if their cheeks grew white and hard in the bitter blast,
surely I could afford to freeze half my face and all my fingers to boot.

Yet at the time it was no laughing matter; to look forward to an hour
seemed an infinity of pain. One rubbed and rubbed away at solid nose
and white cheek, but that only added one’s fingers to the list of iced
things one had to carry.

At last the sun began to decline to the west, the wind fell with it,
the thick, low-tying drift disappeared, and it was possible by running
hard to restore the circulation. With dusk came a magnificent Aurora;
the sheeted light quivered over the frozen lake like fleecy clouds
of many colours blown across the stars. Night had long closed when
we reached the warm shelter of the shore, and saw the welcome lights
of houses in the gloom. Dogs barked, bolts rattled, men and children
issued from the snow-covered huts; and at the door of his house stood
my kind fellow-traveller, the chief factor of the district, waiting to
welcome me to his fort of Ile à la Crosse.

The fort of Ile à la Crosse is a solitary spot. Behind it spreads a
land of worthless forest, a region abounding in swamps and muskegs, in
front the long arms of the Cruciform Lake. It is not from its shape
that the lake bears its name; in the centre, where the four long arms
meet, stands an island, on the open shore of which the Indians in
bygone times were wont to play their favourite game of la Crosse. The
game named the island, and the island in turn gave its name to the
lake. The Beaver River enters the lake at the south-east, and leaves it
again on the north-west side. The elevation of the lake above the level
of Hudson’s Bay cannot be less than 1300 feet, so it is little wonder
if the wild winds of the north should have full sweep across its frozen
surface. The lake is well stocked with excellent white fish, and by the
produce of the net the garrison of the fort is kept wholly in food,
about 130 large fish being daily consumed in it.

At a short distance from the fort stands the French Mission. One of
the earliest established in the north, it has thrown out many branches
into more remote solitudes. Four ladies of the order of Grey Nuns have
made their home here, and their school already contains some thirty
children. If one wants to see what can be made of a very limited space,
one should visit this convent at Ile à la Crosse; the entire building
is a small wooden structure, yet school, dormitory, oratory, kitchen,
and dining-room are all contained therein.

The sisters seemed happy and contented, chatted gaily of the outside
world, or of their far-away homes in Lower Canada. Their present house
was only a temporary erection. In one fell night fire had destroyed a
larger building, and consumed their library, oratory, everything; and
now its ravages were being slowly repaired. Of course it was an event
to be long remembered, and the lady who described to us the calamity
seemed still to feel the terror of the moment.

My long journey left me no time for delay, and after one day’s rest it
became necessary to resume the march. The morning of the 21st February
found us again in motion.

We now numbered some five sleds; the officer in charge of the Athabasca
district, the next to the north, was still to be my fellow-traveller
for nearly 400 miles to his post of Fort Chipewyan. All dogs save
mine were fresh ones, but Cerf-vola showed not one sign of fatigue,
and Spanker was still strong and hearty. Pony was, however, betraying
every indication of giving out, and had long proved himself an arrant
scoundrel.

Dogs were scarce in the North this year. A distemper had swept over all
the forts, and many a trusty hauler had gone to the land where harness
is unknown.

Here, at Ile à la Crosse, I obtained an eighth dog. This dog was Major;
he was an Esquimaux from Deer’s Lake, the birth-place of Cerf-vola, and
he bore a very strong resemblance to my leader. It is not unlikely that
they were closely related, perhaps brothers, who had thus, after many
wanderings, come together; but, be that as it may, Cerf-vola treated
his long-lost brother with evident suspicion, and continued to maintain
towards all outsiders a dogged demeanour.

Major’s resemblance to the Untiring led to a grievous error on the
morning of my departure from the fort.

It was two hours before daylight when the dogs were put into harness;
it was a morning of bitter cold; a faint old moon hung in the east;
over the dim lake, a shadowy Aurora flickered across the stars; it was
as wild and cheerless a sight as eye of mortal could look upon; and the
work of getting the poor unwilling dogs into their harness was done by
the Indians and half-breeds in no amiable mood.

In the haste and darkness the Untiring was placed last in the train
which he had so long led, the new-comer, Major, getting the foremost
place. Upon my assuming charge of the train, an ominous tendency to
growl and fight on the part of my steer-dog told me something was
wrong; it was too dark to see plainly, but a touch of the Untiring’s
nose told me that the right dog was in the wrong place.

The mistake was quickly rectified, but, nevertheless, I fear its memory
long rankled in the mind of Cerf-vola, for all that day, and for some
days after, he never missed an opportunity of counter-marching suddenly
in his harness and prostrating the unoffending Major at his post of
steer-dog; the attack was generally made with so much suddenness and
vigour that Major instantly capitulated, “turning a turtle” in his
traces. This unlooked-for assault was usually accompanied by a flank
movement on the part of Spanker, who, whenever there was anything in
the shape of fighting lying around, was sure to have a tooth in it on
his own account, being never very particular as to whether he attacked
the head of the rear dog or the tail of his friend in front.

All this led at times to fearful confusion in my train; they jumped on
one another; they tangled traces, and back-bands, and collar-straps
into sad knots and interlacings, which baffled my poor frozen fingers
to unravel. Often have I seen them in a huge ball rolling over each
other in the snow, while the rapid application of my whip only appeared
to make matters worse, conveying the idea to Spanker or the Untiring
that they were being badly bitten by an unknown belligerent.

Like the lady in Tennyson’s “Princess,” they “mouthed and mumbled” each
other in a very perplexing manner, but, of course, from a cause totally
at variance from that which influenced the matron in the poem. These
events only occurred, however, when a new dog was added to the train;
and, after a day or so, things got smoothed down, and all tugged at the
moose-skin collars in peaceful unanimity.

But to return. We started from Ile à la Crosse, and held our way over
a chain of lakes and rivers. Rivière Cruise was passed, Lac Clair lay
at sun-down far stretching to our right into the blue cold north, and
when dusk had come, we were halted for the night in a lonely Indian hut
which stood on the shores of the Detroit, fully forty miles from our
starting-place of the morning.

“A long, hard, cold day; storm, drift, and desolation. We are lost upon
the lake.”

Such is the entry which meets my eye as I turn to the page of a scanty
note-book which records the 22nd of February; and now looking back
upon this day, it does not seem to me that the entry exaggerates in
its pithy summing up the misery of the day’s travel. To recount the
events of each day’s journey, to give minutely, starting-point, date,
distance, and resting-place, is too frequently an error into which
travellers are wont to fall. I have read somewhere in a review of a
work on African travel, that no literary skill has hitherto been able
to enliven the description of how the traveller left a village of
dirty negroes in the morning, and struggled through swamps all day,
and crossed a river swarming with hippopotami, and approached a wood
where there were elephants, and finally got to another village of dirty
negroes in the evening. The reviewer is right; the reiterated recital
of Arctic cold and hardship, or of African heat and misery, must be as
wearisome to the reader as its realization was painful to the writer;
but the traveller has one advantage over the reader, the reality of
the “storm, drift, and desolation” had the excitement of the very pain
which they produced. To be lost in a haze of blinding snow, to have a
spur of icy keenness urging one to fresh exertion, to seek with dazed
eyes hour after hour for a faint print of snow shoes or mocassin on the
solid surface of a large lake, to see the night approaching and to urge
the dogs with whip and voice to fresh exertions, to greater efforts to
gain some distant land-point ere night has wrapped the dreary scene in
darkness; all this doled out hour by hour in narrative would be dull
indeed.

To me the chief excitement lay in the question, Will this trail lead to
aught? Will we save daylight to the shore? But to the reader the fact
is already patent that the trail did lead to something, and that the
night did not find the travellers still lost on the frozen lake.

Neither could the reader enter into the joy with which, after such a
day of toil and hardships, the traveller sees in the gloom the haven
he has sought so long; it may be only a rude cabin with windows cut
from the snow-drift or the moose-skin, it may be only a camp-fire in
a pine clump, but nevertheless the lost wanderer hails with a feeling
of intense joy the gleam which tells him of a resting-place; and as he
stretches his weary limbs on the hut floor or the pine-bush, he laughs
and jests over the misfortunes, fatigues, and fears, which but a short
hour before were heartsickening enough.

It was with feelings such as this that I beheld the lights of Rivière
la Loche station on the night of the 22nd of February; for, through
an afternoon of intense cold and blinding drift, we had struggled in
vain to keep the track across the Buffalo Lake. The guide had vanished
in the drift, and it was only through the exertions of my companion
after hours of toil that we were able to regain the track, and reach,
late on Saturday evening, the warm shelter of the little post; a
small, clean room, a bright fire, a good supper, an entire twenty-four
hours of sleep, and rest in prospect. Is it any wonder that with such
surroundings the hut at Rivière la Loche seemed a palace?

And now each succeeding day carried us further into the great
wilderness of the north, over lakes whose dim shores loomed through the
driving snow, and the ragged pines tossed wildly in the wind; through
marsh and muskeg and tangled wood, and all the long monotony of dreary
savagery which lies on that dim ridge, from whose sides the waters roll
east to the Bay of Hudson, north to the Frozen Ocean.

We reached the Methy Portage, and turned north-west through a long
region of worthless forest. Now and again a wood Cariboo crossed the
track; a marten showed upon a frozen lake; but no other sign of life
was visible. The whole earth seemed to sleep in savage desolation; the
snow lay deep upon the ground, and slowly we plodded on.

To rise at half-past two o’clock a.m., start at four, and plod on
until sunset, halting twice for an hour during the day, this was the
history of each day’s toil. Yet, with this long day of work, we could
only travel about twenty-five miles. In front, along the track, went a
young Chipewyan Indian; then came a train of dogs floundering deep in
the soft snow; then the other trains wound along upon firmer footing.
Camp-making in the evening in this deep snow was tedious work. It
was hard, too, to hunt up the various dogs in the small hours of the
morning, from their lairs in snow-drift or beneath root of tree; but
some dogs kept uncomfortably close to camp, and I well remember waking
one night out of a deep sleep, to find two huge beasts tearing each
other to pieces on the top of the buffalo bag in which I lay.

After three days of wearisome labour on this summit ridge of the
northern continent we reached the edge of a deep glen, 700 feet below
the plateau. At the bottom of this valley a small river ran in many
curves between high-wooded shores. The sleds bounded rapidly down the
steep descent, dogs and loads rolling frequently in a confused heap
together. Night had fallen when we gained the lower valley, and made
a camp in the darkness near the winding river; the height of land was
passed, and the river in the glen was the Clearwater of the Athabasca.

I have before spoken of the life of hardship to which the wintering
agents of the Hudson’s Bay Company are habituated, nor was I without
some practical knowledge of the subject to which I have alluded. I had
now, however, full opportunity of judging the measure of toil contained
in the simple encomium one often utters in the north. “He is a good
traveller.”

Few men have led, even in the hard regions of the north, a life of
greater toil than Mr. Roderick Macfarlane. He had left his island home
when almost a boy, and in earliest manhood had entered the remote
wilds of the Mackenzie River. For seventeen years he had remained cut
off from the outer world; yet his mind had never permitted itself to
sink amidst the oppressive solitudes by which he was surrounded: it
rose rather to the level of the vastness and grandeur which Nature
wears even in her extreme of desolation.

He entered with vigour into the life of toil before him. By no means
of a strong constitution or frame of body, he nevertheless fought his
way to hardiness; midst cold and darkness and scant living, the natural
accompaniments of remote travel, he traversed the country between
the Peel, Mackenzie, and Liard rivers, and pushed his explorations
to the hitherto unknown River Anderson. Here, on the borders of the
Barren Ground, and far within the Arctic Circle, he founded the most
northern and remote of all the trading stations of the Fur Company. In
mid-winter he visited the shores of the Frozen Ocean, and dwelt with
the Esquimaux along the desolate coasts of that bay which bears the
name of England’s most hapless explorer.

Nor was it all a land of desolation to him. Directed by a mind as
sanguine as his own,[2] he entered warmly into the pursuits of natural
history, and classed and catalogued the numerous birds which seek in
summer these friendless regions, proving in some instances the range of
several of the tiniest of the feathered wanderers to reach from Texas
to the Arctic shores.

    [2] The late Major Kennicot, U.S.A., who, in charge of the
        United States telegraph exploration, died at Fort Yukon,
        Alaska.

All his travels were performed on snow shoes, driving his train of
dogs, or beating the track for them in the snow. In a single winter,
as I have before mentioned, he passed from the Mackenzie River to
the Mississippi, driving the same train of dogs to Fort Garry,
fully 2000 miles from his starting-point; and it was early in the
following summer, on his return from England after a hasty visit,
the first during twenty years, that I made his acquaintance in the
American State of Minnesota. He was not only acquainted with all the
vicissitudes of northern travel, but his mind was well stored with
the history of previous exploration. Chance and the energy of the old
North-West Company had accumulated a large store of valuable books in
the principal fort on the Mackenzie. These had been carefully studied
during periods of inaction, and arctic exploration in reality or in
narrative was equally familiar to him.

“I would have given my right arm to have been allowed to go on one
of these search expeditions,” he often said to me; and perhaps, if
those wise and sapient men, who, acting in a corporate or individual
capacity, have the power of selection for the work of relief or
exploration, would only accustom themselves to make choice of such
materials, the bones that now dot the sands of King William’s Land
or the estuary of the Great Fish River, might in the flesh yet move
amongst us.

One night we were camped on a solitary island in the Swan Lake. The
camp had been made after sunset, and as the morning’s path lay across
the lake, over hard snow where no track was necessary, it was our
intention to start on our way long before daybreak. In this matter of
early starting it is almost always impossible to rely on the Indian
or the half-breed _voyageur_. They will lie close hid beneath their
blankets, unless, indeed, the cold should become so intense as to force
them to arise and light a fire; but, generally speaking, they will lie
huddled so closely together that they can defy the elements, and it
becomes no easy matter to arouse them from their pretended slumbers at
two or three o’clock of a dead-cold morning. My companion, however,
seemed to be able to live without sleep. At two o’clock he would arise
from his deer-skin robe and set the camp astir. I generally got an
hour’s law until the fire was fairly agoing and the tea-kettle had been
boiled.

No matter what the morning was, he never complained. This morning on
Swan Lake was bitterly cold--30° below zero at my head.

“Beautiful morning!” he exclaimed, as I emerged from my buffalo robe at
three o’clock; and he really meant it. I was not to be done.

“Oh, delightful!” I managed to chatter forth, with a tolerable degree
of acquiescence in my voice, a few mental reservations and many bodily
ones all over me.

But 30° below zero, unaccompanied by wind, is not so bad after all when
one is fairly under weigh and has rubbed one’s nose for a time, and
struck the huge “mittained” hands violently together, and run a mile or
so; but let the faintest possible breath of wind arise--a “zephyr” the
poets would call it, a thing just strong enough to turn smoke or twist
the feather which a wild duck might detach from beneath his wing as he
cleft the air above--then look out, or rather look down, cast the eye
so much askant that it can catch a glimpse of the top of the nose, and
you will see a ghostly sight.

We have all heard of hard hearts, and stony eyes, and marble foreheads,
alabaster shoulders, snowy necks, and firm-set lips, and all the long
array of silicious similitudes used to express the various qualities of
the human form divine; but firmer, and colder, and whiter, and harder
than all stands forth prominently a frozen nose.

A study of frozen noses would be interesting; one could work out from
it an essay on the admirable fitness of things, and even history read
by the light of frozen noses might teach us new theories. The Roman
nose could not have stood an arctic winter, hence the limits of the
Roman empire. The Esquimaux nose is admirably fitted for the climate in
which it breathes, hence the limited nature it assumes.




CHAPTER XII.

    The Clearwater.--A bygone Ocean.--A Land of Lakes.--The
        Athabasca River.--Who is he?--Chipewyan Indians.--
        Echo.--Major succumbs at last.--Mal de Raquette.


The Clearwater, a river small in a land where rivers are often a mile
in width, meanders between its lofty wooded hills; or rather one should
say, meanders in the deep valley which it has worn for itself through
countless ages.

Ever since the beginning of the fur trade it has been the sole route
followed into the North. More practicable routes undoubtedly exist, but
hitherto the Long Portage (a ridge dividing the waters of the chain of
lakes and rivers we have lately passed from those streams which seek
the Arctic Ocean) and the Clearwater River have formed as it were the
gateway of the North.

This Long Portage, under its various names of La Loche and Methy, is
not a bad position from whence to take a bird’s-eye view of the Great
North.

Once upon a time, how long ago one is afraid to say, a great sea rolled
over what is now the central continent. From the Gulf of Mexico to
the Arctic Ocean, from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the base of the
Rocky Mountains, this ocean has left its trace. It had its shores, and
to-day these shores still show the trace of where the restless waves
threw their surge upon the earlier earth. To the eye of the geologist
the sea-shell, high cast upon some mountain ridge, tells its story of
the sea as plainly as the tropic sea-shell, held to the dreamer’s ear,
whispers its low melody of sounding billow.

To the east of this ocean the old earth reared its iron head in those
grim masses which we name Laurentian, and which, as though conscious of
their hoary age, seem to laugh at the labour of the new comer, man.

The waters went down, or the earth went up, it little matters which;
and the river systems of the continent worked their ways into Mother
Ocean: the Mississippi south, the St. Lawrence east, the Mackenzie
north. But the old Laurentian still remained, and to-day, grim, filled
with wild lakes, pine-clad, rugged, almost impassable it lies, spread
in savage sleep from Labrador to the Arctic Ocean.

At the Methy Portage we are on the western boundary of this Laurentian
rock; from here it runs south-east to Canada, north to the Frozen Ocean.

It is of the region lying between this primary formation and the Rocky
Mountains, the region once an ocean, of which we would speak.

I have said in an earlier chapter that the continent of British
America, from the United States’ boundary, slopes to the north-east,
the eastern slope terminates at this Portage la Loche, and henceforth
the only slope is to the north; from here to the Frozen Sea, one
thousand miles, as wild swan flies, is one long and gradual descent.
Three rivers carry the waters of this slope into the Arctic Ocean;
the great Fish River of Sir George Back, at the estuary of which the
last of Franklin’s gallant crew lay down to die; the Coppermine of
Samuel Hearne; and the Mackenzie which tells its discoverer’s name. The
first two flow through the Barren Grounds, the last drains by numerous
tributaries, seventeen hundred miles of the Rocky Mountains upon both
sides of that snow-capped range. All its principal feeders rise beyond
the mountains, cutting through the range at right angles, through
tremendous valleys, the sides of which overhang the gloomy waters.

The Liard, the Peel, the Peace rivers, all have their sources to
the west of the Rocky Mountains. Even the parent rill of the Great
Athabasca is on the Pacific side also. Nor is this mountain, thus
curiously rent in twain by large rivers, a mere ridge, or lofty
table-land; but huge and vast, capped by eternal snow, it lifts its
peaks full fifteen thousand feet above the sea level.

Many large lakes lie spread over this ancient sea bottom; Lake
Athabasca, Great Slave, and Great Bear Lake continue across the
continent, that great Lacustrine line, which, with Winnipeg, Superior,
Huron, and Ontario, forms an aggregate of water surface half as large
as Europe.

Of other lakes, the country is simply a vast network, beyond all
attempt at name or number; of every size, from a hundred yards to a
hundred miles in length, they lie midst prairie, or midst forest,
lonely and silent, scarce known even to the wild man’s ken.

And now, having thus imperfectly tried to bring to the reader’s mind a
vision of this vast North, let us descend from the height of land into
the deep valley of the Clearwater, and like it, hurry onward to the
Athabasca.

Descending the many-curving Clearwater for one day, we reached, on the
last day of February, its junction with the Athabasca, a spot known as
the Forks of the Athabasca. The aspect of the country had undergone a
complete change; the dwarf and ragged forest had given place to lofty
trees, and the white spruce from a trunk of eight feet in circumference
lifted its head fully one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. Nor
was it only the aspect of the trees that might have induced one to
imagine himself in a land of plenty. In the small fort at the Forks,
luxuries unseen during many a day met the eye; choice vegetables, the
produce of the garden; moose venison, and better than all, the tender
steak of the wood buffalo, an animal now growing rare in the North.

There was salmon too, and pears and peaches; but these latter luxuries
I need hardly say were not home produce; they came from the opposite
extremes of Quebec and California. Here, then, in the midst of the
wilderness was a veritable Eden. Here was a place to cry Halt, to build
a hut, and pass the remainder of one’s life. No more dog-driving, no
more snow shoes, no smoky camp, no aching feet, no call in midnight;
nothing but endless wood buffalo steaks, fried onions, moose moofle,
parsnips, fresh butter, rest and sleep: alas! it might not be; nine
hundred miles yet lay between me and the Rocky Mountains; nine hundred
miles had still to be travelled, ere the snow had left bare the brown
banks of the Peace River.

And now our course led straight to the north, down the broad bed of the
Athabasca. A river high shored, and many islanded, with long reaches,
leagues in length, and lower banks thick wooded with large forest trees.

From bank to bank fully six hundred yards of snow lay spread over
the rough frozen surface; and at times, where the prairie plateau
approached the river’s edge, black bitumen oozed out of the clayey
bank, and the scent of tar was strong upon the frosty air.

On Sunday, the 2nd of March, we remained for the day in a wood of large
pines and poplars. Dogs and men enjoyed that day’s rest. Many were
footsore, some were sick, all were tired.

“The Bheel is a black man, and much more hairy; he carries archers
in his hand, with these he shoots you when he meets you; he throws
your body into a ditch: by this you will know the Bheel.” Such, word
for word, was the written reply of a young Hindoo at an examination
of candidates for a Government Office in Bombay a few years ago. The
examiners had asked for a description of the hill-tribe known as
Bheels, and this was the answer. It is not on record what number of
marks the youthful Brahmin received for the information thus lucidly
conveyed, or whether the examiners were desirous of making further
acquaintance with the Bheel, upon the terms indicated in the concluding
sentence; but, for some reason or other, the first sight of a veritable
Chipewyan Indian brought to my mind the foregoing outline of the Bheel,
and I found myself insensibly repeating, “The Chipewyan is a red man,
and much more hairy.” There I stopped, for he did not carry archers in
his hand, nor proceed in the somewhat abrupt and discourteous manner
which characterized the conduct of the Bheel. And here, perhaps, it
will be necessary to say a few words about the wild man who dwells in
this Northern Land.

A great deal has been said and written about the wild man of America.
The white man during many years has lectured upon him, written learned
essays upon him, phrenologically proved him this, chronologically
demonstrated him that, ethnologically asserted him to be the tother!
I am not sure that the conchologists even have not thrown a shell at
him, and most clearly shown that he was a conglomerate of this, that,
and tother all combined. They began to dissect him very early. One
Hugh Grotius had much to say about him a long time ago. Another Jean
de Leut also descanted upon him, and so far back as the year of grace
1650, one Thorogood (what a glimpse the date gives of the name and the
name of the date!) composed a godly treatise entitled “Jews in America,
or a probability that Americans are of that race.” Perhaps, if good
Master Thorogood was in the flesh to-day he might, arguing from certain
little dealings in boundary cases, consequential claims and so forth,
prove incontestably that modern American statesmen were of that race
too. But to proceed. This question of the red man’s origin has not yet
been solved; the doctors are still disputing about him. One professor
has gotten hold of a skull delved from the presumed site of ancient
Atazlan, and by the most careful measurements of the said skull has
proceeded to show that because one skull measures in circumference the
hundredth and seventy-seventh decimal of an inch more than it ought, it
must of necessity be of the blackamoor type of headpiece.

Another equally learned professor, possessed of another equally curious
skull (of course on shelf not on shoulders), has unfortunately come to
conclusions directly opposite, and incontestably proven from careful
occipital measurements that the type is Mongolian.

While thus the doctors differ as to what he is, or who he is, or whence
he came, the farce of theory changes to the stern tragedy of fact;
and over the broad prairie, and upon the cloud-capped mountain, and
northwards in the gloomy pine-forest, the red man withers and dies out
before our gaze: soon they will have nothing but the skulls to lecture
upon.

From the Long Portage which we have but lately crossed, to the barren
shores where dwell the Esquimaux of the coasts, a family of cognate
tribes inhabit the continent; from east to west the limits of this
race are even more extensive. They are found at Churchill, on Hudson’s
Bay, and at Fort Simpson, on the rugged coast of New Caledonia. But
stranger still, far down in Arizona and Mexico, even as far south
as Nicaragua, the guttural language of the Chipewyan race is still
heard, and the wild Navajo and fierce Apache horseman of the Mexican
plains are kindred races with the distant fur-hunters of the North. Of
all the many ramifications of Indian race, this is perhaps the most
extraordinary. Through what vicissitudes of war and time, an offshoot
from the shores of Athabasca wandered down into Mexico, while a hundred
fierce, foreign, warlike tribes occupied the immense intervening
distance, is more than human conjecture can determine.

To the east of the Rocky Mountains these races call themselves
“Tinneh,” a name which signifies “People,” with that sublimity of
ignorance which makes most savage people imagine themselves the sole
proprietors of the earth. Many subdivisions exist among them; these
are the Copper Indians, and the Dog Ribs of the Barren Grounds; the
Loucheux or Kutchins, a fierce tribe on the Upper Yukon; the Yellow
Knives, Hares, Nehanies, Sickanies, and Dahas of the Mountains and the
Mackenzie River; the Slaves of the Great Slave Lake; the Chipewyans of
Lake Athabasca, and Portage la Loche, the Beavers of the Peace River.

West of the Rocky Mountains, the Carriers, still a branch of the
Chipewyan stock, intermingle with the numerous Atnah races of the
coast. On the North Saskatchewan, a small wild tribe called the
Surcees also springs from this great family, and as we have already
said, nearly three thousand miles far down in the tropic plains of Old
Mexico, the harsh, stuttering “tch” accent grates upon the ear. Spread
over such a vast extent of country it may be supposed they vary much
in physiognomy. Bravery in men and beauty in women are said to go hand
in hand. Of the courage of the Chipewyan men I shall say nothing; of
the beauty of the women I shall say something. To assert that they are
very plain would not be true; they are undeniably ugly. Some of the
young ones are very fat; all of the old ones are very thin. Many of the
faces are pear-shaped; narrow foreheads, wide cheeks, small deep-set
_fat_ eyes. The type is said to be Mongolian, and if so, the Mongolians
should change their type as soon as possible.

Several of the men wear sickly-looking moustaches, and short, pointed
chin tufts; the hair, coarse and matted, is worn long. The children
look like rolls of fat, half melted on the outside. Their general
employment seems to be eating moose meat, when they are not engaged in
deriving nourishment from the maternal bosom.

This last occupation is protracted to an advanced age of childhood,
a circumstance which probably arises from the fact that the new-born
infant receives no nourishment from its mother for four days after its
birth, in order that it shall in after life be able to stand the pangs
of hunger; but the infant mind is no doubt conscious itself that it is
being robbed of its just rights, and endeavours to make up for lost
time by this postponement of the age of weaning.

This description does not hold good of the Beaver Indians of Peace
River; many of them, men and women, are good-looking enough, but of
them more anon.

All these tribes are excellent hunters. The moose in the south and
wooded country, the reindeer in the barren lands, ducks and geese in
vast numbers during the summer, and, generally speaking, inexhaustible
fish in the lakes yield them their means of living. At times, one
prodigious feast; again, a period of starvation.

For a time living on moose nose, or buffalo tongue, or daintiest
tit-bit of lake and forest; and then glad to get a scrap of dry meat,
or a putrid fish to satisfy the cravings of their hunger. While the
meat lasts, life is a long dinner. The child just able to crawl is seen
with one hand holding the end of a piece of meat, the other end of
which is held between the teeth; while the right hand wields a knife a
foot in length, with which it saws steadily, between lips and fingers,
until the mouthful is detached. How the nose escapes amputation is a
mystery I have never heard explained.

A few tents of Chipewyans were pitched along the shores of the
Athabasca River, when we descended that stream. They had long been
expecting the return of my companion, to whose arrival they looked as
the means of supplying them with percussion gun-caps, that article
having been almost exhausted among them.

Knowing the hours at which he was wont to travel they had marked their
camping-places on the wooded shores, by planting a line of branches
in the snow across the river from one side to the other. Thus even
at night it would have been impossible to pass their tents without
noticing the line of marks. The tents inside or out always presented
the same spectacle. Battered-looking dogs of all ages surrounded the
dwelling-place. In the trees or on a stage, meat, snow-shoes, and dog
sleds, lay safe from canine ravage. Inside, some ten or twelve people
congregated around a bright fire burning in the centre. The lodge was
usually large, requiring a dozen moose skins in its construction.
Quantities of moose or buffalo meat, cut into slices, hung to dry in
the upper smoke. The inevitable puppy dog playing with a stick; the
fat, greasy child pinching the puppy dog, drinking on all fours out
of a tin pan, or sawing away at a bit of meat; and the women, old
or young, cooking or nursing with a naïveté which Rubens would have
delighted in. All these made up a Chipewyan “Interior,” such as it
appeared wherever we halted in our march, and leaving our dogs upon the
river, went up into the tree-covered shore to where the tents stood
pitched.

Anxious to learn the amount of game destroyed by a good hunter in a
season, I caused one of the men to ask Chripo what he had killed.
Chripo counted for a time on his fingers, and then informed us that
since the snow fell he had killed ten wood buffalo and twenty-five
moose; in other words, about seventeen thousand pounds of meat, during
four months. But of this a large quantity went to the Hudson’s Bay
Fort, at the Forks of the Athabasca.

The night of the 4th of March found us camped in a high wood, at a
point where a “cache” of provisions had been made for ourselves and
our dogs. More than a fortnight earlier these provisions had been sent
from Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca, and had been deposited in the
“cache” to await my companion’s arrival. A bag of fish for the dogs, a
small packet of letters, and a bag of good things for the master swung
from a large tripod close to the shore. Some of these things were very
necessary, all were welcome, and after a choice supper we turned in for
the night.

At four o’clock next morning we were off. My friend led the march, and
the day was to be a long one. For four hours we held on, and by an hour
after sunrise we had reached a hut, where dwelt a Chipewyan named Echo.
The house was deserted, and if anybody had felt inclined to ask, Where
had Echo gone to? Echo was not there to answer where. Nobody, however,
felt disposed to ask the question, but in lieu thereof dinner was
being hastily got ready in Echo’s abandoned fireplace. Dinner? Yes, our
_first_ dinner took place usually between seven and eight o’clock a.m.
Nor were appetites ever wanting at that hour either.

Various mishaps, of broken snow-shoe and broken-down dog, had retarded
my progress on this morning, and by the time the leading train had
reached Echo’s I was far behind. One of my dogs had totally given out,
not Cerf-vola, but the Ile à la Crosse dog “Major.” Poor brute! he
had suddenly lain down, and refused to move. He was a willing, good
hauler, generally barking vociferously whenever any impediment in front
detained the trains. I saw at once it was useless to coerce him after
his first break-down, so there was nothing for it but to take him from
the harness and hurry on with the other three dogs as best I could. Of
the old train which had shared my fortunes ever since that now distant
day in the storm, on the Red River steamboat, two yet remained to me.

Pony had succumbed at the Rivière la Loche, and had been left behind at
that station, to revel in an abundance of white fish. The last sight
I got of him was suggestive of his character. He was careering wildly
across the river with a huge stolen white fish in his mouth, pursued
by two men and half-a-dozen dogs, vainly attempting to recapture the
purloined property. Another dog, named “Sans Pareil,” had taken his
place, and thus far we had “marched on into the bowels of the land
without impediment.”

From the day after my departure from Ile à la Crosse I had regularly
used snow-shoes, and now I seldom sought the respite of the sled, but
trudged along behind the dogs. I well knew that it was only by sparing
my dogs thus that I could hope to carry them the immense distance I
purposed to travel; and I was also aware that a time might come when,
in the many vicissitudes of snow travel, I would be unable to walk, and
have to depend altogether on my train for means of movement. So, as day
by day the snow-shoe became easier, I had tramped along, until now, on
this 5th of March, I could look back at nigh three hundred miles of
steady walking.

Our meal at Echo’s over we set out again. Another four hours passed
without a halt, and another sixteen or seventeen miles lay behind us.
Then came the second dinner--cakes, tea, and sweet pemmican; and away
we went once more upon the river. The day was cold, but fine; the dogs
trotted well, and the pace was faster than before. Two Indians had
started ahead to hurry on to a spot, indicated by my companion, where
they were to make ready the camp, and await our arrival.

Night fell, and found us still upon the river. A bright moon silvered
the snow; we pushed along, but the dogs were now tired, all, save my
train, which having only blankets, guns, and a few articles to carry,
went still as gamely as ever. At sun-down our baggage sleds were far to
the rear. My companion driving a well-loaded sled led the way, while I
kept close behind him.

For four hours after dark we held steadily on; the night was still,
but very cold; the moon showed us the track; dogs and men seemed to go
forward from the mere impulse of progression. I had been tired hours
before, and had got over it; not half-tired, but regularly weary; and
yet somehow or other the feeling of weariness had passed away, and one
stepped forward upon the snow-shoe by a mechanical effort that seemed
destitute of sense or feeling.

At last we left the river, and ascended a steep bank to the left,
passing into the shadow of gigantic pines. Between their giant trunks
the moonlight slanted; and the snow, piled high on forest wreck, glowed
lustrous in the fretted light. A couple of miles more brought us
suddenly to the welcome glare of firelight, and at ten o’clock at night
we reached the blazing camp. Eighteen hours earlier we had started for
the day’s march, and only during two hours had we halted on the road.
We had, in fact, marched steadily during sixteen hours, twelve of which
had been at rapid pace. The distance run that day is unmeasured, and is
likely to remain so for many a day; but at the most moderate estimate
it would not have been less than fifty-six miles. It was the longest
day’s march I ever made, and I had cause long to remember it, for on
arising at daybreak next morning I was stiff with Mal de Raquette.

In the North, Mal de Raquette or no Mal de Raquette, one must march;
sick or sore, or blistered, the traveller must frequently still
push on. Where all is a wilderness, progression frequently means
preservation; and delay is tantamount to death.

In our case, however, no such necessity existed; but as we were only
some twenty-five miles distant from the great central distributing
point of the Northern Fur Trade, it was advisable to reach it without
delay. Once again we set out: debouching from the forest we entered
a large marsh. Soon a lake, with low-lying shores, spread before us.
Another marsh, another frozen river, and at last, a vast lake opened
out upon our gaze. Islands, rocky, and clothed with pine-trees, rose
from the snowy surface. To the east, nothing but a vast expanse of
ice-covered sea, with a blue, cold sky-line; to the north, a shore of
rocks and hills, wind-swept, and part covered with dwarf firs, and on
the rising shore, the clustered buildings of a large fort, with a red
flag flying above them in the cold north blast.

The “lake” was Athabasca, the “clustered buildings” Fort Chipewyan, and
the Flag--well; we all know it; but it is only when the wanderer’s eye
meets it in some lone spot like this that he turns to it, as the emblem
of a Home which distance has shrined deeper in his heart.




CHAPTER XIII.

    Lake Athabasca.--Northern Lights.--Chipewyan.--The real Workers
        of the World.


Athabasca, or more correctly “Arabascow,” “The Meeting-place of many
Waters,” is a large lake. At this fort of Chipewyan we stand near its
western end. Two hundred miles away to the east, its lonely waters
still lave against the granite rocks.

Whatever may be the work to which he turns hand or brain, an Indian
seldom errs. If he names a lake or fashions a piece of bark to sail its
waters, both will fit the work for which they were intended.

“The meeting-place of many waters” tells the story of Athabasca. In its
bosom many rivers unite their currents; and from its north-western rim
pours the Slave River, the true Mackenzie. Its first English discoverer
called it the “Lake of the Hills;” a more appropriate title would have
been “The Lake of the Winds,” for fierce and wild the storms sweep over
its waves.

Over the Lake Athabasca the Northern Lights hold their highest revels.
They flash, and dance, and stream, and intermingle, and wave together
their many colours like the shapes and hues of a kaleidoscope.
Sometimes the long columns of light seem to rest upon the silent,
frozen shores, stretching out their rose-tipped tops to touch the
zenith; again the lines of light traverse the sky from east to west as
a hand might sweep the chords of some vast harp, and from its touch
would flow light instead of music. So quickly run the colours along
these shafts, that the ear listens instinctively for sound in the deep
stillness of the frozen solitude; but sound I have never heard. Many a
time I have listened breathless to catch the faintest whisper of these
wondrous lightnings; they were mute as the waste that lay around me.

Figures convey but a poor idea of cold, yet they are the only means
we have, and by a comparison of figures some persons, at least, will
understand the cold of an Athabascan winter. The citadel of Quebec has
the reputation of being a cold winter residence; its mean temperature
for the month of January is 11° 7´ Fahr. The mean temperature of the
month of January, 1844, at Fort Chipewyan, was 22° 74´, or nearly 30°
colder, and during the preceding month of December the wind blew with
a total pressure of one thousand one hundred and sixty pounds to the
square foot.

It is perhaps needless to say more about the rigour of an Athabascan
winter.

As it is the “meeting-place of many waters” so also is it the
meeting-place of many systems. Silurian and Devonian approach it from
the west. Laurentian still holds five-sixths of its waters in the same
grasp as when what is now Athabasca lay a deep fiord along the ancient
ocean shore. The old rock caught it to his rough heart then, and when
in later ages the fickle waves which so long had kissed his lips left
him stern and lonely, he still held the clear, cold lake to his iron
bosom.

Athabasca may be said to mark also the limits of some great divisions
of the animal kingdom. The reindeer and that most curious relic of an
older time, the musk ox, come down near its north-eastern shores, for
there that bleak region known as the “Barren Grounds” is but a few
miles distant. These animals never pass to the southern end of the
lake; the Cariboo, or reindeer of the woods, being a distinct species
from that which inhabits the treeless waste. The wood buffalo and the
moose are yet numerous on the north-west and south-west shores: but of
these things we shall have more to say anon.

All through the summer, from early May to mid-October, the shores of
the lake swarm with wild geese, and the twilight midsummer midnight is
filled with the harsh sounds of the cries of the snow goose, or the
“wavy” flying low over their favourite waters.

In early days Chipewyan was an important centre of the fur trade, and
in later times it has been made the starting-point of many of the
exploratory parties to the northern coast. From Old Fort Chipewyan
Mackenzie set forth to explore the great northern river, and to the
same place he returned when first of all men north of the 40th parallel
he had crossed in the summers of 1792–93 the continent to the Pacific
Ocean.

It was from New Fort Chipewyan that Simpson set out to trace the
coast-line of the Arctic Ocean; and earlier than either, it was from
Fond du Lac, at the eastern end of Fort Athabasca, that Samuel Hearne
wandered forth to reach the Arctic Sea.

To-day it is useful to recall these stray items of adventure from the
past in which they lie buried. It has been said by some one that a
“nation cannot be saved by a calculation;” neither can she be made by
one.

If to-day we are what we are, it is because a thousand men in bygone
times did not stop to count the cost. The decline of a nation differs
from that of an individual in the first symptoms of its decay. The
heart of the nation goes first, the extremities still remain vigorous.
France, with many a gallant soul striking hard for her in the Carnatic
or in Canada, sickens in the pomp and luxury of Versailles, and has
nothing to offer to her heroes but forgetfulness, debt, or the rack.
Her colonial history was one long tissue of ingratitude.

Biencourt, De Chastes, Varrene de la Verendrie, or Lally might fight
and toil and die, what cared the selfish heart of old France? The
order of St. Louis long denied, and 40,000 livres of debt rewarded the
discovery of the Rocky Mountains. Frenchmen gave to France a continent.
France thought little of the gift, and fate took it back again. History
sometimes repeats itself. There is a younger if not a greater Britain
waiting quietly to reap the harvest of her mother’s mistakes.

But to Chipewyan. It is emphatically a lonely spot; in summer the cry
of the wild bird keeps time to the lapping of the wave on the rocky
shore, or the pine islands rustle in the western breeze; nothing else
moves over these 8000 square miles of crystal water. Now and again at
long intervals the beautiful canoe of a Chipewyan glides along the
bay-indented shores, or crosses some traverse in the open lake.

When Samuel Hearne first looked upon the “Arabascow,” buffalo were
very numerous along its southern shore, to-day they are scarce; all
else rests as then in untamed desolation. At times this west end of
the lake has been the scene of strange excitements. Men came from
afar and pitched their tents awhile on these granite shores, ere they
struck deeper into the heart of the great north. Mackenzie, Franklin,
Back, Richardson, Simpson, Rae, rested here; ere piercing further into
unknown wilds, they flew the red-cross flag o’er seas and isles upon
whose shores no human foot had pressed a sand-print.

Eight hundred thousand pounds sunk in the Arctic Sea! will exclaim my
calculating friend behind the national counter; nearly a million gone
for ever! No, head cash-keeper, you are wrong. That million of money
will bear interest higher than all your little speculations in times
not far remote, and in times lying deep in the misty future. In hours
when life and honour lie at different sides of the “to do” or “not to
do,” men will go back to times when other men battling with nature or
with man, cast their vote on the side of honour, and by the white light
thrown into the future from the great dead Past, they will read their
roads where many paths commingle.




CHAPTER XIV

    A Hudson’s Bay Fort.--It comes at last.--News from the
        outside world.--Tame and wild Savages.--Lac Clair.--A
        treacherous deed.--Harper.


The term “Fort” which so frequently occurs in these pages may perhaps
convey an erroneous impression to the reader’s mind. An imposing array
of rampart and bastion, a loop-holed wall or formidable fortalice may
arise before his mind’s eye as he reads the oft-recurring word. Built
generally upon the lower bank of a large river or lake, but sometimes
perched upon the loftier outer bank, stands the Hudson’s Bay Fort. A
square palisade, ten to twenty feet high, surrounds the buildings; in
the prairie region this defence is stout and lofty, but in the wooded
country it is frequently dispensed with altogether.

Inside the stockade some half-dozen houses are grouped together
in square or oblong form. The house of the Bourgeois and Clerks,
the store wherein are kept the blankets, coloured cloths, guns,
ammunition, bright handkerchiefs, ribbons, beads, &c., the staple
commodities of the Indian trade; another store for furs and peltries,
a building from the beams of which hang myriads of skins worth many a
gold piece in the marts of far-away London city;--martens and minks,
and dark otters, fishers and black foxes, to say nothing of bears and
beavers, and a host of less valuable furs. Then came the houses of the
men.

Lounging at the gate, or on the shore in front, one sees a half-breed
in tasselated cap, or a group of Indians in blanket robes or
dirty-white capôtes; everybody is smoking; the pointed poles of a
wigwam or two rise on either side of the outer palisades, and over
all there is the tapering flag-staff. A horse is in the distant river
meadow. Around the great silent hills stand bare, or fringed with
jagged pine tops, and some few hundred yards away on either side, a
rude cross or wooden railing blown over by the tempest, discoloured by
rain or snow-drift, marks the lonely resting-place of the dead.

Wild, desolate and remote are these isolated trading spots, yet it is
difficult to describe the feelings with which one beholds them across
some ice-bound lake, or silent river as the dog trains wind slowly
amidst the snow. Coming in from the wilderness, from the wrack of
tempest, and the bitter cold, wearied with long marches, footsore or
frozen, one looks upon the wooden house as some palace of rest and
contentment.

I doubt if it be possible to know more acute comfort, for its measure
is exactly the measure of that other extremity of discomfort which
excessive cold and hardship have carried with them. Nor does that
feeling of home and contentment lose aught for want of a welcome at the
threshold of the lonely resting-place. Nothing is held too good for the
wayfarer; the best bed and the best supper are his. He has, perhaps,
brought letters or messages from long absent friends, or he comes with
news of the outside world; but be he the bearer of such things, or only
the chance carrier of his own fortunes, he is still a welcome visitor
to the Hudson’s Bay Fort.

Three days passed away in rest, peace, and plenty. It was nearing
the time when another start would be necessary, for after all, this
Athabascan Fort was scarce a half-way house in my winter journey.
The question of departure was not of itself of consequence, but the
prospect of leaving for a long sojourn in deeper solitudes, without
one word of news from the outside world, without that winter packet
to which we had all looked so long, was something more than a mere
disappointment.

All this time we had been travelling in advance of the winter packet,
and as our track left a smooth road for whatever might succeed us,
we reckoned upon being overtaken at some point of the journey by the
faster travelling express. Such had not been the case, and now three
days had passed since our arrival without a sign of an in-coming
dog-train darkening the expanse of the frozen lake.

The morning of the 9th of March, however, brought a change. Far away
in the hazy drift and “poudre” which hung low upon the surface of
the lake, the figures of two men and one sled of dogs became faintly
visible. Was it only Antoine Tarungeau, a solitary “Freeman” from the
Quatre Fourche, going like a good Christian to his prayers at the
French Mission? Or was it the much-wished-for packet?

It soon declared itself; the dogs were steering for the fort, and not
for the mission. Tarungeau might be an indifferent church member, but
had the whole college of cardinals been lodged at Chipewyan they must
have rejoiced that it was not Tarungeau going to mass, and that it was
the winter packet coming to the fort.

What reading we had on that Sunday afternoon! News from the far-off
busy world; letters from the far-off quiet home; tidings of great men
passed away from the earth; glad news and sorry news, borne through
months of toil 1500 miles over the winter waste.

And now came a short busy time at the fort. A redistribution of the
packet had to be made. On to the north went a train of dogs for the
distant Yukon; on to the west went a train of dogs for the head of
the Peace River. In three days more I made ready to resume my journey
up the Peace River. Once more the sleds were packed, once more the
Untiring Cerf-vola took his place in the leading harness, and the word
“march” was given.

This time I was to be alone. My good friend, whose unvarying kindness
had made an acquaintanceship of a few weeks ripen into a friendship
destined I trust to endure for many years, was no longer to be my
companion.

He came, in company with another officer, some miles of the way, to see
me off; and then at the Quatre Fourche we parted, he to return to his
lonely fort, I to follow across the wide-spreading Lake Mamoway the
long trail to the setting sun.

If the life of the wanderer possesses many moments of keen enjoyment,
so also has it its times of intense loneliness; times when no
excitement is near to raise the spirits, no toil to render thought
impossible; nothing but a dreary, hopeless prospect of labour, which
takes day after day some little portion from that realm of space
lying before him, only to cast it to augment that other dim land of
separation which lies behind him.

Honest Joe Gargery never with his blacksmith hand nailed a sadder truth
upon the wheel of time, than when he defined life to be made up of
“partings welded together.” But in civilization generally when we part
we either look forward to meeting again at some not remote period, or
we have so many varied occupations, or so many friends around us, that
if the partings are welded together, so also are the meetings.

In the lone spaces it is different. The endless landscape, the monotony
of slow travel, the dim vision of what lies before, seen only in the
light of that other dim prospect lying behind; lakes, rivers, plains,
forests, all hushed in the savage sleep of winter;--these things bring
to the wanderer’s mind a sense of loneliness almost as vast as the
waste which lies around him.

On the evening of the 12th of March I camped alone in the wilderness.
Far as eye could reach, on every side, there lay nothing but hard,
drifted snow, and from its surface a few scant willows raised their
dry leafless saplings. True, three or four men were busy scraping the
deep snow from the lee side of some low willow bushes, but they were
alien in every thought and feeling; and we were separated by a gulf
impossible to bridge: so that I was virtually alone. I will not say on
whose side the fault lay, and possibly the admission may only prove a
congeniality of feeling between myself and my train; but, for all that,
I felt a far stronger tie of companionship with the dogs that drew my
load, than for the men with whom I now found myself in company.

They were by no means wild; far from it, they were eminently tame. One
of them was a scoundrel of a very low type, as some of his actions will
hereafter show. In him the wild animal had been long since destroyed,
the tame brute had taken its place.

The man who had been my servant from the Saskatchewan was a French
half-breed; strong, active, and handsome, he was still a sulky,
good-for-nothing fellow. One might as well have tried to make friends
with a fish to which one cast a worm, as with this good-looking,
good-for-nothing man. He had depth sufficient to tell a lie which
might wear the semblance of truth for a day; and cunning enough to
cheat without being caught in the actual fact. I think he was the most
impudent liar I have ever met. The motive which had induced him to
accept service in this long journey was, I believe, a domestic one. He
had run away with a young English half-breed girl, and then ran away
from her. If she had only known the object of her affections as well as
I did, she would have regarded the last feat of activity as a far less
serious evil than the first.

The third man was a Swampy Indian of the class one frequently meets
in the English-speaking settlement on Red River. Taken by himself, he
was negatively good; but placed with others worse than himself, he was
positively bad. He was, however, a fair traveller, and used his dogs
with a degree of care and attention seldom seen amongst the half-breeds.

Small wonder, then, that with these three worthies who, though
strangers, now met upon a base of common rascality, that I should feel
myself more completely alone than if nothing but the waste had spread
around me. Full thirty days of travel must elapse ere the mountains,
that great break to which I looked so long, should raise their snowy
peaks across my pathway.

The lameness of the last day’s travel already gave ominous symptoms of
its presence. The snow was deeper than I had yet seen it; heretofore,
at the longest, the forts lay within five days’ journey of each other;
now there was one gap in which, from one post to the next, must, at the
shortest, be a twelve days’ journey.

At dawn, on the 13th of March, we quitted our burrow in the deep drift
of the willow bushes, and held our way across what was seemingly a
shoreless sea.

The last sand ridge or island top of Lake Athabasca had sunk beneath
the horizon, and as the sun came up, flashing coldly upon the level
desert of snow, there lay around us nought but the dazzling surface of
the frozen lake.

Lac Clair, the scene of our present day’s journey, is in reality an arm
of the Athabasca. Nothing but a formation of mud and drift, submerged
at high summer water, separated it from the larger lake; but its
shores vary much from those of its neighbour, being everywhere low and
marshy, lined with scant willows and destitute of larger timber. Of
its south-western termination but little is known, but it is said to
extend in that direction from the Athabasca for fully seventy miles
into the Birch Hills. Its breadth from north to south would be about
half that distance. It is subject to violent winter storms, accompanied
by dense drift; and from the scarcity of wood along its shores, and the
absence of distinguishing landmarks, it is much dreaded by the winter
_voyageur_.

The prevailing north-east wind of the Lake Athabasca has in fact the
full sweep of 250 miles across Lac Clair. To lose one’s way upon it
would appear to be the first rule of travel amongst the trip-men of
Fort Chipewyan. The last adventure of this kind which had taken place
on its dim expanse had nearly a tragic end.

On the southern shore of the lake three moose had been killed. When
the tidings reached the fort, two men and two sleds of dogs set off
for the “cache;” it was safely found, the meat packed upon the sleds,
and all made ready for the return. Then came the usual storm: dense
and dark the fine snow (dry as dust under the biting cold) swept the
surface of the lake. The sun, which on one of these “poudre” days in
the North seems to exert as much influence upon the war of cold and
storm as some good bishop in the Middle Ages was wont to exercise
over the belligerents at Cressy or Poictiers, when, as it is stated,
“He withdrew to a neighbouring eminence, and there remained during
the combat;”--the sun, I say, for a time, seemed to protest, by his
presence, against the whole thing, but then finding all protests
equally disregarded by the wind and cold, he muffled himself up in the
nearest cloud and went fast asleep until the fight was over.

For a time the men held their way across the lake; then the dogs
became bewildered; the leading driver turned to his companion, and
telling him to drive both trains, he strode on in front of his dogs to
give a “lead” in the storm.

Driving two trains of loaded dogs is hard work; the second driver could
not keep up, and the man in front deliberately increasing his pace
walked steadily away, leaving his comrade to the mercies of cold and
drift. He did this coward act with the knowledge that his companion had
only three matches in his possession, he having induced him to give up
the rest to Indians whom they had fallen in with.

The man thus abandoned on the dreaded lake was a young Hudson’s Bay
clerk, by no means habituated to the hardships of such a situation. But
it requires little previous experience to know when one is lost. The
dogs soon began to wander, and finally headed for where their instinct
told them lay the shore. When they reached the shore night had fallen,
the wind had gone down, but still the cold was intense; it was the
close of January, the coldest time of the year, when 80° of frost is
no unusual occurrence. At such a time it was no easy matter to light
a fire; the numbed, senseless hands cannot find strength to strike a
match; and many a time had I seen a hardy _voyageur_ fail in his first
attempts with the driest wood, and with full daylight to assist him.

But what chance had the inexperienced hand, with scant willow sticks
for fuel and darkness to deceive him? His wood was partly green, and
one by one his three matches flashed, flickered, and died out.

No fire, no food--alone somewhere on Lac Clair in 40° to 50° below
zero! It was an ugly prospect. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he got
a dog at his feet and lay down. With daylight he was up, and putting
the dogs into harness set out; but he knew not the landmarks, and he
steered heedless of direction. He came at last to a spring of open
water; it was highly charged with sulphur, and hence its resistance to
the cold of winter. Though it was nauseous to the taste he drank deeply
of it; no other spring of water existed in all the wide circle of the
lake.

For four days the wretched man remained at this place; his sole hope
lay in the chance that men would come to look for him from the fort,
but ere that would come about a single night might suffice to terminate
his existence.

These bad nights are bad enough when we have all that food and fuel
can do. Men lose their fingers or their toes sometimes in the hours of
wintry daylight, but here fire there was none, and food without fire
was not to be had. The meat upon the sled had frozen almost as solid as
the stone of a quarry.

He still hoped for relief, but had he known of the conduct of the
ruffian whose desertion had thus brought him to this misery his hope
would have been a faint one.

On the day following his desertion, the deserter appeared at the Quatre
Fourche; he pretended to be astounded that his comrade had not turned
up. On the same evening he reached Fort Chipewyan: he told a plausible
story of having left his companion smoking near a certain spot on the
north side of the lake; on his return to the spot the sleds were gone,
and he at once concluded they had headed for home. Such was his tale.

A search expedition was at once despatched, but acting under the
direction of the scoundrel Harper no trace of the lost man could be
found.

No wonder! for the scene of his desertion lay many miles away to the
south, but the villain wished to give time for cold and hunger to do
their work; not for any gratification of hatred or revenge towards his
late comrade, but simply because “dead men tell no tales.” Upon the
return of this unsuccessful expedition suspicions were aroused; the man
was besought to tell the truth, all would be forgiven him if he now
confessed where it was he had left his companion. He still however
asserted that he had left him on the shore of the lake at a spot marked
by a single willow. Again a search party goes out, but this time under
experienced leadership, and totally disregarding the story of the
deserter.

Far down, near the south shore of the lake, the quick eye of a
French half-breed caught the faint print of a snow-shoe edge on the
hard drifted surface; he followed the clue--another print--and then
another;--soon the shore was reached, and the impress of a human form
found among the willows.

Never doubting for an instant that the next sight would be the frozen
body of the man they sought for (since the fireless camping-place
showed that he was without the means of making a fire), the searchers
went along. They reached the Sulphur Spring, and there, cold, hungry,
but safe, sat the object of their search. Five days had passed, yet he
had not frozen!

If I wished to learn more of the deserter Harper, I had ample
opportunity of doing so. His villainous face formed a prominent object
at my camp fire. He was now the packet bearer to Fort Vermilion on the
Peace River; he was one of the worthies I have already spoken of.

We crossed Lac Clair at a rapid pace, and reached at dusk the
north-western shore; of course we had lost ourselves; but the evening
was calm and clear, and the error was set right by a two-hours’
additional march.

It was piercingly cold when, some time after dark, the shore was
gained; but wood was found by the yellow light of a full moon, and a
good camp made on a swampy island. From here our path lay through the
woods and ridges nearly due west again.

On the fourth day after leaving Fort Chipewyan we gained a sandy ridge
covered with cypress, and saw beneath us a far-stretching valley;
beyond, in the distance to the north and west, the blue ridges of the
Cariboo Mountains closed the prospect. In the valley a broad river lay
in long sweeping curves from west to east.

We were on the banks of the Peace River.




CHAPTER XV.

    The Peace River.--Volcanos.--M. Jean Batiste St. Cyr.--Half
        a loaf is better than no bread.--An oasis in the
        desert.--Tecumseh and Black Hawk.


It is possible that the majority of my readers have never heard of the
Peace River. The British empire is a large one, and Britons can get
on very well without knowing much of any river, excepting perhaps the
Thames, a knowledge of which, until lately, Londoners easily obtained
by the simple process of smelling. Britannia it is well known rules the
waves, and it would be ridiculous to expect rulers to bother themselves
much about the things which they rule. Perchance, in a score of years
or so, when our lively cousins bring forth their little Alaska Boundary
question, as they have already brought forth their Oregon, Maine, and
San Juan boundary questions, we may pay the Emperor of Morocco, or some
equally enlightened potentate, the compliment of asking him to tell us
whether the Peace River has always been a portion of the British
empire? or whether we knew the meaning of our own language when we
framed the treaty of 1825? Until then, the Peace River may rest in the
limbo of obscurity; and in any case, no matter who should claim it, its
very name must indicate that it was never considered worth fighting
about.

[Illustration: THE VALLEY OF THE PEACE RIVER.]

Nevertheless the Peace River is a large stream of water, and some time
or other may be worth fighting for too. Meantime we will have something
to say about it.

Like most of the streams which form the headwaters of the great
Mackenzie River system, the Peace River has its sources west of the
Chipewyan or Rocky Mountains. Its principal branch springs from a wild
region called the Stickeen, an alpine land almost wholly unknown. There
at a presumed elevation of 6000 feet above the sea level, amidst a vast
variety of mountain peaks, the infant river issues from a lake to begin
its long voyage of 2500 miles to the Arctic Sea.

This region is the birthplace of many rivers, the Yukon, the Liard,
the Peace River, and countless streams issue from this impenetrable
fastness. Situated close to the Pacific shore, at their source, these
rivers nevertheless seek far distant oceans. A huge barrier rises
between them and the nearest coast. The loftiest range of mountains in
North America here finds its culminating point; the coast or cascade
range shoots up its volcanic peaks to nigh 18,000 feet above the
neighbouring waves. Mounts Cri-Hon and St. Elias cast their crimson
greeting far over the gloomy sea, and Ilyamna and Island Corovin catch
up the flames to fling them further to Kamchatka’s fire-bound coast.

The Old World and the New clasp hands of fire across the gloomy
Northern Sea; and amidst ice and flame Asia and America look upon each
other.

Through 300 miles of mountain the Peace River takes its course,
countless creeks and rivers seek its waters; 200 miles from its
source it cleaves the main Rocky Mountain chain through a chasm whose
straight, steep cliffs frown down on the black water through 6000 feet
of dizzy verge. Then it curves into the old ocean bed, of which we have
already spoken, and for 500 miles it flows in a deep, narrow valley,
from 700 to 800 feet below the level of the surrounding plateau. Then
it reaches a lower level, the banks become of moderate elevation,
the country is densely wooded, the large river winds in serpentine
bends through an alluvial valley; the current once so strong becomes
sluggish, until at last it pours itself through a delta of low-lying
drift into the Slave River, and its long course of 1100 miles is ended.

For 900 miles only two interruptions break the even flow of its waters.
A ridge of limestone underlies the whole bed of the river at a point
some 250 miles from its mouth, causing a fall of eight feet with a
short rapid above it. The other obstacle is the mountain cañon on the
outer and lower range of the Rocky Mountains, where a portage of twelve
miles is necessary.

In its course through the main chain of the Rocky Mountains no break
occurs, the current runs silently under the immense precipice as though
it fears to awaken even by a ripple the sleeping giant at whose feet it
creeps.

Still keeping west, we began to ascend the Peace River; we had struck
its banks more than 100 miles above its delta, by making this direct
line across Lac Clair and the intervening ridges.

Peace River does not debouch into Lake Athabasca, but as we have said
into the Slave River some twenty miles below the lake; at high water,
however, it communicates with Athabasca through the canal-like channel
of the Quatre Fourche, and when water is low in Peace River, Athabasca
repays the gift by sending back through the same channel a portion of
her surplus tide.

Since leaving Lac Clair I had endured no little misery; the effects of
that long day’s travel from the river Athabasca had from the outset
been apparent, and each day now further increased them. The muscles of
ancles and instep had become painfully inflamed, to raise the snow-shoe
from the ground was frequently no easy matter, and at last every step
was taken in pain. I could not lie upon my sled because the ground was
rough and broken, and the sled upset at every hill side into the soft
snow; besides there was the fact that the hills were short and steep,
and dogs could not easily have dragged me to the summit. There was
nothing for me but to tramp on in spite of aching ancles.

At the camp I tried my remedies, but all were useless. From
pain-killer, moose fat, laudanum and porpoise oil I concocted a
mixture, which I feel convinced contains a vast fortune for any
enterprising professor in the next century, and which even in these
infant ages of “puffing” might still be made to realize some few
millions of dollars; but nevertheless, my poor puffed foot resisted
every attempt to reduce it to symmetry, or what was more important, to
induce it to resume work.

That sixteen-hour day had inflamed its worst passions, and it had
struck for an “eight-hour movement.” One can afford to laugh over it
all now, but then it was gloomy work enough; to make one step off the
old hidden dog-track of the early winter was to sink instantly into
the soft snow to the depth of three or four feet, and when we camped
at night on the wooded shore, our blankets were laid in a deep furrow
between lofty snow walls, which it had taken us a full hour to scoop
out. At last, after six days of weary travel through ridge and along
river reach, we drew near a house.

Where the little stream called the Red River enters from the south the
wide channel of the Peace River, there stands a small Hudson’s Bay
post. Here, on the evening of the 17th of March, we put in for the
night. At this solitary post dwelt M. Jean Batiste St. Cyr; an old
and faithful follower of the Hudson’s Bay Company. When the powerful
North-West Fur Company became merged into the wealthier but less
enterprising corporation of the Hudson’s Bay, they left behind them
in the North a race of faithful servitors--men drawn in early life
from the best rural _habitans_ of Lower Canada--men worthy of that old
France from which they sprung, a race now almost extinct in the north,
as indeed it is almost all the world over. What we call “the spirit of
the age” is against it; faithful service to powers of earth, or even
to those of Heaven, not being included in the catalogue of virtues
taught in the big school of modern democracy.

From one of this old class of French Canadians, M. Jean Batiste St. Cyr
was descended.

Weary limbs and aching ancles pleaded for delay at this little post,
but advancing spring, and still more the repeated assaults of my
servant and his comrades upon my stock of luxuries, urged movement
as the only means of saving some little portion of those good things
put away for me by my kind host at Chipewyan. It seems positively
ridiculous now, how one could regard the possession of flour and
sugar, of sweet cake and sweet pemmican, as some of the most essential
requisites of life. And yet so it was. With the grocer in the
neighbouring street, and the baker round the corner, we can afford to
look upon flour and sugar as very common-place articles indeed; but if
any person wishes to arrive at a correct notion of their true value in
the philosophy of life let him eliminate them from his daily bill of
fare, and restrict himself solely to moose meat, grease, and milkless
tea. For a day or two he will get on well enough, then he will begin to
ponder long upon bread, cakes, and other kindred subjects; until day
by day he learns to long for bread, then the Bath buns of his earlier
years will float in enchanting visions before him; and like Clive at
the recollection of that treasure-chamber in the Moorshedabad Palace,
he will marvel at the moderation which left untouched a single cake
upon that wondrous counter.

It is not difficult to understand the feelings which influenced a
distant northern Missionary, when upon his return to semi-civilization,
his friends having prepared a feast to bid him welcome, he asked them
to give him bread and nothing else. He had been without it for years,
and his mind had learned to hunger for it more than the body.

My servitor, not content with living as his master lived, was helping
the other rascals to the precious fare. English half-breed, French
ditto, and full Christian Swampy had apparently formed an offensive
and defensive alliance upon the basis of a common rascality, Article
I. of the treaty having reference to the furtive partition of my best
white sugar, flour, and Souchong tea; things which, when they have to
be “portaged” far on men’s shoulders in a savage land, are not usually
deemed fitted for savage stomachs too.

One night’s delay, and again we were on the endless trail; on along
the great silent river, between the rigid bordering pines, amidst the
diamond-shaped islands where the snow lay deep and soft in “shnay” and
“batture,” on out into the long reaches where the wild March winds
swept the river bed, and wrapt isle and shore in clouds of drift.

On the evening of the 19th of March our party drew near a lonely post,
which, from the colour of the waters in the neighbouring stream, bears
the name of Fort Vermilion. The stormy weather had sunk to calm; the
blue sky lay over mingled forest and prairie; far off to the north and
south rose the dark outlines of the Reindeer and Buffalo Mountains;
while coming from the sunset and vanishing into the east, the great
silent river lay prone amidst the wilderness of snow.

A gladsome sight was the little fort, with smoke curling from its
snow-laden roof, its cattle standing deep in comfortable straw-yard,
and its master at the open gateway, waiting to welcome me to his home:
pleasant to any traveller in the wilderness, but doubly so to me, whose
every step was now taken in the dull toil of unremitting pain.

Physicians have termed that fellow-feeling which the hand sometimes
evinces for the hand, and the eye for the eye, by the name of
“sympathy.” It is unfortunate that these ebullitions of affection which
the dual members of our bodies manifest towards each other, should
always result in doubling the amount of pain and inconvenience suffered
by the remainder of the human frame. For a day or two past my right
foot had shown symptoms of sharing the sorrows of its fellow-labourer;
and however gratifying this proof of good feeling should have been, it
was nevertheless accompanied by such an increase of torture that one
could not help wishing for more callous conduct in the presence of Mal
de Raquette.

A day’s journey north of the Peace River at Fort Vermilion, a long line
of hills approaching the altitude of a mountain range stretches from
east to west. At the same distance south lies another range of similar
elevation. The northern range bears the name of the Reindeer; the
southern one that of the Buffalo Mountains. These names nearly mark the
two great divisions of the animal kingdom of Northern America.

It is singular how closely the habits of those two widely differing
animals, the reindeer and the buffalo, approximate to each other. Each
have their treeless prairie, but seek the woods in winter; each have
their woodland species; each separate when the time comes to bring
forth their young; each mass together in their annual migrations. Upon
both the wild man preys in unending hostility. When the long days of
the Arctic summer begin to shine over the wild region of the Barren
Grounds, the reindeer set forth for the low shores of the Northern
Ocean; in the lonely wilds whose shores look out on the Archipelago
where once the ships of England’s explorers struggled midst floe and
pack, and hopeless iceberg, the herds spend the fleeting summer season,
subsisting on the short grass, which for a few weeks changes these
cold, grey shores to softer green.

With the approach of autumn the bands turn south again, and uniting
upon the borders of the barren grounds, spend the winter in the forests
which fringe the shores of the Bear, Great Slave, and Athabascan Lakes.
Thousands are killed by the Indians on this homeward journey; waylaid
in the passes which they usually follow, they fall easy prey to Dog-rib
and Yellow-knife and Chipewyan hunter; and in years of plenty the forts
of the extreme north count by thousands the fat sides of Cariboo, piled
high in their provision stores.

But although the hills to the north and south of Vermilion bore the
names of Reindeer and Buffalo, upon neither of these animals did the
fort depend for its subsistence. The Peace River is the land of the
moose; here this ungainly and most wary animal has made his home, and
winter and summer, hunter and trader, along the whole length of 900
miles, between the Peace and Athabasca, live upon his delicious venison.

Two days passed away at Fort Vermilion; outside the March wind blew
in bitter storm, and drift piled high around wall and palisade. But
within there was rest and quiet, and many an anecdote of time long
passed in the Wild North Land.

Here, at this post of Vermilion, an old veteran spent the winter of
his life; and from his memory the scenes of earlier days came forth
to interest the chance wanderer, whose footsteps had led him to this
lonely post. Few could tell the story of these solitudes better than
this veteran pensioner. He had come to these wilds while the century
was yet in its teens. He had seen Tecumseh in his glory, and Black Hawk
marshal his Sauk warriors, where now the river shores of Illinois wave
in long lines of yellow corn. He had spoken with men who had seen the
gallant La Perouse in Hudson’s Bay, when, for the last time in History,
France flew the _fleur-de-lis_ above the ramparts of an English fort in
this northern land.

The veteran explorers of the Great North had been familiar to his
earlier days, and he could speak of Mackenzie and Frazer and Thompson,
Harmon and Henry, as men whom he had looked on in his boyhood.

For me these glimpses of the bygone time had a strange charm. This
mighty solitude, whose vastness had worn its way into my mind; these
leagues and leagues of straight, tall pines, whose gloomy moan
seemed the voice of 3000 miles of wilderness; these rivers so hushed
and silent, save when the night owl hooted through the twilight; all
this sense of immensity was so impressed on the imagination by recent
travel, that it heightened the rough colouring of the tale which linked
this shadowy land of the present with the still more shadowy region of
the past.

Perhaps at another time, when I too shall rest from travel, it will be
my task to tell the story of these dauntless men; but now, when many a
weary mile lies before me, it is time to hold westward still along the
great Unchagah.

The untiring train was once again put into the moose-skin harness,
after another night of wild storm and blinding drift; and with crack of
whip and call to dog, Vermilion soon lay in the waste behind me.




CHAPTER XVI.

    The Buffalo Hills.--A fatal Quarrel.--The exiled Beavers.--
        “At-tal-loo” deplores his wives.--A Cree Interior.--An
        attractive Camp.--I camp alone.--Cerf-vola without a
        Supper.--The Recreants return.--Dunvegan.--A Wolf-hunt.


A long distance, destitute of fort or post, had now to be passed. For
fully 300 miles above Vermilion, no sign of life but the wild man and
his prey (the former scant enough) are to be found along the shores of
the Peace River.

The old fort known as Dunvegan lies twelve long winter days’ travel to
the south-west, and to reach it even in that time requires sustained
and arduous exertion.

For 200 miles above Vermilion the course of the Peace River is
north-west; it winds in long, serpentine curves between banks which
gradually become more lofty as the traveller ascends the stream. To cut
the long curve to the south by an overland portage now became our work;
and for three days we followed a trail through mingled prairie and
forest-land, all lying deep in snow. Four trains of dogs now formed our
line. An Ojibbeway, named “White Bear,” led the advance, and the trains
took in turn the work of breaking the road after him.

Mal de Raquette had at last proved more than a match for me, and
walking had become impossible; but the trains returning to Dunvegan
were lightly loaded, and as the officer at Vermilion had arranged that
the various dogs should take their turn in hauling my cariole, I had a
fresh train each day, and thus Cerf-vola and his company obtained a two
days’ respite from their toil.

The old dog was as game as when I had first started, but the temporary
change of masters necessitated by our new arrangements seemed to puzzle
him not a little; and many a time his head would turn round to steal a
furtive look at the new driver, who, “filled with strange oaths,” now
ran behind his cariole. Our trail led towards the foot of the Buffalo
Hills. I was now in the country of the Beaver Indians, a branch of the
great Chipewyan race, a tribe once numerous on the river which bears
its present name of Peace from the stubborn resistance offered by them
to the all-conquering Crees--a resistance which induced that warlike
tribe to make peace on the banks of the river, and to leave at rest
the beaver-hunters of the Unchagah.

Since that time, though far removed from the white settler, lying
remote from the faintest echo of civilization, this tribe of Beaver
Indians has steadily decreased; and to-day, in the whole length of
900 miles from beyond the mountains to the Lake Athabasca, scarce 200
families lie scattered over the high prairies and undulating forest
belts of the Peace River. Now they live in peace with all men, but
once it was a different matter; the Crees were not their only enemies,
their Chipewyan cousins warred upon them; and once upon a time a fierce
commotion raged amongst their own tribe.

One day a young chief shot his arrow through a dog belonging to
another brave. The brave revenged the death of his dog, and instantly
a hundred bows were drawn. Ere night had fallen some eighty warriors
lay dead around the camp, the pine woods rang with the lamentations of
the women, the tribe had lost its bravest men. There was a temporary
truce--the friends of the chief whose arrow had killed the dog yet
numbered some sixty people--it was agreed that they should separate
from the tribe and seek their fortune in the vast wilderness lying to
the south.

In the night they commenced their march; sullenly their brethren saw
them depart never to return. They went their way by the shores of the
Lesser Slave Lake, towards the great plains which were said to lie far
southward by the banks of the swift-rolling Saskatchewan.

The tribe of Beavers never saw again this exiled band, but a hundred
years later a Beaver Indian, who followed the fortunes of a white
fur-hunter, found himself in one of the forts of the Saskatchewan.
Strange Indians were camped around the palisades, they were portions
of the great Blackfeet tribe whose hunting-grounds lay south of the
Saskatchewan; among them were a few braves who, when they conversed
together, spoke a language different from the other Blackfeet; in this
language the Beaver Indian recognized his own tongue.

The fortunes of the exiled branch were then traced, they had reached
the great plains, the Blackfeet had protected them, and they had joined
the tribe as allies in war against Crees or Assineboines. To-day the
Surcees still speak the guttural language of the Chipewyan. Notorious
among the wild horse-raiders of the prairies, they outdo even the
Blackfeet in audacious plundering; and although the parent stock on the
Peace River are quiet and harmless, the offshoot race has long been a
terror over the prairies of the south. No men in this land of hunters
hunt better than the Beavers. It is not uncommon for a single Indian
to render from his winter trapping 200 marten skins, and not less than
20,000 beavers are annually killed by the tribe on the waters of the
Peace River.

On the morning of the third day after leaving Vermilion we fell in
with a band of Beavers. Five wigwams stood pitched upon a pretty
rising knoll, backed by pine woods, which skirted the banks of the
stream, upon the channel of which the lodges of the animal beaver rose
cone-like above the snow.

When we reached the camp, “At-tal-loo,” the chief, came forth. A
stranger was a rare sight; and “At-tal-loo” was bound to make a speech;
three of his warriors, half a dozen children, and a few women filled up
the background. Leaning upon a long single-barrelled gun “At-tal-loo”
began.

The mayor and corporation of that thriving borough of Porkingham could
not have been more solicitous to interrupt a royal progress to the
north, than was this Beaver Indian anxious to address the traveller;
but there was this difference between them, whereas Mayor Tomkins had
chiefly in view the excellent opportunity of hearing his own voice,
utterly unmindful of what a horrid bore he was making himself to
his sovereign, “At-tal-loo” had in view more practical results: his
frequent iteration of the word “tea,” in his guttural harangue, told at
once the story of his wants:--

“This winter had been a severe one; death had struck heavily into the
tribe; in these three wigwams six women had died. It was true each
brave still had three or four wives left, but moose were plenty, and a
man with six helpmates could be rich in dry meat and moose leather. Tea
was the pressing want. Without tea the meat of the moose was insipid;
without tea and tobacco the loss of even the fifth or sixth rib became
a serious affair.”

I endeavoured to find out the cause of this mortality among the poor
hunters, and it was not far to seek. Constitutions enfeebled by close
intermarriage, and by the hardships attending upon wild life in these
northern regions, were fast wearing out. At the present rate of
mortality the tribe of the Beavers will soon be extinct, and with them
will have disappeared the best and the simplest of the nomad tribes of
the north.

“At-tal-loo” was made happy with tea and tobacco, and we went our way.
Another doughty chief, named “Twa-poos,” probably also regarded tea
as the elixir of life, and the true source of happiness; but as my
servitor still continued to regard my stock of the luxury as a very
excellent medium for the accumulation of stray marten skins for his
own benefit, it was perhaps as well that I should only know “Twa-poos”
through the channel of hearsay.

On the morning of the 25th of March we emerged from the tortuous
little Buffalo River upon the majestic channel of the Peace. Its banks
were now deeply furrowed beneath the prairie level, its broad surface
rolled away to the south-west, 500 yards from shore to shore. The
afternoon came forth bright and warm; from a high ridge on the left
shore a far-stretching view lay rolled before us--the Eagle Hills, the
glistening river, the wide expanse of dark forest and white prairie;
and above, a sky which had caught the hue and touch of spring, while
winter still stood intrenched on plain and river.

Late that evening we reached the hut of a Cree Indian. A snow-storm
closed the twilight, and all sought shelter in the house: it was eight
feet by twelve, in superficial size, yet nineteen persons lay down to
rest in it, a Cree and his wife, an Assineboine and his wife, eight or
ten children, and any number of Swampy, Ojibbeway, and half-breeds.
Whenever the creaky door opened, a dozen dogs found ingress, and dodged
under and over the men, women, and children in hopeless confusion.

The Assineboine squaw seemed to devote all her energies to the
expulsion of the intruders; the infants rolled over the puppy dogs, the
puppy dogs scrambled over the infants, and outside in the snow and on
the low roof Cerf-vola and his friends did battle with a host of Indian
dogs. So the night passed away. Next morning there was no track. We
waded deep in the snow, and made but slow progress. Things had reached
a climax with my crew; they had apparently made up their minds to make
a long, slow journey. They wanted to camp at any Indian lodge they
saw, to start late and to camp early, to eat, smoke, and talk, to do
everything in fact but travel.

I was still nearly 150 miles from Dunvegan, and as much more from
that mountain range whose defiles I hoped to reach ere the ice road
on which I travelled had turned to a rushing stream. Already the sun
shone strong in the early afternoon, and the surface snow grew moist
under his warm rays, and here were my men ready to seek any excuse for
loitering on the way.

About noon one day we reached a camp of Crees on the south shore of
the river. Moose-meat was getting scarce, so I asked my yellow rascal
to procure some tit-bits from the camp in exchange for tea. The whole
party at once vanished into the tents, while I remained with the dogs
upon the river. Presently my friend reappeared; he “could only get a
rib-piece or a tough leg.” “Then don’t take them,” I said. I saw the
rascal was at his old work, so taking some tea and tobacco, I went up
myself to the tents; meantime the men, women, and children had all come
out to the shore. I held up the tea and pointed to the moose-meat;
in an instant the scene changed--briskets, tongues, and moose-noses
were brought out, and I could have loaded my dogs with tit-bits had
I wished; still I pretended to find another motive for my henchman’s
conduct. “See,” I said to him, “I make a better trader with Indians
than you do. They would only give you the tough bits; I can get noses
enough to load my dogs with.”

But the camp possessed an attraction still more enticing; early that
morning I had observed the Indians and half-breeds arraying themselves
in their gayest trappings. The half-breed usually in dressing himself
devotes the largest share of attention to the decoration of his legs;
beads, buckles, and embroidered ribbons flutter from his leggings, and
his garters are resplendent with coloured worsted or porcupine-quill
work.

These items of finery had all been donned this morning in camp, the
long hair had been carefully smeared with bear’s fat, and then I had
not long to wait for an explanation of all this adornment. In one of
the three Cree tents there dwelt two good-looking squaws; we entered
this tent, the mats were unrolled, the fire replenished, and the squaws
set to work to cook a moose nose and tongue for my dinner. Dinner over,
the difficulty began; the quarters were excellent in the estimation of
my men. It would be the wildest insanity to think of quitting such a
paradise of love and food under at least a twenty-four hours’ delay.

So they suddenly announced their intention of “bideing a wee.” I
endeavoured to expostulate, I spoke of the lateness of the season, the
distance I had yet to travel, the necessity of bringing to Dunvegan the
train of dogs destined for that post at the earliest period; all was of
no avail. Their snow-shoes were broken and they must wait. Very good;
put my four dogs into harness, and I will go on alone. So the dogs were
put in harness, and taking with me my most lootable effects, I set out
alone into the wilderness.

It still wanted some four hours of sunset when I left the Indian lodges
on the south shore, and held my way along the far-reaching river.

My poor old dog, after a few glances back to see why he should be
alone, settled himself to work, and despite a lameness, the result
of long travel, he led the advance so gamely that when night fell some
dozen miles lay between us and the Cree lodges.

[Illustration: ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS.]

At the foot of a high ridge whose summit still caught the glow from the
low-set sun, while the river valley grew dark in the twilight, I turned
the dogs towards the south shore, and looked about for a camping-place.
The lower bank sloped down to the ice abruptly, but dogs going to camp
will drag a load up, over, or through anything, and the prospect of
rest above is even a greater incentive to exertion than the fluent
imprecations of the half-breed below. So by dint of hauling we reached
the top, and then I made my camp in a pine-clump on the brink. When
the dogs had been unharnessed, and the snow dug away, the pine brush
laid upon the ground, and the wood cut, when the fire was made, the
kettle filled with snow and boiled, the dogs fed with a good hearty
meal of dry moose meat, and my own hunger satisfied; then, it was time
to think, while the fire lit up the pine stems, and the last glint of
daylight gleamed in the western sky. A jagged pine-top laid its black
cone against what had been the sunset. An owl from the opposite shore
sounded at intervals his lonely call; now and again a passing breeze
bent the fir trees until they whispered forth that mournful song which
seems to echo from the abyss of the past.

The fir-tree is the oldest of the trees of the earth, and its look
and its voice tell the story of its age. If it were possible to have
left my worthless half-breeds altogether and to traverse the solitudes
alone, how gladly would I have done so!

I felt at last at home. The great silent river, the lofty ridge
darkening against the twilight, yon star burning like a beacon above
the precipice--all _these_ were friends, and midst them one could rest
in peace.

And now, as I run back in thought along that winter journey, and see
again the many camp-fires glimmering through the waste of wilderness,
there comes not to my memory a calmer scene than that which closed
around my lonely fire by the distant Unchagah. I was there almost in
the centre of the vast wilderness of North America, around, stretched
in silence, that mystery we term Nature, that thing which we see in
pictures, in landscapes, in memory; which we hear in the voice of
wind-swept forests and the long sob of seas against ocean rocks. This
mother, ever present, ever mysterious, sometimes terrible, often
tender--always beautiful--stood there with nought to come between us
save loneliness and twilight. I awoke with the dawn. Soft snow was
falling on river and ridge, and the opposite shore lay hid in mist and
gloom. A breakfast, which consists of pemmican, tea, and biscuit, takes
but a short time to prepare or to discuss, and by sunrise I was on the
river.

Until mid-day I held on, but before that time the sun glowed brightly
on the dazzling surface of the snow; and the dogs panted as they hauled
their loads, biting frequent mouthfuls of the soft snow through which
they toiled.

About noon I camped on the south shore. I had still two meals for
myself, but none remained for the dogs; the men had, however, assured
me that they would not fail to make an early start, and I determined to
await their coming in this camp. The day passed and night closed again,
but no figure darkened the long stretch of river, and my poor dogs went
supperless to sleep. Cerf-vola, it is true, had some scraps of sweet
pemmican, but they were mere drops in the ocean of his appetite. The
hauling-dog of the North is a queer animal about food; when it is there
he likes to have it, but when it isn’t there, like his Indian master,
he can do without it.

About supper-hour he looks wistfully at his master, and seeing no sign
of pemmican-chopping or dry meat-slicing, he rolls himself up into a
ball and goes quietly to sleep in his snow bed.

Again the night came softly down, the grey owl hooted his lonely cry,
the breeze stirred the forest tops, and the pine-tree murmured softly
and low, singing its song of the past to the melody of its myriad
years. At such times the mind of the wanderer sings its own song too.
It is the song of home; and as memory rings the cadence, time and
distance disappear, and the old land brightens forth amidst the embers
of the forest-fire.

These islands which we call “home” are far away; afar off we idealize
them, in the forest depths we dream bright visions of their firesides
of welcome; in the snow-sheeted lake, and the icy stretch of river, and
the motionless muskeg, how sweetly sound the notes of brook and bird;
how brightly rise the glimpses of summer eves when the white mists
float over the scented meadows, and the corn-craik sounds from his lair
in the meadow-sweet!

It is there, away in the east, far off, where the moon is rising above
the forked pines, or the upcoming stars edge the ice piles on the dim
eastern shores of yon sheeted lake. Far away, a speck amidst the waves
of distance, bright, happy, and peaceful; holding out its welcome, and
following with its anxious thoughts the wanderer who sails away over
the ocean, and roams the expanses of the earth.

Well, some fine day we come back again; the great steamship touches the
long idealized shore. Gods, how the scene changes! We feel bursting
with joy to see it all again, to say, “Oh! how glad I am to see you
all!”

We say it with our eyes to the young lady behind the refreshment
buffet at the railroad station. Alas! she mistakes our exuberance for
impertinence, and endeavours to annihilate us with a glance, enough to
freeze even her high-spirited sherry. We pass the bobby on his beat
with a smile of recognition, but that ferocious functionary, not a
whit softened, regards us as a “party” likely to afford him transient
employment in the matter of “running in.” The railway porter alone
seems to enter into our feelings of joy, but alas! it is only with a
view to that donation with which we are sure to present him. We have
enlisted his sympathies as her Majesty enlists her recruits, by the aid
of a shilling. Ere an hour has passed, the vision seen so frequently
through the mist of weary miles has vanished, and we have taken our
place in the vast humming crowd of England’s hive, to wish ourselves
back into the dreamy solitudes again.

I had been asleep some hours, and midnight had come, when the sound of
voices roused me, and my recreant band approached the dying camp-fire.
They had at length torn themselves away from the abode of bliss and
moose meat, but either the memory of its vanished pleasures, or a stray
feeling of shame, kept them still sullen and morose. They, however,
announced their readiness to go on at once, as the crust upon the snow
was now hard. I rose from my robe, gave the dogs a late supper, and
once more we set out.

Daylight found us still upon the track; the men seemed disposed to make
amends for former dilatoriness, the ice-crust was hard, and the dogs
went well. When the sun had become warm enough to soften the surface we
camped, had supper, and lay down to sleep for the day.

With sunset came the hour of starting, and thus turning night into
day, breakfasting at sunset, dining at midnight, supping at sunrise,
travelling all night, and sleeping all day, we held our way up the
Unchagah. Three nights of travel passed, and the morning of the 1st
of April broke upon the silent river. We had travelled well; full one
hundred miles of these lonely, lofty shores had vanished behind us in
the grey dusky light of twilight, night, and early morning.

As the dawn broke in the east, and gradually grew into a broader band
of light, the huge ramparts of the lofty shores wore strange,
unearthly aspects. Six hundred feet above the ice, wind and sun had
already swept the snow, and the bare hill-tops rose to view, free, at
last, from winter’s covering.

[Illustration: NIGHT INTO DAY.]

Lower down full many a rugged ridge, and steep, scarped precipice, held
its clinging growth of pine and poplar, or showed gigantic slides, upon
whose gravelly surface the loosened stones rolled with sullen echo,
into the river chasm beneath. Between these huge walls lay the river,
broadly curving from the west, motionless and soundless, as we swept
with rapid stride over its sleeping waters.

Sometimes in the early morning, upon these steep ridges, the moose
would emerge from his covert, and look down on the passing dog trains,
his huge, ungainly head outstretched to

    “Sniff the tainted gale,”

his great ears lying forward to catch the faint jingle of our
dog-bells. Nearly all else seemed to sleep in endless slumber, for,
alone of summer denizens, the owl, the moose, the wolf, and the raven
keep winter watch over the wilderness of the Peace River.

At daybreak, on the 1st of April, we were at the mouth of the Smoking
River. This stream enters the Peace River from the south-west. It has
its source but a couple of days’ journey north of the Athabasca River,
at the spot where that river emerges from the Rocky Mountains. And it
drains the beautiful region of varied prairie and forest-land, which
lies at the base of the mountains between the Peace and Athabasca
rivers.

The men made a long march this day. Inspired by the offer of a
gratuity, if they could make the fort by night-time, and anxious,
perhaps, to atone for past shortcomings, they made up a train of five
strong dogs.

Setting out with this train at eight o’clock in the morning, three of
them held the pace so gamely that when evening closed we were in sight
of the lofty ridge which overhangs at the north shore, the fort of
Dunvegan.

As the twilight closed over the broad river we were steering between
two huge walls of sandstone rock, which towered up 700 feet above the
shore.

The yellow light of the sunset still glowed in the west, lighting up
the broad chasm through which the river flowed, and throwing many a
weird shadow along the basaltic precipice. Right in our onward track
stood a large dusky wolf. He watched us until we approached within 200
yards of him, then turning he held his course up the centre of the
river. My five dogs caught sight of him, and in an instant they
gave chase. The surface of the snow was now hard frozen, and urged by
the strength of so many dogs the cariole flew along over the slippery
surface.

[Illustration: THE WOLF-CHASE.]

The driver was soon far behind. The wolf kept the centre of the river,
and the cariole bounded from snow pack to snow pack, or shot along the
level ice; while the dusky twilight filled the deep chasm with its
spectral light. But this wild chase was not long to last. The wolf
sought refuge amidst the rocky shore, and the dogs turned along the
trail again.

Two hours later a few lights glimmered through the darkness, beneath
the black shadow of an immense hill. The unusual sound of rushing water
broke strangely on the ear after such a lapse of silence. But the hill
streams had already broken their icy barriers, and their waters were
even now hastening to the great river (still chained with the gyves of
winter), to aid its hidden current in the work of deliverance.

Here and there deep pools of water lay on the surface of the ice,
through which the dogs waded, breast deep, and the cariole floated
like a boat. Thus, alternately wading and sliding, we drew near the
glimmering lights.

We had reached Dunvegan! If the men and dogs slept well that night it
was little wonder. With the intermission only necessary for food, we
had travelled incessantly during four-and-twenty hours. Yet was it the
same that night at Dunvegan as it had been elsewhere at various times.
Outside the dogs might rest as they pleased, but within, in the huts,
Swampy and Half-breed and Ojibbeway danced and fiddled, laughed and
capered until the small hours of the morning.




CHAPTER XVII.

    Alexander Mackenzie.--The first sign of Spring.--Spanker the
        suspicious.--Cerf-vola contemplates cutlets.--An Indian
        hunter.--“Encumbrances.”--Furs and finery.--A “dead
        fall.”--The fur trade at both ends.--An old fort.--A night
        attack.--Wife-lifting.--Cerf-vola in difficulties and
        boots.--The Rocky Mountains at last.


About eighty years ago a solitary canoe floated on the waters of
the Peace River. Eight sturdy Iroquois or Canadians moved it with
dexterous paddle; in the centre sat the figure of a European, busy with
field-book and compass.

He was a daring Scotchman from the isles, by name Alexander Mackenzie.
He was pushing his way slowly to the West; before him all was vague
conjecture. There was a mighty range of mountains the Indians said--a
range through which the river flowed in a profound chasm--beyond that
all was mystery; but other wild men, who dwelt westward of the chasm in
a land of mountains, had told them tales of another big river flowing
toward the mid-day sun into the lake that had no shore.

This daring explorer built himself a house not far below the spot where
my recreant crew had found a paradise in the wilderness; here he passed
the winter. Early in the following spring he continued his ascent of
the river. He was the first Englishman that ever passed the Rocky
Mountains. He was the first man who crossed the Northern Continent.

His footsteps were quickly followed by men almost as resolute. Findlay,
Frazer, and Thompson soon carried the fortunes of the North-West
Company through the defiles of the Peace River; and long before Jacob
Astor had dreamt his dream of Columbian fur trade, these men had
planted on the wild shores of New Caledonia and Oregon the first germs
of English domination; little dreaming, doubtless, as they did so,
that in after-time, between dulness upon one side and duplicity on the
other, the fruits of their labour and their sufferings would pass to
hostile hands.

From its earliest days, the fur trade of the North had been carried
on from bases which moved northward with the tide of exploration.
The first French adventurers had made Tadousac, at the mouth of the
rock-shadowed Saguenay, the base of their operations; later on,
Montreal had been their point of distribution; then Mackenaw, between
Lakes Michigan and Huron. With the fall of French dominion in 1762 the
trade passed to English hands, and Fort William on Lake Superior, and
Fort Chipewyan on Lake Athabasca, became in time centres of fur trade.

It was from the latter place that Mackenzie and his successors pushed
their explorations to the distant shores of Arctic and Pacific
Oceans. Among the earlier posts which these men established in the
Great Wilderness was this fort, called Dunvegan, on the Peace River.
A McLeod, of Skye, founded the post, and named it after the wild,
storm-swept fortalice which the chief of his race in bygone times
had reared upon the Atlantic verge. As Dunvegan was then, so it is
to-day; half a dozen little houses roofed with pine-bark; in front, the
broad river in its deep-cut gorge; behind, an abrupt ridge 700 feet
in height, at the top of which a rolling table-land spreads out into
endless distance.

Unlike the prairies of the Saskatchewan, this plateau is thickly
interspersed with woods and thickets of pine and poplar. Its many
lakes are free from alkali, and the varied growth of willows which
they sustain, yield ample sustenance to the herds of moose which still
roam the land. The deep trough through which the river flows increases
with singular regularity as the traveller ascends the stream. Thus at
Vermilion the banks are scarcely thirty feet above low-water level;
200 miles higher up they rise to 350 feet; at Dunvegan they are 720;
and 100 miles still further west they attain an elevation of 900 and
1000 feet. Once upon the summit, however, no indication of ruggedness
meets the eye. The country spreads into a succession of prairies,
lakes, and copses, through which the traveller can ride with ease, safe
from the badger-holes which form such an objectionable feature in more
southern prairies. At times the river-bed fills up the entire bottom
of the deep valley through which it runs; but more frequently a wooded
terrace lies between the foot of the ridge and the brink of the water,
or the land rises to the upper level in a series of rounded and less
abrupt ascents. The soil is a dark sandy loam, the rocks are chiefly
lime and sandstone, and the numerous slides and huge landslips along
the lofty shores, render visible strata upon strata of many-coloured
earths and layers of rock and shingle, lignite and banded clays in rich
succession. A black, bituminous earth in many places forces its way
through rock or shingle, and runs in long, dark streaks down the steep
descent. Such is the present aspect of the Peace River, as lonely and
silent it holds its long course, deep furrowed below the unmeasured
wilderness.

April had come; already the sun shone warmly in the mid-day hours;
already the streams were beginning to furrow the grey overhanging
hills, from whose southern sides the snow had vanished, save where in
ravine or hollow it lay deep, drifted by the winter winds; but the
river was not to be thus easily roused from the sleep into which the
Arctic cold had cast it. Solid under its weight of ice, four feet in
thickness, it would yet lie for days in motionless torpor. Snow might
fly from sky and hill-top, prairie and forest might yield to the soft
coming spring; but like a skilful general grim winter only drew off his
forces from outlying points to make his last stand in the intrenchments
of the frozen river.

From the summit of the steep hill, whose scarped front looks down
upon the little huts of Dunvegan, the eye travels over many a mile of
wilderness, but no hill top darkens the far horizon; and the traveller,
whose steps for months have followed the western sun, feels half
inclined to doubt the reality of the mountain barrier he has so long
looked in vain for. So it seemed to me, as I scanned one evening the
long line of the western sky from this lofty ridge.

Nineteen hundred miles behind me lay that Musk Rat Creek, by whose
banks on that now distant day in October, I had bidden civilization a
long good-bye.

Prairie and lakelet, broad river, vast forest, dim spreading lake,
silent ridge and waste of wilderness--all lay deep sunken again in that
slumber from which my lonely passage had for a moment roused them.

Different faces had at times accompanied me; various dogs had toiled
and tugged at the oaken sled, or lain at night around the wintry
camp-fires; and yet, still remote lay that giant range, for whose
defiles my steps had so long been bound. But amid all changes of time
and place and persons, two companions still remained with me. Cerf-vola
the Untiring, Spanker the Suspicious, still trotted as briskly as when
they had quitted their Dakotan home. If I should feel inclined to doubt
their strength and vigour, I had only to look down the hill-side to
read a reassurance--a couple of hundred feet beneath where I stood.
There Spanker the suspicious might have been observed in company with
two other savages, doing his utmost to terminate the career of a
yearling calf, which early spring had tempted to the hill-top. It was
consolatory to notice that Cerf-vola the untiring took no part in this
nefarious transaction. He stood apart, watching it with a countenance
expressive of emotions which might be read, either in the light of
condemnation of cruelty, or commendation of coming veal cutlets.

About midnight on the 3rd of April I quitted Dunvegan, and turned once
more along the frozen river. The moon, verging to its first quarter,
shone above the southern shore, lighting half the river, while the
remainder lay wrapped in darkness.

A half-breed named Kalder accompanied me--my former servitor having
elected to remain at Dunvegan. He had probably heard strange stories of
life beyond the mountains. “Miners were fond of shooting; to keep their
hand and eye in practice they would shoot him as soon as they caught
sight of him,” so it would perhaps be wiser to stay on the eastern
slope. He remained behind, and William Kalder, a Scotch half-breed, who
spoke French in addition to his Indian tongue, reigned in his stead.

Above Dunvegan, the Peace is a rapid river. We decided to travel by
moonlight only, and in the morning, as many places had already become
unsound; a great quantity of water lay on the surface of the ice, and
wet mocassins and heavy snow-shoes became our constant companions. By
daybreak, however, all water would be frozen solid, and except for the
effect of the sharp ice on the dogs’ feet, the travelling was excellent
at that hour.

At daybreak on the fourth we heard ahead a noise of barking, and
presently from the wooded shore a moose broke forth upon the river.
The crusted snow broke beneath his weight, and he turned at bay near
the southern shore. We were yet a long way off, and we hurried on as
fast as dogs could run. When we had reached within a couple of hundred
yards of where he stood butting the dogs, a shot rang sharply from the
woods; the unshapely animal still kept his head lowered to his enemies,
but the shot had struck, for as we came panting up, he rolled heavily
amidst his baying enemies, who closed around him while the blood
bubbled fast over the pure frosted snow. Above, on the wooded banks,
under a giant pine, sat a young Indian quietly regarding his quarry.
Not a move of limb or countenance betokened excitement; his face was
flushed by a long quick chase down the rugged hill-side; but now,
though his game lay stretched beneath him, he made no outward sign of
satisfaction. He sat unmoved on the rock above, his long gun balanced
above his knee--the fitting background to a picture of wild sport in
the wilderness. It was now the time when the Indians leave their winter
hunting-grounds, and make a journey to the forts with the produce
of their season’s toil. They come, a motley throng; men, women and
children; dogs, sleds and hand-tobogans, bearing the precious freight
of fur to the trading-post, bringing in the harvest of marten-skins
from the vast field of the desert wilds.

On this morning, ere we reached our camping place, a long cavalcade
passed us. A couple of braves in front, too proud and lazy to carry
anything but their guns; then old women and young ones, bending under
their loads, or driving dogs, or hauling hand-sleds laden with meat,
furs, mooseskins, and infants. The puppy-dog and the infant never fail
in cabin or _cortége_. Sometimes one may see the two packed together
on the back of a woman, who carries besides a load of meat or skins. I
believe the term “encumbrance” has sometimes been applied to the human
portion of such a load, in circles so elevated that even the humanity
of maternity would appear to have been successfully eliminated by
civilization. If ever the term carried truth with it, it is here in
this wild northern land, where yon wretched woman bears man’s burthen
of toil as well as her own. Here the child is veritably an encumbrance;
yet in some instincts the savage mother might teach her civilized
sister a lesson of womanity. Perhaps here, while this motley cavalcade
passes along, we may step aside a moment from the track, and tell the
story of a marten.

A couple of cotton kerchiefs, which my lady’s-maid would disdain to
be the owner of, and a couple of ten-pound bank-notes from my lady’s
purse, mark the two extremes between which lies the history of a
marten. We will endeavour to bring together these widely-severed ends.

When the winter is at its coldest, but when the days are beginning to
lengthen out a little over the dim pine-woods of the North, the Indian
builds a small circular fence of wood, some fourteen inches high. Upon
one side this circle is left open, but across the aperture a thick
limb or thin trunk of tree is laid with one end resting on the ground.
Inside the circle a forked stick holds a small bit of fish or meat as
a bait. This forked stick is set so as to support another small piece
of wood, upon which in turn rests the half-uplifted log. Pull the
baited stick, and you let slip the small supporting one, which in turn
lets fall the large horizontal log. Thus runs the sequence. It is a
guillotine, with a tree instead of a sharp knife; it is called a “dead
fall.” Numbers of them are erected in the woods, where martens’ tracks
are plentiful in the snow. Well, then, the line of “dead falls” being
made and set, the Indian departs, and silence reigns in the forest. But
once a week he starts forth to visit this line of “dead falls,” which
may be ten or fifteen miles in length.

Every now and again he finds one of his guillotines down, and
underneath it lies a small, thick-furred animal, in size something
larger than a ferret, something smaller than a cat. It is needless
to describe the colour of the animal; from childhood upwards it is
familiar to us. Most persons can recall the figure of maiden aunt
or stately visitor, muffed, cuffed, boa’d and pelissed, in all the
splendour of her sables. Our little friend under the dead fall is none
other than the sable--the marten of North America, the sable of Siberia.

A hundred miles away from the nearest fort this marten has been
captured. When the snow and ice begin to show symptoms of softening,
the Indian packs his furs together, and sets out, as we have seen, for
the fort. There are, perhaps, five or six families together; the squaws
and dogs are heavy laden, and the march is slow and toilsome. All the
household gods have to be carried along. The leather tent, the battered
copper kettle, the axe, the papoose strapped in the moss bag, the two
puppy-dogs, yet unable to shift for themselves, the snow-shoes for
hunting, the tattered blanket, the dry meat; it makes a big load, all
told; and squaw and dog toil along with difficulty under it. The brave
of course goes before, deigning only to carry his gun, and not always
doing even that; the wife is but as a dog to him.

Well, day by day the party moves along till the fort is reached. Then
comes the trade. The fifty or a hundred marten-skins are handed over:
the debt of the past year is cancelled, partly or wholly; and advances
are taken for the coming season.

The wild man’s first thought is for the little one,--a child’s white
capôte, strouds or blanketing for tiny backs, a gaudy handkerchief for
some toddling papoose. After that the shot and powder, the flints and
ball for his own use; and lastly, the poor wife gets something for
her share. She has managed to keep a couple of deer-skins for her own
perquisite, and with these she derives a little pin-money.

It would be too long to follow the marten-skin through its many
vicissitudes--how it changes from hand to hand, each time more than
doubling its price, until at length some stately dowager spends more
guineas upon it than its original captor realized pence for it.

Many a time have I met these long processions, sometimes when I have
been alone on the march, and at others when my followers were around
me; each time there was the inevitable hand-shaking, the good-humoured
laughing, the magic word “thé;” a few matches, and a plug or two of
tobacco given, and we separated. How easily they were made happy! And
now and again among them would be seen a poor crippled Indian, maimed
by fall from horse or shot from gun, hobbling along with the women in
the rear of the straggling _cortége_, looking for all the world like a
wild bird with a broken wing.

The spring was now rapidly approaching, and each day made some change
in the state of the ice. The northern bank was quite clear of snow; the
water on the river grew daily deeper, and at night the ice cracked and
groaned as we walked upon it, as though the sleeping giant had begun to
stir and stretch himself previous to his final waking.

On the morning of the 7th of April we passed the site of an old fort on
the northern shore. I turned aside to examine it. Rank weeds and grass
covered a few mounds, and faint traces of a fireplace could be still
discerned. Moose-tracks were numerous around.

Just fifty years earlier, this old spot had been the scene of a
murderous attack.

In the grey of the morning, a small band of Beaver Indians approached
the fort, and shot its master and four men; a few others escaped in a
canoe, leaving Fort St. John’s to its fate. It was immediately burned
down, and the forest has long since claimed it as its own. In the
phraseology of the period, this attack was said to have been made by
the Indians in revenge for a series of “wife-lifting” which had been
carried on against them by the denizens of the fort. History saith
no more, but it is more than probable that this dangerous method of
levying “black _female_” was thereafter discontinued by the Highland
fur-traders.

We camped not far from the ruined fort, and next night drew near our
destination. It was full time. The ice was rapidly going, and already
in places dark, treacherous holes showed grimly through to the rushing
water beneath.

The dogs were all lame, and Cerf-vola had to be regularly put in boots
previous to starting. Still, lame or sound, he always travelled just
the same. When his feet were very sore, he would look around now and
again for assistance; but if none was forthcoming he bent himself
resolutely to the task, and with down-bent head toiled at his collar.
Others might tire, others might give out, but he might truly say,--

   “Dogs may come, and dogs may go,
      But I go on for ever,
    Ever, ever, I go on for ever.”

Before daybreak on the 8th we stopped for the usual cup of tea and
bite of pemmican. The night was dark and overcast. Beside us a huge
pile of driftwood lay heaped above the ice. We fired it in many places
before starting, and then set out for our last dog-march. The flames
rose high through the dry timber, and a long line of light glowed and
quivered upon the ice. We were soon far away from it. Day broke; a
thick rain began to fall; dogs and men sunk deep in the slushy snow.
“Go on, good old Cerf-vola! A little more, and your weary journey
will be over; a little more, and the last mile of this 1400 will have
been run; a little more, and the collar will be taken from your worn
shoulders for the last long time!”

At the bend of the Peace River, where a lofty ridge runs out from
the southern side, and the hills along the northern shore rise to
nearly 1000 feet above the water, stands the little fort of St. John.
It is a remote spot, in a land which is itself remote. From out the
plain to the west, forty or fifty miles away, great snowy peaks rise
up against the sky. To the north and south and east all is endless
wilderness--wilderness of pine and prairie, of lake and stream--of all
the vast inanity of that moaning waste which sleeps between the Bay of
Hudson and the Rocky Mountains.

So far have we journeyed through that land; here we shall rest awhile.
The time of winter travel has drawn to its close; the ice-road has done
its work; the dogs may lie down and rest; for those great snowy peaks
are the Rocky Mountains.




CHAPTER XVIII.

    The wild animals of the Peace River.--Indian method of hunting
        the moose.--Twa-poos.--The beaver.--The bear.--Bear’s
        butter.--A bear’s hug and how it ended.--Fort St. John.--
        The river awakes.--A rose without a thorn.--Nigger Dan.--
        A threatening letter.--I issue a Judicial Memorandum.--
        Its effect is all that could be desired.--Working up the
        Peace River.


Three animals have made their homes on the shores of the Peace River
and its tributaries. They are the bear, the moose, and the beaver. All
are valuable to the Indian for their flesh, fur, or skin; all come to
as great perfection here as in any part of the American continent.

The first and last named go to sleep in the long winter months, but the
moose still roams the woods and willow banks, feeding with his flesh
the forts and the Indians along the entire river. About 100 full-grown
moose had been consumed during the winter months at the four posts
we have lately passed, in fresh meat alone. He is a huge animal; his
carcase will weigh from three to six hundred pounds; yet an ordinary
half-breed will devour him in little more than a month.

Between four and five hundred moose are annually eaten at the forts of
the Peace River; four times that number are consumed by the Indians,
but the range of the animal is vast, the hunters are comparatively few,
and to-day there are probably as many moose in Peace River as there
were fifty years ago.

Athabasca trades to-day the skins of nearly 2000 moose in a single
year. Few animals are more unshapely than this giant deer. His neck
slopes down from the shoulder, ending in a head as large as a horse--a
head which ends in a nose curled like a camel’s--a nose delicious to
the taste, but hideous to the eye. The ears are of enormous length.
Yet, ugly as are the nose and ears of the moose, they are his chief
means of protection against his enemy, and in that great ungainly head
there lurks a brain of marvellous cunning. It is through nose and ears
that this cunning brain is duly prompted to escape danger.

_No man save the Indian, or the half-Indian_, can hunt the moose with
chance of success.

I am aware that a host of Englishmen and Canadians will exclaim
against this, but nevertheless it is perfectly true. Hunting the moose
in summer and winter is one thing--killing him in a snow-yard, or
running him down in deep snow is another. The two methods are as widely
different as killing a salmon which another man has hooked for you is
different from rising, hooking, playing, and gaffing one yourself.

To hunt the moose requires years of study. Here is the little game
which his instinct teaches him. When the early morning has come, he
begins to think of lying down for the day. He has been feeding on the
grey and golden willow-tops as he walked leisurely along. His track is
marked in the snow or soft clay; he carefully retraces his footsteps,
and, breaking off suddenly to the leeward side, lies down a gunshot
from his feeding-track. He knows he must get the wind of any one
following his trail.

In the morning “Twa-poos,” or the Three Thumbs, sets forth to look
for a moose; he hits the trail and follows it; every now and again he
examines the broken willow-tops or the hoof-marks, when experience
tells him that the moose has been feeding here during the early night.
Twa-poos quits the trail, bending away in a deep circle to leeward;
stealthily he returns to the trail, and as stealthily bends away again
from it. He makes as it were the semicircles of the letter B, supposing
the perpendicular line to indicate the trail of the moose; at each
return to it he examines attentively the willows, and judges his
proximity to the game.

At last he is so near that he knows for an absolute certainty that
the moose is lying in a thicket a little distance ahead. Now comes
the moment of caution. He divests himself of every article of
clothing which might cause the slightest noise in the forest; even
his moccassins are laid aside; and then, on a pointed toe which a
ballet-girl might envy, he goes forward for the last stalk. Every
bush is now scrutinized, every thicket examined. See! he stops all at
once! You who follow him look, and look in vain; you can see nothing.
He laughs to himself, and points to yon willow covert. No, there is
nothing there. He noiselessly cocks his gun. You look again and again,
but can see nothing; then Twa-poos suddenly stretches out his hand and
breaks a little dry twig from an overhanging branch. In an instant,
right in front, thirty or forty yards away, an immense dark-haired
animal rises up from the willows. He gives one look in your direction,
and that look is his _last_. Twa-poos has fired, and the moose is
either dead in his thicket or within a few hundred yards of it.

One word now about this sense of hearing possessed by the moose. The
most favourable day for hunting is in wild windy weather, when the dry
branches of the forest crack in the gale. Nevertheless, Indians have
assured me that, on such days, when they have sighted a moose, they
have broken a dry stick; and although many branches were waving and
cracking in the woods, the animal started at the sound--distinguishing
it from the natural noises of the forest.

But although the moose are still as numerous on Peace River as they
were in days far removed from the present, there is another animal
which has almost wholly disappeared.

The giant form of the wood-buffalo no longer darkens the steep lofty
shores. When first Mackenzie beheld the long reaches of the river,
the “gentle lawns” which alternated with “abrupt precipices” were
“enlivened” by vast herds of buffaloes. This was in 1793. Thirty-three
years later, Sir George Simpson also ascended the river with his
matchless Iroquois crew. Yet no buffalo darkened the lofty shores.

What destroyed them in that short interval? The answer is not difficult
to seek--deep snow. The buffalo grazes on the grass, the moose browses
on the tall willows. During one winter of exceptionally deep snow,
eighty buffaloes were killed in a single day in the vicinity of
Dunvegan. The Indians ran them into the snowdrifts, and then despatched
them with knives.

It is still a matter of dispute whether the wood-buffalo is the
same species as his namesake of the southern plains; but it is
generally believed by the Indians that he is of a kindred race. He is
nevertheless larger, darker, and wilder; and although the northern
land, in which he is still found, abounds in open prairies and small
plains, he nevertheless seeks in preference the thickest woods. Whether
he be of the plain race or not, one thing is certain--his habits vary
much from his southern cousin. The range of the wood-buffalo is much
farther north than is generally believed. There are scattered herds
even now on the banks of the Liard River as far as sixty-one degrees of
north latitude.

The earth had never elsewhere such an accumulation of animal life as
this northern continent must have exhibited some five or six centuries
ago, when, from the Great Slave Lake to the Gulf of Florida, millions
upon millions of bisons roamed the wilderness.

Have we said enough of animals, or can we spare a few words to the
bears and the beavers? Of all the animals which the New World gave
to man the beaver was the most extraordinary. His cunning surpassed
that of the fox; his skill was greater than that of the honey-bee; his
patience was more enduring than the spider’s; his labour could turn
the waters of a mighty river, and change the face of an entire country.
He could cut down forests, and build bridges; he dwelt in a house
with rooms, a common hall and a neat doorway in it. He could fell a
forest tree in any direction he pleased, or carry it on his back when
his sharp teeth had lopped its branches. He worked in companies, with
a master beaver at the head of each--companies from whose ranks an
idle or a lazy beaver was ignominiously expelled. He dwelt along the
shores of quiet lakes, or by the margins of rushing streams, and silent
majestic rivers, far in the heart of the solitude.

But there came a time when men deemed his soft, dark skin a fitting
covering for their heads; and wild men hunted him out in his lonely
home. They trapped him from Texas to the Great Bear Lake; they hunted
him in the wildest recesses of the Rocky Mountains; rival companies
went in pursuit of him. In endeavouring to cover the heads of others,
hundreds of trappers lost their own head-covering; the beaver brought
many a white man’s scalp to the red man’s lodge-pole; and many a red
man’s life went out with the beaver’s. In the West he became well-nigh
extinct, in the nearer North he became scarce; yet here in Peace River
he held his own against all comers. Nigh 30,000 beavers die annually
along its shores, and when spring opens its waters the night is ever
broken by the dull plunge of countless beavers in the pools and eddies
of the great river.

Along the lofty shores of the Peace River the Saskootum berry grows in
vast quantities. In August its fruit is ripe, and the bears come forth
to enjoy it; black, brown, and grizzly, stalk along the shores and
hill-sides browsing on this luscious berry. On such food Bruin grows
fat and unwieldy; he becomes “sleek-headed” and “sleeps of nights,”
thus falling an easy prey to his hunter.

While he was alive he loved the “poire” berries, and now when he is
dead the red man continues the connexion, and his daintiest morsel is
the bear’s fat and Saskootum berries mixed with powdered moose-meat.
It is the dessert of a Peace River feast; the fat, white as cream,
is eaten in large quantities, and although at first a little of it
suffices, yet after a while one learns to like it, and the dried
Saskootum and “bear’s butter” becomes a luxury.

But fat or lean, the grizzly bear is a formidable antagonist. Few
Indians will follow him alone to his lair; his strength is enormous, he
can kill and carry a buffalo-bull; were he as active as he is strong
it is probable that he would stand as the most dangerous animal on
the earth. But his movements are comparatively slow, and his huge form
is upraised upon its hind legs before he grapples his adversary. Woe
to that adversary should those great fore-paws ever encircle him. Once
only have I known a man live to tell the tale of that embrace: his
story was a queer one. He had been attacked from behind, he had only
time to fire his gun into the bear’s chest when the monster grasped
him. The Indian never lost his power of thought; he plunged his left
arm into the brute’s throat, and caught firm hold of the tongue; with
his right hand he drove his hunting-knife into ribs and side; his arm
and hand were mangled, his sides were gashed and torn, but the grizzly
lay dead before him.

The fort of St. John, on the Upper Peace River, is a very tumble-down
old place; it stands on the south shore of the river, some thirty feet
above high-water level; close behind its ruined buildings the ridges
rise 1000 feet, steep and pine-clad; on the opposite shore bare grassy
hills lift their thicket-fringed faces nearly to the same elevation;
the river, in fact, runs at the bottom of a very large V-shaped trough
900 feet below the prairie-plateau. Between the base of the hill and
the bank of the river lies a tract of wooded and sheltered land, from
whose groves of birch, poplar, and pines the loud “drumming” of
innumerable partridges now gave token of the coming spring. Yes, we
had travelled into the spring--our steps and these never-tiring dogs
had carried us farther and quicker than time. It was only the second
week in April, and already the earth began to soften; the forest smelt
of last year’s leaves and of this year’s buds; the rills spoke, and
the wild duck winged along the river channels. During the whole of
the second week of April the days were soft and warm; rain fell in
occasional showers; at daybreak my thermometer showed only 3° or 4°
of frost, and in the afternoon stood at 50° to 60° in the shade. From
the 15th to the 20th the river, which had hitherto held aloof from
all advances of the spring, began to show many symptoms of yielding
to her soft entreaties. Big tears rose at times upon his iron face
and flowed down his frosted cheeks; his great heart seemed to swell
within him, and ominous groans broke from his long-silent bosom. At
night he recovered himself a little, and looked grim and rigid in
the early morning; but, at last, spring, and shower, and sun, and
stream were too much for him--all his children were already awake, and
prattling, and purling, and pulling at him, and shaking him to open his
long-closed eyelids, to look once more at the blue and golden summer.
It was the 20th of April. But the rose of spring had its thorn too
(what rose has not?), and with bud, and sun, and shower came the first
mosquito on this same 20th of April. He was a feeble insect, and hummed
around in a mournful sort of manner, not at all in keeping with the
glowing prospect before him. He had a whole long summer of stinging in
prospective; “the winter of his discontent” was over, and yet there was
nothing hilarious in his hum. I have made a slight error in repeating
the old saying, that “no rose is without its thorn,” for there is just
one--it is the primrose. But there were other thorns than mosquitoes in
store for the denizens of this isolated spot, called St. John’s, in the
wilderness.

On the north shore of the river, directly facing the tumble-down fort,
a new log-house was in course of erection by the Hudson’s Bay Company.
Work moves slowly in the North, and this log-house lay long unfinished.
One fine day a canoe came floating down the lonely river; it held a
solitary negro--pioneer, cook, trapper, vagrant, idler, or squatter, as
chance suited him. This time the black paddler determined to squat by
the half-finished log-house of the Company. Four years earlier he had
dwelt for a season on this same spot. There were dark rumours afloat
about him; he had killed his man it was averred; nay, he had repeated
the pastime, and killed two men. He had robbed several mining shanties,
and had to shift his residence more than once beyond the mountains on
account of his mode of life. Altogether Nigger Dan, as he was called,
bore an indifferent reputation among the solitary white man and his
half-breed helpers at the post of St. John’s. By the Indians he was
regarded as something between a beaver and an American bear, and, had
his head been tradeable as a matter of fur, I believe they would have
trapped him to a certainty. But despite the hostile feelings of the
entire community, Nigger Dan held stout possession of his shanty, and
claimed, in addition to his hut, all the land adjoining it, as well as
the Hudson’s Bay Fort in course of erection. From his lair he issued
manifestoes of a very violent nature. He planted stakes in the ground
along the river-bank, upon which he painted in red ochre hieroglyphics
of a menacing character. At night he could be heard across the silent
river indulging in loud and uncalled-for curses, and at times he varied
this employment by reciting portions of the Bible in a pitch of voice
and accent peculiar to gentlemen of colour. On the 12th of April, four
days after my arrival at St. John’s, my young host was the recipient of
the following ultimatum. I copy it verbatim:--

      _April 12._

    KENEDY    I hear by
    Worne you that Com and Gett your
    persnol property if eny you
    have Got of my prmeeis In 24 hours And then keep away
    from me because I shal Not betrubbld Nor trod on
    only by her most Noble
            Majesty
            Government
      (Sgd) D. T. WILLIAMS.

On the back appeared,--

    I have wated longe A-day for an ancer from that Notis you toer
    Down and now It is my turn to tore down ---- ----

Although the spirit of loyalty which breathed through the latter
portion of this document was most admirable, it is nevertheless matter
for regret that Dan’s views of the subject of “persnol property”
were not those of a law-abiding citizen; unfortunately for me, both
the Hudson’s Bay claimant and the negro occupant appealed to me in
support of their rival rights. What was to be done? It is true that
by virtue of a commission conferred upon me some years earlier I had
been elevated to the lofty title of justice of the peace for Rupert’s
Land and the North-West Territories, my brother justices consisting,
I believe, of two Hudson Bay officials and three half-breed buffalo
runners, whose collective wisdom was deemed amply sufficient to
dispense justice over something like two million square miles.
Nevertheless, it occurred to me that this matter of disputed ownership
was one outside even the wide limits of my jurisdiction. To admit such
want of jurisdiction would never have answered. “Rupert’s Land and
the North-West” carried with them a sense of vast indefinite power,
that if it were once shaken by an admission of non-competency, two
million square miles, containing a population of one twenty-fourth of
a wild man to each square mile, might have instantly become a prey to
chaotic crime. Feeling the inutility of my lofty office to deal with
the matters in question, I decided upon adopting a middle course, one
which I have every reason to believe upheld the full majesty of the law
in the eyes of the eight representatives of the Canadian, African, and
American races of man, now assembled around me. I therefore issued a
document which ran thus:--

    JUDICIAL MEMORANDUM.

    Various circumstances having occurred in the neighbourhood
    of the Hudson’s Bay Fort, known as St. John’s, on the Peace
    River, of a nature to lead to the assumption that a breach of
    the peace is liable to arise out of the question of disputed
    ownership, in a plot of land on the north shore of the river,
    on which the Hudson’s Bay Company have erected buildings to
    serve as their future place of business, and on which it is
    asserted one Daniel Williams, a person of colour, formerly
    lived, this is to notify all persons concerned in this
    question, that no belief of ownership, no former or present
    possession, will be held in any way to excuse or palliate the
    slightest infringement of the law, or to sanction any act of
    violence being committed, or to occasion any threats being made
    use of by any of the said parties which might lead to a breach
    of the peace.

    Executed by me, as Justice of the Peace for Rupert’s Land and
    the North-West, this 22nd day of April, 1873.

  Signed, &c., &c.


I claim for this memorandum or manifesto some slight degree of praise.
It bears, I think, a striking analogy to diplomatic documents, for
which of late years the British Government has been conspicuous in
times of grave foreign complications; but in one important respect
my judicial memorandum was very much more successful than any of the
political papers upon which it was framed; for whereas they had been
received by the respective belligerents to whom they had been addressed
in a manner not at all flattering to our national dignity, my very
lucid statement that, diplomatically speaking, two and two made four,
had a marked impression on the minds of my audience.

On the one hand, I clearly pointed out that murder, arson, and robbery
were not singly or collectively in unison with the true interpretation
of British law; and on the other, I carefully abstained from giving any
indication of what would result from the infringement of that law in
the persons of any of the belligerents.

I have reason to believe that the negro Bismarck was deeply impressed
by the general tenour of the document; and that a lengthened perusal of
the word “executed,” in the last sentence, carried with it a sense of
profound strangulation under which he long laboured.

And now it was time to think of moving again towards the setting sun.

Many months of travel had carried me across the great plateau of the
North to this spot, where from the pine-clad plain arose the white
ridges of the Rocky Mountains. Before me lay a land of alps, a realm of
mountain peaks and gloomy cañons, where in countless valleys, unseen by
the eye of man, this great Peace River had its distant source. In snow
that lasts the live-long year these mountain summits rest; but their
sides early feel the influence of the summer sun, and from the thousand
valleys crystal streams rush forth to swell the majestic current of the
great river, and to send it foaming in mighty volume to the distant
Athabasca.

At such a time it is glorious work for the _voyageur_ to launch his
cotton-wood canoe on the rushing water and glance down the broad bosom
of the river. His paddle lies idle in the water, or is used only to
steer the swift-flying craft; and when evening darkens over the lofty
shores, he lights his camp-fire full half a hundred miles from his
starting-point of the morning.

But if it be idle, easy work to run down the river at its summer level,
what arduous toil it is to ascend it during the same season! Bit by
bit, little by little, the upward way must be won; with paddle, with
pole, with line dragged along shore and pulled round tree-stump or
projecting boulder; until evening finds the toiler often not three
river reaches from his starting-point.

When the river finally breaks up, and the ice has all passed away,
there is a short period when the waters stand at a low level; the sun
is not yet strong enough to melt the snow quickly, and the frosts at
night are still sharp in the mountain valleys. The river then stands
ten feet below its level of mid-June; this period is a short one, and
not an hour must be lost by the _voyageur_ who would gain the benefit
of the low water in the earlier days of May.

Seventy miles higher up the Peace River stands a solitary house called
Hudson’s Hope. It marks the spot where the river first emerges from the
cañon of the Rocky Mountains, and enters the plain country. A trail,
passable for horses, leads along the north shore of the river to this
last trading-post of the Hudson’s Bay Company on the verge of the
mountains. Along this trail I now determined to continue my journey,
so as to gain the west side of the Great Cañon before the ice had left
the river, and thus reap the advantage of the low water in ascending
still farther into the mountains.

It is no easy matter to place an exact picture of the topography of a
country before a reader: we must, however, endeavour to do so.

Some fifty miles west of St. John, the Peace River issues from the
cañon through which it passes the outer range of the Rocky Mountains.
No boat, canoe, or craft of any kind has ever run the gauntlet of this
huge chasm; for five-and-thirty miles it lies deep sunken through the
mountains; while from its depths there ever rises the hoarse roar of
the angry waters as they dash furiously against their rocky prison. A
trail of ten miles leads across this portage, and at the western end
of this trail the river is reached close to where it makes its first
plunge into the rock-hewn chasm. At this point the traveller stands
within the outer range of the mountains, and he has before him a broad
river, stretching far into a region of lofty peaks, a river with strong
but even current, flowing between banks 200 to 300 yards apart. Around
great mountains lift up their heads dazzling with the glare of snow,
10,000 feet above the water which carries his frail canoe.

It was through this pass that I now proposed to journey westward
towards the country which lies between the Pacific Ocean, Alaska, and
the multitudinous mountains of Central British Columbia, a land but
little known; a vast alpine region, where, amidst lakes and mountains
nature reigns in loneliness and cloud.




CHAPTER XIX.

    Start from St. John’s.--Crossing the ice.--Batiste La
        Fleur.--Chimeroo.--The last wood-buffalo.--A dangerous
        weapon.--Our raft collapses.--Across the Half-way River.


The 22nd of April had come. For some days we were engaged at St. John’s
in preparing supplies for the ascent of the river, and in catching and
bringing in from the prairie the horses which were to carry me to the
point of embarcation at the west end of the cañon; the snow had nearly
all disappeared from the level prairie. The river opposite the fort
was partly open, but some distance below a bridge of ice yet remained,
and on the 20th we moved our horses across this connecting link to the
north shore. The night of the 20th made a serious change in the river,
and when the 22nd came, it was doubtful whether we should be able to
cross without mishap.

From the fort of St. John’s to the gold mines on the Ominica River was
some twenty or thirty days’ travel, and as no supplies were obtainable
_en route_, save such as my gun might afford, it became necessary to
carry a considerable quantity of moose pemmican and dry meat, the sole
luxuries which St. John’s could boast of.

By the 22nd all preparations were declared complete, and we began
to cross the river over the doubtful ice-bridge. First went two men
dragging a dog-sled, on which was piled the stores and provisions for
the journey; next came old Batiste La Fleur, who was to accompany me as
far as the Half-way River, a torrent which we would have to raft across
on the second day of our journey.

Batiste carried a long pole, with which he sounded the ice previous
to stepping upon it. I brought up the rear, also carrying a pole, and
leading by a long line the faithful Cerf-vola. Spanker and his six
companions here passed from my hands, and remained at St. John’s to
idle through the approaching summer, and then to take their places as
Hudson Bay hauling-dogs; but for Cerf-vola there was to be no more
hauling, his long and faithful service had at length met its reward,
and the untiring Esquimaux was henceforth to lounge through life
collarless and comfortable.

Coasting down along the shore-ice we reached the crossing-point, and
put out into the mid-river; once on the dangerous part, there was no
time to think whether it was safe or not. A Salteaux Indian, dragging
the sled, went in, but light and quick as thought he dragged himself
from the ice and sped along its yielding surface. Below rumbled the
river, and in the open places its dark waters gurgled up and over the
crumbling ice. Only a narrow tongue of ice spanned the central current;
we crossed it with nothing worse than wet feet and legs, and to me a
dislocated thumb, and then we breathed freer on the farther side.

Loading the horses with luggage and provisions, I bade good-bye to my
host, and we turned our faces towards the steep north shore. The day
was gloriously bright. The hill up which the horses scrambled for a
thousand feet was blue with wild anemones; spring was in the earth and
in the air. Cerf-vola raced in front, with tail so twisted over his
back that it threatened to dislocate his spine in a frantic attempt
to get in front of his nose. The earth, bare of snow, gave forth a
delicious fragrance, which one drank with infinite delight after the
long, long scentless winter; and over the white river below, and the
pine forest beyond, summer, dressed in blue sky and golden sunbeam,
came moving gently up on the wing of the soft south wind.

We reached the summit. Below lay a long line of frosted river; the
little fort, dwarfed by distance, the opposing ridges, the vast
solitude, and beyond all, snow-white against the western sky, the
peaks and pinnacles of nameless mountains. Through varied prairie and
wooded country, and across many a rushing brook, deep hidden in tangled
brake and thicket, we held our way on that bright spring afternoon;
and evening found us on a bare and lofty ridge, overlooking the valley
of the Peace River. Batiste had lived his life in these solitudes,
and knew the name of creek and prairie, and the history (for even the
wilderness has a history) of each hill or widespread meadow.

The beautiful prairie which lay beneath our camping-place was
Chimeroo’s prairie, and the great ridge of rock which frowned above it
was also Chimeroo’s; and away there where the cleft appeared in the
hills to the north, that was where Chimeroo’s river came out to join
the Peace. In fact, Chimeroo played such a conspicuous part in the
scenery that one naturally asked, Who was Chimeroo?

“Chimeroo! Oh, he is a Beaver Indian; he lived here for a long time,
and he killed the last wood-buffalo in yonder valley, just three years
ago.”

The last of his race had wandered down from the banks of the Liard,
and Chimeroo had struck his trail, and followed him to the death.

When twilight fell, that peculiar orange light of the American
wilderness lay long in the west. Against this vivid colour, Chimeroo’s
hill stood out in inky profile the perfect image of a colossal face.
Forehead, nose, lips, and chin seemed cut in the huge rock, and, like a
monstrous sphinx, looked blankly over the solitude.

“It is the head of Chimeroo,” I said to Batiste; “see, he looks over
his dominions.” We were perched upon a bare hill-top, many hundred feet
above the river. The face rose between us and the west, some three
miles distant; the head, thrown slightly back, seemed to look vacantly
out on the waste of night and wilderness, while a long beard (the lower
part of the ridge) descended into the darkness. Gradually day drew off
his orange curtain from the horizon, and ere the darkness had blotted
out the huge features of Chimeroo, we slept upon our lonely hill-top.

Pursuing our journey on the morrow, we descended to the river, and held
our way over Chimeroo’s prairie, passing beneath the lofty ridge, whose
outline had assumed the image of a human face.

About mid-day we reached the banks of Chimeroo’s river, which, being
flooded, we forded, and, climbing its steep north shore, halted for
dinner. It would not be easy to exaggerate the beauty of the country
through which the trail had carried us, or the sensation of rest which
came to one as, looking out over the landscape, the fair spring scene
stole insensibly on the mind. Everywhere the blue anemone, like a
huge primrose, looked up to the bluer sky; butterflies fluttered in
the clear, pure air; partridges drummed in the budding thickets. The
birch-trees and willows were putting forth their flowers, precursors
of the leaves so soon to follow. The long-hushed rippling of the
streams fell on the ear like music heard after lapse of time; and
from the blue depths of sky at times fell the cry of the wild goose,
as with scarce-moving wing he held his way in long waving _w_‘s to
his summer home. Chimeroo’s prairie was golden with the long grass of
the old year. Chimeroo’s hill glistened in the bright sun of the new
spring; and winter, driven from the lower earth, had taken refuge in
the mountains, where his snow-white flag of surrender floated out from
crag and cliff, high above the realm of pines. Such a scene as this,
might the first man have beheld when he looked over the virgin earth.
It was far too fine a day to work: we would rest. Batiste La Fleur knew
of a lake not far off, and we would go to it and spend the evening in
hunting beaver and wild ducks; so we put the saddles on and journeyed
slowly to Batiste’s paradise.

Through many a devious path and tortuous way did Batiste guide us,
until his hunting-ground was gained. On a knoll we made our camp; and
while Kalder remained to look after it, Batiste and I sallied forth to
hunt.

Batiste’s gun was an excellent weapon, were it not for a tendency to
burst about the left barrel. This was made observable by two or more
ominous bulges towards the centre of the piece; but Batiste appeared
to have unlimited confidence in the integrity of his weapon, and
explained that these blemishes were only the result of his having on
two or three occasions placed a bullet over a charge of shot, and then
directed the united volley against the person of a beaver. When loading
this gun, Batiste had a risky method of leaning it against his chest
while drawing a charge of shot from his shot-bag. I pointed out to him
that this was not a safe method of loading, as it was quite possible
the other barrel might explode while the gun thus rested against his
side. It was true, he said, for only last year the gun under similar
treatment had exploded, carrying away the brim of his hat, and causing
no slight alarm to the rest of his person.

Our success that afternoon was not great; ducks and geese but lately
arrived from the peopled south were yet wild and wary, and had not
learned to look on man in any light save that of an enemy; and
altogether Batiste’s hunter’s paradise did not justify his glowing
accounts of it. To do him justice, however, it must be stated that the
wet ground was literally ploughed up with moose-tracks; and the golden
willows lay broken down and bruised by the many animals which had
browsed upon them during the winter.

It was mid-day on the 24th of April when we reached the banks of the
Half-way River, whose current, swollen by the melting snow, rolled
swiftly from the north, between banks piled high with ice-floe. This
was the first serious obstacle to the journey, and as soon as dinner
was over we set to work to overcome it. From a neighbouring grove of
pines Kalder and Batiste got dry trees; half a dozen of these lashed
together formed the groundwork of a raft. Three other pine-trees tied
on top completed the craft, and with a long pole and a rough paddle,
all fashioned by the axe, the preparations were declared finished. This
craft was put together in a sheltered part of the river; and when all
was completed, the goods and chattels were placed upon it. But one more
piece of work remained to be accomplished ere we set sail upon our
raft--the horses had to be crossed. By dint of driving and shouting we
forced them across the boulders of ice into the water. It was cold as
ice, and they stood knee-deep, afraid to venture farther. But Kalder
was a very demon when work had to be done. In an instant he was across
the ice-floe, and upon the back of one of the horses; then with knees
and hands and voice and heels he urged the brute into the flood. The
horse reared and snorted and plunged, but Kalder sat him like the
half-breed that he was, and in another second, horse and rider plunged
wildly into the torrent. Down they went out of sight, and when they
reappeared the horse was striking out for the far shore, and Kalder was
grappling with the projecting ice. The other horses soon followed their
leader, and all four went swimming down the current. Gradually the back
eddy near the farther shore caught them, and, touching ground, they
disappeared in the forest. Now came our turn to cross. We towed the
crazy raft up the bordering ice, and, mooring her for a moment in an
eddy, took our places on the upper logs. Scarcely had we put out from
the shore than the fastening gave way, and the whole fabric threatened
instant collapse. We got her back to the eddy, repaired the damage, and
once more put out. Our weight and baggage sunk us down, so that the
body of the raft was quite submerged, and only the three trees on top
showed above the water; upon these we crouched. Old Batiste waved a
good-bye. Kalder was at the bow with a pole. I worked a paddle on the
stern. Once out of the sheltering eddy, the current smote our unwieldy
platform, and away we went. Another instant and the pole failed to
reach the bottom. With might and main I worked the paddle; down we
shot, and across; but ten yards down to every one across. Would we save
the eddy? that was the question; for if we missed it, there was nought
to stay our wild career. Far as eye could reach, the current ran wild
and red. For an anxious minute we rushed down the stream, and then the
eddy caught us, and we spun round like a teetotum. “The other side!”
roared Kalder; and to the other side went the paddle to keep us in the
eddy. Then we headed for the shore; and, ere the current could catch us
again, Kalder was breast-deep in the water, holding on with might and
main to the raft.

We were across the Half-way River. To unload the raft, build a fire, to
dry our wet garments, and shout good-bye to old Batiste, who stood on
an ice boulder, anxiously watching our fortunes from the shore we had
quitted, took us but a short time.

The horses were captured and saddled, and, ascending through tangled
forest into a terraced land of rich-rolling prairies, we pushed on
briskly towards the west.

Thus, trotting through a park-like land of wood and glade and meadow,
where the jumping deer glanced through the dry grass and trees, we
gradually drew near the Rocky Mountains. At times the trail led up the
steep face of the outer hill to the plateau above, and then a rich view
would lie beneath--a view so vast with the glories of the snowy range,
and so filled with nearer river and diamond-shaped island, that many a
time I drew rein upon some lofty standpoint to look, as one looks upon
things which we would fain carry away into the memory of an after-time.

About the middle of the afternoon of the 25th of April we emerged from
a wood of cypress upon an open space, beneath which ran the Peace
River. At the opposite side a solitary wooden house gave token of life
in the wilderness. The greater part of the river was still fast frozen,
but along the nearer shore ran a current of open water. The solitary
house was the Hope of Hudson!




CHAPTER XX.

    Hudson’s Hope.--A lover of literature.--Crossing the Peace.--An
        unskilful pilot.--We are upset.--Our rescue.--A strange
        variety of arms.--The Buffalo’s Head.--A glorious view.


Dismounting from our tired horses, we loosened saddles and bridles,
hobbled the two fore-legs together, and turned them adrift in the
forest. Then we _cached_ our baggage in the trees, for wolves were
plentiful around, and a grey wolf has about as extensive a bill of
fare in the matter of man’s clothing and appointments as any animal in
creation, except perhaps a monkey.

In my early days, in Burmah and India I once possessed a rare
specimen of the last-named genus, who, when he found the opportunity,
beautifully illustrated his descent from the lower orders of man by
devouring a three-volume novel in less time than any young lady of
the period could possibly accomplish it. He never knew a moment’s
starvation as long as he had a photograph album to appease his
insatiable love of literature. But to proceed:--

By the time we had _cached_ our baggage, two men had come forth from
the house on the other side of the river, and started out upon the ice,
dragging a very small canoe; when they reached the open water at our
side, they launched their craft and paddled across to the shore; then,
ascending the hill, they joined us at the cache.

Their news was soon told; the river was open at the west end of the
portage (ten miles away). Jacques Pardonet, a French miner, who had
been trapping during the winter, was about to start for the mines on
the Ominica River; he was now patching up an old canoe which he had
found stranded on the shore, and when it was ready he would be off: for
the rest, no Indians had come in for a very long time, and moose meat
was at a very low ebb in Hudson’s Hope.

We descended to the river, and Kalder and Charette (a half-breed in
charge of the fort) crossed first in the beaver canoe; it was much too
small to carry us all. When they had disembarked safely on the ice,
they fastened a long line to the bow of the canoe and shoved her off to
our side; as she neared our shore she was caught by an English miner
who had been living with Charette for some days, and whom I had engaged
to accompany me to the mines. He had declared himself a proficient in
the art of canoeing, and I was now about to experience my first example
of his prowess.

We took our places and shoved from the shore. I lay low in the canoe,
with legs stretched under the narrow thwarts to steady her as much as
possible. I took in no baggage, but placed gun and revolver in the
bottom alongside of me. Cerf-vola was to swim for himself.

A----, the miner, took a paddle at the stern. We had scarcely left the
shore when the canoe lurched quickly to one side, shipping water as she
did so. Then came another lurch on the other side, and I knew all was
over. I heard the men on shore shouting to the miner to sit low--to
keep down in the canoe--but all was too late. There came another lurch,
a surge of water, and we were over into the icy quick-running river. I
could not free myself from the thwarts which held me like a vice; the
water gurgled and rushed around, about, and above me; and the horrid
sensation of powerlessness, which the sleeper often experiences in a
nightmare, came full upon my waking senses.

Of struggling I have but a faint recollection; at such times one
struggles with a wild instinct that knows no rule or thought; but I
vividly recollect the prevalent idea of being held head downwards in
the icy current, in a grasp which seemed as strong as that of death.

[Illustration: CLINGING TO THE CANOE.]

I remembered, too, without trouble, all the surroundings of the scene;
the bordering ice which was close below us--for the channel of water
took a central course a little bit lower down the river, and the ice
lay on both sides of it--while the current ran underneath as water can
only run when four feet of solid ice is pressing upon it. Once under
that ice and all was over with us. How it came about I cannot tell,
but all at once I found myself free; I suppose one struggle something
wilder than the rest had set me free, for long afterwards one of my
legs bore tokens of the fight. In another second I was on the surface.
I grasped the canoe, but it was round as a log, and turned like a wheel
in the water, rolling me down each time, half-drowned as I already was.

My companion, the miner, had gone at once clear of the canoe, and,
catching her by the stern, had held himself well above the water. One
look at Kalder and Charette on the ice told me they were both utterly
demoralized: Kalder had got behind Charette, while the latter held the
line without well knowing what to do with it. Perhaps it was better
that he did so, as the line was a miserably frail one, little better
than a piece of twine, and the weight upon it now in this strong
current was very great. Very slowly Charette hauled in the line that
held us to Mother Earth; then Kalder recovered his presence of mind,
and flung a leathern line across the up-turned canoe. I grasped it, and
in another instant the bark grated against the edge of the ice. Numbed
and frozen I drew myself on to the canoe, then on to the crumbling
ice along the edge, and finally to the solid pack itself. Wet,
water-logged, numbed, and frozen, we made our way across the ice to
the shore. My gun and revolver had vanished; they lay somewhere under
twenty feet of water.

Thus, without arms, with watch feebly ticking--as though endeavouring
to paddle itself with its hands through billows of water, with Aneroid
so elevated, I presume, at its escape from beneath the water, that in a
sudden revulsion of feeling it indicated an amount of elevation above
the sea level totally inconsistent with anything short of a Himalayan
altitude, at which excited state it continued to exist during the
remainder of my wandering--we reached the Hope of Hudson. There never
was truer saying than that when things go to the worst they mend. When
I had changed my dripping clothes for a suit of Charette’s Sunday
finery, when Mrs. Charette had got ready a cup of tea and a bit of
moose steak, and when the note-book, letters, and likenesses, which one
carries as relics of civilization into the realms of savagery, had all
been duly dried and renovated, matters began to look a good deal better.

Early on the following morning Charette and Kalder moored a couple
of canoes in the open water, and began to drag for the gun with
a fish-hook fastened to the end of a long pole; the gun was in a
leathern case, and an hour’s work resulted in its recovery, none the
worse for its submersion. My ammunition was still safe, but as the
supply of it available for a breech-loader was limited, we were on the
whole badly off for arms. I armed Kalder with a flint trading-gun--a
weapon which, when he had tried it at a mark, and then hammered the
barrel, first on one side then on the other, he declared to be a good
“beaver gun.” The miner also possessed a gun, but as the hammer of one
barrel hung dangling gracefully down the side, and as he possessed
no percussion-caps for the other barrel (a want he supplied by an
ingenious use of wax vestas), the striking of his match conveyed a
similar idea to the mind of any bird or beast at whose person he
presented the muzzle; and while the gun was thinking about going off,
the bird or beast had already made up its mind to take a similar course.

Now this matter of weapons was a serious item in our affairs, for
numerous are the delays and mishaps of an up-river journey in the wild
land we were about to penetrate. Down stream all is well; a raft can
always be made that will run from four to six miles an hour; but the
best craft that men can build will not go a mile an hour up-stream on
many parts of these rivers, and of this up-river we had some 200 miles
before us.

On the 27th of April I set out from Hudson’s Hope to cross the portage
of ten miles, which avoids the Great Cañon, at the farther end of which
the Peace River becomes navigable for a canoe.

We crossed the river once more at the scene of our accident two days
previously; but this time, warned by experience, a large canoe was
taken, and we passed safely over to the north shore. It took some time
to hunt up the horses, and mid-day had come before we finally got clear
of the Hope of Hudson.

The portage trail curved up a steep hill of 800 or 900 feet; then on
through sandy flats and by small swamps, until, at some eight or nine
miles from the Hope of Hudson, the outer spurs of the mountains begin
to flank us on either side. To the north a conspicuous ridge, called
the Buffalo’s Head, rises abruptly from the plain, some 3000 feet above
the pass; its rock summit promised a wide view of mountain ranges on
one side, and of the great valley of the Peace River on the other. It
stood alone, the easternmost of all the ranges, and the Cañon of the
Peace River flowed round it upon two sides, south and west.

Months before, at the forks of the Athabasca River, a man who had once
wandered into these wilds told me, in reply to a question of mine,
that there was one spot near the mouth of the Peace River pass which
commanded a wide range of mountain and prairie. It was the Buffalo’s
Head.

Nine hundred miles had carried me now to that spot. The afternoon was
clear and fine; the great range had not a cloud to darken the glare of
the sun upon its sheen of snow; and the pure cool air came over the
forest trees fresh from the thousand billows of this sea of mountains.
The two men went on to the portage end; I gave them my horse, and,
turning at right angles into a wood, made my way towards the foot of
the Buffalo’s Head.

Thick with brulé and tangled forest lay the base of the mountain; but
this once passed, the steep sides became clear of forest, and there
rose abruptly before me a mass of yellow grass and soft-blue anemones.
Less than an hour’s hard climbing brought me to the summit, and I was a
thousand times repaid for the labour of the ascent.

I stood on the bare rocks which formed the frontlet of the Buffalo’s
Head. Below, the pines of a vast forest looked like the toy-trees which
children set up when Noah is put forth to watch the animals emerging
from his ark, and where everything is in perfect order, save and
except that perverse pig, who will insist on lying upon his side in
consequence of a fractured leg, and who must either be eliminated from
the procession altogether, or put in such close contact to Mrs. Noah,
for the sake of her support, as to detract very much from the solemnity
of the whole procession.

Alas, how futile is it to endeavour to describe such a view! Not more
wooden are the ark animals of our childhood, than the words in which
man would clothe the images of that higher nature which the Almighty
has graven into the shapes of lonely mountains! Put down your wooden
woods bit by bit; throw in colour here, a little shade there, touch it
up with sky and cloud, cast about it that perfume of blossom or breeze,
and in Heaven’s name what does it come to after all? Can the eye wander
away, away, away until it is lost in blue distance as a lark is lost in
blue heaven, but the sight still drinks the beauty of the landscape,
though the source of the beauty be unseen, as the source of the music
which falls from the azure depths of sky.

That river coming out broad and glittering from the dark mountains, and
vanishing into yon profound chasm with a roar which reaches up even
here--billowy seas of peaks and mountains beyond number away there
to south and west--that huge half dome which lifts itself above all
others sharp and clear cut against the older dome of heaven! Turn east,
look out into that plain--that endless plain where the pine-trees are
dwarfed to spear-grass and the prairie to a meadow-patch--what do you
see? Nothing, poor blind reader, nothing, for the blind is leading
the blind; and all this boundless range of river and plain, ridge and
prairie, rocky precipice and snow-capped sierra, is as much above my
poor power of words, as He who built this mighty nature is higher still
than all.

Ah, my friend, my reader! Let us come down from this mountain-top to
our own small level again. We will upset you in an ice-rapid; Kalder
will fire at you; we will be wrecked; we will have no food; we will
hunt the moose, and do anything and everything you like,--but we cannot
put in words the things that we see from these lonely mountain-tops
when we climb them in the sheen of evening. When you go into your
church, and the organ rolls and the solemn chant floats through the
lofty aisles, you do not ask your neighbour to talk to you and tell
you what it is like. If he should do anything of the kind, the beadle
takes him and puts him out of doors, and then the policeman takes him
and puts him indoors, and he is punished for his atrocious conduct;
and yet you expect me to tell you about this church, whose pillars are
the mountains, whose roof is the heaven itself, whose music comes from
the harp-strings which the earth has laid over her bosom, which we
call pine-trees; and from which the hand of the Unseen draws forth a
ceaseless symphony rolling ever around the world.




CHAPTER XXI.

    Jacques, the French miner.--A fearful abyss.--The Great
        Cañon of the Peace River.--We are off on our western
        way.--Unfortunate Indians.--A burnt baby.--The moose that
        walks.


It was dusk when I reached the ruined hut which stood at the western
end of the portage. My men had long preceded me, and Kalder had supper
ready before the great fireplace. The fire shed its light upon a fourth
figure; it was that of Jacques, the French miner, five feet two inches
in height; miner, trapper, trader, and wanderer since he left his home
in Lorraine, near the war-famous citadel of Belfort, some twenty years
ago.

I brought one piece of news to the hut: it was that although the river
was free from ice opposite our resting-place, and to the end of the
reach in view, yet it was fast closed in for the twenty or thirty miles
which my mountain climb had enabled me to scan. So here in the midst of
the mountains we awaited the disruption of the ice and the opening of
our watery way.

The delay thus occasioned was unexpected, and fell heavily on my supply
of food; but rabbits and partridges were numerous, and Kalder’s gun
proved itself to be a worthy weapon at these denizens of the forest, as
well as at the beaver. On the evening of my arrival at the hut I had
seen two moose drinking on a sand-bar near the mouth of the Cañon, but
the river lay between me and them, and we could find no further trace
of them on the following day.

In one respect the delay was not irksome to me; it gave me an
opportunity of exploring a portion of the Great Cañon, and forming some
idea of the nature of the difficulties and dangers which made it an
impassable chasm for the hardiest _voyageurs_.

On the 29th of April the ice in the upper part of the river broke up,
and came pouring down with great violence for some hours; blocks of ice
many feet in thickness, and weighing several tons, came down the broad
river, crushing against each other, and lining the shore with huge
crystal masses.

The river rose rapidly, and long after dark the grating of the
ice-blocks in the broad channel below told us that the break-up must
be a general one; the current before our hut was running six miles an
hour, and the ice had begun to run early in the afternoon.

All next day the ice continued to run at intervals, but towards evening
it grew less, and at nightfall it had nearly ceased.

During the day I set out to explore the Cañon. Making my way along
the edge of what was, in ages past, the shore of a vast lake, I
gained the summit of a ridge which hung directly over the Cañon.
Through a mass of wrack and tangled forest I held on, guided by the
dull roar of waters until I reached an open space, where a ledge of
rock dipped suddenly into the abyss: on the outer edge of this rock
a few spruce-trees sprung from cleft and fissure, and from beneath,
deep down in the dark chasm, a roar of water floated up into the day
above. Advancing cautiously to the smooth edge of the chasm, I took
hold of a spruce-tree and looked over. Below lay one of those grim
glimpses which the earth holds hidden, save from the eagle and the
mid-day sun. Caught in a dark prison of stupendous cliffs (cliffs which
hollowed out beneath, so that the topmost ledge literally hung over the
boiling abyss of waters), the river foamed and lashed against rock and
precipice, nine hundred feet below me. Like some caged beast that finds
escape impossible on one side, it flew as madly and as vainly against
the other; and then fell back in foam and roar and raging whirlpool.
The rocks at the base held the record of its wrath in great trunks of
trees, and blocks of ice lying piled and smashed in shapeless ruin.

Looking down the Cañon towards the south, a great glen opened from the
west; and the sun, now getting low in the heavens, poured through this
valley a flood of light on red and grey walls of rugged rock; while
half the pine-clad hills lay dark in shade, and half glowed golden
in this level light; and far away, beyond the shadowy chasm and the
sun-lit glen, one great mountain-peak lifted his dazzling crest of snow
high into the blue air of the evening.

There are many indications above the mouth of the Cañon, that the
valley in which our hut stood was once a large lake. The beaches
and terrace levels are distinctly marked, but the barrier fall was
worn down into a rapid, and the Cañon became a slant of water for
some thirty miles. At the entrance the rock is worn smooth and
flat in many places, and huge cisterns have been hollowed in its
surface--“kettles,” as the _voyageur_ calls them--perfectly round, and
holding still the granite boulder which had chiselled them, worn to
the size and roundness of a cannon-ball from ages of revolution. Some
of these kettles are tiny as a tea-cup; others are huge as the tun of
Heidelberg.

When I got back to the hut, night had fallen. At the end of the long
river-reach a new moon hung in the orange-tinted west; the river was
almost clear of ice, and it was resolved to start on the morrow.

There was a certain amount of vagueness in the programme before me. For
seventy miles the course was perfectly clear--there was, in fact, only
one road to follow--but at the end of that distance two paths lay open,
and circumstances could only determine the future route at that point.

If the reader will imagine an immense letter Y laid longitudinally from
west to east, he will have a fair idea of the Peace River above the
Cañon. The tail of the Y will be the seventy miles of river running
directly through the main range of the Rocky Mountains; the right arm
will be the Findlay, having its source 300 miles higher up in that
wilderness of mountains known as the Stickeen; the left arm will be
the Parsnip River, sometimes called by mistake the Peace River, having
its source 260 miles to the south near the waters of the upper Frazer.
Countless lesser streams (some of them, nevertheless, having their 200
miles of life) roll down into these main systems; and it would seem as
though the main channel had, like a skilful general, united all its
widely-scattered forces at the forks, seventy miles above us, before
entering on the gigantic task of piercing the vast barrier of the
central mountains.

Standing on the high ground at the back of the hut in which we awaited
the opening of the great river, and looking westward at the mountains
piled together in endless masses, it was difficult to imagine by
what process a mighty river had cloven asunder this wilderness of
rock,--giving us the singular spectacle of a wide, deep, tranquil
stream flowing through the principal mountain range of the American
continent.

May-day broke in soft showers of rain; the mountains were shrouded in
mist; the breeze was not strong enough to lift the gauze-like vapour
from the tree-tops on the south shore. By nine o’clock the mists began
to drift along the hill-sides; stray peaks came forth through rifts,
then shut themselves up again; until finally the sun drew off the
vapours, and clad mountain and valley in blue and gold.

We loaded the canoe, closed the door of the old shanty, and shoved off
upon our western way. There were four of us and one dog--two miners, my
half-breed Kalder, myself, and Cerf-vola. I had arranged with Jacques
to travel together, and I made him captain of the boat. None knew
better the secrets of the Upper Peace River; for ten years he had
delved its waters with his paddle, and its sand-bars with his miner’s
shovel.

Little Jacques--he was a curious specimen of humanity, and well worth
some study too. I have already said that he was small, but that does
not convey any idea of his real size. I think he was the smallest man I
ever saw--of course I mean a man, and not a dwarf; Jacques had nothing
of the dwarf about him--nay, he was a very giant in skill and craft of
paddle, and pluck and daring. He had lived long upon his own resources,
and had found them equal to most emergencies.

He could set his sails to every shift of fortune, and make some
headway in every wind. In summer he hunted gold; in winter he hunted
furs. He had the largest head of thick bushy hair I ever saw. He
had drawn 3000 dollars’ worth of pure gold out of a sand-pit on the
Ominica River during the preceding summer; he had now a hundred fine
marten-skins, the produce of his winter’s trapping. Jacques was rich,
but all the same, Jacques must work. As I have said, Jacques was a
native of Belfort. Belfort had proved a tough nut for Kaiser William’s
legions; and many a time as I watched this little giant in times of
peril, I thought that with 200,000 little Jacqueses one could fight
big Bismarck’s beery battalions as often as they pleased. Of course
Jacques had a pair of miner’s boots. A miner without a pair of miner’s
boots would be like Hamlet with Hamlet left out. When Jacques donned
these boots, and swung himself out on a huge forest trunk prostrate in
a rapid, and hewed away at the giant to give our canoe a passage, he
looked for all the world like his prototype the giant-killer, and the
boots became the seven-leagued friends of our early days.

How the big axe flew about his little head, until crash went the
monster, and Jacques sprang back to rock or boat as lively as a
squirrel.

He had many queer stories of early days, and could recount with pride
the history of the stirring times he had seen. What miner’s heart does
not soften at the recollection, in these degenerate days, of how the
Vigilants hanged six roughs one morning in the market-place of Frisco,
just two-and-twenty years ago?

We poled and paddled along the shore of the river; now on one side,
now on the other, dodging the heavy floes of ice which still came at
intervals along the current.

In the evening we had gained a spot some twelve miles from the hut,
and we made our camp on a wooded flat set in a wide amphitheatre of
hills. The next morning broke wet and stormy, and we lay in camp
during the early part of the day. Towards mid-day the silence was
broken by the discharge of a gun at the opposite side of the river. We
at once answered it, and soon another report replied to ours. There
were Indians in the vicinity, so we might expect a visit. About an hour
later a most wretched group appeared at our camp. It consisted of two
half-clad women, one of whom carried a baby on her back; a wild-looking
boy, apparently about twelve or fourteen years of age, led the way,
carrying an old gun; two dogs brought up the rear. A glance at the dogs
showed that food, at least, was plentiful in the Indian camp--they were
fat and sleek. If an Indian has a fat dog, you may know that game is
abundant; if the dog is thin, food is scarce; if there be no dog at
all, the Indian is starving, and the dog has been killed and eaten by
his master. But to proceed:--

In a network of tattered blankets and dripping rags, these three
wretched creatures stalked into our camp; they were as wet as if they
had come underneath the river instead of across it; but that seemed
to give them little thought. Jacques understood a few words of what
they said, and the rest was made out by signs;--all the men were sick,
and had been sick for months. This boy and another were alone able to
hunt; but moose were plenty, and starvation had not come to supplement
sickness; the women were “packing” the men.

Reader, what do you imagine that means? I will soon tell you. It means
that when the camp moves--which it does every few days, as the game
gets hunted away from one locality--the women carried the men on their
backs in addition to the household gods. Literally these poor women
carried on their bent backs the house, the clothes, the food, the baby,
and the baby’s father.

What was the disease? They could not tell.

My slender stock of drugs was long since exhausted; I had nothing left
but the pain-killer. I gave them half of my last bottle, and had it
been the golden wealth of the sand-bars of this Peace River itself, it
could not have been more thought of. To add to their misfortunes, the
baby had come to grief about a week previously--it had tumbled head
foremost into the fire. It was now unslung from its mother’s back for
my inspection. Poor little Beaver! its face and head had got a dreadful
burning; but, thanks to mountain air and Indian hardiness, it was
getting all right.

Had I anything to rub on it? A little of the Mal de Raquette
porpoise-oil and pain-killer yet remained, and with such an antidote
the youthful Beaver might henceforth live in the camp-fire.

I know some excellent Christians at home who occasionally bestow
a shilling or a half-crown upon a poor man at a church-door or a
street-crossing, not for the humanity of the act, but just to purchase
that amount of heaven in the next world. I believe they could tell you
to a farthing how much of Paradise they had purchased last week or the
week before. I am not sure that they are quite clear as to whether the
quantity of heaven thus purchased, is regulated by the value set on the
gift by the beggar or by the rich man; but if it be by the value placed
on it by him who gets it, think, my Christian friends, think what a
field for investment does not this wilderness present to you. Your
shilling spent here amongst these Indians will be rated by them at more
than its weight in gold; and a pennyworth of pain-killer might purchase
you a perpetuity of Paradise.

Jacques, an adept in Indian trade, got a large measure of dried moose
meat in exchange for a few plugs of tobacco; and the Indians went away
wet, but happy.

One word more about Indians--and I mean to make it a long word and a
strong word, and perhaps my reader will add, a wrong word; but never
mind, it is meant the other way.

This portion of the Beaver tribe trade to Hudson’s Hope, the fort we
have but lately quitted.

Here is the story of a trade made last summer by “the moose that walks.”

“The moose that walks” arrived at Hudson’s Hope early in the spring. He
was sorely in want of gunpowder and shot, for it was the season when
the beaver leave their winter houses, and when it is easy to shoot
them. So he carried his thirty marten-skins to the fort, to barter them
for shot, powder, and tobacco.

There was no person at the Hope. The dwelling-house was closed, the
store shut up, the man in charge had not yet come up from St. John’s;
now what was to be done? Inside that wooden house lay piles and piles
of all that the walking moose most needed; there was a whole keg of
powder; there were bags of shot and tobacco--there was as much as the
moose could smoke in his whole life.

Through a rent in the parchment window the moose looked at all these
wonderful things, and at the red flannel shirts, and at the four flint
guns, and the spotted cotton handkerchiefs, each worth a sable skin at
one end of the fur trade, half a sixpence at the other. There was tea,
too--tea, that magic medicine before which life’s cares vanished like
snow in spring sunshine.

The moose sat down to think about all these things, but thinking only
made matters worse. He was short of ammunition, therefore he had no
food, and to think of food when one is very hungry is an unsatisfactory
business. It is true that “the moose that walks” had only to walk in
through that parchment window, and help himself till he was tired. But
no, that would not do.

“Ah!” my Christian friend will exclaim, “Ah! yes, the poor Indian had
known the good missionary, and had learnt the lesson of honesty and
respect for his neighbour’s property.”

Yes; he had learnt the lesson of honesty, but his teacher, my friend,
had been other than human. The good missionary had never reached the
Hope of Hudson, nor improved the morals of “the moose that walks.”

But let us go on.

After waiting two days he determined to set off for St. John, two full
days’ travel. He set out, but his heart failed him, and he turned back
again.

At last, on the fourth day he entered the parchment window, leaving
outside his comrade, to whom he jealously denied admittance. Then he
took from the cask of powder three skins’ worth, from the tobacco four
skins’ worth, from the shot the same; and sticking the requisite number
of martens in the powder-barrel and the shot-bag and the tobacco-case,
he hung up his remaining skins on a nail to the credit of his account,
and departed from this El Dorado, this Bank of England of the Red man
in the wilderness, this Hunt and Roskell of Peace River.

And when it was all over he went his way, thinking he had done a very
reprehensible act, and one by no means to be proud of. Poor moose that
walks! in this trade for skins you are but a small item!

Society muffles itself in your toil-won sables in distant cities, while
you starve and die out in the wilderness.

The credit of your twenty skins, hung to the rafter of Hudson’s Hope,
is not a large one; but surely there is a Hope somewhere else, where
your account is kept in golden letters, even though nothing but the
clouds had baptized you, no missionary had cast water on your head, and
God only knows who taught you to be honest.

Let me not be misunderstood in this matter. I believe, gentlemen
missionaries, you mean well by this Indian. I will go further; you
form, I think, almost the only class who would deal fairly by him,
but you go to work in a wrong direction; your mode of proceeding is a
mistake. If you would only be a little more human, and a little less
divine--if you would study the necessities of the savage races amidst
whom you have cast your lot--what good might ye not effect?

This Cree, this Blackfoot, this Chipewyan, this Beaver--what odds is
it, in the name of all goodness, whether he fully understands the
numbered or unnumbered things you tell him. Teach him the simple creed
which you would teach a child. He is starving, and the feast you give
him is of delicate and subtle food, long since compounded from the
brain of schoolman and classicist. He is naked, and you would clothe
him in mysterious raiment and fine tissue, which time has woven out
of the webs of doubt and inquiry. All this will not warm him from the
terrible blast of winter, or shelter him from the drenching rains of
early summer. He has many faults, some virtues, innumerable wants.
Begin with these. Preach against the first; cultivate the second;
relieve as much as possible the third. Make him a good man before you
attempt to make him an indifferent Christian. In a word, do more for
his body; and after a bit, when you have taught him to help his wife
in toil and trouble--to build a house and to live in it--to plant a
few potatoes when the ground thaws, and to hoe them out ere it hardens
again--when you have loosed the bands of starvation, nakedness, and
hardship from the grasp in which they now hold him, then will come the
moment for your books and your higher teaching. And in his hut, with a
well-filled stomach, he will have time to sift truth from falsehood,
amidst all the isms and arians under the guise of which you come to
teach him. But just now he is only a proletarian and an open-arian, and
not much even of these. Meantime I know that you wish well by him. You
are ready to teach him--to tell him about a host of good, and some very
indifferent, persons; but lo! in the middle of your homilies he falls
asleep, and his sleep is the sleep of death. He starves and dies out
before you. Of course I know the old old answer: “He is hopeless; we
have tried everything; we can do nothing.” How often have I not been
told, “He is hopeless; we can do nothing for this Red man!” But will
any person dare to say that men such as this Indian at Hudson’s Hope
are beyond the cure of man? If they be, then your creed must be a poor
weak thing.




CHAPTER XXII.

    Still westward.--The dangers of the ice.--We enter the
        main range.--In the mountains.--A grizzly.--Tho death
        of the moose.--Peace River Pass.--Pete Toy.--The
        Ominica.--“Travellers” at home.


We held our way up the river, fighting many a battle with the current.
Round the points the stream ran strong, and our canoe was a big,
lumbering affair, hollowed out of a single cotton-wood tree by Jacques,
years before on the Fraser River, and ill-adapted to the ice, which was
our most dangerous enemy. Many a near shave we had of being crushed
under its heavy floes as we coasted along beneath their impending
masses. When the river breaks up, portions of it stronger than the rest
remain still frozen. At the back of these the floating ice jams, and
the river rises rapidly behind the barrier thus flung across it. Then
the pack gives way, and the pent-up waters rapidly lower. But along the
shore, on either side, the huge blocks of ice lie stranded, heaped one
upon another, and the water, still falling, brushes off from beneath
the projecting pieces, leaving a steep wall of ice, sometimes twenty
and thirty feet, brightly rising above the water. Along these impending
masses we had to steer our canoe, and hazardous work it was, for every
now and again some huge fragment, many tons in weight, would slide
from its high resting-place, and crash into the river with a roar of
thunder, driving the billows before it half-way across the wide river,
and making our hearts jump half as much again.

At one point where the river ran with unusual velocity we battled long
beneath a very high ice-wall. Once or twice the current carried us
against its sides. We dared not touch it with our poles, for it hung by
a thread, so far did its summit project over our heads.

Gently we stole our way up from beneath it, and were still within
thirty yards of it when the great boulder, looming high, crashed into
the river.

On the fourth day we got clear of this shore ice, and drew near the
main range of the mountains. But there was one important question which
experience soon told me there was no cause for anxiety about--it was
the question of food.

Game was abundant; the lower hills were thickly stocked with blue
grouse--a noble bird, weighing between three and four pounds.

The bays of the river held beaver, swimming through the driftwood, and
ere we had reached the mountain gate a moose had fallen to my trusty
smooth-bore, in one of the grassy glens between the river and the snowy
range. It was literally a hunter’s paradise. This was the worst time of
the year, except for beaver, but necessity knows no game law, and the
wilderness at all times must feed its wanderers.

We usually camped a couple of hours before sun-down, for in this
northern land the daylight was more than long enough to stiffen our
shoulders, and make our arms ache from pole or paddle. Then came the
time to stretch one’s legs over these great grassy uplands, so steep,
yet so free of rock; so full of projecting point and lofty promontory,
beneath which the river lay in long silvery reaches, while around on
every side the mountains in masses of rock and snow, lay like giant
sentinels, guarding the great road which Nature had hewn through their
midst.

At the entrance to the main range, the valley of the river is about two
miles wide. The river itself preserves its general width of 250 to 300
yards with singular uniformity. The reaches are from one to three miles
in length, the banks are dry, the lower beaches are level and well
wooded, and the current becomes deeper and less rapid.

On the 8th of May we reached, early in the morning, the entrance to the
main range. A short rapid marks it, a rapid easy to run at all stages
of water, and up which we towed our canoe, carrying the more perishable
articles to save them from the spray--a precaution which was, however,
not necessary, as no water was shipped.

We were now in the mountains. From the low terrace along the shore they
rose in stupendous masses; their lower ridges clothed in forests of
huge spruce, poplar, and birch; their middle heights covered in dense
thickets of spruce alone; their summits cut into a thousand varied
peaks, bare of all vegetation, but bearing aloft into the sunshine 8000
feet above us the glittering crowns of snow which, when evening stilled
the breezes, shone reflected in the quiet waters, vast and motionless.

Wonderful things to look at are these white peaks, perched up so high
above our world. They belong to us, yet they are not of us. The eagle
links them to the earth; the cloud carries to them the message of the
sky; the ocean sends them her tempest; the air rolls her thunders
beneath their brows, and launches her lightnings from their sides; the
sun sends them his first greeting, and leaves them his latest kiss. Yet
motionless they keep their crowns of snow, their glacier crests of
jewels, and dwell among the stars heedless of time or tempest.

[Illustration: MOUNT GARNET WOLSELEY AND THE PEACE RIVER.]

For two days we journeyed through this vast valley, along a wide,
beautiful river, tranquil as a lake, and bearing on its bosom, at
intervals, small isles of green forest. Now and again a beaver rippled
the placid surface, or a bear appeared upon a rocky point for a moment,
looked at the strange lonely craft, stretched out his long snout to
sniff the gale, and then vanished in the forest shore. For the rest all
was stillness; forest, isle, river and mountain--all seemed to sleep
in unending loneliness; and our poles grating against the rocky shore,
or a shot at some quick-diving beaver, alone broke the silence; while
the echo, dying away in the vast mountain cañons, made the relapsing
silence seem more intense.

Thus we journeyed on. On the evening of the 8th of May we emerged from
the pass, and saw beyond the extremity of a long reach of river a
mountain range running north and south, distant about thirty miles from
us. To the right and left the Rocky Mountains opened out, leaving the
river to follow its course through a long forest valley of considerable
width.

We had passed the Rocky Mountains, and the range before us was the
central mountain system of North British Columbia.

It was a very beautiful evening; the tops of the birch-trees were
already showing their light green leaves amidst the dark foliage of the
spruce and firs.

Along the shore, where we landed, the tracks of a very large grizzly
bear were imprinted freshly in the sand. I put a couple of bullets
into my gun and started up the river, with Cerf-vola for a companion.
I had got about a mile from the camp when, a few hundred yards ahead,
a large dark animal emerged from the forest, and made his way through
some lower brushwood towards the river. Could it be the grizzly? I lay
down on the sand-bank, and pulled the dog down beside me. The large
black animal walked out upon the sand-bar two or three hundred yards
above me. He proved to be a moose on his way to swim the river to the
south shore. I lay still until he had got so far on his way that return
to the forest would have been impracticable; then I sprang to my feet
and ran towards him. What a spring he gave across the sand and down
into the water! Making an allowance for the force of the current, I
ran towards the shore. It was a couple of hundred yards from me, and
when I gained it the moose was already three-parts across the river,
almost abreast where I stood, swimming for his very life, with his huge
unshapen head thrust out along the surface, the ears thrown forward,
while the large ripples rolled from before his chest as he clove his
way through the water.

It was a long shot for a rifle, doubly so for a smooth-bore; but old
experience in many lands, where the smooth-bore holds its own despite
all other weapons, had told me that when you do get a gun to throw a
bullet well, you may rely upon it for distances supposed to be far
beyond the possibilities of such a weapon; so, in a tenth of the time
it has taken me to say all this, I gave the moose the right barrel,
aiming just about his long ears. There was a single plunge in the
water; the giant head went down, and all was quiet. And now to secure
the quarry. Away down stream he floated, showing only one small black
speck above the surface; he was near the far side, too. Running down
shore I came within calling-distance of the camp, from which the smoke
of Kalder’s fire was already curling above the tree-tops. Out came
Kalder, Jacques, and A----. Of course it was a grizzly, and all the
broken flint-guns of the party were suddenly called into requisition.
If it had been a grizzly, and that I had been retiring before him
in skirmishing order, gods! what a support I was falling back upon!
A----‘s gun is already familiar to the reader; Kalder’s beaver-gun
went off about one shot in three; and Jacques possessed a weapon
(it had been discarded by an Indian, and Jacques had resuscitated it
out of the store of all trades which he possessed an inkling of) the
most extraordinary I had ever seen. Jacques always spoke of it in the
feminine gender. “She was a good gun, except that a trifle too much of
the powder came out the wrong way. He would back her to shoot ‘plum’
if she would only go off after a reasonable lapse of time, but it was
tiring to him to keep her to the shoulder for a couple of minutes
after he had pulled her trigger, and then to have her go off when he
was thinking of pulling the gun-coat over her again.” When she was put
away in the canoe, it was always a matter of some moment to place her
so that in the event of any sudden explosion of her pent-up wrath, she
might discharge herself harmlessly along the river, and on this account
she generally lay like a stern-chaser projecting from behind Jacques,
and endangering only his paddle.

All these maimed and mutilated weapons were now brought forth, and such
a loading and priming and hammering began, that, had it really been
a grizzly, he must have been utterly scared out of all semblance of
attack.

Kalder now mastered the position of affairs, and like an arrow he and
Jacques were into the canoe, and out after the dead moose. They soon
overhauled him, and, slipping a line over the young antlers, towed
him to the shore. We were unable to lift him altogether out of the
water, so we cut him up as he lay, stranded like a whale.

[Illustration: CUTTING UP THE MOOSE.]

Directly opposite a huge cone mountain rose up some eight or nine
thousand feet above us, and just ere evening fell over the scene, his
topmost peak, glowing white in the sunlight, became mirror’d in most
faithful semblance in the clear quiet river, while the life-stream
of the moose flowed out over the tranquil surface, dyeing the nearer
waters into brilliant crimson.

If some painter in the exuberance of his genius had put upon canvas
such a strange contrast of colours, people would have said it is not
true to nature; but nature has many truths, and it takes many a long
day, and not a few years’ toil, to catch a tenth of them. And, my dear
friend with the eye-glass--you who know all about nature in a gallery
and with a catalogue--you may take my word for it.

And now, ere quitting, probably for ever, this grand Peace River
Pass--this immense valley which receives in its bosom so many other
valleys, into whose depths I only caught a moment’s glimpse as we
floated by their outlets--let me say one other word about it.

Since I left the Wild North Land, it has been my lot to visit the
chief points of interest in Oregon, California, the Vale of Shasta, and
the Yosemite. Shasta is a loftier mountain than any that frown above
the Peace River Pass. Yosemite can boast its half-dozen waterfalls,
trickling down their thousand feet of rock; but for wild beauty, for
the singular spectacle of a great river flowing tranquilly through a
stupendous mountain range,--these mountains presenting at every reach a
hundred varied aspects,--not the dizzy glory of Shasta nor the rampart
precipices of Yosemite can vie with that lonely gorge far away on the
great Unchagah.

On the 9th of May we reached the Forks of the river, where the two main
streams of the Parsnip and the Findlay came together. A couple of miles
from their junction a second small rapid occurs; but, like the first
one, it can be run without difficulty.

Around the point of junction the country is low and marshy, and when we
turned into the Findlay, it was easy to perceive from the colour of the
water that the river was rising rapidly.

Some miles above the Forks there is a solitary hut on the south bank of
the river. In this hut dwelt Pete Toy, a miner of vast repute in the
northern mining country.

Some ten years ago Pete had paddled his canoe into these lonely
waters. As he went, he prospected the various bars. Suddenly he struck
one of surpassing richness. It yielded one dollar to the bucket, or one
hundred dollars a day to a man’s work. Pete was astonished; he laid up
his canoe, built this hut, and claimed the bar as his property. For a
long time it yielded a steady return; but even gold has a limit--the
bar became exhausted. Where had all his gold come from?

Ah, that is the question! Even to-day, though the bank has been washed
year after year, “it is still rich in colour;” but the “pay-dirt” lies
too far from the water’s edge, hence the labour is too great.

Well, Pete, the Cornish miner, built his hut and took out his gold; but
that did not satisfy him. What miner ever yet was satisfied? Pete went
in for fifty things; he traded with the Indians, he trapped, he took
an Indian wife; yet, through all, he maintained a character for being
as honest and as straightforward a miner as ever found “a colour” from
Mexico to Cariboo.

My little friend Jacques expected to meet his old brother miner Pete at
his hut; but, as we came within five miles of it, a beaver swam across
the river. We all fired at him, and when the smoke had vanished, I
heard Jacques mutter, “Pete’s not hereabouts, or that fellow wouldn’t
be there.” He was right, for, when we reached the hut an hour later,
we found a notice on the door, saying that Pete and two friends had
departed for the Ominica just six days earlier, being totally out of
all food, and having only their guns to rely upon. Now this fact of
Pete’s absence rendered necessary new arrangements, for here the two
courses I have already alluded to lay open--either to turn south, along
the Parsnip; or north and west, along the Findlay and Ominica.

The current of the Parsnip is regular; that of the Ominica is wild and
rapid. But the Parsnip was already rising, and at its spring level it
is almost an impossibility to ascend it, owing to its great depth;
while the Ominica, though difficult and dangerous in its cañons, is
nevertheless possible of ascent, even in its worst stage of water.

I talked the matter over with Jacques, as we sat camped on the gold-bar
opposite Pete Toy’s house. Fortunately we had ample supplies of meat;
but some luxuries, such as tea and sugar, were getting dangerously low,
and flour was almost exhausted. I decided upon trying the Ominica.

About noon, on the 10th of May, we set out for the Ominica, with high
hopes of finding the river still low enough to allow us to ascend it.

Ten miles above Toy’s hut the Ominica enters the Peace River from the
south-west. We reached its mouth on the morning of the 11th, and
found it high and rapid. There was hard work in store for us, and the
difficulties of passing the Great Cañon loomed ominously big. We pushed
on, however, and that night reached a spot where the river issued from
a large gap in a high wall of dark rock. Above, on the summit of this
rock, pine-trees projected over the river. We were at the door of the
Ominica cañon. The warm weather of last week had done its work, and
the water rushed from the gate of the cañon in a wild and impetuous
torrent. We looked a moment at the grim gate which we had to storm on
the morrow, and then put in to the north shore, where, under broad and
lofty pines, we made our beds for the night.

The Findlay River, as it is called, after the fur-trader, who first
ascended it, has many large tributaries. It is something like a huge
right hand spread out over the country, of which the middle finger
would be the main river, and the thumb the Ominica. There is the North
Fork, which closely hugs the main Rocky Mountain range. There is the
Findlay itself, a magnificent river, flowing from a vast labyrinth of
mountains, and being unchanged in size or apparent volume, 120 miles
above the Forks we had lately left. At that distance it issues from a
cañon similar to that at whose mouth we are now camped; and there is
the second South Fork, a river something smaller than the Ominica, from
whose mouth it is distant about a hundred miles.

Of these rivers nothing is known. These few items are the result of
chance information picked up from the solitary miner who penetrated
to this cañon’s mouth, and from the reports which a wandering band
of Sickanies give of the vast unknown interior of the region of the
Stickeen. And yet it is all British territory. It abounds with game;
its scenery is as wild as mountain peak and gloomy cañon can make it;
it is free from fever or malaria. In it Nature has locked up some of
her richest treasures--treasures which are open to any strong, stout
heart who will venture to grasp them.

I know not how it is, but sometimes it seems to me that this England of
ours is living on a bygone reputation; the sinew is there without the
soul!

It is so easy to be a traveller in an easy chair--to lay out a map and
run one’s finger over it and say, “This river is the true source of the
Hunky-dorum, and that lake finds its outlet in the Rumtifoozle;” and it
is equally easy, particularly after our comfortable dinner at the club,
to stroll over to the meeting of the Society for the Preservation of
Sticklebacks in Tahitian Seas, and to prove to the fashionable audience
there assembled, that a stickleback was the original progenitor of the
human race.

Our modern Briton can be a traveller without any trouble. He is a
member of “the Club,” and on the strength of his membership he can
criticize “that fellow Burton,” or “that queer fish Palgrave,” and
prove to you how, if that “poor devil” Hayward had tried the Chittral
Pass instead of the Palmirsteppe, “he would never have come to grief,
you know.”

I know one or two excellent idiots, who fancy they are wits because
they belong to the Garrick. It is quite as easy to be a traveller by
simply belonging to a Travellers’ Club.

Now all this would be a very harmless pastime, if something more
serious did not lie behind it; just as the mania to dress ourselves
in uniform and carry a rifle through the streets, would also be a
very harmless, if a very useless, pastime, if a graver question did
not again lie hidden beneath “our noble Volunteers;” but the club
traveller and the club soldier are not content with the _rôle_ of
lounging mediocrity for which nature destined them. They must needs
stand between the spirit of England’s better genius, and England’s real
toilers of the wilds. They must supervise and criticize and catechize,
and generally play the part of Fuz-buz to the detriment of everything
which redounds to the true spirit of England’s honour in the fair field
of travel and discovery.

Let there be no mistake in this matter. To those veterans who
still stand above the waves of time, living monuments of England’s
heroism, in Arctic ice or Africa’s sun, we owe all honour and love
and veneration. They are the old soldiers of an army, passed from the
world, and when Time sums up the record of their service here below, it
will be but to hand up the roll to the Tribunal of the Future.

But it is of the younger race of whom we would speak--that race who buy
with gold the right to determine what England shall do, and shall not
do, in the wide field of geographical research; who are responsible
for the wretched exploratory failures of the past few years; who have
allowed the palm of discovery and enterprise to pass away to other
nations, or to alien sons. But if we were to say all we think about
this matter, we might only tire the reader, and stop until doomsday at
the mouth of this Black Cañon of the Ominica.




CHAPTER XXIII.

    The Black Cañon.--An ugly prospect.--The vanished boat.--We
        struggle on.--A forlorn hope.--We fail again.--An unhoped
        for meeting and a feast of joy.--The Black Cañon conquered.


Casting off from camp, on the morning of the 12th, we pushed right into
the mouth of the cañon. At once our troubles began. The steep walls
of smooth rock rose directly out of the water--sometimes washed by a
torrent, at others beaten by a back-whirl and foaming eddy. In the
centre ran a rush of water that nothing could stem. Poling, paddling,
clinging with hands and nails to the rock; often beaten back and always
edging up again, we crept slowly along under the overhanging cliff,
which leaned out two hundred feet above us to hold upon its dizzy
verge some clinging pine-tree. In the centre of the chasm, about half
a mile from its mouth, a wild cataract of foam forbade our passage;
but after a whole morning’s labour we succeeded in bringing the canoe
safely to the foot of this rapid, and moored her in a quiet eddy behind
a sheltering rock. Here we unloaded, and, clambering up a cleft in
the cañon wall two hundred feet above us, passed along the top of the
cliff, and bore our loads to the upper or western end of the cañon,
fully a mile from the boat. The day was hot and sweltering, and it was
hard work.

In one of these many migrations between camp and canoe, it chanced one
evening that, missing the trail, my footsteps led me to the base of a
small knoll, the sides and summit of which were destitute of trees.
Climbing to the top of this hill I beheld a view of extraordinary
beauty. Over the sea of forest, from the dark green and light green
ocean of tree-tops, the solid mountain mass lay piled against the east.
Below my standpoint the first long reach of the cañon opened out; a
grim fissure in the forest, in the depths of which the waters caught
the reflection of the sun-lit skies above, glowing brightly between the
walls of gloomy rock deep hidden beneath the level rays of the setting
sun. I stood high above the cañon, high above the vast forest which
stretched between me and the mountains; and the eye, as it wandered
over the tranquil ocean upon whose waves the isles of light green shade
lay gold-crested in the sunset, seemed to rest upon fresh intervals
of beauty, until the solid ramparts rent and pinnacled, silent and
impassive, caught and rivetted its glance; as their snow-white,
motionless fingers, carved in characters that ever last, the story of
earth’s loveliness upon the great blue dome of heaven.

We pushed through the dense underwood, loaded down with all the
paraphernalia of our travel, and even Cerf-vola carried his load of
boots and moose-meat. When we had finished carrying our loads, it was
time for dinner; and that over, we set to work at once for the stiffer
labour of hauling the canoe up the rapid of the cañon; for, remember,
there was no hope of lifting her, she was too heavy, and the rocky
walls were far too steep to allow of it. Up along shore, through rapid
and eddy we dragged our craft, for here the north side had along its
base ledges of rock and bits of shore, and taking advantage of these,
sometimes in the canoe and sometimes out of it in the water, we reached
at length the last edge or cliff round which it was possible to proceed
at the north shore.

For a long time we examined the spot, and the surrounding cañon.
Jacques and I climbed up to the top above, and then down on hands and
knees to a ledge from which we could look over into the chasm, and scan
its ugly features. Beyond a doubt it was ugly--the rock on which we lay
hollowed down beneath us until it roofed the shore of the cañon with a
half cavern, against which a wild whirlpool boiled up now and again,
sinking suddenly into stillness. Even if we could stretch a line from
above the rock to where our canoe lay below it, she must have been
knocked to atoms in the whirlpool in her passage beneath the cavern;
but the distance was too great to stretch a line across. The next and
only course was to make a bold crossing from below the rock, and gain
the other shore, up which it was possible to drag our canoe. Once over,
the thing would be easy enough for at least a couple of hundred yards
more.

We climbed back to the canoe and imparted the result of our
investigation to the other two men. From the level of the boat the
proposed crossing looked very nasty. It was across a wild rush of
water, in the centre of the cañon, and if we failed to make a small
eddy at the farther shore we must drive full upon the precipice of rock
where, below us boiled and seethed the worst rapid in the cañon--a mass
of wave, and foam, and maddened surge. Once out of the sheltering eddy
in which we lay watching this wild scene, we would be in the midst of
the rush close above the rapid. There was no time to get headway on the
canoe. It would shoot from shelter into furious current, and then, if
it missed yon little eddy, look out; and if you have any good angels
away at home, pray that they may be praying for you--for down that
white fall of water you must go broadside or stern on.

[Illustration: RUNNING STERN FOREMOST THE BLACK CAÑON.]

The more we looked at it, the less we liked it; but it was the sole
means of passing the cañon, and retreat came not yet into our heads.
We took our places--Kalder at the bow, Jacques at the stern, A---- and
I in the middle; then we hugged the rock for the last time, and shoved
out into the swirl of waters. There was no time to think; we rose and
fell; we dipped our paddles in the rushing waves with those wild quick
strokes which men use when life is in the blow; and then the cañon
swung and rocked for a second, and with a wild yell of Indian war-whoop
from Kalder, which rose above the rush of the water, we were in the
eddy at the farther shore.

It was well done. On again up the cañon with line from rock to rock,
bit by bit, until, as the sun began to slope low upon the forest, we
reach the foot of the last fall--the stiffest we had yet breasted.
Above it lies our camp upon the north shore; above it will be easy
work--we will have passed the worst of the Ominica River.

Made bold by former victory we passed our line round the rock, and bent
our shoulders to haul the canoe up the slant of water. Kalder with a
long pole held the frail craft out from the rock. A---- and I were on
the line, and Jacques was running up to assist us, when suddenly there
came upon the rope a fierce strain; all at once the canoe seemed to
have the strength of half a dozen runaway horses. It spun us round, we
threw all our strength against it, and snap went the rope midway over
the water; the boat had suddenly sheered, and all was over. We had a
second line fastened to the bow; this line was held by Kalder at the
moment of the accident, but it was in loose coils about him, and of
no service to stay the downward rush. Worse than all, the canoe, now
going like an arrow down the rapid, tightened the tangled coils around
Kalder’s legs, and I saw with horror that he ran every chance of being
dragged feet foremost from the smooth rock on which he stood, into the
boiling torrent beneath.

Quicker than thought he realized his peril; he sprang from the
treacherous folds, and dragged with all his strength the quick-running
rope clear of his body; and then, like the Indian he was, threw all his
weight to stay the canoe.

It was useless; his line snapped like ours had done, and away went
the canoe down the surge of water--down the lip of the fall--away,
away--bearing with her our sole means of travel through the trackless
wilderness! We crouched together on the high rock, which commanded
a long view down the Black Cañon, and gazed wistfully after our
vanishing boat.

In one instant we were reduced to a most wretched state. Our canoe
was gone; but that was not half our loss--our meat and tent had also
gone with her; and we were left on the south shore of the river, while
a deep, wide and rapid stream rolled between us and our camp, and we
had no axe wherewith to cut trees for a raft--no line to lash them
together. Night was coming on; we were without food, shipwrecked in the
wilderness.

When the canoe had vanished, we took stock of all these things, and
then determined on a course. It was to go back along the upper edge
of the cañon to the entrance opposite our camping-place of the last
night, there to make a raft from some logs which had been collected for
a _cache_ in the previous year, then to put together whatever line or
piece of string we possessed, and, making a raft, endeavour to cross to
the north shore, and thus gain our camp above the cañon.

It was a long piece of work, and we were already tired with the day’s
toil, but it was the sole means by which we could hope to get back to
our camp and to food again. After that we would deliberate upon further
movements.

When men come heavily to grief in any enterprise, the full gravity of
the disaster does not break all at once upon their minds; nay, I have
generally found that the first view of the situation is the ludicrous
one. One is often inclined to laugh over some plight, which means
anything but a laughing matter in reality.

We made our way to the mouth of the cañon, and again held a council.
Jacques did not like the idea of the raft; he would go down through the
Beaver swamps along the south shore, and, it might be, find the canoe
stranded on some beach lower down. Anyhow he would search, and next
morning he would come up again along the river and hail us across the
water in our camp with tidings of his success: so we parted.

We at once set to work to make our raft. We upset the logs of the old
_cache_, floated them in the water, and lashed them together as best
we could, with all the bits of line we could fasten together; then we
got three rough poles, took our places on the rickety raft, and put
out into the turbid river. Our raft sank deep into the water; down,
down we went; no bottom for the poles, which we used as paddles in the
current. At last we reached the shore of a large island, and our raft
was thrown violently amidst a pile of driftwood. We scrambled on shore,
broke our way through drift and thicket to the upper end of the island,
and found a wide channel of water separating us still from the north
shore. Wading up to our middles across a shallow part of this channel,
we finally reached the north shore and our camp of the previous night;
from thence we worked through the forest, and just at dusk we struck
our camp of the morning. Thus, after many vicissitudes and much toil,
we had got safely back to our camp; and though the outlook was dreary
enough--for three large rivers and seventy miles of trackless forest
lay between us and the mining camp to which we were tending, while
all hope of assistance seemed cut off from us--still, after a hearty
supper, we lay down to sleep, ready to meet on the morrow whatever it
might bring forth.

Early next morning the voice of little Jacques sounded from the other
side. He had had a rough time of it; he had gone through slough and
swamp and thicket, and finally he had found the canoe stranded on an
island four miles below the cañon, half full of water, but otherwise
not much the worse for her trip. “Let us make a raft and go down, and
we would all pull her up again, and everything would yet be right.” So,
taking axes and line with us, we set off once more for the mouth of the
cañon, and built a big raft of dry logs, and pushed it out into the
current.

Jacques was on the opposite shore, so we took him on our raft, and away
we went down current at the rate of seven miles an hour. We reached
the island where our castaway canoe lay, and once more found ourselves
the owners of a boat. Then we poled up to the cañon again, and, working
hard, succeeded in landing the canoe safely behind the rock from
which we had made our celebrated crossing on the previous day. The
day was hot and fine, the leaves of the cotton-wood were green, the
strawberries were in blossom, and in the morning a humming-bird had
fluttered into the camp, carrying the glittering colours which he had
gathered in the tropics. But these proofs of summer boded ill for us,
for all around the glittering hills were sending down their foaming
torrents to flood the Ominica.

On the night of the 13th the river, already high, rose nearly two feet.
The morning of the 14th came, and, as soon as breakfast was over, we
set out to make a last attempt to force the cañon. The programme was
to be the same as that of two days ago; to cross above the rapid, and
then with double-twisted line to drag the canoe up the fatal fall! We
reached the canoe and took our places the same as before. This time,
however, there was a vague feeling of uneasiness in every one’s mind;
it may have been because we went at the work coldly, unwarmed by
previous exercise; but despite the former successful attempt, we felt
the presage of disaster ere we left the sheltering rock. Once more
the word was given, and we shot into the boiling flood. There was a
moment’s wild struggle, during which we worked with all the strength of
despair. A second of suspense, and then we are borne backwards--slowly,
faster, yet faster--until with a rush as of wings, and amid a roar of
maddened water, we go downwards towards the cañon’s wall.

“The rock! the rock!--keep her from the rock!” roared Jacques. We might
as well have tried to stop an express train. We struck, but it was the
high bow, and the blow split us to the centre; another foot and we must
have been shivered to atoms. And now, ere there was time for thought,
we were rushing, stern foremost, to the edge of the great rapid. There
was no escape; we were as helpless as if we had been chained in that
black cañon. “Put steerway on her!” shouted Jacques, and his paddle
dipped a moment in the surge and spray. Another instant and we were in
it; there was a plunge--a dash of water on every side of us; the waves
hissed around and above us, seeming to say, “Now we have got you; for
two days you have been edging along us, flanking us, and fooling us;
but now it is our turn!”

The shock with which we struck into the mass of breakers seemed but
the prelude to total wreck, and the first sensation I experienced
was one of surprise that the canoe was still under us. But, after the
first plunge she rose well, and amidst the surge and spray we could
see the black walls of the cañon flitting by us as we glanced through
the boiling flood. All this was but the work of a moment, and lo!
breathless and dripping, with canoe half filled, we lay safe in quiet
eddies where, below the fall, the water rested after its strife.

Behind the rock we lay for a few minutes silent, while the flooded
canoe rose and fell upon the swell of the eddy.

If, after this escape, we felt loth to try the old road again, to
venture a third time upon that crossing above the rapid, let no man
hold our courage light.

We deliberated long upon what was best to be done. Retreat seemed
inevitable; Kalder was strongly opposed to another attempt; the canoe
was already broken, and with another such blow she must go to pieces.
At last, and reluctantly, we determined to carry all our baggage back
from the camp, to load up the boat, and, abandoning the Black Cañon
and the Ominica altogether, seek through the Parsnip River an outlet
towards the South. It was our only resource, and it was a poor one.
Wearily we dragged our baggage back to the canoe, and loaded her again.
Then, casting out into the current, we ran swiftly down the remainder
of the cañon, and shot from beneath the shadows of its sombre walls. As
we emerged from the mouth into the broader river, the sheen of coloured
blankets struck our sight on the south shore.

In the solitudes of the North one is surprised at the rapidity with
which the eye perceives the first indication of human or animal
existence, but the general absence of life in the wilderness makes its
chance presence easily detected.

We put to shore. There was a camp close to the spot where we had built
our first raft on the night of the disaster; blankets, three fresh
beavers, a bundle of traps, a bag of flour, and a pair of miner’s
boots. The last item engaged Jacques’s attention. He looked at the
soles, and at once declared them to belong to no less an individual
than Pete Toy, the Cornish miner; but where, meantime, was Pete? A
further inspection solved that question too. Pete was “portaging”
his load from the upper to the lower end of the cañon--he evidently
dreaded the flooded chasm too much to attempt its descent with a loaded
canoe. In a little while appeared the missing Pete, carrying on his
back a huge load. It was as we had anticipated--his canoe lay above
the rapids, ours was here below. Happy coincidence! We would exchange
crafts; Pete would load his goods in our boat, we would once again
carry our baggage to the upper end of the cañon, and there, taking his
canoe, pursue our western way. It was indeed a most remarkable meeting
to us. Here were we, after long days of useless struggle, after many
dangers and hair-breadth escapes amid the whirlpools and rapids of the
Black Chasm, about to abandon the Ominica River altogether, and to seek
by another route, well known to be almost impassable at high water, a
last chance of escape from the difficulties that beset us; and now, as
moody and discouraged, we turned our faces to begin the hopeless task,
our first glance was greeted, on emerging from the dismal prison, by a
most unlooked-for means of solving all our difficulties. Little wonder
if we were in high spirits, and if Pete, the Cornish miner, seemed a
friend in need.

But before anything could be done to carry into effect this new
arrangement, Pete insisted upon our having a royal feast. He had
brought with him from the mining camp many luxuries; he had bacon, and
beans, and dried apples, and sugar, and flour, and we poor toilers had
only moose-meat and frozen potatoes and sugarless tea in our lessening
larders. So Pete set vigorously to work; he baked and fried, and cut
and sliced, and talked all the time, and in less than half an hour laid
out his feast upon the ground. I have often meditated over that repast
in after-time, and wondered if Pete really possessed the magic power of
transmuting the baser victuals known to us as pork, beans, and molasses
into golden comestibles, or had scarcity and the wilderness anything
to say to it? It was getting late when we broke up from the feast of
Toy, and, loading once more all our movables upon our backs, set out
to stagger for the last time to the west end of the portage. There the
canoe of the Cornish miner stood ready for our service; but the sun was
by this time below the ridges of the Ominica Mountains, and we pitched
our camp for the night beneath the spruce-trees of the southern shore.

At break of day next morning we held our way to the west. It was a
fresh, fair dawn, soft with the odours of earth and air; behind us lay
the Black Cañon, conquered at last; and as its sullen roar died away
in distance, and before our canoe rose the snow-covered peaks of the
Central Columbian range, now looming but a few miles distant, I drew a
deep breath of satisfaction--the revulsion of long, anxious hours.




CHAPTER XXIV.

    The Untiring over-estimates his powers.--He is not particular
        as to the nature of his dinner.--Toil and temper.--Farewell
        to the Ominica.--Germansen.--The mining camp.--Celebrities.


In the struggle which it was our daily work to wage with Nature, whose
dead weight seemed to be bent on holding us back, the wear and tear of
the things of life had been considerable. Clothes we will say nothing
of--it is their function to go--but our rough life had told heavily
against less perishable articles. My aneroid was useless; my watch
and revolver slept somewhere beneath the Peace River; ammunition was
reduced to a few rounds, to be used only upon state occasions; but
to make up for every loss, and to counterbalance each misfortune,
Cerf-vola had passed in safety through rapid, wreck, and cañon. On
several occasions he had had narrow escapes. A fixed idea pervaded
his mind that he was a good hunting-dog; it was an utterly erroneous
impression upon his part, but he still clung to it with the tenacity I
have not unfrequently seen evinced by certain sporting individuals who
fancy themselves sportsmen; and as the impression sometimes leads its
human holders into strange situations, so also was Cerf-vola betrayed
into dangers by this unfortunate belief in his sporting propensities.
A very keen sense of smell enabled him to detect the presence of
bird or beast on shore or forest, but absence from the canoe usually
obliged him to swim the swollen river--a feat which resulted in his
being carried down sometimes out of sight on the impetuous torrent.
He swam slowly, but strongly, and his bushy tail seemed incapable of
submersion, remaining always upon the surface of the water. But about
this time an event occurred which by every rule of science should have
proved fatal to him.

One evening, it was the 16th of May, our larder being low, we camped
early at the mouth of a river called the Ozalinca. Beaver were
plentiful, fish were numerous; and while I went in quest of the former
with my gun, Jacques got ready a few large cod-hooks, with bait and
line. I pushed my way up the Ozalinca, and soon reached a beaver-dam.
Stealing cautiously to the edge, I saw one old veteran busily engaged
in the performance of his evening swim; every now and again he
disappeared beneath the crystal water, rising again to the surface to
look around him with evident satisfaction; presently a younger beaver
appeared, and began to nibble some green willows beneath the water.
They were a little too far to afford a certain shot, so I waited,
watching the antics of this strangest denizen of American rivers. All
at once the old veteran caught sight of me; his tail flogged loudly on
the water, and down he went out of sight. I waited a long time, but he
never reappeared, and I was obliged to content myself with a couple of
ducks ere night closed over the pond.

When I reached the camp on the Ominica River my three companions wore
long faces: the cause was soon told. Jacques had baited his hooks with
moose-meat; in an evil moment he had laid one of these upon the shore
ere casting it into the water; Cerf-vola had swallowed bait, hook,
and line in a single mouthful; the hook was no mere salmon-hook, but
one fully two inches in length, and of proportionate thickness--a
full-sized cod-hook. I turned to the dog; he lay close to my outspread
buffalo robe, watching the preparation of supper; he looked as unmoved
as though he had recently swallowed a bit of pemmican. One might have
fancied from his self-satisfied appearance that large fish-hooks had
ever formed a favourite article of food with him. I gave him the
greater portion of my supper, and he went to sleep as usual at my
head. I have merely to add that from that day to this he has been in
most excellent health. I can only attribute this fact to the quantity
of fish he had consumed in his career; a moderate computation would
allow him many thousand white fish and pike in the course of his life;
and as he only made one mouthful of a large white fish, the addition of
a fish-hook in the matter was of no consequence.

Passing the mouths of the Mesalinca and the Ozalinca--two wild,
swollen torrents flowing through a labyrinth of mountain peaks from
the north-west--we entered, on the third day after leaving the cañon,
the great central snowy range of North-British Columbia. The Ominica
was here only a slant of water, 100 yards in breadth; it poured down a
raging flood with a velocity difficult to picture.

We worked slowly on, now holding by the bushes that hung out from the
forest shore, now passing ropes around rocks and tree-stumps, and
dragging, poling, pushing, as best we could. The unusual toil brought
out the worst characteristics of my crew. Kalder worked like a horse
with a savage temper, and was in a chronic state of laying violent
hands upon the English miner, who, poor fellow, worked his best, but
failed to satisfy the expectations of the more athletic Indian. It was
no easy matter to keep the peace between them, and once, midway in a
rapid, my Indian leaped past me in the canoe, seized the unoffending
miner, and hurled him to the bottom of the boat. This was too much. I
caught hold of a paddle and quickly informed my red servitor that if
he did not instantly loosen his hold, my paddle would descend upon his
hot-tempered head; he cooled a little, and we resumed our upward way.

But for all this Kalder was a splendid fellow. In toil, in difficulty,
in danger, alone he was worth two ordinary men; and in camp no better
wild man lived to cut, to carry, or to cook; to pitch a tent, or
portage a load--no, not from Yukon to wild Hudson’s Bay.

On the night of the 19th of May we reached the mouth of the Wolverine
Creek, and camped at last by quiet water. We were worn and tired from
continuous toil. The ice-cold water in which we so frequently waded,
and which made the pole-handles like lumps of ice to the touch, had
begun to tell on hands and joints. Nevertheless, when at night the fire
dried our dripping clothes and warmed us again, the plate of pemmican
and cup of tea were relished, and we slept that sleep which is only
known when the pine-trees rock the tired wanderer into forgetfulness.

The last rapid was passed, and now before us lay a broad and gentle
current, lying in long serpentine bends amid lofty mountains. So, on
the morning of the 20th, we paddled up towards the mining camp with
easy strokes. Around us lay misty mountains, showing coldly through
cloud-rift and billowy vapour. The high altitude, to which by such
incessant labour we had worked our way, was plainly visible in the
backward vegetation. We were nearing the snow-line once more, but still
the sheltered valleys were bursting forth into green, and spring was
piercing the inmost fastness of these far-north hills.

And now I parted with the Ominica. It lay before us, far stretching to
the westward, amid cloud-capped cliffs and snowy peaks; known to the
gold-seeker for seventy miles yet higher and deeper into the land of
mountains, and found there to be still a large, strong river, flowing
from an unknown west.

And yet it is but one of that score of rivers which, 2500 miles from
these mountains, seek the Arctic Sea, through the mighty gateway of the
Mackenzie.

Late on the evening of the 20th of May I reached the mining camp of
Germansen, three miles south of the Ominica River. A queer place was
this mining camp of Germansen, the most northern and remote of all the
mines on the American continent.

Deep in the bottom of a valley, from whose steep sides the forest had
been cleared or burned off, stood some dozen or twenty well-built
wooden houses; a few figures moved in the dreary valley, ditches and
drains ran along the hill-sides, and here and there men were at work
with pick and shovel in the varied toil of gold-mining.

The history of Germansen Creek had been the history of a thousand
other creeks on the western continent. A roving miner had struck the
glittering pebbles; the news had spread. From Montana, from Idaho, from
California, Oregon, and Cariboo, men had flocked to this new find in
the far north. In 1871, 1200 miners had forced their way through almost
incredible hardships to the new field; provisions reached a fabulous
price; flour and pork sold at six and seven shillings a pound! The
innumerable sharks that prey upon the miner flocked in to reap the
harvest; some struck the golden dust, but the majority lost everything,
and for about the twentieth time in their lives became “dead broke;”
little was known of the severity of the season, and many protracted the
time of their departure for more southern winter quarters. Suddenly,
on their return march, the winter broke; horses and mules perished
miserably along the forest trail. At length the Frazer River was
reached, a few canoes were obtained, but the ice was fast filling in
the river. The men crowded into the canoes till they were filled to
the edge; three wretched miners could find no room; they were left on
the shore to their fate; their comrades pushed away. Two or three days
later the three castaways were found frozen stiff on the inhospitable
shore.

The next summer saw fewer miners at the Camp, and this summer saw
fewer still; but if to-morrow another strike were to be made 500 miles
to the north of this remote Camp, hundreds would rush to it, caring
little whether their bones were left to mark the long forest trail. The
miner has ever got his dream of an El Dorado fresh and sanguine. No
disaster, no repeated failure will discourage him. His golden paradise
is always “away up” in some half-inaccessible spot in a wilderness of
mountains. Nothing daunts him in this wild search of his. Mountains,
rivers, cañons are the enemies he is constantly wrestling with. Nature
has locked her treasures of gold and silver in deep mountain caverns,
as though she would keep them from the daring men who strive to rob
her. But she cannot save them. When one sees this wonderful labour,
this delving into the bowels of rock and shingle, this turning and
twisting of river channel, and sluicing and dredging and blasting,
going on in these strange out-of-the-way places, the thought occurs,
if but the tenth part of this toil were expended by these men in the
ordinary avocations of life, they would all be rich or comfortable.
The miner cannot settle down--at least for a long time--the life has a
strange fascination for him; he will tell you that for one haul he has
drawn twenty blanks; he will tell you that he has lost more money in
one night at “faro,” or “poker,” than would suffice to have kept him
decently for five years; he will tell you that he has frequently to put
two dollars into the ground in order to dig one dollar out of it, and
yet he cannot give up the wild, free life. He is emphatically a queer
genius; and no matter what his country, his characteristics are the
same. It would be impossible to discipline him, yet I think that, were
he amenable to even a semblance of restraint and command, 40,000 miners
might conquer a continent.

His knowledge of words is peculiar; he has a thousand phrases of his
own which it would be needless to follow him into. “Don’t prevaricate,
sir!” thundered a British Columbian judge to a witness from the mines,
“don’t prevaricate, sir!” “Can’t help it, judge,” answered the miner.
“Ever since I got a kick in the mouth from a mule that knocked my
teeth out, I prevaricate a good deal.”

In the bottom of the valley, between the wooden houses and the rushing
creek of Germansen, I pitched my tent for a short time, and in the
course of a few days had the honour of becoming acquainted, either
personally or by reputation, with Doe English, Dancing Bill, Black
Jack, Dirty-faced Pete, Ned Walsh, Rufus Sylvester, and several others
among the leading “boys” of the northern mining country. I found them
men who under the rough garb of mountain miners had a large and varied
experience in wild life and adventure--generous, free-hearted fellows
too, who in the race for gold had not thrown off as dead weight, half
as much of human kindness as many of their brothers, who, on a more
civilized course, start for the same race too.




CHAPTER XXV.

    Mr. Rufus Sylvester.--The Untiring developes a new sphere of
        usefulness.--Mansen.--A last landmark.


On the evening of my arrival at Germansen Mr. Rufus Sylvester appeared
from the south, carrying the mail for the camp. Eleven days earlier
he had started from Quesnelle on the Frazer River; the trail was, he
said, in a very bad state; snow yet lay five feet deep on the Bald, and
Nation River Mountains; the rivers and streams were running bank-high;
he had swum his horses eleven times, and finally left them on the south
side of the Bald Mountains, coming on on foot to his destination. The
distance to Quesnelle was about 330 miles. Such was a summary of his
report.

The prospect was not encouraging; but where movement is desired, if
people wait until prospects become encouraging, they will be likely
to rest stationary a long time. My plan of movement to the south was
this: I would dispense with everything save those articles absolutely
necessary to travel; food and clothing would be brought to the lowest
limits, and then, with our goods on our shoulders, and with Cerf-vola
carrying on his back a load of dry meat sufficient to fill his stomach
during ten days, we would set out on foot to cross the Bald Mountains.
Thirty miles from the mining Camp, at the south side of the mountain
range, Rufus Sylvester had left a horse and a mule; we would recover
them again, and, packing our goods upon them, make our way to Fort
St. James on the wild shores of Stuart’s Lake--midway on our journey
to where, on the bend of the Frazer River, the first vestige of
civilization would greet us at the city called Quesnelle.

It was the 25th of May when, having loaded my goods upon the back of
a Hydah Indian from the coast, and giving Kalder a lighter load to
carry, I set off with Cerf-vola for the south. Idleness during the
past three weeks had produced a considerable change in the person of
the Untiring. He had grown fat and round, and it was no easy matter to
strap his bag of dry meat upon his back so as to prevent it performing
the feat known, in the case of a saddle on a horse’s back, by the term
“turning.” It appeared to be a matter of perfect indifference to the
Untiring whether the meat destined for his stomach was carried beneath
that portion of his body or above his back; he pursued the even tenour
of his way in either case, but a disposition on his part to “squat”
in every pool of water or patch of mud along the trail, perfectly
regardless of the position of his ten days’ rations, had the effect of
quickly changing its nature, when it was underneath him, from dry meat
to very wet meat, and making the bag which held it a kind of water-cart
for the drier portions of the trail.

Twelve miles from Germansen Creek stood the other mining camp of
Mansen. More ditches, more drains, more miners, more drinking; two or
three larger saloons; more sixes and sevens of diamonds and debilitated
looking kings and queens of spades littering the dusty street; the
wrecks of “faro” and “poker” and “seven up” and “three-card monti;”
more Chinamen and Hydah squaws than Germansen could boast of; and
Mansen lay the same miserable-looking place that its older rival
had already appeared to me. Yet every person was kind and obliging.
Mr. Grahame, postmaster, dealer in gold-dust, and general merchant,
cooked with his own hands a most excellent repast, the discussion of
which was followed by further introductions to mining celebrities.
Prominent among many Joes and Davises and Petes and Bills, I recollect
one well-known name; it was the name of Smith. We have all known, I
presume, some person of that name. We have also known innumerable
prefixes to it, such as Sydney, Washington, Buckingham, &c., &c., but
here at Mansen dwelt a completely new Smith. No hero of ancient or
modern times had been called on to supply a prefix or a second name,
but in the person of Mr. Peace River Smith I recognized a new title for
the old and familiar family.

Mr. Stirling’s saloon at Mansen was a very fair representation of
what, in this country, we would call a “public-house,” but in some
respects the saloon and the public differ widely. The American saloon
is eminently patriotic. Western America, and indeed America generally,
takes its “cocktails” in the presence of soul-stirring mementoes; from
above the lemons, the coloured wine-glass, the bunch of mint, and the
many alcoholic mixtures which stand behind the bar--General Washington,
Abraham Lincoln, and President Grant look placidly upon the tippling
miner; but though Mr. Stirling’s saloon could boast its card-tables,
its patriotic pictures, and its many “slings” and “juleps,” in one
important respect it fell far short of the ideal mining paradise. It
was not a hurdy-house; music and dancing were both wanting. It was a
serious drawback, but it was explained to me that Mansen had become
too much “played out” to afford to pay the piper, and hurdies had
never penetrated to the fastnesses of the Peace River mines.

When the last mining hero had departed, I lay down in Mr. Grahame’s
sanctum, to snatch a few hours’ sleep ere the first dawn would call us
to the march. I lay on the postmaster’s bed while that functionary got
together his little bags of gold-dust, his few letters and mail matters
for my companion, Rufus Sylvester the express man. This work occupied
him until shortly before dawn, when he abandoned it to again resume the
duties of cook in preparing my breakfast. Day was just breaking over
the pine-clad hills as we bade adieu to this kind host, and with rapid
strides set out through the sleeping camp. Kalder, the Hydah Indian,
and the Untiring, had preceded us on the previous evening, and I was
alone with the express man, Mr. Rufus Sylvester. He carried on his
back a small, compact, but heavy load, some 600 ounces of gold-dust
being the weightiest item; but, nevertheless, he crossed with rapid
steps over the frozen ground. We carried in our hands snow-shoes for
the mountain range still lying some eight miles away. The trail led
o’er hill and through valley, gradually ascending for the first six
miles, until through breaks in the pines I could discern the snowy
ridges towards which we were tending. Soon the white patches lay around
us in the forest, but the frost was severe, and the surface was hard
under our mocassins. Finding the snow-crust was sufficient to bear our
weight, we _cachéd_ the snow-shoes and held our course up the mountain.
Deeper grew the snow; thinner and smaller became the pines--dwarf
things that hung wisps of blue-grey moss from their shrunken limbs. At
last they ceased to be around us, and the summit-ridges of the Bald
Mountain spread out under the low-hung clouds. The big white ptarmigan
_bleated_ like sheep in the thin frosty air. We crossed the topmost
ridge, where snow ever dwells, and saw beneath a far-stretching valley.
I turned to take a last look to the north; the clouds had lifted, the
sun had risen some time; away over an ocean of peaks lay the lofty
ridge I had named Galty More a fortnight earlier, when emerging from
the Black Cañon. He rose above us then the monarch of the range; now he
lay far behind, one of the last landmarks of the Wild North Land.

We began to descend; again the sparse trees were around us; the snow
gradually lessened; and after five hours of incessant and rapid walking
we reached a patch of dry grass, where Kalder, the English miner, and
the Indians with the horses were awaiting us.




CHAPTER XXVI.

    British Columbia.--Boundaries again.--Juan de Fuça.--Carver.--
        The Shining Mountains.--Jacob Astor.--The monarch of
        salmon.--Oregon.--Riding and tying.--Nation Lake.--
        The Pacific.


We have been a long time now in that portion of the American continent
which is known as British Columbia, and yet we have said but little of
its early life, or how it came into the limits of a defined colony.

Sometime about that evening when we lay camped (now a long way back)
upon the hill where the grim face of Chimeroo looked blankly out upon
the darkening wilderness, we entered for the first time the territory
which bears the name of British Columbia.

Nature, who, whether she forms a flower or a nation, never makes
a mistake, had drawn on the northern continent of America her own
boundaries. She had put the Rocky Mountains to mark the two great
divisions of East and West America. But the theory of natural
boundaries appears never to have elicited from us much support, and in
the instance now under consideration we seem to have gone not a little
out of our way to evince our disapprobation of Nature’s doings.

It was the business of the Imperial Government a few years ago to
define the boundaries of the new province to which they were giving a
Constitution.

The old North-West Fur Company had rested satisfied with the Rocky
Mountain frontier, but in the new document the Eastern line was defined
as follows: “And to the east, from the boundary of the United States
northwards to the Rocky Mountains, _and the one hundred and twentieth
meridian of West Longitude_.” Unfortunately, although the one hundred
and twentieth meridian is situated for a portion of its course in the
main range of the mountains, it does not lie altogether within them.

The Rocky Mountains do not run north and south, but trend considerably
to the west; and the 120th meridian passes out into the prairie country
of the Peace River. In looking at this strangely unmeaning frontier,
where nature had already given such an excellent “divide,” and one
which had always been adopted by the early geographer, it seems only
rational to suppose that the framers of the new line lay under the
impression that mountain and meridian were in one and the same line.
Nor supposing such to be the case, would it be, by any means, the first
time that such an error had been made by those whose work it was to
frame our Colonial destiny.

Well, let us disregard this rectification of boundary, and look at
British Columbia as Nature had made it.

When, some seventy years ago, the Fur Company determined to push
their trade into the most remote recesses of the unknown territory
lying before them, a few adventurers following this same course which
I have lately taken, found themselves suddenly in a labyrinth of
mountains. These men named the mountain land “New Caledonia,” for
they had been nurtured in far Highland homes, and the grim pine-clad
steeps of this wild region, and the blue lakes lying lapped amid the
mountains, recalled the Loch’s and Ben’s of boyhood’s hours. ’Twas
long before they could make much of this new dominion. Mountains rose
on every side; white giants bald with age, wrapt in cloud, and cloaked
with pines. Cragged and scarped, and towering above valleys filled
with boulders, as though in bygone ages, when the old peaks had been
youngsters they had pelted each other with Titanic stones; which,
falling short, had filled the deep ravines that lay between them.

But if the mountains in their vast irregularity defied the early
explorers, the rivers were even still more perplexing. Mountains have
a right to behave in an irregular kind of way, but rivers are usually
supposed to conduct themselves on more peaceful principles. In New
Caledonia they had apparently forgotten this rule; they played all
manner of tricks. They turned and twisted behind the backs of hills,
and came out just the very way they shouldn’t have come out. They
rose often close to the sea, and then ran directly away from it. They
pierced through mountain ranges in cañons and chasms; and the mountains
threw down stones at them, but that only made them laugh all the
louder, as they raced away from cañon to cañon. Sometimes they grew
wicked, and, turned viciously and bit, and worried the bases of the
hills, and ate trees and rocks and landslips; and then, over all their
feuds and bickerings, came Time at last, as he always does, and threw a
veil over the conflict; a veil of pine-trees.

But in one respect both mountain and river seemed in perfect accord;
they would keep the land to themselves and their child, the wild
Indian; but the white man, the child of civilization, must be kept out.
Nevertheless the white man came in, and he named the rivers after his
own names, though they still laughed him to scorn, and were useless to
his commerce. Gradually this white fur-hunter spread himself through
the land; he passed the Frazer, reached the Columbia, and gained its
mouth; and here a strange rival presented himself. We must go back a
little.

Once upon a time a Greek sailor was cast away on the shore, where the
northmost Mexican coast merged into unknown lands.

He remained for years a wanderer; but when finally fate threw him again
upon Adriatic coasts, he was the narrator of strange stories, and the
projector of far distant enterprises.

North of California’s shore, there was, he said, a large island.
Between this island and the mainland lay a gulf which led to those
other gulfs, which, on the Atlantic verge, Cartier and Hudson had made
known to Europe.

In these days kings and viceroys gladly listened to a wanderer’s story.
The Greek was sent back to the coasts he had discovered, commissioned
to fortify the Straits he called Annian, against English ships seeking
through this outlet the northern passage to Cathay.

Over the rest time has drawn a cloud. It is said that the Greek sailor
failed and died. His story became matter of doubt. More than 300 years
passed away; Cook sought in vain for the strait, and the gulf beyond it.

Another English sailor was more fortunate; and in 1756 a lonely ship
passed between the island and the mainland, and the long, doubtful
channel was named “Juan de Fuça,” after the nickname of the forgotten
Greek.

To fortify the Straits of Annian was deemed the dream of an enthusiast;
yet by a strange coincidence, we see to-day its realization, and the
Island of San Juan, our latest loss, has now upon its shores a hostile
garrison, bent upon closing the Straits of Fuça against the ships of
England.

North of California, and south of British Columbia, there lies a vast
region. Rich in forest, prairie, snow-clad peak, alluvial meadow, hill
pasture, and rolling table-land. It has all that nature can give a
nation; its climate is that of England; its peaks are as lofty as Mont
Blanc; its meadows as rich as the vales of Somerset.

The Spaniard knew it by repute, and named it Oregon, after the river
which we call the Columbia. Oregon was at that time the entire west of
the Rocky Mountains, to the north of California. Oregon had long been a
mystic land, a realm of fable. Carver, the indefatigable, had striven
to reach the great river of the west, whose source lay near that of
the Mississipi. The Indians had told him that where the Mississipi had
its birth in the shining mountains, another vast river also rose, and
flowed west into the shoreless sea. Carver failed to reach the shining
mountains; his dream remained to him. “Probably,” he writes, “in future
ages they (the mountains) may be found to contain more riches in their
bowels than those of Indostan or Malabar, or that are produced on the
golden Gulf of Guinea, nor will I except even the Peruvian mines.”
To-day that dream comes true, and from the caverns of the shining
mountains men draw forth more gold and silver than all these golden
realms enumerated by the baffled Carver ever produced. But the road
which Carver had pointed out was soon to be followed.

In the first years of the new century men penetrated the gorges of the
shining mountain, and reached the great river of the west; but they
hunted for furs, and not for gold; and fur-hunters keep to themselves
the knowledge of their discoveries. Before long the great Republic born
upon the Atlantic shores began to stretch its infant arms towards the
dim Pacific.

In 1792, a Boston ship entered the mouth of the Oregon river.

The charts carried by the vessel showed no river upon the coast-line,
and the captain named the breaker-tossed estuary after his ship “the
Columbia.” He thought he had discovered a new river; in reality, he had
but found again the older known Oregon. It is more than probable, that
this new named river would again have found its ancient designation,
had not an enterprising German now appeared upon the scene. One Jacob
Astor, a vendor of small furs and hats, in New York, turned his eyes to
the west.

He wished to plant upon the Pacific the germs of American fur trade.
The story of his enterprise has been sketched by a cunning hand; but
under the brilliant colouring which a great artist has thrown around
his tale of Astoria, the strong bias of the partisan is too plainly
apparent. Yet it is easy to detect the imperfect argument by which
Washington Irving endeavours to prove the right of the United States to
the disputed territory of Oregon. The question is one of “Who was first
upon the ground?”

Irving claims, that Astor, in 1810, was the first trader who erected a
station on the banks of the Columbia.

But in order to form his fort, Astor had to induce several of the
_employées_ of the North-West Fur Company to desert their service.
And Irving innocently tells us, that when the overland expedition
under Hunt reached the Columbia, they found the Indians well supplied
with European articles, which they had obtained from white traders
already domiciled west of the Rocky Mountains. He records the fact
while he misses its meaning. British fur traders had reached Oregon
long before Jacob Astor had planted his people on the estuary of the
Columbia. Astor’s factory had but a short life. The war of 1813 broke
out. A British ship appeared off the bar of the Columbia River, and the
North-West Company moving down the river became the owners of Astoria.
But with their usual astuteness the Government of the United States
claimed, at the conclusion of the war, the possession of Oregon, on
the ground that it had been theirs prior to the struggle. That it had
not been so, is evident to any person who will carefully inquire into
the history of the discovery of the North-West Coast, and the regions
lying west of the mountains. But no one cares to ask about such things,
and no one cared to do so, even when the question was one of greater
moment than it is at present. So, with the usual supineness which
has let drift from us so many fair realms won by the toil and daring
of forgotten sons, we parted at last with this magnificent region of
Oregon, and signed it over to our voracious cousins.

It was the old story so frequently repeated. The country was useless; a
pine-forest, a wilderness, a hopeless blank upon the face of nature.

To-day, Oregon is to my mind _the fairest State in the American Union_.

There is a story widely told throughout British Columbia, which aptly
illustrates the past policy of Great Britain, in relation to her vast
Wild Lands.

Stories widely told are not necessarily true ones; but this story has
about it the ring of probability.

It is said that once upon a time a certain British nobleman anchored
his ship-of-war in the deep waters of Puget Sound. It was at a time
when discussion was ripe upon the question of disputed ownership in
Oregon, and this ship was sent out for the protection of British
interests on the shores of the North Pacific. She bore an ill-fated
name for British diplomacy. She was called the “America.”

The commander of the “America” was fond of salmon fishing; the waters
of the Oregon were said to be stocked with salmon: the fishing would
be excellent. The mighty “Ekewan,” monarch of salmon, would fall a
victim to flies, long famous on waters of Tweed or Tay. Alas! for the
perverseness of Pacific salmon. No cunningly twisted hackle, no deftly
turned wing of mallard, summer duck, or jungle cock, would tempt the
blue and silver monsters of the Columbia or the Cowlitz Rivers. In
despair, his lordship reeled up his line, took to pieces his rod, and
wrote in disgust to his brother (a prominent statesman of the day)
that the whole country was a huge mistake; that even the salmon in its
waters was a fish of no principle, refusing to bite, to nibble, or to
rise. In fine, that the territory of Oregon, was not worthy of a second
thought. So the story runs. If it be not true, it has its birth in
that too true insularity which would be sublime, if it did not cost us
something like a kingdom every decade of years.

Such has been the past of Oregon. It still retains a few associations
of its former owners. From its mass of forest, from its long-reaching
rivers, and above its ever green prairies, immense spire-shaped single
peaks rise up 14,000 feet above the Pacific level. Far over the blue
waters they greet the sailor’s eye, while yet the lower shore lies deep
sunken beneath the ocean sky-line. They are literally the “shining
mountains” of Carver, and seamen say that at night, far out at sea,
the Pacific waves glow brightly ’neath the reflected lustre of their
eternal snows.

These solitary peaks bear English titles, and early fur-hunter, or
sailor-discoverer, have written their now forgotten names in snow-white
letters upon the blue skies of Oregon.

But perhaps one of these days our cousins will change all that.

Meantime, I have wandered far south from my lofty standpoint on the
snowy ridges of the Bald Mountains in Northern New Caledonia.

Descending with rapid strides the mountain trail, we heard a faint
signal-call from the valley before us. It was from the party sent on
the previous evening, to await our arrival at the spot where Rufus
had left his worn-out horses a week before. A few miles more brought
us within sight of the blue smoke which promised breakfast--a welcome
prospect after six hours forced marching over the steep ridges of the
Bald Mountains.

Two Indians, two miners, two thin horses, and one fat dog now formed
the camp before the fire, at which we rested with feelings of keen
delight. Tom, the “carrier” Indian, and Kalder, my trusty henchman,
had breakfast ready; and beans and bacon, to say nothing of jam and
white bread, were still sufficient novelties to a winter traveller,
long nourished upon the sole luxury of moose pemmican, to make eighteen
miles of mountain exercise a needless prelude to a hearty breakfast.
The meal over we made preparations for our march to the south. In
round numbers I was 300 miles from Quesnelle. Mountain, forest, swamp,
river, and lake, lay between me and that valley where the first vestige
of civilized travel would greet me on the rapid waters of the Frazer
River.

Through all this land of wilderness a narrow trail held its way; now,
under the shadow of lofty pine forest; now, skirting the shores of
lonely lakes; now, climbing the mountain ranges of the Nation River,
where yet the snow lay deep amid those valleys whose waters seek
upon one side the Pacific, upon the other the Arctic Ocean. Between
me and the frontier “city” of Quesnelle lay the Hudson’s Bay Fort of
St. James, on the south-east shore of the lake called Stuart’s. Here
my companion Rufus counted upon obtaining fresh horses; but until we
could reach this half-way house, our own good legs must carry us, for
the steeds now gathered into the camp were as poor and weak as the
fast travel and long fasting of the previous journey could make them.
They were literally but skin and bone, and it was still a matter of
doubt whether they would be able to carry our small stock of food and
blankets, in addition to their own bodies, over the long trail before
us.

Packing our goods upon the backs of the skeleton steeds, we set out
for the south. Before proceeding far a third horse was captured.
He proved to be in better condition than his comrades. A saddle was
therefore placed on his back, and he was handed over to me by Rufus in
order that we should “ride and tie” during the remainder of the day.
In theory this arrangement was admirable; in practice it was painfully
defective. The horse seemed to enter fully into the “tying” part of
it, but the “riding” was altogether another matter. I think nothing
but the direst starvation would have induced that “cayoose” to deviate
in any way from his part of the tying. No amount of stick or whip or
spur would make him a party to the riding. At last he rolled heavily
against a prostrate tree, bruising me not a little by the performance.
He appeared to have serious ideas of fancying himself “tied” when in
this reclining position, and it was no easy matter to disentangle
oneself from his ruins. After this I dissolved partnership with Rufus,
and found that walking was a much less fatiguing, and less hazardous
performance, if a little less exciting.

We held our way through a wild land of hill and vale and swamp for some
fifteen or sixteen miles, and camped on the edge of a little meadow,
where the old grass of the previous year promised the tired horses a
scanty meal. It was but a poor pasturage, and next morning one horse
proved so weak that we left him to his fate, and held on with two
horses towards the Nation River. Between us and this Nation River lay
a steep mountain, still deep in snow. We began its ascent while the
morning was yet young.

Since daylight it had snowed incessantly; and in a dense driving
snow-storm we made the passage of the mountain.

The winter’s snow lay four feet deep upon the trail, and our horses
sunk to their girths at every step. Slowly we plodded on, each horse
stepping in the old footprints of the last journey, and pausing often
to take breath in the toilsome ascent. At length the summit was
reached; but a thick cloud hung over peak and valley. Then the trail
wound slowly downwards, and by noon we reached the shore of a dim lake,
across whose bosom the snow-storm swept as though the time had been
mid-November instead of the end of May.

We passed the outlet of the Nation Lake (a sheet of water some
thirty-five miles in length, lying nearly east and west), and held our
way for some miles along its southern shore. In the evening we had
reached a green meadow, on the banks of a swollen stream.

While Rufus and I were taking the packs off the tired horses,
preparatory to making them swim the stream; a huge grizzly bear came
out upon the opposite bank and looked at us for a moment. The Indians
who were behind saw him approach us, but they were too far from us to
make their voices audible. A tree crossed the stream, and the opposite
bank rose steeply from the water to the level meadow above. Bruin was
not twenty paces from us, but the bank hid him from our view; and when
I became aware of his proximity he had already made up his mind to
retire. Grizzlies are seldom met under such favourable circumstances.
A high bank in front, a level meadow beyond, I long regretted the
chance, lost so unwittingly, and our cheerless bivouac that night in
the driving sleet would have been but little heeded, had my now rusty
double-barrel spoken its mind to our shaggy visitor. But one cannot
always be in luck.

All night long it rained and sleeted and snowed, and daylight broke
upon a white landscape. We got away from camp at four o’clock, and held
on with rapid pace until ten. By this hour we had reached the summit
of the table-land “divide” between the Arctic and Pacific Oceans. It
is almost imperceptible, its only indication being the flow of water
south, instead of north-east. The day had cleared, but a violent storm
swept the forest, crashing many a tall tree prostrate to the earth; and
when we camped for dinner, it was no easy matter to select a spot safe
from the dangers of falling pine-trees.

As I quitted this Arctic water-shed, and stood on the height of land
between the two oceans, memory could not help running back, over the
many scenes which had passed, since on that evening after leaving the
Long Portage, I had first entered the river systems of the North.

Full 1300 miles away lay the camping-place of that evening; and as the
many long hours of varied travel rose up again before me, snow-swept,
toil-laden, full at times of wreck and peril and disaster; it was not
without reason that, turning away from the cold northern landscape, I
saluted with joy the blue pine-tops, through which rolled the broad
rivers of the Pacific.

[Illustration: “THE LOOK-OUT MOUNTAIN.”]




CHAPTER XXVII.

    The Look-out Mountain.--A gigantic tree.--The Untiring retires
        before superior numbers.--Fort St. James.--A strange sight
        in the forest.--Lake Noola.--Quesnelle.--Cerf-vola in
        civilized life.--Old dog, good-bye.


We marched that day over thirty miles, and halted in a valley of
cotton-wood trees, amid green leaves again. We were yet distant about
forty-five miles from the Fort St. James, but my friend Rufus declared
that a rapid march on the morrow would take us to the half-way house by
sun-down. Rapid marches had long since become familiar, and one more or
less did not matter much.

Daybreak found us in motion; it was a fast walk, it was a faster walk,
it was a run, and ere the mid-day sun hung over the rich undulating
forest-land, we were thirty miles from our camp in the cotton-wood.
Before noon, a lofty ridge rose before us; the trail wound up its long
ascent, Rufus called it “the Look-out Mountain.” The top was bare of
forest, the day was bright with sunshine; not a cloud lay over the vast
plateau of Middle New Caledonia.

Five hundred snowy peaks rose up along the horizon: the Nation Lake
Mountains, the further ranges of the Ominica, the ridges which lie
between the many tributaries of the Peace and the countless lakes of
the North Frazer. Babine, Tatla, Pinkley, Stuart’s, and far off to
the west the old monarchs of the Rocky Mountains rose up to look a
last farewell to the wanderer, who now carried away to distant lands
a hundred memories of their lonely beauty. On the south slope of the
Look-out Mountain, a gigantic pine-tree first attracts the traveller’s
eye; its seamed trunk is dusky red, its dark and sombre head is lifted
high above all other trees, and the music which the winds make through
its branches seems to come from a great distance. It is the Douglas
Pine of the Pacific coast, the monarch of Columbian forests, a tree
which Turner must have seen in his dreams.

A few miles south of the mountain, the country opened out into pleasant
prairies fringed with groves of cotton-wood; the grass was growing
thick and green, the meadows were bright with flowers. Three fat horses
were feeding upon one of these meadows; they were the property of
Rufus. We caught them with some little difficulty, and turned our two
poor thin animals adrift in peace and plenty; then mounting the fresh
steeds, Rufus and I hurried on to Fort St. James.

The saddle was a pleasant change after the hard marching of the last
few days. Mud and dust and stones, alternating with the snow of the
mountains, had told heavily against our moccassined feet; but the worst
was now over, and henceforth we would have horses to Quesnelle.

It was yet some time before sun-down when we cantered down the sloping
trail which leads to the Fort St. James. Of course the Untiring was
at his usual post--well to the front. Be it dog-train, or march on
foot, or march with horses, the Untiring led the van, his tail like
the plume of Henry of Navarre at Ivry, ever waving his followers to
renewed exertions. It would be no easy matter for me to enumerate all
the Hudson’s Bay forts which the Untiring had entered at the head of
his train. Long and varied experience had made him familiar with every
description of post, from the imposing array of wooden buildings which
marked the residence of a chief factor, down to the little isolated hut
wherein some half-breed servant carries on his winter traffic on the
shore of a nameless lake.

Cerf-vola knew them all. Freed from his harness in the square of a
fort--an event which he usually accelerated by dragging his sled and
three other dogs to the doorway of the principal house--he at once made
himself master of the situation, paying particular attention to two
objective points. First, the intimidation of resident dogs; second,
the topography of the provision store. Ten minutes after his entry
into a previously unexplored fort, he knew to a nicety where the white
fish were kept, and where the dry meat and pemmican lay. But on this
occasion at Fort St. James a woful disaster awaited him.

With the memory of many triumphal entries full upon him, he now led
the way into the square of the fort, totally forgetting that he was no
longer a hauling-dog, but a free lance or a rover on his own account.
In an instant four huge haulers espied him, and charging from every
side ere I could force in upon the conflict to balance sides a little,
they completely prostrated the hitherto invincible Esquimaux, and at
his last Hudson Bay post, near the close of his 2500 mile march, he
experienced his first defeat. We rescued him from his enemies before he
had suffered much bodily hurt, but he looked considerably tail-fallen
at this unlooked-for reception, and passed the remainder of the day in
strict seclusion underneath my bed.

Stuart’s Lake is a very beautiful sheet of water. Tall mountains
rise along its western and northern shores, and forest promontories
stretch far into its deep blue waters. It is the favourite home of the
salmon, when late in summer he has worked his long, toilsome way up the
innumerable rapids of the Frazer, 500 miles from the Pacific.

Colossal sturgeon are also found in its waters, sometimes weighing as
much as 800 pounds. With the exception of rabbits, game is scarce,
along the shores, but at certain times rabbits are found in incredible
numbers; the Indian women snare them by sacksful, and every one lives
on rabbit, for when rabbits are numerous, salmon are scarce.

The daily rations of a man in the wide domain of the Hudson’s Bay
Company are singularly varied.

On the south shores of Hudson’s Bay a _voyageur_ receives every day one
wild goose; in the Saskatchewan he gets ten pounds of buffalo-meat;
in Athabasca eight pounds of moose-meat; in English River three large
white fish; in the North, half fish and reindeer; and here in New
Caledonia he receives for his day’s food eight rabbits or one salmon.
Start not, reader, at the last item! The salmon is a dried one, and
does not weigh more than a pound and a half in its reduced form.

After a day’s delay at Fort St. James, we started again on our southern
road. A canoe carried us to a point some five and twenty miles lower
down the Stuart’s River--a rapid stream of considerable size, which
bears the out-flow of the lake and of the long line of lakes lying
north of Stuart’s, into the main Frazer River.

I here said good-bye to Kalder, who was to return to Peace River on the
following day. A whisky saloon in the neighbourhood of the fort had
proved too much for this hot-tempered half-breed, and he was in a state
of hilarious grief when we parted. “He had been very hasty,” he said,
“would I exsqueeze him, as he was sorry; he would always go with this
master again if he ever came back to Peace River;” and then the dog
caught his eye, and overpowered by his feelings he vanished into the
saloon.

Guided by an old carrier Indian chief, the canoe swept out of the
beautiful lake and ran swiftly down the Stuart’s River. By sun-down we
had reached the spot where the trail crosses the stream, and here we
camped for the night; our horses had arrived before us under convoy of
Tom the Indian.

On the following morning, the 31st of May, we reached the banks of the
Nacharcole River, a large stream flowing from the west; open prairies
of rich land fringed the banks of this river, and far as the eye could
reach to the west no mountain ridge barred the way to the Western Ocean.

This river has its source within twenty miles of the Pacific, and
is without doubt the true line to the sea for a northern railroad,
whenever Canada shall earnestly take in hand the work of riveting
together the now widely-severed portions of her vast dominion; but to
this subject I hope to have time to devote a special chapter in the
Appendix to this book, now my long journey is drawing to a close, and
these latter pages of its story are written amid stormy waves, where
a southward-steering ship reels on beneath the shadow of Madeira’s
mountains.

Crossing the wide Nacharcole River, and continuing south for a few
miles, we reached a broadly cut trail which bore curious traces of
past civilization. Old telegraph poles stood at intervals along the
forest-cleared opening, and rusted wire hung in loose festoons down
from their tops, or lay tangled amid the growing brushwood of the
cleared space. A telegraph in the wilderness! What did it mean?

When civilization once grasps the wild, lone spaces of the earth it
seldom releases its hold; yet here civilization had once advanced
her footsteps, and apparently shrunk back again frightened at her
boldness. It was even so; this trail, with its ruined wire, told of
the wreck of a great enterprise. While yet the Atlantic cable was
an unsettled question, a bold idea sprung to life in the brain of
an American. It was to connect the Old World and the New, by a wire
stretched through the vast forests of British Columbia and Alaska, to
the Straits of Behring; thence across the Tundras of Kamtschatka, and
around the shores of Okhotsk the wires would run to the Amoor River, to
meet a line which the Russian Government would lay from Moscow to the
Pacific.

It was a grand scheme, but it lacked the elements of success, because
of ill-judged route and faulty execution. The great Telegraph Company
of the United States entered warmly into the plan. Exploring parties
were sent out; one pierced these silent forests; another surveyed the
long line of the Yukon; another followed the wintry shores of the Sea
of Okhotsk, and passed the Tundras of the black Gulf of Anadir.

Four millions of dollars were spent in these expeditions. Suddenly
news came that the Atlantic cable was an accomplished fact. Brunel had
died of a broken heart; but the New World and the Old had welded their
thoughts together, with the same blow that broke his heart.

Europe spoke to America beneath the ocean, and the voice which men had
sought to waft through the vast forests of the Wild North Land, and
over the Tundras of Siberia, died away in utter desolation.

So the great enterprise was abandoned, and to-day from the lonely
shores of Lake Babine to the bend of the Frazer at Quesnelle, the
ruined wire hangs loosely through the forest.

During the first two days of June we journeyed through a wild,
undulating country, filled with lakes and rolling hills; grassy
openings were numerous, and many small streams stocked with fish
intersected the land.

The lakes of this northern plateau are singularly beautiful. Many isles
lie upon their surface; from tiny promontories the huge Douglas pine
lifts his motionless head. The great northern diver, the loon, dips
his white breast in the blue wavelets, and sounds his melancholy cry
through the solitude. I do not think that I have ever listened to a
sound which conveys a sense of indescribable loneliness so completely
as this wail, which the loon sends at night over the forest shores. The
man who wrote

    “And on the mere the wailing died away”

must have heard it in his dreams.

We passed the noisy Indian village of Lake Noola and the silent Indian
graves on the grassy shore of Lake Noolkai, and the evening of the 2nd
of June found us camped in the green meadows of the West Road River,
up which a white man first penetrated to the Pacific Ocean just eighty
years ago.

A stray Indian came along with news of disaster. A canoe had upset
near the cotton-wood cañon of the Frazer, and the Hudson’s Bay officer
at Fort George had gone down beneath a pile of driftwood, in the
whirlpools of the treacherous river. The Indian had been with him, but
he had reached the shore with difficulty, and was now making his way to
Fort St. James, carrying news of the catastrophe.

Forty more miles brought us to the summit of a ridge, from which a
large river was seen flowing in the centre of a deep valley far into
the south. Beyond, on the further shore, a few scattered wooden houses
stood grouped upon a level bank; the wild rose-trees were in blossom;
it was summer in the forest, and the evening air was fragrant with the
scent of flowers.

I drew rein a moment on the ridge, and looked wistfully back along the
forest trail.

Before me spread civilization and the waters of the Pacific; behind me,
vague and vast, lay a hundred memories of the Wild North Land.

       *       *       *       *       *

For many reasons it is fitting to end this story here. Between the
ridge on the west shore of the Frazer and those scattered wooden
houses on the east, lies a gulf wider than a score of valleys. On one
side man--on the other the wilderness; on one side noise of steam
and hammer--on the other voice of wild things and the silence of the
solitude.

It is still many hundred miles ere I can hope to reach anything save a
border civilization. The road which runs from Quesnelle to Victoria is
400 miles in length. Washington territory, Oregon, and California have
yet to be traversed ere, 1500 miles from here, the golden gate of San
Francisco opens on the sunset of the Pacific Ocean.

Many scenes of beauty lie in that long track hidden in the bosom of
the Sierras. The Cascades Ranier, Hood, and Shasta will throw their
shadows across my path as the Untiring dog and his now tired master,
wander south towards the grim Yosemite; but to link these things into
the story of a winter journey across the yet untamed wilds of the Great
North would be an impossible task.

One evening I stood in a muddy street of New York. A crowd had gathered
before the door of one of those immense buildings which our cousins
rear along their city thoroughfares and call hotels. The door opened,
and half a dozen dusky men came forth.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“They are the Sioux chiefs from the Yellowstone,” answered a bystander;
“they’re a taking them to the the-a-ter, to see Lester Wallick.”

Out on the Great Prairie I had often seen the red man in his boundless
home; savage if you will, but still a power in the land, and fitting in
every way the wilds in which he dwells. The names of Red Cloud and his
brother chiefs from the Yellowstone were household words to me. It was
this same Red Cloud who led his 500 whooping warriors on Fetterman’s
troops, when not one soldier escaped to tell the story of the fight in
the foot-hills of the Wyoming Mountains; and here was Red Cloud now in
semi-civilized dress, but still a giant ’midst the puny rabble that
thronged to see him come forth; with the gaslight falling on his dusky
features and his eyes staring in bewildered vacancy at the crowd around
him.

Captain Jack was right: better, poor hunted savage, thy grave in the
lava-beds, than this burlesque union of street and wilderness! But
there was one denizen of the wilds who followed my footsteps into
southern lands, and of him the reader might ask, “What more?”

Well, the Untiring took readily to civilization; he looked at Shasta,
he sailed on the Columbia River, he climbed the dizzy ledges of the
Yosemite, he gazed at the Golden Gate, and saw the sun sink beyond the
blue waves of the great Salt Lake, but none of these scenes seemed to
affect him in the slightest degree.

He journeyed in the boot or on the roof of a stage-coach for more than
800 miles; he was weighed once as extra baggage, and classified and
charged as such; he conducted himself with all possible decorum in the
rooms and corridors of the grand hotel at San Francisco; he crossed the
continent in a railway carriage to Montreal and Boston, as though he
had been a first-class passenger since childhood; he thought no more of
the reception-room of Brigham Young in Utah, than had he been standing
on a snow-drift in Athabasca Lake; he was duly photographed and petted
and pampered, but he took it all as a matter of course.

There were, however, two facts in civilization which caused him
unutterable astonishment--a brass band, and a butcher’s stall. He fled
from the one; he howled with delight before the other.

I frequently endeavoured to find out the cause of his aversion to
music. Although he was popularly supposed to belong to the species
of savage beast, music had anything but a soothing effect upon him.
Whenever he heard a band, he fled to my hotel; and once, when they were
burying a renowned general of volunteers in San Francisco with full
military honours, he caused no small confusion amidst the mournful
cortége by charging full tilt through the entire crowd.

But the butcher’s stall was something to be long remembered. Six or
eight sheep, and half as many fat oxen hung up by the heels, apparently
all for his benefit, was something that no dog could understand.
Planting himself full before it, he howled hilariously for some
moments, and when with difficulty I succeeded in conducting him to the
seclusion of my room, he took advantage of my absence to remove with
the aid of his teeth the obnoxious door-panel which intervened between
him and this paradise of mutton.

On the Atlantic shore I bid my old friend a long good-bye. It was
night; and as the ship sailed away from the land, and I found myself
separated for the first time during so many long months from the friend
and servant and partner who

    Thro’ every swift vicissitude
    Of changeful time, unchanged had stood,

I strung together these few rhymes, which were not the less true
because they were only


MORE DOGGEREL.

    Old dog, good-bye, the parting time has come,
      Hero on the verge of wild Atlantic foam;
    He who would follow, when fast beats the drum,
      Must have no place of rest, no dog, no home.

    And yet I cannot leave thee even here,
      Where toil and cold in peace and rest shall end,
    Poor faithful partner of a wild career,
      Through icy leagues my sole unceasing friend,

    Without one word to mark our long good-bye,
      Without a line to paint that wintry dream,
    When day by day, old Husky, thou, and I,
      Toiled o’er the great Unchagah’s frozen stream.

    For now, when it is time to go, strange sights
      Rise from the ocean of the vanish’d year,
    And wail of pines, and sheen of northern lights,
      Flash o’er the sight and float on mem’ry’s ear.

    We cross again the lone, dim shrouded lake,
      Where stunted cedars bend before the blast;
    Again the camp is made amidst the brake,
      The pine-log’s light upon thy face is cast.

    We talk together, yes--we often spent
      An hour in converse, while my bit thou shared.
    One eye, a friendly one, on me was bent;
      The other, on some comrade fiercely glared.

    Deep slept the night, the owl had ceased his cry,
      Unbroken stillness o’er the earth was shed;
    And crouch’d beside me thou wert sure to lie,
      Thy rest a watching, snow thy only bed.

    The miles went on, the tens ’neath twenties lay;
      The scores to hundreds slowly, slowly, roll’d;
    And ere the winter wore itself away,
      The hundreds turn’d to thousands doubly told.

    But still thou wert the leader of the band,
      And still thy step went on thro’ toil and pain;
    Until like giants in the Wild North Land,
      A thousand glittering peaks frown’d o’er the plain.

    And yet we did not part; beside me still
      Was seen thy bushy tail, thy well-known face;
    Through cañon dark, and by the snow-clad hill,
      Thou kept unchanged thy old familiar pace.

    Why tell it all? through fifty scenes we went,
      Where Shasta’s peak its lonely shadows cast;
    Till now for Afric’s shore my steps are bent,
      And thou and I, old friend, must part at last.

    Thou wilt not miss me, home and care are thine,
      And peace and rest will lull thee to the end;
    But still, perchance with low and wistful whine,
      Thou’lt sometimes scan the landscape for thy friend.

    Or when the drowsy summer noon is nigh,
      Or wintry moon upon the white snow shines,
    From dreamy sleep will rise a muffled cry,
      For him who led thee through the land of pines.




POSTSCRIPT

FOR THE EDITION OF 1907.


I have been asked to write a few new words for this old book, and it is
not easy to do it. Most of the men and all the dogs of that wild time
in the North are dead. I have never been able to understand why dogs
should have short lives, and so many other things, such as tortoises,
elephants, carp, and even men, should have long lives.

A few months ago I saw at St. Helena two tortoises which were said
to have been at Plantation House for more than one hundred years.
During a visit which I made to St. Helena in 1864 I became the owner
of a picture of Plantation House, dated 1840. Two tortoises are shown
in that picture on the lawn in front of the house, much smaller in
size than the two now there. So it is probable that the legend of the
hundred years on the Island is correct.

Strange! Napoleon, Bertrand, Montholon, Las Cases, Gourgaud, Hudson
Lowe, O’Meara, all gone long ago--the two tortoises still there!

At the end of the Preface of 1873 I said that I was then about to
proceed to Africa--a continent which appeared at the moment “to be
offering adventure with a liberal hand.” That is thirty-four years
ago; and, had Africa continued in her liberal mood, it might have been
easier to write this Postscript to-day. Unfortunately the mood did not
last. Africa proffered her adventures to me with a very conservative
hand--so much so, indeed, that a great blank or void has arisen in
my mind between these old days of the snow-shoe, the dog-sled, the
buffalo, and the prairie of the Wild North Land and the present time.
Over and above the lapse of years, Africa has intervened with rather
more than a full share of her by-products--fever, ineffectual labour,
and that eventual frustration of human effort which seems to have been
the inevitable outcome of African adventure from the time of Hannibal
the Carthaginian to Moneyball, the London Latitudinarian.

If you look at a map of the world you will see that what is, in a
topographical sense, thickest and longest in Africa is thinnest and
shortest in the rest of the globe. Africa, measured along the 10th
degree of North latitude, gives about 4000 miles of land-line. The
same latitude in all the other continents combined will give about 400
miles. We call the equator an imaginary line, but it is the only real
live line that has lasting significance in relation to man’s life on
earth.

The equator may be said to be the chest and heart of Africa. Elsewhere
over the globe it is as a finger-tip or a toe-nail. That fact holds an
immense human problem.

When the Great Divider of earth and ocean scooped out the central
portion of the two Americas, forming the vast water receptacle now
filled by the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea, He laid the line of
a good deal of man’s destiny in the world.

Run the eye from this great sea gap in America across the Atlantic
to the west coast of Africa, and in the same latitudes you find a
corresponding land protuberance, sufficient (if we could tow it across
the ocean) to fill the opposite land vacuum in Central America. And it
is strange to note that it was from this African protuberance that the
vast majority of the negroes were taken in the days of the slave trade,
and carried over the Atlantic to work as slaves among the islands
and on the coasts of this same Mexican Gulf and Carib Sea. Were the
slave-traders of Bristol and Liverpool, unconsciously, in this hideous
traffic, reversing the after idea of Canning by calling the old world
into American slavery in order to redress the balance of colour in the
new? For what seems probable is that had these, say twenty degrees,
of solid Equatorial Africa originally filled up that Central American
sea space, the greater part of the entire continent would to-day have
belonged to the negro race.

The Aztec has gone, the Indian is going, but the imported African black
man is going ahead.

At the end of the Civil War less than three million negroes were in
the United States. There are now, I am told, ten millions. In spite
of old slavery and modern race-exclusion and outrage, the African is
making his way in the new world. Emigration from Europe throws nearly
a million virile whites annually into America. Africa sends no fresh
blood to replenish the old slave stock; nevertheless, the ratio of
black increase exceeds that of the white.

Herein a strange contrariety presents itself in the two colours. The
white man fails to live and propagate himself in Equatorial Africa, but
the black man thrives and multiplies in America. And meanwhile what
about the Wild North Land? That, like the men and dogs, is also dead.

One of the old friends of that time still survives--the gentleman of
the Hudson’s Bay Company who was my companion from Fort Carlton to
Lake Athabasca in the winter of ’72–73. His letters still breathe the
same unconquerable energy that characterised him in the far North. He
tells me in a letter written from Winnipeg at Christmas last that my
little village at Fort Garry is now a great city, “which will one day,”
he writes, “be the greatest, and in short the Chicago of Canada.” He
tells me also of booms and bridges and expansions, and he sends me
newspapers with pictures of hotels, grain-elevators, and universities,
all of approved American design, and of entirely up-to-date ugliness.
He says that even “a more progressive city government is expected from
a new mayor who has recently been elected by nearly double the largest
majority ever obtained by any previous mayor.”

All this is no doubt quite as it should be; but it goes to prove, all
the same, that the Wild North Land is dead and buried. I do not want
to see its grave--I prefer to remember it as I saw it more than a
generation ago; and I believe that one Chicago is amply sufficient for
any one world.

Indeed, I can never be grateful enough that it was given me to see
the old things of North America before the deluge. Prairies pure and
unspotted; great herds of buffaloes moving; the sun setting over a
silent wilderness.

                                        W. F. B.

  _January 1907._




                               APPENDIX.

    ON THE PASSES THROUGH THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS IN BRITISH TERRITORY,

                                  AND

     THE BEST ROUTE FOR A CANADIAN RAILROAD TO THE PACIFIC OCEAN.




APPENDIX.


Nearly twenty years ago we began to talk of building a railroad across
the continent of North America to lie wholly within British territory,
and we are still talking about it.

Meantime our cousins have built their inter-oceanic road, and having
opened it and run upon it for six years: they are also talking much
about their work. But of such things it is, perhaps, better to speak
after the work has been accomplished than before it has been begun.

The line which thus connects the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans bears
the name of the Union Pacific Railroad. It crosses the continent
nearly through the centre of the United States, following, with slight
deviation, the 42nd parallel of latitude. Two other lines have been
projected south, and one north of this Union Pacific road, all lying
within the United States; but all have come to untimely ends, stopping
midway in their career across the sandy plains of the West.

There was the Southern Pacific Railroad to follow the 30th parallel;
there was the Kansas Pacific line following the Republican valley, and
stopping short at the city of Denver in Colorado; and there was the
Northern Pacific Railroad, the most ambitious of all the later lines,
which, starting from the city of Duluth on the western extremity of
Lake Superior, traversed the northern half of the State of Minnesota,
crossed the sandy wastes of Dakota, and has just now come heavily to
grief at the Big Bend of the Missouri River, on the borders of the “Bad
Lands” of the Yellowstone.

In an early chapter of this book it has been remarked that the
continent of North America, east of the Rocky Mountains, sloped from
south to north. This slope, which is observable from Mexico to the
Arctic Ocean, has an important bearing on the practical working of
railroad lines across the continent. The Union Pacific road, taken in
connexion with the Central Pacific, attains at its maximum elevation
an altitude of over 8000 feet above the sea-level, and runs far over
900 miles at an average height of about 4500 feet; the Northern Pacific
reaches over 5000 feet, and fully half its projected course lies
through a country 3000 to 4000 feet above ocean-level; the line of
the Kansas Pacific is still more elevated, and the great plateau of
the Colorado River is more than 7000 feet above the sea. Continuing
northward, into British territory, the next projected line is that
of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and it is with this road that our
business chiefly lies in these few pages of Appendix.

The depression, or slope, of the prairie level towards the north
continues, with marked regularity, throughout the whole of British
America; thus at the 49th parallel (the boundary-line between the
United States), the mean elevation of the plains is about 4000 feet.
Two hundred and fifty miles north, or in the 53rd parallel, it is about
3000 feet; and 300 miles still farther north, or about the entrance to
the Peace River Pass, it has fallen to something like 1700 feet above
the sea-level.

But these elevations have reference only to the prairies at the eastern
base of the Rocky Mountains. We must now glance at the mountains
themselves, which form the real obstacle to inter-oceanic lines of
railroad.

It might be inferred from this gradual slope of the plains northwards,
that the mountain-ranges followed the same law, and decreased in a
corresponding degree after they passed the 49th parallel, but such is
not the case; so far from it, they only attain their maximum elevation
in 52° N. latitude, where, from an altitude of 16,000 feet, the summits
of Mounts Brown and Hooker look down on the fertile plains at the
sources of the Saskatchewan River.

As may be supposed, it is only here that the Rocky Mountains present
themselves in their grandest form. Rising from a base only 3000 feet
above the ocean, their full magnitude strikes at once upon the eye
of the beholder; whereas, when looked at in the American States from
a standpoint already elevated 6000 or 7000 feet above the sea, and
rising only to an altitude of 10,000 or 12,000 feet, they appear
insignificant, and the traveller experiences a sense of disappointment
as he looks at their peaks thus slightly elevated above the plain. But
though the summits of the range increase in height as we go north, the
levels of the valleys or passes, decrease in a most remarkable degree.

Let us look for a moment at these gaps which Nature has formed through
this mighty barrier. Twenty miles north of the boundary-line the
Kootanie Pass traverses the Rocky Mountains.

The waters of the Belly River upon the east, and those of the Wigwam
River on the west, have their sources in this valley, the highest point
of which is more than 6000 feet above sea-level.

Fifty miles north of the Kootanie, the Kananaskiss Pass cuts the three
parallel ranges which here form the Rocky Mountains; the height of land
is here 5700 feet. Thirty miles more to the north the Vermilion Pass
finds its highest level at 4903; twenty miles again to the north the
Kicking Horse Pass reaches 5210 feet; then comes the House Pass, 4500
feet; and, lastly, the pass variously known by the names of Jasper’s
House, Tête Jeune, and Leather Pass, the highest point of which is 3400
feet.

From the House Pass to the Tête Jeune is a little more than sixty
miles, and it is a singular fact that these two lowest passes in
the range have lying between them the loftiest summits of the Rocky
Mountains from Mexico to the Arctic Ocean.

The outflow from all these passes, with the exception of the one last
named, seeks on the east the river systems of the Saskatchewan, and on
the west the Columbia and its tributaries. The Tête Jeune, on the other
hand, sheds its dividing waters into the Athabasca River on the east,
and into the Frazer River on the west.

So far we have followed the mountains to the 53° of N. latitude, and
here we must pause a moment to glance back at the long-projected line
of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. As we have already stated, it is
now nearly twenty years since the idea of a railroad through British
America was first entertained. A few years later a well-equipped
expedition was sent out by the British Government for the purpose of
thoroughly exploring the prairie region lying between Red River and
the Rocky Mountains, and also reporting upon the nature of the passes
traversing the range, with a view to the practicability of running a
railroad across the continent. Of this expedition it will be sufficient
to observe, that while the details of survey were carried out with
minute attention and much labour, the graver question, whether it
was possible to carry a railroad through British territory to the
Pacific, appears to have been imperfectly examined and, after a survey
extending us far north as the Jasper’s House Pass, but not including
that remarkable valley, the project was unfavourably reported upon by
the leader of the expedition.

The reasons adduced in support of this view were strong ones. Not only
had the unfortunate selection of an astronomical boundary-line (the
49th parallel) shut us out from the western extreme of Lake Superior,
and left us the Laurentian wilderness lying north of that lake, as a
threshold to the fertile lands of the Saskatchewan and the Red River;
but far away to the west of the Rocky Mountains, and extending to the
very shores of the Pacific, there lay a land of rugged mountains almost
insurmountable to railroad enterprise.

Such was the substance of the Report of the expedition. It would be
a long, long story now to enter into the details involved in this
question; but one fact connected with “this unfortunate selection of an
astronomical line” may here be pertinently alluded to, as evincing the
spirit of candour, and the tendency to sharp practice which the Great
Republic early developed in its dealings with its discarded mother.
By the treaty of 1783, the northern limit of the United States was
defined as running from the north-west angle of the Lake of the Woods
to the river Mississippi along the 49th parallel; but as we have before
stated, the 49th parallel did not touch the north-west angle of the
Lake of the Woods or the river Mississippi; the former lay north of
it, the latter south. Here was clearly a case for a new arrangement.
As matters stood we had unquestionably the best of the mistake; for,
whereas the angle of the Lake of the Woods lay only a few miles north
of the parallel, the extreme source of the Mississippi lay a long, long
way south of it: so that if we lost ten miles at the beginning of the
line, we would gain 100 or more at the end of it.

All this did not escape the eyes of the fur-hunters in the early
days of the century. Mackenzie and Thompson both noticed it and both
concluded that the objective point being the river Mississippi, the
line would eventually be run with a view to its terminal definitions,
the Lake of the Woods and the Mississippi. In 1806, the United States
Government sent out two Exploring Expeditions into its newly-acquired
territory of Louisiana; one of them, in charge of a Mr. Zebulon Pike
of the American army, ascended the Mississippi, and crossed from
thence to Lake Superior. Here are his remarks upon the boundary-line.
“The admission of this pretension” (the terminal point at the river
Mississippi) “will throw out of our territory the upper portion of Red
River, and nearly two-fifths of the territory of Louisiana; whereas
if the line is run due west from the head of the Lake of the Woods,
it will cross Red River nearly at the centre, and strike the Western
Ocean at Queen Charlotte’s Sound. This difference of opinion, it is
presumed, might be easily adjusted between the two Governments at the
present day; but delay, _by unfolding the true value of the country_,
may produce difficulties which do not now exist.”

The italics are mine.

Zebulon Pike has long passed to his Puritan fathers. Twelve years
after he had visited the shores of Lake Superior, and long before our
Government knew “the value of the country” of which it was discoursing,
the matter was arranged to the entire satisfaction of Pike and his
countrymen. They held tenaciously to their end, the Lake of the Woods;
we hastened to abandon ours, the Mississippi River. All this is past
and gone; but if to-day we write Fish, or Sumner, or any other of
the many names which figure in boundary commissions or consequential
claims, instead of that of Zebulon Pike, the change of signature will
but slightly affect the character of the document.

But we must return to the Rocky Mountains. It has ever been the habit
of explorers in the north-west of America, to imagine that beyond the
farthest extreme to which they penetrate, there lay a region of utter
worthlessness. One hundred years ago, Niagara lay on the confines of
the habitable earth; fifty years ago a man travelling in what are now
the States of Wisconsin and Minnesota, would have been far beyond the
faintest echo of civilization. So each one thought, as in after-time
fresh regions were brought within the limits of the settler. The
Government Exploring Expedition of sixteen years since, deemed that
it had exhausted the regions fit for settlement when it reached the
northern boundary of the Saskatchewan valley. The project of a railroad
through British territory was judged upon the merits of the mountains
lying west of the sources of the Saskatchewan, and the labyrinth
of rock and peak stretching between the Rocky Mountains and the
Pacific. Even to-day, with the knowledge of further exploration in its
possessions, the Government of the Dominion of Canada seems bent upon
making a similar error. A line has been projected across the continent,
which, if followed, must entail ruin upon the persons who would attempt
to settle along it upon the bleak treeless prairies east of the
mountains, and lead to an expenditure west of the range, in crossing
the multitudinous ranges of Middle and Southern British Columbia, which
must ever prevent its being a remunerative enterprise.

The Tête Jeune Pass is at present the one selected for the passage of
the Rocky Mountains. This pass has many things to recommend it, so far
as it is immediately connected with the range which it traverses; but
unfortunately the real obstacles become only apparent when its western
extremity is reached, and the impassable “divide” between the Frazer,
the Columbia, and the Thompson Rivers looms up before the traveller.
It is true that the cañon valley of the North Thompson lies open, but
to follow this outlet, is to face still more imposing obstacles where
the Thompson River unites with the Frazer at Lytton, some 250 miles
nearer to the south-west; here, along the Frazer, the Cascade Mountains
lift their rugged heads, and the river for full sixty miles flows at
the bottom of a vast angle cut by nature through the heart of the
mountains, whose steep sides rise abruptly from the water’s edge: in
many places a wall of rock.

In fact, it is useless to disguise that the Frazer River affords the
sole outlet from that portion of the Rocky Mountains lying between the
boundary-line, the 53rd parallel of latitude and the Pacific Ocean; and
that the Frazer River valley is one so singularly formed, that it would
seem as though some superhuman sword had at a single stroke cut through
a labyrinth of mountains for 300 miles, down deep into the bowels of
the land.

Let us suppose that the mass of mountains lying west of the Tête Jeune
has been found practicable for a line, and that the Frazer River has
been finally reached on any part of its course between Quesnelle and
the Cascade range at Lytton.

What then would be the result?

Simply this: to turn south along the valley of the river, would be
to face the cañons of the Cascades, between Lytton and Yale. To hold
west, would be to cross the Frazer River itself, and by following the
Chilcotin River, reach the Pacific Ocean at a point about 200 miles
north of the estuary of the Frazer. But to cross this Frazer River
would be a work of enormous magnitude,--a work greater, I believe, than
any at present existing on the earth; for at no point of its course
from Quesnelle to Lytton is the Frazer River less than 1200 feet below
the level of the land lying at either side of it, and from one steep
scarped bank to the other is a distance of a mile or more than a mile.

How, I ask, is this mighty fissure, extending right down the country
from north to south, to be crossed, and a passage gained to the
Pacific? I answer that the _true passage to the Pacific lies far north
of the Frazer River_, and that _the true passage of the Rocky Mountains
lies far north of the Tête Jeune Pass_.

And now it will be necessary to travel north from this Tête Jeune Pass,
along the range of the Rocky Mountains.

One hundred miles north of the Tête Jeune, on the east, or Saskatchewan
side of the Rocky Mountains, there lies a beautiful land. It is some
of the richest prairie land in the entire range of the north-west. It
has wood and water in abundance. On its western side the mountains rise
with an ascent so gradual that horses can be ridden to the summits of
the outer range, and into the valley lying between that range and the
Central Mountain.

To the north of this prairie country, lies the Peace River; south,
the Lesser Slave Lake; east, a land of wood and muskeg and trackless
forest. The Smoking River flows almost through its centre, rising near
Jasper’s House, and flowing north and east until it passes into the
Peace River, fifty miles below Dunveyan. From the most northerly point
of the fertile land of the Saskatchewan, to the most southerly point of
this Smoking River country, is about 100 or 120 miles. The intervening
land is forest or muskeg, and partly open.

The average elevation of this prairie above sea level would be under
2000 feet. In the mountains lying west and north-west there are two
passes; one is the Peace River, with which we are already acquainted;
the other is a pass lying some thirty or forty miles south of the
Peace River, known at present only to the Indians, but well worth
the trouble and expense of a thorough exploration, ere Canada hastily
decides upon the best route across its wide Dominion.

And here I may allude to the exploratory surveys which the Canadian
Government has already inaugurated. A great amount of work has without
doubt been accomplished, by the several parties sent out over the long
line from Ottawa to New Westminster; but the results have not been, so
far, equal to the expenditure of the surveys, or to the means placed at
the disposal of the various parties. In all these matters, the strength
of an Executive Government resting for a term of years independent of
political parties, as in the case of the United States, becomes vividly
apparent; and it is not necessary for us in England to seek in Canada
for an exemplification of the evils which militate against a great
national undertaking, where an Executive has to frame a budget, or
produce a report, to suit the delicate digestions of evenly balanced
parties.

It would be invidious to particularize individuals, where many men have
worked well and earnestly; but I cannot refrain from paying a passing
tribute to the energy and earnestness displayed by the gentlemen who,
during the close of the summer of 1872, crossed the mountains by the
Peace River Pass, and reached the coast at Fort Simpson, near the mouth
of the Skeena River.

But to return to the Indian Pass, lying west of the Smoking River
prairies. As I have already stated, this pass is known only to the
Indians; yet their report of it is one of great moment. They say (and
who has found an Indian wrong in matters of practical engineering?)
that they can go in three or four days’ journey from the Hope of Hudson
to the fort on Lake Macleod, across the Rocky Mountains; they further
assert that they can in summer take horses to the central range, and
that they could take them all the way across to the west side, but for
the fallen timber which encumbers the western slope.

Now when it is borne in mind that this Lake Macleod is situated near
the height of land between the Arctic and Pacific Oceans; that it
stands at the head of the Parsnip River (the south branch of the
Peace); and that further, a level or rolling plateau extends from the
fort to the coast range of mountains at Dean’s Inlet, or the Bentinck
arm on the coast of British Columbia, nearly opposite the northern
extreme of Vancouver’s Island; the full importance of this Indian Pass,
as a highway to the Pacific through the Rocky Mountains, will be easily
understood.

But should this Indian Pass at the head of the Pine River prove to
be, on examination, unfit to carry a railroad across, I am still of
opinion that in that case the Peace River affords a passage to the
Western Ocean vastly superior to any of the known passes lying south of
it. What are the advantages which I claim for it? They can be briefly
stated.

It is level throughout its entire course; it has a wide, deep, and
navigable river flowing through it; its highest elevation in the main
range of the Rocky Mountains is about 1800 feet; the average depth of
its winter fall of snow is about _three feet_; by the first week of
May this year the snow (unusually deep during the winter) had entirely
disappeared from the north shore of the river, and vegetation was
already forward in the woods along the mountain base.

But though these are important advantages for this mountain pass, the
most important of all remains to be stated. From the western end of the
pass to the coast range of mountains, a distance of 300 miles across
British Columbia, there does not exist one single formidable impediment
to a railroad. By following the valley of the Parsnip River from
“the Forks” to Lake Macleod, the Ominica range is left to the north,
and the rolling plateau land of Stuart’s Lake is reached without a
single mountain intervening; from thence the valley of the Nacharcole
can be attained, as we have seen in my story, without the slightest
difficulty, and a line of country followed to within twenty miles of
the ocean, at the head of Dean’s Inlet.

I claim, moreover, for this route that it is shorter than any projected
line at present under consideration; that it would develope a land as
rich, if not richer, than any portion of the Saskatchewan territory;
that it altogether avoids the tremendous mountain ranges of Southern
British Columbia, and the great gorge of the Frazer River; and,
finally, that along the Nacharcole River there will be found a country
admirably suited to settlement, and possessing prairie land of a kind
nowhere else to be found in British Columbia.

With regard to the climate of the country lying east of the mountains,
those who have followed me through my journey will remember the state
in which I found the prairies of Chimeroo on the 22nd and 23rd of
April, snow all gone and mosquitoes already at work. Canadians will
understand these items. I have looked from the ramparts of Quebec on
the second last day of April, and seen the wide landscape still white
with the winter’s snow.

In the foregoing sentences I have briefly pointed out the advantages
of the Peace River Pass, the absence of mountain-ranges in the valleys
of the Parsnip and Nacharcole Rivers, and the fertile nature of the
country between the Lesser Slave Lake and the eastern base of the Rocky
Mountains. It only remains to speak of the connecting line between the
Saskatchewan territory and the Smoking River prairies.

The present projected line through the Saskatchewan is eminently
unsuited to the settlement; it crosses the bleak, poor prairies of the
Eagle Hills, the country where, as described in an earlier chapter, we
hunted the buffalo during the month of November in the preceding year.
For all purposes of settlement it may be said to lie fully 80 miles too
far south during a course of some 300 or 400 miles.

The experience of those most intimately acquainted with the territory
points to a line _north_ of the North Saskatchewan as one best
calculated to reach the country really fitted for immediate settlement;
a country where rich soil, good water, and abundant wood for fuel and
building can be easily obtained. All of these essentials are almost
wholly wanting along the present projected route throughout some 350
miles of its course.

Now if we take a line from the neighbourhood of the Mission of Prince
Albert, and continue it through the very rich and fertile country lying
20 or 30 miles to the north of Carlton, and follow it still further to
a point 15 or 20 miles north of Fort Pitt, we will be about the centre
of the _true_ Fertile Belt of this portion of the continent. Continuing
north-west for another 60 miles, we would reach the neighbourhood of
the Lac la Biche (a French mission, where all crops have been most
successfully cultivated for many years), and be on the water-shed of
the Northern Ocean.

Crossing the Athabasca, near the point where it receives the Rivière la
Biche, a region of _presumed_ muskeg or swamp would be encountered, but
one neither so extensive nor of as serious a character as that which
occurs on the line at present projected between the Saskatchewan and
Jasper’s House.

The opinions thus briefly stated regarding the best route for
a Canadian-Pacific Railroad across the continent result from no
inconsiderable experience in the North-West Territory, nor are they
held solely by myself. I could quote, if necessary, very much evidence
in support of them from the testimony of those who have seen portions
of the route indicated.

In the deed of surrender, by which the Hudson’s Bay Company transferred
to the Government of Canada the territory of the North-West, the
Fertile Belt was defined as being bounded on the north by the North
Saskatchewan River. It will yet be found that there are ten acres of
fertile land lying _north_ of the North Saskatchewan for every one acre
lying south of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

These few pages of Appendix must here end. There yet remain many
subjects connected with the settlement of Indian tribes of the West
and their protection against the inevitable injustice of the incoming
settler, and to these I would like to call attention, but there is not
time to do so.

Already the low surf-beat shores of West Africa have been visible for
days, and ’midst the sultry atmosphere of the Tropics it has become no
easy task to fling back one’s thoughts into the cold solitudes of the
northern wilds.

  SIERRA LEONE, _October 15th, 1873_.




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support
hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to
the corresponding illustrations.

In the Table of Contents, page references to the first three chapters
were off by 2, and have been corrected here.

Transcriber removed redundant hemi-title following the List of
Illustrations.

Original text used “cortége” and “cortêge”. Although neither is likely
correct, this ebook uses “cortége.”

Page 256: “household gods” was printed that way; may be a typo for
“household goods.”

Page 334: “Kamtschatka” was printed that way.