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Snowflakes and Sunbeams; Or, The Young Fur-traders: A Tale of the Far North

by R. M. Ballantyne · English · Gutenberg #6357 · 702,006 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Snowflakes and Sunbeams; Or, The Young Fur-traders: A Tale of the Far North

Author: R. M. Ballantyne


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6357]
                Most recently updated: August 17, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6357

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SNOWFLAKES AND SUNBEAMS; OR, THE YOUNG FUR-TRADERS: A TALE OF THE FAR NORTH ***

[Illustration]




The Young Fur-Traders

by R. M. Ballantyne


Contents


PREFACE

CHAPTER I
Plunges the reader into the middle of an arctic winter; conveys him
into the heart of the wildernesses of North America; and introduces him
to some of the principal personages of our tale

CHAPTER II
The old fur-trader endeavours to “fix” his son’s “flint,” and finds the
thing more difficult to do than he expected

CHAPTER III
The counting-room

CHAPTER IV.
A wolf-hunt in the prairies; Charley astonishes his father, and breaks
in the “noo’oss” effectually

CHAPTER V
Peter Mactavish becomes an amateur doctor; Charley promulgates his
views of things in general to Kate; and Kate waxes sagacious

CHAPTER VI
Spring and the voyageurs

CHAPTER VII
The store

CHAPTER VIII
Farewell to Kate; departure of the brigade; Charley becomes a voyageur

CHAPTER IX
The voyage; the encampment; a surprise

CHAPTER X
Varieties, vexations, and vicissitudes

CHAPTER XI
Charley and Harry begin their sporting career without much success;
Whisky-John catching

CHAPTER XII
The storm

CHAPTER XIII
The canoe; ascending the rapids; the portage; deer-shooting and life in
the woods

CHAPTER XIV
The Indian camp; the new outpost; Charley sent on a mission to the
Indians

CHAPTER XV
The feast; Charley makes his first speech in public; meets with an old
friend; an evening in the grass

CHAPTER XVI
The return; narrow escape; a murderous attempt, which fails; and a
discovery

CHAPTER XVII
The scene changes; Bachelors’ Hall; a practical joke and its
consequences; a snow-shoe walk at night in the forest

CHAPTER XVIII
The walk continued; frozen toes; an encampment in the snow

CHAPTER XIX
Shows how the accountant and Harry set their traps, and what came of it

CHAPTER XX
The accountant’s story

CHAPTER XXI
Ptarmigan-hunting; Hamilton’s shooting powers severely tested; a
snow-storm

CHAPTER XXII
The winter packet; Harry hears from old friends, and wishes that he was
with them

CHAPTER XXIII
Changes; Harry and Hamilton find that variety is indeed, charming; the
latter astonishes the former considerably

CHAPTER XXIV
Hopes and fears; an unexpected meeting; philosophical talk between the
hunter and the parson

CHAPTER XXV
Good news and romantic scenery; bear-hunting and its results

CHAPTER XXVI
An unexpected meeting, and an unexpected deer-hunt; arrival at the
outpost; disagreement with the natives; an enemy discovered, and a
murder

CHAPTER XXVII
The chase; the fight; retribution; low spirits and good news

CHAPTER XXVIII
Old friends and scenes; coming events cast their shadows before

CHAPTER XXIX
The first day at home; a gallop in the prairie, and its consequences

CHAPTER XXX
Love; old Mr. Kennedy puts his foot in it

CHAPTER XXXI
The course of true love, curiously enough, runs smooth for once; and
the curtain falls




PREFACE.


In writing this book my desire has been to draw an exact copy of the
picture which is indelibly stamped on my own memory. I have carefully
avoided exaggeration in everything of importance. All the chief, and
most of the minor incidents are facts. In regard to unimportant
matters, I have taken the liberty of a novelist—not to colour too
highly, or to invent improbabilities, but—to transpose time, place, and
circumstance at pleasure; while, at the same time, I have endeavoured
to convey to the reader’s mind a truthful impression of the _general
effect_—to use a painter’s language—of the life and country of the Fur
Trader.

EDINBURGH, 1856.




CHAPTER I.


Plunges the reader into the middle of an Arctic winter; conveys him
into the heart of the wildernesses of North America; and introduces him
to some of the principal personages of our tale.


Snowflakes and sunbeams, heat and cold, winter and summer, alternated
with their wonted regularity for fifteen years in the wild regions of
the Far North. During this space of time the hero of our tale sprouted
from babyhood to boyhood, passed through the usual amount of accidents,
ailments, and vicissitudes incidental to those periods of life, and
finally entered upon that ambiguous condition that precedes early
manhood.

It was a clear, cold winter’s day. The sunbeams of summer were long
past, and snowflakes had fallen thickly on the banks of Red River.
Charley sat on a lump of blue ice, his head drooping and his eyes bent
on the snow at his feet with an expression of deep disconsolation.

Kate reclined at Charley’s side, looking wistfully up in his expressive
face, as if to read the thoughts that were chasing each other through
his mind, like the ever-varying clouds that floated in the winter sky
above. It was quite evident to the most careless observer that,
whatever might be the usual temperaments of the boy and girl, their
present state of mind was not joyous, but on the contrary, very sad.

“It won’t do, sister Kate,” said Charley. “I’ve tried him over and over
again—I’ve implored, begged, and entreated him to let me go; but he
won’t, and I’m determined to run away, so there’s an end of it!”

As Charley gave utterance to this unalterable resolution, he rose from
the bit of blue ice, and taking Kate by the hand, led her over the
frozen river, climbed up the bank on the opposite side—an operation of
some difficulty, owing to the snow, which had been drifted so deeply
during a late storm that the usual track was almost obliterated—and
turning into a path that lost itself among the willows, they speedily
disappeared.

As it is possible our reader may desire to know who Charley and Kate
are, and the part of the world in which they dwell, we will interrupt
the thread of our narrative to explain.

In the very centre of the great continent of North America, far removed
from the abodes of civilised men, and about twenty miles to the south
of Lake Winnipeg, exists a colony composed of Indians, Scotsmen, and
French-Canadians, which is known by the name of Red River Settlement.
Red River differs from most colonies in more respects than one—the
chief differences being, that whereas other colonies cluster on the
sea-coast, this one lies many hundreds of miles in the interior of the
country, and is surrounded by a wilderness; and while other colonies,
acting on the Golden Rule, export their produce in return for goods
imported, this of Red River imports a large quantity, and exports
nothing, or next to nothing. Not but that it _might_ export, if it only
had an outlet or a market; but being eight hundred miles removed from
the sea, and five hundred miles from the nearest market, with a series
of rivers, lakes, rapids, and cataracts separating from the one, and a
wide sweep of treeless prairie dividing from the other, the settlers
have long since come to the conclusion that they were born to consume
their own produce, and so regulate the extent of their farming
operations by the strength of their appetites. Of course, there are
many of the necessaries, or at least the luxuries, of life which the
colonists cannot grow—such as tea, coffee, sugar, coats, trousers, and
shirts—and which, consequently, they procure from England, by means of
the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company’s ships, which sail once a year from
Gravesend, laden with supplies for the trade carried on with the
Indians. And the bales containing these articles are conveyed in boats
up the rivers, carried past the waterfalls and rapids overland on the
shoulders of stalwart voyageurs, and finally landed at Red River, after
a rough trip of many weeks’ duration. The colony was founded in 1811,
by the Earl of Selkirk, previously to which it had been a trading-post
of the Fur Company. At the time of which we write, it contained about
five thousand souls, and extended upwards of fifty miles along the Red
and Assiniboine rivers, which streams supplied the settlers with a
variety of excellent fish. The banks were clothed with fine trees; and
immediately behind the settlement lay the great prairies, which
extended in undulating waves—almost entirely devoid of shrub or tree—to
the base of the Rocky Mountains.

Although far removed from the civilised world, and containing within
its precincts much that is savage and very little that is refined, Red
River is quite a populous paradise, as compared with the desolate,
solitary establishments of the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company. These lonely
dwellings of the trader are scattered far and wide over the whole
continent—north, south, east, and west. Their population generally
amounts to eight or ten men—seldom to thirty. They are planted in the
thick of an uninhabited desert—their next neighbours being from two to
five hundred miles off—their occasional visitors, bands of wandering
Indians—and the sole object of their existence being to trade the furry
hides of foxes, martens, beavers, badgers, bears, buffaloes, and
wolves. It will not, then, be deemed a matter of wonder that the
gentlemen who have charge of these establishments, and who, perchance,
may have spent ten or twenty years in them, should look upon the colony
of Red River as a species of Elysium, a sort of haven of rest, in which
they may lay their weary heads, and spend the remainder of their days
in peaceful felicity, free from the cares of a residence among wild
beasts and wild men. Many of the retiring traders prefer casting their
lot in Canada; but not a few of them _smoke_ out the remainder of their
existence in this colony—especially those who, having left home as boys
fifty or sixty years before, cannot reasonably expect to find the
friends of their childhood where they left them, and cannot hope to
remodel tastes and habits long nurtured in the backwoods so as to
relish the manners and customs of civilised society.

Such an one was old Frank Kennedy, who, sixty years before the date of
our story, ran away from school in Scotland; got a severe thrashing
from his father for so doing; and having no mother in whose
sympathising bosom he could weep out his sorrow, ran away from home,
went to sea, ran away from his ship while she lay at anchor in the
harbour of New York, and after leading a wandering, unsettled life for
several years, during which he had been alternately a clerk, a
day-labourer, a store-keeper and a village schoolmaster, he wound up by
entering the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in which he obtained
an insight into savage life, a comfortable fortune, besides a
half-breed wife and a large family.

Being a man of great energy and courage, and moreover possessed of a
large, powerful frame, he was sent to one of the most distant posts on
the Mackenzie River, as being admirably suited for the display of his
powers both mental and physical. Here the small-pox broke out among the
natives, and besides carrying off hundreds of these poor creatures,
robbed Mr. Kennedy of all his children save two, Charles and Kate, whom
we have already introduced to the reader.

About the same time the council which is annually held at Red River in
spring for the purpose of arranging the affairs of the country for the
ensuing year thought proper to appoint Mr. Kennedy to a still more
outlandish part of the country—as near, in fact, to the North Pole as
it was possible for mortal man to live—and sent him an order to proceed
to his destination without loss of time. On receiving this
communication, Mr. Kennedy upset his chair, stamped his foot, ground
his teeth, and vowed, in the hearing of his wife and children, that
sooner than obey the mandate he would see the governors and council of
Rupert’s Land hanged, quartered, and boiled down into tallow!
Ebullitions of this kind were peculiar to Frank Kennedy, and meant
_nothing_. They were simply the safety-valves to his superabundant ire,
and, like safety-valves in general, made much noise but did no damage.
It was well, however, on such occasions to keep out of the old
fur-trader’s way; for he had an irresistible propensity to hit out at
whatever stood before him, especially if the object stood on a level
with his own eyes and wore whiskers. On second thoughts, however, he
sat down before his writing-table, took a sheet of blue ruled foolscap
paper, seized a quill which he had mended six months previously, at a
time when he happened to be in high good-humour, and wrote as follows:—

To the Governor and Council of Rupert’s Land,
Red River Settlement.


Fort Paskisegun
_June_ 15, 18—.


GENTLEMEN,—I have the honour to acknowledge receipt of your favour of
26th April last, appointing me to the charge of Peel’s River, and
directing me to strike out new channels of trade in that quarter. In
reply, I have to state that I shall have the honour to fulfil your
instructions by taking my departure in a light canoe as soon as
possible. At the same time I beg humbly to submit that the state of my
health is such as to render it expedient for me to retire from the
service, and I herewith beg to hand in my resignation. I shall hope to
be relieved early next spring.—I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your
most obedient, humble servant,

F. KENNEDY.


“There!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone that would lead one to
suppose he had signed the death-warrant, and so had irrevocably fixed
the certain destruction, of the entire council—“there!” said he, rising
from his chair, and sticking the quill into the ink-bottle with a _dab_
that split it up to the feather, and so rendered it _hors de combat_
for all time coming.

To this letter the council gave a short reply, accepting his
resignation, and appointing a successor. On the following spring old
Mr. Kennedy embarked his wife and children in a bark canoe, and in
process of time landed them safely in Red River Settlement. Here he
purchased a house with six acres of land, in which he planted a variety
of useful vegetables, and built a summer-house after the fashion of a
conservatory, where he was wont to solace himself for hours together
with a pipe, or rather with dozens of pipes, of Canadian twist tobacco.

After this he put his two children to school. The settlement was at
this time fortunate in having a most excellent academy, which was
conducted by a very estimable man. Charles and Kate Kennedy, being
obedient and clever, made rapid progress under his judicious
management, and the only fault that he had to find with the young
people was, that Kate was a little too quiet and fond of books, while
Charley was a little too riotous and fond of fun.

When Charles arrived at the age of fifteen and Kate attained to
fourteen years, old Mr. Kennedy went into his conservatory, locked the
door, sat down on an easy chair, filled a long clay pipe with his
beloved tobacco, smoked vigorously for ten minutes, and fell fast
asleep. In this condition he remained until the pipe fell from his lips
and broke in fragments on the floor. He then rose, filled another pipe,
and sat down to meditate on the subject that had brought him to his
smoking apartment. “There’s my wife,” said he, looking at the bowl of
his pipe, as if he were addressing himself to it, “she’s getting too
old to be looking after everything herself (_puff_), and Kate’s getting
too old to be humbugging any longer with books: besides, she ought to
be at home learning to keep house, and help her mother, and cut the
baccy (_puff_), and that young scamp Charley should be entering the
service (_puff_). He’s clever enough now to trade beaver and bears from
the red-skins; besides, he’s (_puff_) a young rascal, and I’ll be bound
does nothing but lead the other boys into (_puff_) mischief, although,
to be sure, the master _does_ say he’s the cleverest fellow in the
school; but he must be reined up a bit now. I’ll clap on a double curb
and martingale. I’ll get him a situation in the counting-room at the
fort (_puff_), where he’ll have his nose held tight to the grindstone.
Yes, I’ll fix both their flints to-morrow;” and old Mr. Kennedy gave
vent to another puff so thick and long that it seemed as if all the
previous puffs had concealed themselves up to this moment within his
capacious chest, and rushed out at last in one thick and long-continued
stream.

By “fixing their flints” Mr. Kennedy meant to express the fact that he
intended to place his children in an entirely new sphere of action, and
with a view to this he ordered out his horse and cariole[1] on the
following morning, went up to the school, which was about ten miles
distant from his abode, and brought his children home with him the same
evening. Kate was now formally installed as housekeeper and
tobacco-cutter; while Charley was told that his future destiny was to
wield the quill in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and that he
might take a week to think over it. Quiet, warm-hearted, affectionate
Kate was overjoyed at the thought of being a help and comfort to her
old father and mother; but reckless, joyous, good-humoured,
hare-brained Charley was cast into the depths of despair at the idea of
spending the livelong day, and day after day, for years it might be, on
the top of a long-legged stool. In fact, poor Charley said that he
“would rather become a buffalo than do it.” Now this was very wrong of
Charley, for, of course, he didn’t _mean_ it. Indeed, it is too much a
habit among little boys, ay, and among grown-up people, too, to say
what they don’t mean, as no doubt you are aware, dear reader, if you
possess half the self-knowledge we give you credit for; and we cannot
too strongly remonstrate with ourself and others against the
practice—leading, as it does, to all sorts of absurd exaggerations,
such as gravely asserting that we are “broiling hot” when we are simply
“rather warm,” or more than “half dead” with fatigue when we are merely
“very tired.” However, Charley _said_ that he would rather be “a
buffalo than do it,” and so we feel bound in honour to record the fact.

 [1] A sort of sleigh.


Charley and Kate were warmly attached to each other. Moreover, they had
been, ever since they could walk, in the habit of mingling their little
joys and sorrows in each other’s bosoms; and although, as years flew
past, they gradually ceased to sob in each other’s arms at every little
mishap, they did not cease to interchange their inmost thoughts, and to
mingle their tears when occasion called them forth. They knew the
power, the inexpressible sweetness, of sympathy. They understood
experimentally the comfort and joy that flow from obedience to that
blessed commandment to “rejoice with those that do rejoice, and weep
with those that weep.” It was natural, therefore, that on Mr. Kennedy
announcing his decrees, Charley and Kate should hasten to some retired
spot where they could commune in solitude; the effect of which
communing was to reduce them to a somewhat calmer and rather happy
state of mind. Charley’s sorrow was blunted by sympathy with Kate’s
joy, and Kate’s joy was subdued by sympathy with Charley’s sorrow; so
that, after the first effervescing burst, they settled down into a calm
and comfortable state of flatness, with very red eyes and exceedingly
pensive minds. We must, however, do Charley the justice to say that the
red eyes applied only to Kate; for although a tear or two could without
much coaxing be induced to hop over his sun-burned cheek, he had got
beyond that period of life when boys are addicted to (we must give the
word, though not pretty, because it is eminently expressive)
_blubbering_.

A week later found Charley and his sister seated on the lump of blue
ice where they were first introduced to the reader, and where Charley
announced his unalterable resolve to run away, following it up with the
statement that _that_ was “the end of it.” He was quite mistaken,
however, for that was by no means the end of it. In fact it was only
the beginning of it, as we shall see hereafter.




CHAPTER II.


The old fur-trader endeavours to “fix” his son’s “flint,” and finds the
thing more difficult to do than he expected.


Near the centre of the colony of Red River, the stream from which the
settlement derives its name is joined by another, called the
Assiniboine. About five or six hundred yards from the point where this
union takes place, and on the banks of the latter stream, stands the
Hudson’s Bay Company’s trading-post, Fort Garry. It is a massive square
building of stone. Four high and thick walls enclose a space of ground
on which are built six or eight wooden houses, some of which are used
as dwellings for the servants of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and others
as stores, wherein are contained the furs, the provisions which are
sent annually to various parts of the country, and the goods (such as
cloth, guns, powder and shot, blankets, twine, axes, knives, etc.,
etc.) with which the fur-trade is carried on. Although Red River is a
peaceful colony, and not at all likely to be assaulted by the poor
Indians, it was, nevertheless, deemed prudent by the traders to make
some show of power; and so at the corners of the fort four round
bastions of a very imposing appearance were built, from the embrasures
of which several large black-muzzled guns protruded. No one ever
conceived the idea of firing these engines of war; and, indeed, it is
highly probable that such an attempt would have been attended with
consequences much more dreadful to those _behind_ than to those who
might chance to be in front of the guns. Nevertheless they were
imposing, and harmonised well with the flag-staff, which was the only
other military symptom about the place. This latter was used on
particular occasions, such as the arrival or departure of a brigade of
boats, for the purpose of displaying the folds of a red flag on which
were the letters H. B. C.

The fort stood, as we have said, on the banks of the Assiniboine River,
on the opposite side of which the land was somewhat wooded, though not
heavily, with oak, maple, poplar, aspens, and willows; while at the
back of the fort the great prairie rolled out like a green sea to the
horizon, and far beyond that again to the base of the Rocky mountains.
The plains at this time, however, were a sheet of unbroken snow, and
the river a mass of solid ice.

It was noon on the day following that on which our friend Charley had
threatened rebellion, when a tall elderly man might have been seen
standing at the back gate of Fort Garry, gazing wistfully out into the
prairie in the direction of the lower part of the settlement. He was
watching a small speck which moved rapidly over the snow in the
direction of the fort.

“It’s very like our friend Frank Kennedy,” said he to himself (at least
we presume so, for there was no one else within earshot to whom he
could have said it, except the door-post, which every one knows is
proverbially a deaf subject). “No man in the settlement drives so
furiously. I shouldn’t wonder if he ran against the corner of the new
fence now. Ha! just so—there he goes!”

And truly the reckless driver did “go” just at that moment. He came up
to the corner of the new fence, where the road took a rather abrupt
turn, in a style that insured a capsize. In another second the spirited
horse turned sharp round, the sleigh turned sharp over, and the
occupant was pitched out at full length, while a black object, that
might have been mistaken for his hat, rose from his side like a rocket,
and, flying over him, landed on the snow several yards beyond. A faint
shout was heard to float on the breeze as this catastrophe occurred,
and the driver was seen to jump up and readjust himself in the cariole;
while the other black object proved itself not to be a hat, by getting
hastily up on a pair of legs, and scrambling back to the seat from
which it had been so unceremoniously ejected.

In a few minutes more the cheerful tinkling of the merry sleigh-bells
was heard, and Frank Kennedy, accompanied by his hopeful son Charles,
dashed up to the gate, and pulled up with a jerk.

“Ha! Grant, my fine fellow, how are you?” exclaimed Mr. Kennedy,
senior, as he disengaged himself from the heavy folds of the buffalo
robe and shook the snow from his greatcoat. “Why on earth, man, don’t
you put up a sign-post and a board to warn travellers that you’ve been
running out new fences and changing the road, eh?”

“Why, my good friend,” said Mr. Grant, smiling, “the fence and the road
are of themselves pretty conclusive proof to most men that the road is
changed; and, besides, we don’t often have people driving round corners
at full gallop; but—”

“Hollo! Charley, you rascal,” interrupted Mr. Kennedy—“here, take the
mare to the stable, and don’t drive her too fast. Mind, now, no going
off upon the wrong road for the sake of a drive, you understand.”

“All right, father,” exclaimed the boy, while a bright smile lit up his
features and displayed two rows of white teeth: “I’ll be particularly
careful,” and he sprang into the light vehicle, seized the reins, and
with a sharp crack of the whip dashed down the road at a hard gallop.

“He’s a fine fellow that son of yours,” said Mr. Grant, “and will make
a first-rate fur-trader.”

“Pur-trader!” exclaimed Mr. Kennedy. “Just look at him! I’ll be shot if
he isn’t thrashing the mare as if she were made of leather.” The old
man’s ire was rising rapidly as he heard the whip crack every now and
then, and saw the mare bound madly over the snow. “And see!” he
continued, “I declare he _has_ taken the wrong turn after all.”

“True,” said Mr. Grant: “he’ll never reach the stable by that road;
he’s much more likely to visit the White-horse Plains. But come,
friend, it’s of no use fretting, Charley will soon tire of his ride; so
come with me to my room and have a pipe before dinner.”

Old Mr. Kennedy gave a short groan of despair, shook his fist at the
form of his retreating son, and accompanied his friend to the house.

It must not be supposed that Frank Kennedy was very deeply offended
with his son, although he did shower on him a considerable amount of
abuse. On the contrary, he loved him very much. But it was the old
man’s nature to give way to little bursts of passion on almost every
occasion in which his feelings were at all excited. These bursts,
however, were like the little puffs that ripple the surface of the sea
on a calm summer’s day. They were over in a second, and left his
good-humoured, rough, candid countenance in unruffled serenity. Charley
knew this well, and loved his father tenderly, so that his conscience
frequently smote him for raising his anger so often; and he over and
over again promised his sister Kate to do his best to refrain from
doing anything that was likely to annoy the old man in future. But,
alas! Charley’s resolves, like those of many other boys, were soon
forgotten, and his father’s equanimity was upset generally two or three
times a day; but after the gust was over, the fur-trader would kiss his
son, call him a “rascal,” and send him off to fill and fetch his pipe.

Mr. Grant, who was in charge of Fort Garry, led the way to his smoking
apartment, where the two were soon seated in front of a roaring
log-fire, emulating each other in the manufacture of smoke.

“Well, Kennedy,” said Mr. Grant, throwing himself back in his chair,
elevating his chin, and emitting a long thin stream of white vapour
from his lips, through which he gazed at his friend complacently—“well,
Kennedy, to what fortunate chance am I indebted for this visit? It is
not often that we have the pleasure of seeing you here.”

Mr. Kennedy created two large volumes of smoke, which, by means of a
vigorous puff, he sent rolling over towards his friend, and said,
“Charley.”

“And what of Charley?” said Mr. Grant with a smile, for he was well
aware of the boy’s propensity to fun, and of the father’s desire to
curb it.

“The fact is,” replied Kennedy, “that Charley must be broke. He’s the
wildest colt I ever had to tame, but I’ll do it—I will—that’s a fact.”

If Charley’s subjugation had depended on the rapidity with which the
little white clouds proceeded from his sire’s mouth, there is no doubt
that it would have been a “fact” in a very short time, for they rushed
from him with the violence of a high wind. Long habit had made the old
trader and his pipe not only inseparable companions, but part and
parcel of each other—so intimately connected that a change in the one
was sure to produce a sympathetic change in the other. In the present
instance, the little clouds rapidly increased in size and number as the
old gentleman thought on the obstinacy of his “colt.”

“Yes,” he continued, after a moment’s silence, “I’ve made up my mind to
tame him, and I want _you_, Mr. Grant, to help me.”

Mr. Grant looked as if he would rather not undertake to lend his aid in
a work that was evidently difficult; but being a good-natured man, he
said, “And how, friend, can I assist in the operation?”

“Well, you see, Charley’s a good fellow at bottom, and a clever fellow
too—at least so says the schoolmaster; though I must confess, that so
far as my experience goes, he’s only clever at finding out excuses for
not doing what I want him to. But still I’m told he’s clever, and can
use his pen well; and I know for certain that he can use his tongue
well. So I want to get him into the service, and have him placed in a
situation where he shall have to stick to his desk all day. In fact, I
want to have him broken into work; for you’ve no notion, sir, how that
boy talks about bears and buffaloes and badgers, and life in the woods
among the Indians. I do believe,” continued the old gentleman, waxing
warm, “that he would willingly go into the woods to-morrow, if I would
let him, and never show his nose in the settlement again. He’s quite
incorrigible. But I’ll tame him yet—I will!”

Mr. Kennedy followed this up with an indignant grunt, and a puff of
smoke, so thick, and propelled with such vigour, that it rolled and
curled in fantastic evolutions towards the ceiling, as if it were
unable to control itself with delight at the absolute certainty of
Charley being tamed at last.

Mr. Grant, however, shook his head, and remained for five minutes in
profound silence, during which time the two friends puffed in concert,
until they began to grow quite indistinct and ghost-like in the thick
atmosphere.

At last he broke silence.

“My opinion is that you’re wrong, Mr. Kennedy. No doubt you know the
disposition of your son better than I do; but even judging of it from
what you have said, I’m quite sure that a sedentary life will ruin
him.”

“Ruin him! Humbug!” said Kennedy, who never failed to express his
opinion at the shortest notice and in the plainest language—a fact so
well known by his friends that they had got into the habit of taking no
notice of it. “Humbug!” he repeated, “perfect humbug! You don’t mean to
tell me that the way to break him in is to let him run loose and wild
whenever and wherever he pleases?”

“By no means. But you may rest assured that tying him down won’t do
it.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Kennedy testily; “don’t tell me. Have I not broken
in young colts by the score? and don’t I know that the way to fix their
flints is to clap on a good strong curb?”

“If you had travelled farther south, friend,” replied Mr. Grant, “you
would have seen the Spaniards of Mexico break in their wild horses in a
very different way; for after catching one with a lasso, a fellow gets
on his back, and gives it the rein and the whip—ay, and the spur too;
and before that race is over, there is no need for a curb.”

“What!” exclaimed Kennedy, “and do you mean to argue from that, that I
should let Charley run—and _help_ him too? Send him off to the woods
with gun and blanket, canoe and tent, all complete?” The old gentleman
puffed a furious puff, and broke into a loud sarcastic laugh.

“No, no,” interrupted Mr. Grant; “I don’t exactly mean that, but I
think that you might give him his way for a year or so. He’s a fine,
active, generous fellow; and after the novelty wore off, he would be in
a much better frame of mind to listen to your proposals. Besides” (and
Mr. Grant smiled expressively), “Charley is somewhat like his father.
He has got a will of his own; and if you do not give him his way, I
very much fear that he’ll—”

“What?” inquired Mr. Kennedy abruptly.

“Take it,” said Mr. Grant.

The puff that burst from Mr. Kennedy’s lips on hearing this would have
done credit to a thirty-six pounder.

“Take it!” said he; “he’d _better_ not.”

The latter part of this speech was not in itself of a nature calculated
to convey much; but the tone of the old trader’s voice, the contraction
of his eyebrows, and above all the overwhelming flow of cloudlets that
followed, imparted to it a significance that induced the belief that
Charley’s taking his own way would be productive of more terrific
consequences than it was in the power of the most highly imaginative
man to conceive.

“There’s his sister Kate, now,” continued the old gentleman; “she’s as
gentle and biddable as a lamb. I’ve only to say a word, and she’s off
like a shot to do my bidding; and she does it with such a sweet smile
too.” There was a touch of pathos in the old trader’s voice as he said
this. He was a man of strong feeling, and as impulsive in his
tenderness as in his wrath. “But that rascal Charley,” he continued,
“is quite different. He’s obstinate as a mule. To be sure, he has a
good temper; and I must say for him he never goes into the sulks, which
is a comfort, for of all things in the world sulking is the most
childish and contemptible. He _generally_ does what I bid him, too. But
he’s _always_ getting into scrapes of one kind or other. And during the
last week, notwithstanding all I can say to him, he won’t admit that
the best thing for him is to get a place in your counting-room, with
the prospect of rapid promotion in the service. Very odd. I can’t
understand it at all;” and Mr. Kennedy heaved a deep sigh.

“Did you ever explain to him the prospects that he would have in the
situation you propose for him?” inquired Mr. Grant.

“Can’t say I ever did.”

“Did you ever point out the probable end of a life spent in the woods?”

“No.”

“Nor suggest to him that the appointment to the office here would only
be temporary, and to see how he got on in it?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then, my dear sir, I’m not surprised that Charley rebels. You have
left him to suppose that, once placed at the desk here, he is a
prisoner for life. But see, there he is,” said Mr. Grant, pointing as
he spoke towards the subject of their conversation, who was passing the
window at the moment; “let me call him, and I feel certain that he will
listen to reason in a few minutes.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Kennedy, “you may try.”

In another minute Charley had been summoned, and was seated, cap in
hand, near the door.

“Charley, my boy,” began Mr. Grant, standing with his back to the fire,
his feet pretty wide apart, and his coat-tails under his arms—“Charley,
my boy, your father has just been speaking of you. He is very anxious
that you should enter the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company; and as
you are a clever boy and a good penman, we think that you would be
likely to get on if placed for a year or so in our office here. I need
scarcely point out to you, my boy, that in such a position you would be
sure to obtain more rapid promotion than if you were placed in one of
the distant outposts, where you would have very little to do, and
perhaps little to eat, and no one to converse with except one or two
men. Of course, we would merely place you here on trial, to see how you
suited us; and if you prove steady and diligent, there is no saying how
fast you might get on. Why, you might even come to fill my place in
course of time. Come now, Charley, what think you of it?”

Charley’s eyes had been cast on the ground while Mr. Grant was
speaking. He now raised them, looked at his father, then at his
interrogator, and said,—

“It is very kind of you both to be so anxious about my prospects. I
thank you, indeed, very much; but I—a—”

“Don’t like the desk?” said his father, in an angry tone. “Is that it,
eh?”

Charley made no reply, but cast down his eyes again and smiled (Charley
had a sweet smile, a peculiarly sweet, candid smile), as if he meant to
say that his father had hit the nail quite on the top of the head that
time, and no mistake.

“But consider,” resumed Mr. Grant, “although you might probably be
pleased with an outpost life at first, you would be sure to grow weary
of it after the novelty wore off, and then you would wish with all your
heart to be back here again. Believe me, child, a trader’s life is a
very hard and not often a very satisfactory one—”

“Ay,” broke in the father, desirous, if possible, to help the argument,
“and you’ll find it a desperately wild, unsettled, roving sort of life,
too, let me tell you! full of dangers both from wild beast and wild
men—”

“Hush!” interrupted Mr. Grant, observing that the boy’s eyes kindled
when his father spoke of a wild, roving life, and wild beasts.—“Your
father does not mean that life at an outpost is wild and _interesting_
or _exciting_. He merely means that—a—it—”

Mr. Grant could not very well explain what it was that Mr. Kennedy
meant if he did not mean that, so he turned to him for help.

“Exactly so,” said that gentleman, taking a strong pull at the pipe for
inspiration. “It’s no ways interesting or exciting at all. It’s slow,
dull, and flat; a miserable sort of Robinson Crusoe life, with red
Indians and starvation constantly staring you in the face—”

“Besides,” said Mr. Grant, again interrupting the somewhat unfortunate
efforts of his friend, who seemed to have a happy facility in sending a
brilliant dash of romantic allusion across the dark side of his
picture—“besides, you’ll not have opportunity to amuse yourself, or to
read, as you’ll have no books, and you’ll have to work hard with your
hands oftentimes, like your men—”

“In fact,” broke in the impatient father, resolved, apparently, to
carry the point with a grand _coup_—“in fact, you’ll have to rough it,
as I did, when I went up the Mackenzie River district, where I was sent
to establish a new post, and had to travel for weeks and weeks through
a wild country, where none of us had ever been before; where we shot
our own meat, caught our own fish, and built our own house—and were
very near being murdered by the Indians; though, to be sure, afterwards
they became the most civil fellows in the country, and brought us
plenty of skins. Ay, lad, you’ll repent of your obstinacy when you come
to have to hunt your own dinner, as I’ve done many a day up the
Saskatchewan, where I’ve had to fight with red-skins and grizzly bears
and to chase the buffaloes over miles and miles of prairie on
rough-going nags till my bones ached and I scarce knew whether I sat
on—”

“Oh,” exclaimed Charley, starting to his feet, while his eyes flashed
and his chest heaved with emotion, “that’s the place for me,
father!—Do, please, Mr. Grant send me there, and I’ll work for you with
all my might!”

Frank Kennedy was not a man to stand this unexpected miscarriage of his
eloquence with equanimity. His first action was to throw his pipe at
the head of his enthusiastic boy; without worse effect, however, than
smashing it to atoms on the opposite wall. He then started up and
rushed towards his son, who, being near the door, retreated
precipitately and vanished.

“So,” said Mr. Grant, not very sure whether to laugh or be angry at the
result of their united efforts, “you’ve settled the question now, at
all events.”

Frank Kennedy said nothing, but filled another pipe, sat doggedly down
in front of the fire, and speedily enveloped himself, and his friend,
and all that the room contained, in thick, impenetrable clouds of
smoke.

Meanwhile his worthy son rushed off in a state of great glee. He had
often heard the voyageurs of Red River dilate on the delights of
roughing it in the woods, and his heart had bounded as they spoke of
dangers encountered and overcome among the rapids of the Far North, or
with the bears and bison-bulls of the prairie, but never till now had
he heard his father corroborate their testimony by a recital of his own
actual experience; and although the old gentleman’s intention was
undoubtedly to damp the boy’s spirit, his eloquence had exactly the
opposite effect—so that it was with a hop and a shout that he burst
into the counting-room, with the occupants of which Charley was a
special favourite.




CHAPTER III.


The Counting-room.


Everyone knows the general appearance of a counting-room. There are one
or two peculiar features about such apartments that are quite
unmistakable and very characteristic; and the counting-room at Fort
Garry, although many hundred miles distant from other specimens of its
race, and, from the peculiar circumstances of its position, not
therefore likely to bear them much resemblance, possessed one or two
features of similarity, in the shape of two large desks and several
very tall stools, besides sundry ink-bottles, rulers, books, and sheets
of blotting-paper. But there were other implements there, savouring
strongly of the backwoods and savage life, which merit more particular
notice.

The room itself was small, and lighted by two little windows, which
opened into the courtyard. The entire apartment was made of wood. The
floor was of unpainted fir boards. The walls were of the same material,
painted blue from the floor upwards to about three feet, where the blue
was unceremoniously stopped short by a stripe of bright red, above
which the somewhat fanciful decorator had laid on a coat of pale
yellow; and the ceiling, by way of variety, was of a deep ochre. As the
occupants of Red River office were, however, addicted to the use of
tobacco and tallow candles, the original colour of the ceiling had
vanished entirely, and that of the walls had considerably changed.

There were three doors in the room (besides the door of entrance), each
opening into another apartment, where the three clerks were wont to
court the favour of Morpheus after the labours of the day. No carpets
graced the floors of any of these rooms, and with the exception of the
paint aforementioned, no ornament whatever broke the pleasing
uniformity of the scene. This was compensated, however, to some extent
by several scarlet sashes, bright-coloured shot-belts, and gay portions
of winter costume peculiar to the country, which depended from sundry
nails in the bedroom walls; and as the three doors always stood open,
these objects, together with one or two fowling-pieces and
canoe-paddles, formed quite a brilliant and highly suggestive
background to the otherwise sombre picture. A large open fireplace
stood in one corner of the room, devoid of a grate, and so constructed
that large logs of wood might be piled up on end to any extent. And
really the fires made in this manner, and in this individual fireplace,
were exquisite beyond description. A wood-fire is a particularly
cheerful thing. Those who have never seen one can form but a faint idea
of its splendour; especially on a sharp winter night in the arctic
regions, where the thermometer falls to forty degrees below zero,
without inducing the inhabitants to suppose that the world has reached
its conclusion. The billets are usually piled up on end, so that the
flames rise and twine round them with a fierce intensity that causes
them to crack and sputter cheerfully, sending innumerable sparks of
fire into the room, and throwing out a rich glow of brilliant light
that warms a man even to look at it, and renders candles quite
unnecessary.

The clerks who inhabited this counting-room were, like itself,
peculiar. There were three—corresponding to the bedrooms. The senior
was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man—a Scotchman—very
good-humoured, yet a man whose under lip met the upper with that
peculiar degree of precision that indicated the presence of other
qualities besides that of good-humour. He was book-keeper and
accountant, and managed the affairs intrusted to his care with the same
dogged perseverance with which he would have led an expedition of
discovery to the North Pole. He was thirty or thereabouts.

The second was a small man—also a Scotchman. It is curious to note how
numerous Scotchmen are in the wilds of North America. This specimen was
diminutive and sharp. Moreover, he played the flute—an accomplishment
of which he was so proud that he ordered out from England a flute of
ebony, so elaborately enriched with silver keys that one’s fingers
ached to behold it. This beautiful instrument, like most other
instruments of a delicate nature, found the climate too much for its
constitution, and, soon after the winter began, split from top to
bottom. Peter Mactavish, however, was a genius by nature, and a
mechanical genius by tendency; so that, instead of giving way to
despair, he laboriously bound the flute together with waxed thread,
which, although it could not restore it to its pristine elegance,
enabled him to play with great effect sundry doleful airs, whose
influence, when performed at night, usually sent his companions to
sleep, or, failing this, drove them to distraction.

The third inhabitant of the office was a ruddy, smooth-chinned youth of
about fourteen, who had left home seven months before, in the hope of
gratifying a desire to lead a wild life, which he had entertained ever
since he read “Jack the Giant Killer,” and found himself most
unexpectedly fastened, during the greater part of each day, to a stool.
His name was Harry Somerville, and a fine, cheerful little fellow he
was, full of spirits, and curiously addicted to poking and arranging
the fire at least every ten minutes—a propensity which tested the
forbearance of the senior clerk rather severely, and would have
surprised any one not aware of poor Harry’s incurable antipathy to the
desk, and the yearning desire with which he longed for physical action.

Harry was busily engaged with the refractory fire when Charley, as
stated at the conclusion of the last chapter, burst into the room.

“Hollo!” he exclaimed, suspending his operations for a moment, “what’s
up?”

“Nothing,” said Charley, “but father’s temper, that’s all. He gave me a
splendid description of his life in the woods, and then threw his pipe
at me because I admired it too much.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Harry, making a vigorous thrust at the fire, “then
you’ve no chance now.”

“No chance! what do you mean?”

“Only that we are to have a wolf-hunt in the plains to-morrow; and if
you’ve aggravated your father, he’ll be taking you home to-night,
that’s all.”

“Oh! no fear of that,” said Charley, with a look that seemed to imply
that there was very great fear of “that”—much more, in fact, than he
was willing to admit even to himself. “My dear old father never keeps
his anger long. I’m sure that he’ll be all right again in
half-an-hour.”

“Hope so, but doubt it I do,” said Harry, making another deadly poke at
the fire, and returning, with a deep sigh, to his stool.

“Would you like to go with us, Charley?” said the senior clerk, laying
down his pen and turning round on his chair (the senior clerk never sat
on a stool) with a benign smile.

“Oh, very, very much indeed,” cried Charley; “but even should father
agree to stay all night at the fort, I have no horse, and I’m sure he
would not let me have the mare after what I did to-day.”

“Do you think he’s not open to persuasion?” said the senior clerk.

“No, I’m sure he’s not.”

“Well, well, it don’t much signify; perhaps we can mount you.”
(Charley’s face brightened.) “Go,” he continued, addressing Harry
Somerville—“go, tell Tom Whyte I wish to speak to him.”

Harry sprang from his stool with a suddenness and vigour that might
have justified the belief that he had been fixed to it by means of a
powerful spring, which had been set free with a sharp recoil, and shot
him out at the door, for he disappeared in a trice. In a few minutes he
returned, followed by the groom Tom Whyte.

“Tom,” said the senior clerk, “do you think we could manage to mount
Charley to-morrow?”

“Why, sir, I don’t think as how we could. There ain’t an ’oss in the
stable except them wot’s required and them wot’s badly.”

“Couldn’t he have the brown pony?” suggested the senior clerk.

Tom Whyte was a cockney and an old soldier, and stood so bolt upright
that it seemed quite a marvel how the words ever managed to climb up
the steep ascent of his throat, and turn the corner so as to get out at
his mouth. Perhaps this was the cause of his speaking on all occasions
with great deliberation and slowness.

“Why, you see, sir,” he replied, “the brown pony’s got cut under the
fetlock of the right hind leg; and I ’ad ’im down to L’Esperance the
smith’s, sir, to look at ’im, sir; and he says to me, says he ‘That
don’t look well, that ’oss don’t,’—and he’s a knowing feller, sir, is
L’Esperance though he _is_ an ’alf-breed—”

“Never mind what he said, Tom,” interrupted the senior clerk; “is the
pony fit for use? that’s the question.”

“No, sir, ’e hain’t.”

“And the black mare, can he not have that?”

“No, sir; Mr. Grant is to ride ’er to-morrow.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said the senior clerk.—“I fear, Charley, that
you’ll need to ride behind Harry on his gray pony. It wouldn’t improve
his speed, to be sure, having two on his back; but then he’s so like a
pig in his movements at any rate, I don’t think it would spoil his pace
much.”

“Could he not try the new horse?” he continued, turning to the groom.

“The noo ’oss, sir! he might as well try to ride a mad buffalo bull,
sir. He’s quite a young colt, sir, only ’alf broke—kicks like a
windmill, sir, and’s got an ’ead like a steam-engine; ’e couldn’t ’old
’im in no’ow, sir. I ’ad ’im down to the smith ’tother day, sir, an’
says ’e to me, says ’e, ‘That’s a screamer, that is.’ ‘Yes,’ says I,
‘that his a fact.’ ‘Well,’ says ’e—”

“Hang the smith!” cried the senior clerk, losing all patience; “can’t
you answer me without so much talk? Is the horse too wild to ride?”

“Yes, sir, ’e is” said the groom, with a look of slightly offended
dignity, and drawing himself up—if we may use such an expression to one
who was always drawn up to such an extent that he seemed to be just
balanced on his heels, and required only a gentle push to lay him flat
on his back.

“Oh, I have it!” cried Peter Mactavish, who had been standing during
the conversation with his back to the fire, and a short pipe in his
mouth: “John Fowler, the miller, has just purchased a new pony. I’m
told it’s an old buffalo-runner, and I’m certain he would lend it to
Charley at once.”

“The very thing,” said the senior clerk.—“Run, Tom; give the miller my
compliments, and beg the loan of his horse for Charley Kennedy.—I think
he knows you, Charley?”

The dinner-bell rang as the groom departed, and the clerks prepared for
their mid-day meal.

The Senior clerk’s order to _“run”_ was a mere form of speech, intended
to indicate that haste was desirable. No man imagined for a moment that
Tom Whyte could, by any possibility, _run_. He hadn’t run since he was
dismissed from the army, twenty years before, for incurable
drunkenness; and most of Tom’s friend’s entertained the belief that if
he ever attempted to run he would crack all over, and go to pieces like
a disentombed Egyptian mummy. Tom therefore walked off to the row of
buildings inhabited by the men, where he sat down on a bench in front
of his bed, and proceeded leisurely to fill his pipe.

The room in which he sat was a fair specimen of the dwellings devoted
to the _employés_ of the Hudson’s Bay Company throughout the country.
It was large, and low in the roof, built entirely of wood, which was
unpainted; a matter, however, of no consequence, as, from long exposure
to dust and tobacco smoke, the floor, walls, and ceiling had become one
deep, uniform brown. The men’s beds were constructed after the fashion
of berths on board ship, being wooden boxes ranged in tiers round the
room. Several tables and benches were strewn miscellaneously about the
floor, in the centre of which stood a large double iron stove, with the
word _“Carron”_ stamped on it. This served at once for cooking and
warming the place. Numerous guns, axes, and canoe-paddles hung round
the walls or were piled in corners, and the rafters sustained a
miscellaneous mass of materials, the more conspicuous among which were
snow-shoes, dog-sledges, axe-handles, and nets.

Having filled and lighted his pipe, Tom Whyte thrust his hands into his
deerskin mittens, and sauntered off to perform his errand.




CHAPTER IV.


A wolf-hunt in the prairies—Charley astonishes his father, and breaks
in the “noo ’oss” effectually.


During the long winter that reigns in the northern regions of America,
the thermometer ranges, for many months together, from zero down to 20,
30, and 40 degrees _below_ it. In different parts of the country the
intensity of the frost varies a little, but not sufficiently to make
any appreciable change in one’s sensation of cold. At York Fort, on the
shores of Hudson’s Bay, where the winter is eight months long, the
spirit-of-wine (mercury being useless in so cold a climate) sometimes
falls so low as 50 degrees below zero; and away in the regions of Great
Bear Lake it has been known to fall considerably lower than 60 degrees
below zero of Fahrenheit. Cold of such intensity, of course, produces
many curious and interesting effects, which, although scarcely noticed
by the inhabitants, make a strong impression upon the minds of those
who visit the country for the first time. A youth goes out to walk on
one of the first sharp, frosty mornings. His locks are brown and his
face ruddy. In half-an-hour he returns with his face blue, his nose
frost-bitten, and his locks _white_—the latter effect being produced by
his breath congealing on his hair and breast, until both are covered
with hoar-frost. Perhaps he is of a sceptical nature, prejudiced it may
be, in favour of old habits and customs; so that, although told by
those who ought to know that it is absolutely necessary to wear
moccasins in winter, he prefers the leather boots to which he has been
accustomed at home, and goes out with them accordingly In a few minutes
the feet begin to lose sensation. First the toes, as far as feeling
goes, vanish; then the heels depart, and he feels the extraordinary and
peculiar and altogether disagreeable sensation of one who has had his
heels and toes amputated, and is walking about on his insteps. Soon,
however, these also fade away, and the unhappy youth rushes frantically
home on the stumps of his ankle-bones—at least so it appears to him,
and so in reality it would turn out to be if he did not speedily rub
the benumbed appendages into vitality again.

The whole country during this season is buried in snow, and the
prairies of Red River present the appearance of a sea of the purest
white for five or six months of the year. Impelled by hunger, troops of
prairie wolves prowl round the settlement, safe from the assault of man
in consequence of their light weight permitting them to scamper away on
the surface of the snow, into which man or horse, from their greater
weight, would sink, so as to render pursuit either fearfully laborious
or altogether impossible. In spring, however, when the first thaws
begin to take place, and commence that delightful process of disruption
which introduces this charming season of the year, the relative
position of wolf and man is reversed. The snow becomes suddenly soft,
so that the short legs of the wolf, sinking deep into it, fail to reach
the solid ground below, and he is obliged to drag heavily along; while
the long legs of the horse enable him to plunge through and dash aside
the snow at a rate which, although not very fleet, is sufficient
nevertheless to overtake the chase and give his rider a chance of
shooting it. The inhabitants of Red River are not much addicted to this
sport, but the gentlemen of the Hudson’s Bay Service sometimes practise
it; and it was to a hunt of this description that our young friend
Charley Kennedy was now so anxious to go.

The morning was propitious. The sun blazed in dazzling splendour in a
sky of deep unclouded blue, while the white prairie glittered as if it
were a sea of diamonds rolling out in an unbroken sheet from the walls
of the fort to the horizon, and on looking at which one experienced all
the pleasurable feelings of being out on a calm day on the wide, wide
sea, without the disagreeable consequence of being very, very sick.

The thermometer stood at 39° in the shade, and “everythi_k_” as Tom
Whyte emphatically expressed it, “looked like a runnin’ of right away
into slush.” That unusual sound, the trickling of water, so
inexpressibly grateful to the ears of those who dwell in frosty climes,
was heard all around, as the heavy masses of snow on the housetops sent
a few adventurous drops gliding down the icicles which depended from
the eaves and gables; and there was a balmy softness in the air that
told of coming spring. Nature, in fact, seemed to have wakened from her
long nap, and was beginning to think of getting up. Like people,
however, who venture to delay so long as to _think_ about it, Nature
frequently turns round and goes to sleep again in her icy cradle for a
few weeks after the first awakening.

The scene in the court-yard of Fort Garry harmonised with the cheerful
spirit of the morning. Tom Whyte, with that upright solemnity which
constituted one of his characteristic features, was standing in the
centre of a group of horses, whose energy he endeavoured to restrain
with the help of a small Indian boy, to whom meanwhile he imparted a
variety of useful and otherwise unattainable information.

“You see, Joseph,” said he to the urchin, who gazed gravely in his face
with a pair of very large and dark eyes, “ponies is often skittish.
Reason why one should be, an’ another not, I can’t comprehend. P’r’aps
it’s nat’ral, p’r’aps not, but howsomediver so ’tis; an’ if it’s more
nor above the likes o’ _me_, Joseph, you needn’t be suprised that it’s
somethink haltogether beyond _you_.”

It will not surprise the reader to be told that Joseph made no reply to
this speech, having a very imperfect acquaintance with the English
language, especially the peculiar dialect of that tongue in which Tom
Whyte was wont to express his ideas, when he had any.

He merely gave a grunt, and continued to gaze at Tom’s fishy eyes,
which were about as interesting as the face to which they belonged, and
_that_ might have been mistaken for almost anything.

“Yes, Joseph,” he continued, “that’s a fact. There’s the noo brown o’ss
now, _it’s_ a skittish ’un. And there’s Mr. Kennedy’s gray mare, wot’s
a standin’ of beside me, she ain’t skittish a bit, though she’s plenty
of spirit, and wouldn’t care hanythink for a five-barred gate. Now, wot
I want to know is, wot’s the reason why?”

We fear that the reason why, however interesting it might prove to
naturalists, must remain a profound secret for ever; for just as the
groom was about to entertain Joseph with one of his theories on the
point, Charley Kennedy and Harry Somerville hastily approached.

“Ho, Tom!” exclaimed the former, “have you got the miller’s pony for
me?”

“Why, no, sir; ’e ’adn’t got his shoes on, sir, last night—”

“Oh, bother his shoes!” said Charley, in a voice of great
disappointment. “Why didn’t you bring him up without shoes, man, eh?”

“Well, sir, the miller said ’e’d get ’em put on early this mornin’, an’
I ’xpect ’e’ll be ’ere in ’alf-a-hour at farthest, sir.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Charley, much relieved, but still a little
nettled at the bare possibility of being late.—“Come along, Harry;
let’s go and meet him. He’ll be long enough of coming if we don’t go to
poke him up a bit.”

“You’d better wait,” called out the groom, as the boys hastened away.
“If you go by the river, he’ll p’r’aps come by the plains; and if you
go by the plains, he’ll p’r’aps come by the river.”

Charley and Harry stopped and looked at each other. Then they looked at
the groom, and as their eyes surveyed his solemn, cadaverous
countenance, which seemed a sort of bad caricature of the long visages
of the horses that stood around him, they burst into a simultaneous and
prolonged laugh.

“He’s a clever old lamp-post,” said Harry at last: “we had better
remain, Charley.”

“You see,” continued Tom Whyte, “the pony’s ’oofs is in an ’orrible
state. Last night w’en I see’d ’im I said to the miller, says I, ‘John,
I’ll take ’im down to the smith d’rectly.’ ‘Very good,’ said John. So I
’ad him down to the smith—”

The remainder of Tom’s speech was cut short by one of those unforeseen
operations of the laws of nature which are peculiar to arctic climates.
During the long winter repeated falls of snow cover the housetops with
white mantles upwards of a foot thick, which become gradually thicker
and more consolidated as winter advances. In spring the suddenness of
the thaw loosens these from the sloping roofs, and precipitates them in
masses to the ground. These miniature avalanches are dangerous, people
having been seriously injured and sometimes killed by them. Now it
happened that a very large mass of snow, which lay on and partly
depended from the roof of the house near to which the horses were
standing, gave way, and just at that critical point in Tom Whyte’s
speech when he “’ad ’im down to the smith,” fell with a stunning crash
on the back of Mr. Kennedy’s gray mare. The mare was not “skittish”—by
no means—according to Tom’s idea, but it would have been more than an
ordinary mare to have stood the sudden descent of half-a-ton of snow
without _some_ symptoms of consciousness. No sooner did it feel the
blow than it sent both heels with a bang against the wooden store, by
way of preliminary movement, and then rearing up with a wild snort, it
sprang over Tom Whyte’s head, jerked the reins from his hand, and upset
him in the snow. Poor Tom never _bent_ to anything. The military
despotism under which he had been reared having substituted a touch of
the cap for a bow, rendered it unnecessary to bend; prolonged drill,
laziness, and rheumatism made it at last impossible. When he stood up,
he did so after the manner of a pillar; when he sat down, he broke
across at two points, much in the way in which a foot-rule would have
done had _it_ felt disposed to sit down; and when he fell, he came down
like an overturned lamp-post. On the present occasion Tom became
horizontal in a moment, and from his unfortunate propensity to fall
straight, his head, reaching much farther than might have been
expected, came into violent contact with the small Indian boy, who fell
flat likewise, letting go the reins of the horses, which latter no
sooner felt themselves free than they fled, curvetting and snorting
round the court, with reins and manes flying in rare confusion.

The two boys, who could scarce stand for laughing, ran to the gates of
the fort to prevent the chargers getting free, and in a short time they
were again secured, although evidently much elated in spirit.

A few minutes after this Mr. Grant issued from the principal house
leaning on Mr. Kennedy’s arm, and followed by the senior clerk, Peter
Mactavish, and one or two friends who had come to take part in the
wolf-hunt. They were all armed with double or single barrelled guns or
pistols, according to their several fancies. The two elderly gentlemen
alone entered upon the scene without any more deadly weapons than their
heavy riding-whips. Young Harry Somerville, who had been strongly
advised not to take a gun lest he should shoot himself or his horse or
his companions, was content to take the field with a small
pocket-pistol, which he crammed to the muzzle with a compound of ball
and swan-shot.

“It won’t do,” said Mr. Grant, in an earnest voice, to his friend, as
they walked towards the horses—“it won’t do to check him too abruptly,
my dear sir.”

It was evident that they were recurring to the subject of conversation
of the previous day, and it was also evident that the father’s wrath
was in that very uncertain state when a word or look can throw it into
violent agitation.

“Just permit me,” continued Mr. Grant, “to get him sent to the
Saskatchewan or Athabasca for a couple of years. By that time he’ll
have had enough of a rough life, and be only too glad to get a berth at
headquarters. If you thwart him now, I feel convinced that he’ll break
through all restraint.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Kennedy, with a frown—“Come here, Charley,” he
said, as the boy approached with a disappointed look to tell of his
failure in getting a horse; “I’ve been talking with Mr. Grant again
about this business, and he says he can easily get you into the
counting-room here for a year, so you’ll make arrangements—”

The old gentleman paused. He was going to have followed his wonted
course by _commanding_ instantaneous obedience; but as his eye fell
upon the honest, open, though disappointed face of his son, a gush of
tenderness filled his heart. Laying his hand upon Charley’s head, he
said, in a kind but abrupt tone, “There now, Charley, my boy, make up
your mind to give in with a good grace. It’ll only be hard work for a
year or two, and then plain sailing after that, Charley!”

Charley’s clear blue eyes filled with tears as the accents of kindness
fell upon his ear.

It is strange that men should frequently be so blind to the potent
influence of kindness. Independently of the Divine authority, which
assures us that “a soft answer turneth away wrath,” and that “_love_ is
the fulfilling of the law,” who has not, in the course of his
experience, felt the overwhelming power of a truly affectionate word;
not a word which possesses merely an affectionate signification, but a
word spoken with a gush of tenderness, where love rolls in the tone,
and beams in the eye, and revels in every wrinkle of the face? And how
much more powerfully does such a word or look or tone strike home to
the heart if uttered by one whose lips are not much accustomed to the
formation of honeyed words or sweet sentences! Had Mr. Kennedy, senior,
known more of this power, and put it more frequently to the proof, we
venture to affirm that Mr. Kennedy, junior, would have _allowed_ his
_“flint to be fixed”_ (as his father pithily expressed it) long ago.

Ere Charley could reply to the question, Mr. Grant’s voice, pitched in
an elevated key, interrupted them.

“Eh! what?” said that gentleman to Tom Whyte. “No horse for Charley!
How’s that?”

“No, sir,” said Tom.

“Where’s the brown pony?” said Mr. Grant, abruptly.

“Cut ’is fetlock, sir,” said Tom, slowly.

“And the new horse?”

“’Tan’t ’alf broke yet, sir.”

“Ah! that’s bad.—It wouldn’t do to take an unbroken charger, Charley;
for although you are a pretty good rider, you couldn’t manage him, I
fear. Let me see.”

“Please, sir,” said the groom, touching his hat, “I’ve borrowed the
miller’s pony for ’im, and ’e’s sure to be ’ere in ’alf-a-hour at
farthest.”

“Oh, that’ll do,” said Mr. Grant; “you can soon overtake us. We shall
ride slowly out, straight into the prairie, and Harry will remain
behind to keep you company.”

So saying, Mr. Grant mounted his horse and rode out at the back gate,
followed by the whole cavalcade.

“Now this is too bad!” said Charley, looking with a very perplexed air
at his companion. “What’s to be done?”

Harry evidently did not know what was to be done, and made no
difficulty of saying so in a very sympathising tone. Moreover, he
begged Charley very earnestly to take _his_ pony, but this the other
would not hear of; so they came to the conclusion that there was
nothing for it but to wait as patiently as possible for the arrival of
the expected horse. In the meantime Harry proposed a saunter in the
field adjoining the fort. Charley assented, and the two friends walked
away, leading the gray pony along with them.

To the right of Fort Garry was a small enclosure, at the extreme end of
which commences a growth of willows and underwood, which gradually
increases in size till it becomes a pretty thick belt of woodland,
skirting up the river for many miles. Here stood the stable belonging
to the establishment; and as the boys passed it, Charley suddenly
conceived a strong desire to see the renowned “noo ’oss,” which Tom
Whyte had said was only “’alf broke;” so he turned the key, opened the
door, and went in.

There was nothing _very_ peculiar about this horse, excepting that his
legs seemed rather long for his body, and upon a closer examination,
there was a noticeable breadth of nostril and a latent fire in his eye,
indicating a good deal of spirit, which, like Charley’s own, required
taming.

“Oh” said Charley, “what a splendid fellow! I say, Harry, I’ll go out
with _him.”_

“You’d better not.”

“Why not?”

“Why? just because if you do Mr. Grant will be down upon you, and your
father won’t be very well pleased.”

“Nonsense,” cried Charley. “Father didn’t say I wasn’t to take him. I
don’t think he’d care much. He’s not afraid of my breaking my neck. And
then, Mr. Grant seemed to be only afraid of my being run off with—not
of his horse being hurt. Here goes for it!” In another moment Charley
had him saddled and bridled, and led him out into the yard.

“Why, I declare, he’s quite quiet; just like a lamb,” said Harry, in
surprise.

“So he is,” replied Charley. “He’s a capital charger; and even if he
does bolt, he can’t run five hundred miles at a stretch. If I turn his
head to the prairies, the Rocky Mountains are the first things that
will bring him up. So let him run if he likes, I don’t care a fig.” And
springing lightly into the saddle, he cantered out of the yard,
followed by his friend.

The young horse was a well-formed, showy animal, with a good deal of
bone—perhaps too much for elegance. He was of a beautiful dark brown,
and carried a high head and tail, with a high-stepping gait, that gave
him a noble appearance. As Charley cantered along at a steady pace, he
could discover no symptoms of the refractory spirit which had been
ascribed to him.

“Let us strike out straight for the horizon now,” said Harry, after
they had galloped half-a-mile or so along the beaten track. “See, here
are the tracks of our friends.” Turning sharp round as he spoke, he
leaped his pony over the heap that lined the road, and galloped away
through the soft snow.

At this point the young horse began to show his evil spirit. Instead of
following the other, he suddenly halted and began to back.

“Hollo, Harry!” exclaimed Charley; “hold on a bit. Here’s this monster
begun his tricks.”

“Hit him a crack with the whip,” shouted Harry.

Charley acted upon the advice, which had the effect of making the horse
shake his head with a sharp snort, and back more vigorously than ever.

“There, my fine fellow, quiet now,” said Charley, in a soothing tone,
patting the horse’s neck. “It’s a comfort to know you can’t go far in
_that_ direction, anyhow!” he added, as he glanced over his shoulder,
and saw an immense drift behind.

He was right. In a few minutes the horse backed into the snow-drift.
Finding his hind-quarters imprisoned by a power that was too much even
for _his_ obstinacy to overcome, he gave another snort and a heavy
plunge, which almost unseated his young rider.

“Hold on fast,” cried Harry, who had now come up.

“No fear,” cried Charley, as he clinched his teeth and gathered the
reins more firmly.—“Now for it, you young villain!” and raising his
whip, he brought it down with a heavy slash on the horse’s flank.

Had the snow-drift been a cannon, and the horse a bombshell, he could
scarcely have sprung from it with greater velocity. One bound landed
him on the road; another cleared it; and, in a second more, he
stretched out at full speed—his ears flat on his neck, mane and tail
flying in the wind, and the bit tight between his teeth.

“Well done,” cried Harry, as he passed. “You’re off now, old fellow;
good-bye.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Charley, in reply, leaving his cap in the snow as a
parting souvenir; while, seeing that it was useless to endeavour to
check his steed, he became quite wild with excitement; gave him the
rein; flourished his whip; and flew over the white plains, casting up
the snow in clouds behind him like a hurricane.

While this little escapade was being enacted by the boys, the hunters
were riding leisurely out upon the snowy sea in search of a wolf.

Words cannot convey to you, dear reader, an adequate conception of the
peculiar fascination, the exhilarating splendour of the scene by which
our hunters were surrounded. Its beauty lay not in variety of feature
in the landscape, for there was none. One vast sheet of white alone met
the view, bounded all round by the blue circle of the sky, and broken,
in one or two places, by a patch or two of willows, which, rising on
the plain, appeared like little islands in a frozen sea. It was the
glittering sparkle of the snow in the bright sunshine; the dreamy
haziness of the atmosphere, mingling earth and sky as in a halo of
gold; the first taste, the first _smell_ of spring after a long winter,
bursting suddenly upon the senses, like the unexpected visit of a
long-absent, much-loved, and almost-forgotten friend; the soft, warm
feeling of the south wind, bearing on its wings the balmy influences of
sunny climes, and recalling vividly the scenes, the pleasures, the
bustling occupations of summer. It was this that caused the hunters’
hearts to leap within them as they rode along—that induced old Mr.
Kennedy to forget his years, and shout as he had been wont to do in
days gone by, when he used to follow the track of the elk or hunt the
wild buffalo; and it was this that made the otherwise monotonous
prairies, on this particular clay, so charming.

The party had wandered about without discovering anything that bore the
smallest resemblance to a wolf, for upwards of an hour; Fort Garry had
fallen astern (to use a nautical phrase) until it had become a mere
speck on the horizon, and vanished altogether; Peter Mactavish had
twice given a false alarm, in the eagerness of his spirit, and had
three times plunged his horse up to the girths in a snow-drift; the
senior clerk was waxing impatient, and the horses restive, when a
sudden “Hollo!” from Mr. Grant brought the whole cavalcade to a stand.

The object which drew his attention, and to which he directed the
anxious eyes of his friends was a small speck, rather triangular in
form, which overtopped a little willow bush not more than five or six
hundred yards distant.

“There he is!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “That’s a fact,” cried Mr. Kennedy;
and both gentlemen, instantaneously giving a shout, bounded towards the
object; not, however, before the senior clerk, who was mounted on a
fleet and strong horse, had taken the lead by six yards. A moment
afterwards the speck rose up and discovered itself to be a veritable
wolf. Moreover, he condescended to show his teeth, and then, conceiving
it probable that his enemies were too numerous for him, he turned
suddenly round and fled away. For ten minutes or so the chase was kept
up at full speed, and as the snow happened to be shallow at the
starting-point, the wolf kept well ahead of its pursuers—indeed,
distanced them a little. But soon the snow became deeper, and the wolf
plunged heavily, and the horses gained considerably. Although to the
eye the prairies seemed to be a uniform level, there were numerous
slight undulations, in which drifts of some depth had collected. Into
one of these the wolf now plunged and laboured slowly through it. But
so deep was the snow that the horses almost stuck fast. A few minutes,
however, brought them out, and Mr. Grant and Mr. Kennedy, who had kept
close to each other during the run, pulled up for a moment on the
summit of a ridge to breathe their panting steeds.

“What can that be?” exclaimed the former, pointing with his whip to a
distant object which was moving rapidly over the plain.

“Eh! what—where?” said Mr. Kennedy, shading his eyes with his hand, and
peering in the direction indicated. “Why, that’s another wolf, isn’t
it? No; it runs too fast for that.”

“Strange,” said his friend; “what _can_ it be?”

“If I hadn’t seen every beast in the country,” remarked Mr. Kennedy,
“and didn’t know that there are no such animals north of the equator, I
should say it was a mad dromedary mounted by a ring-tailed roarer.”

“It can’t be surely—not possible!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. “It’s not
Charley on the new horse!”

Mr. Grant said this with an air of vexation that annoyed his friend a
little. He would not have much minded Charley’s taking a horse without
leave, no matter how wild it might be; but he did not at all relish the
idea of making an apology for his son’s misconduct, and for the moment
did not exactly know what to say. As usual in such a dilemma, the old
man took refuge in a towering passion, gave his steed a sharp cut with
the whip, and galloped forward to meet the delinquent.

We are not acquainted with the general appearance of a “ring-tailed
roarer;” in fact, we have grave doubts as to whether such an animal
exists at all; but if it does, and is particularly wild, dishevelled,
and fierce in deportment, there is no doubt whatever that when Mr.
Kennedy applied the name to his hopeful son, the application was
singularly powerful and appropriate.

Charley had had a long run since we last saw him. After describing a
wide curve, in which his charger displayed a surprising aptitude for
picking out the ground that was least covered with snow, he headed
straight for the fort again at the same pace at which he had started.
At first Charley tried every possible method to check him, but in vain;
so he gave it up, resolving to enjoy the race, since he could not
prevent it. The young horse seemed to be made of lightning, with bones
and muscles of brass; for he bounded untiringly forward for miles,
tossing his head and snorting in his wild career. But Charley was a
good horseman, and did not mind _that_ much, being quite satisfied that
the horse _was_ a horse and not a spirit, and that therefore he could
not run for ever. At last he approached the party, in search of which
he had originally set out. His eyes dilated and his colour heightened
as he beheld the wolf running directly towards him. Fumbling hastily
for the pistol which he had borrowed from his friend Harry, he drew it
from his pocket, and prepared to give the animal a shot in passing.
Just at that moment the wolf caught sight of this new enemy in advance,
and diverged suddenly to the left, plunging into a drift in his
confusion, and so enabling the senior clerk to overtake him, and send
an ounce of heavy shot into his side, which turned him over quite dead.
The shot, however had a double effect. At that instant Charley swept
past; and his mettlesome steed swerved as it heard the loud report of
the gun, thereby almost unhorsing his rider, and causing him
unintentionally to discharge the conglomerate of bullets and swan-shot
into the flank of Peter Mactavish’s horse—fortunately at a distance
which rendered the shot equivalent to a dozen very sharp and
particularly stinging blows. On receiving this unexpected salute, the
astonished charger reared convulsively, and fell back upon his rider,
who was thereby buried deep in the snow, not a vestige of him being
left, no more than if he had never existed at all. Indeed, for a moment
it seemed to be doubtful whether poor Peter _did_ exist or not, until a
sudden upheaving of the snow took place, and his dishevelled head
appeared, with the eyes and mouth wide open, bearing on them an
expression of mingled horror and amazement. Meanwhile the second shot
acted like a spur on the young horse, which flew past Mr. Kennedy like
a whirlwind.

“Stop, you young scoundrel!” he shouted, shaking his fist at Charley as
he passed.

Charley was past stopping, either by inclination or ability. This
sudden and unexpected accumulation of disasters was too much for him.
As he passed his sire, with his brown curls streaming straight out
behind, and his eyes flashing with excitement, his teeth clinched, and
his horse tearing along more like an incarnate fiend than an animal, a
spirit of combined recklessness, consternation, indignation, and glee
took possession of him. He waved his whip wildly over his head, brought
it down with a stinging cut on the horse’s neck, and uttered a shout of
defiance that threw completely into the shade the loudest war-whoop
that was ever uttered by the brazen lungs of the wildest savage between
Hudson’s Bay and Oregon. Seeing and hearing this, old Mr. Kennedy
wheeled about and dashed off in pursuit with much greater energy than
he had displayed in chase of the wolf.

The race bid fair to be a long one, for the young horse was strong in
wind and limb; and the gray mare, though decidedly not “the better
horse,” was much fresher than the other.

The hunters, who were now joined by Harry Somerville, did not feel it
incumbent on them to follow this new chase; so they contented
themselves with watching their flight towards the fort, while they
followed at a more leisurely pace.

Meanwhile Charley rapidly neared Fort Garry, and now began to wonder
whether the stable door was open, and if so, whether it were better for
him to take his chance of getting his neck broken, or to throw himself
into the next snow-drift that presented itself.

He had not to remain long in suspense. The wooden fence that enclosed
the stable-yard lay before him. It was between four and five feet high,
with a beaten track running along the outside, and a deep snow-drift on
the other. Charley felt that the young horse had made up his mind to
leap this. As he did not at the moment see that there was anything
better to be done, he prepared for it. As the horse bent on his
haunches to spring, he gave him a smart cut with the whip, went over
like a rocket, and plunged up to the neck in the snow-drift; which
brought his career to an abrupt conclusion. The sudden stoppage of the
horse was _one_ thing, but the arresting of Master Charley was
_another_ and quite a different thing. The instant his charger landed,
he left the saddle like a harlequin, described an extensive curve in
the air, and fell head foremost into the drift, above which his boots
and three inches of his legs alone remained to tell the tale.

On witnessing this climax, Mr. Kennedy, senior, pulled up, dismounted,
and ran—with an expression of some anxiety on his countenance—to the
help of his son, while Tom Whyte came out of the stable just in time to
receive the “noo ’oss” as he floundered out of the snow.

“I believe,” said the groom, as he surveyed the trembling charger,
“that your son has broke the noo ’oss, sir, better nor I could ’ave
done myself.”

“I believe that my son has broken his neck,” said Mr. Kennedy
wrathfully. “Come here and help me to dig him out.”

In a few minutes Charley was dug out, in a state of insensibility, and
carried up to the fort, where he was laid on a bed, and restoratives
actively applied for his recovery.




CHAPTER V.


Peter Mactavish becomes an amateur doctor; Charley promulgates his
views of tilings in general to Kate; and Kate waxes sagacious.


Shortly after the catastrophe just related, Charley opened his eyes to
consciousness, and aroused himself out of a prolonged fainting fit,
under the combined influence of a strong constitution and the medical
treatment of his friends.

Medical treatment in the wilds of North America, by the way, is very
original in its character, and is founded on principles so vague that
no one has ever been found capable of stating them clearly. Owing to
the stubborn fact that there are no doctors in the country, men have
been thrown upon their own resources, and as a natural consequence
_every_ man is a doctor. True, there _are_ two, it may be three, real
doctors in the Hudson’s Bay Company’s employment; but as one of these
is resident on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, another in Oregon, and a
third in Red River Settlement, they are not considered available for
every case of emergency that may chance to occur in the hundreds of
little outposts, scattered far and wide over the whole continent of
North America, with miles and miles of primeval wilderness between
each. We do not think, therefore, that when we say there are _no_
doctors in the country, we use a culpable amount of exaggeration.

If a man gets ill, he goes on till he gets better; and if he doesn’t
get better, he dies. To avert such an undesirable consummation,
desperate and random efforts are made in an amateur way. The old
proverb that “extremes meet” is verified. And in a land where no
doctors are to be had for love or money, doctors meet you at every
turn, ready to practise on everything, with anything, and all for
nothing, on the shortest possible notice. As maybe supposed, the
practice is novel, and not unfrequently extremely wild. Tooth-drawing
is considered child’s play—mere blacksmith’s work; bleeding is a
general remedy for everything, when all else fails; castor-oil, Epsom
salts, and emetics are the three keynotes, the foundations, and the
copestones of the system.

In Red River there is only one _genuine_ doctor; and as the settlement
is fully sixty miles long, he has enough to do, and cannot always be
found when wanted, so that Charley had to rest content with amateur
treatment in the meantime. Peter Mactavish was the first to try his
powers. He was aware that laudanum had the effect of producing sleep,
and seeing that Charley looked somewhat sleepy after recovering
consciousness, he thought it advisable to help out that propensity to
slumber, and went to the medicine-chest, whence he extracted a small
phial of tincture of rhubarb, the half of which he emptied into a
wine-glass, under the impression that it was laudanum, and poured down
Charley’s throat! The poor boy swallowed a little, and sputtered the
remainder over the bedclothes. It may be remarked here that Mactavish
was a wild, happy, half-mad sort of fellow—wonderfully erudite in
regard to some things, and profoundly ignorant in regard to others.
Medicine, it need scarcely be added, was not his _forte_. Having
accomplished this feat to his satisfaction, he sat down to watch by the
bedside of his friend. Peter had taken this opportunity to indulge in a
little private practice just after several of the other gentlemen had
left the office, under the impression that Charley had better remain
quiet for a short time.

“Well, Peter,” whispered Mr. Kennedy, senior, putting his head in at
the door (it was Harry’s room in which Charley lay), “how is he now?”

“Oh! doing capitally,” replied Peter, in a hoarse whisper, at the same
time rising and entering the office, while he gently closed the door
behind him. “I gave him a small dose of physic, which I think has done
mm good. He’s sleeping like a top now.”

Mr. Kennedy frowned slightly, and made one or two remarks in reference
to physic which were not calculated to gratify the ears of a physician.

“What did you give him?” he inquired abruptly.

“Only a little laudanum.”

“_Only,_ indeed! it’s all trash together, and that’s the worst kind of
trash you could have given him. Humph!” and the old gentleman jerked
his shoulders testily.

“How much did yon give him?” said the senior clerk, who had entered the
apartment with Harry a few minutes before.

“Not quite a wineglassful,” replied Peter, somewhat subdued.

“A what!” cried the father, starting from his chair as if he had
received an electric shock, and rushing into the adjoining room, up and
down which he raved in a state of distraction, being utterly ignorant
of what should be done under the circumstances.

Poor Harry Somerville fell rather than leaped off his stool, and dashed
into the bedroom, where old Mr. Kennedy was occupied in alternately
heaping unutterable abuse on the head of Peter Mactavish, and imploring
him to advise what was best to be done. But Peter knew not. He could
only make one or two insane proposals to roll Charley about the floor,
and see if _that_ would do him any good; while Harry suggested in
desperation that he should be hung by the heels, and perhaps it would
run out!

Meanwhile the senior clerk seized his hat, with the intention of going
in search of Tom Whyte, and rushed out at the door; which he had no
sooner done than he found himself tightly embraced in the arms of that
worthy, who happened to be entering at the moment, and who, in
consequence of the sudden onset, was pinned up against the wall of the
porch.

“Oh, my buzzum!” exclaimed Tom, laying his hand on his breast; “you’ve
a’most bu’st me, sir. W’at’s wrong, sir?”

“Go for the doctor, Tom, quick! run like the wind. Take the freshest
horse; fly, Tom, Charley’s poisoned—laudanum; quick!”

“’Eavens an’ ’arth!” ejaculated the groom, wheeling round, and stalking
rapidly off to the stable like a pair of insane compasses, while the
senior clerk returned to the bedroom, where he found Mr. Kennedy still
raving, Peter Mactavish still aghast and deadly pale, and Harry
Somerville staring like a maniac at his young friend, as if he expected
every moment to see him explode, although, to all appearance, he was
sleeping soundly, and comfortably too, notwithstanding the noise that
was going on around him. Suddenly Harry’s eye rested on the label of
the half-empty phial, and he uttered a loud, prolonged cheer.

“It’s only tincture of—”

“Wild cats and furies!” cried Mr. Kennedy, turning sharply round and
seizing Harry by the collar, “why d’you kick up such a row, eh?”

“It’s only tincture of rhubarb,” repeated the boy, disengaging himself
and holding up the phial triumphantly.

“So it is, I declare,” exclaimed Mr. Kennedy, in a tone that indicated
intense relief of mind; while Peter Mactavish uttered a sigh so deep
that one might suppose a burden of innumerable tons weight had just
been removed from his breast.

Charley had been roused from his slumbers by this last ebullition; but
on being told what had caused it, he turned languidly round on his
pillow and went to sleep again, while his friends departed and left him
to repose.

Tom Whyte failed to find the doctor. The servant told him that her
master had been suddenly called to set a broken leg that morning for a
trapper who lived ten miles _down_ the river, and on his return had
found a man waiting with a horse and cariole, who carried him violently
away to see his wife, who had been taken suddenly ill at a house twenty
miles _up_ the river, and so she didn’t expect him back that night.

“An’ where has ’e been took to?” inquired Tom.

She couldn’t tell; she knew it was somewhere about the White-horse
Plains, but she didn’t know more than that.

“Did ’e not say w’en ’e’d be home?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Oh dear!” said Tom, rubbing his long nose in great perplexity. “It’s
an ’orrible case o’ sudden and onexpected pison.”

She was sorry for it, but couldn’t help that; and thereupon, bidding
him good-morning, shut the door.

Tom’s wits had come to that condition which just precedes “giving it
up” as hopeless, when it occurred to him that he was not far from old
Mr. Kennedy’s residence; so he stepped into the cariole again and drove
thither. On his arrival he threw poor Mrs. Kennedy and Kate into great
consternation by his exceedingly graphic, and more than slightly
exaggerated, account of what had brought him in search of the doctor.
At first Mrs. Kennedy resolved to go up to Fort Garry immediately, but
Kate persuaded her to remain at home, by pointing out that she could
herself go, and if anything very serious had occurred (which she didn’t
believe), Mr. Kennedy could come down for her immediately, while she
(Kate) could remain to nurse her brother.

In a few minutes Kate and Tom were seated side by side in the little
cariole, driving swiftly up the frozen river; and two hours later the
former was seated by her brother’s bedside, watching him as he slept
with a look of tender affection and solicitude.

Rousing himself from his slumbers, Charley looked vacantly round the
room.

“Have you slept well, darling?” inquired Kate, laying her hand lightly
on his forehead.

“Slept—eh! oh yes. I’ve slept. I say, Kate, what a precious bump I came
down on my head, to be sure!”

“Hush, Charley!” said Kate, perceiving that he was becoming energetic.
“Father said you were to keep quiet—and so do I,” she added, with a
frown. “Shut your eyes, sir, and go to sleep.”

Charley complied by shutting his eyes, and opening his mouth, and
uttering a succession of deep snores.

“Now, you bad boy,” said Kate, “why _won’t_ you try to rest?”

“Because, Kate, dear,” said Charley, opening his eyes again—“because I
feel as if I had slept a week at least; and not being one of the seven
sleepers, I don’t think it necessary to do more in that way just now.
Besides, my sweet but particularly wicked sister, I wish just at this
moment to have a talk with you.”

“But are you sure it won’t do you harm to talk? do you feel quite
strong enough?”

“Quite: Sampson was a mere infant compared to me.”

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Charley dear, and keep your hands quiet, and
don’t lift the clothes with your knees in that way, else I’ll go away
and leave you.”

“Very well, my pet; if you do, I’ll get up and dress and follow you,
that’s all! But come, Kate, tell me first of all how it was that I got
pitched off that long-legged rhinoceros, and who it was that picked me
up, and why wasn’t I killed, and how did I come here; for my head is
sadly confused, and I scarcely recollect anything that has happened;
and before commencing your discourse, Kate, please hand me a glass of
water, for my mouth is as dry as a whistle.”

Kate handed him a glass of water, smoothed his pillow, brushed the
curls gently off his forehead, and sat down on the bedside.

“Thank you, Kate; now go on.”

“Well, you see,” she began—

“Pardon me, dearest,” interrupted Charley, “if you would please to look
at me you would observe that my two eyes are tightly closed, so that I
don’t _see_ at all.”

“Well, then, you must understand—”

“Must I? Oh!—”

“That after that wicked horse leaped with you over the stable fence,
you were thrown high into the air, and turning completely round, fell
head foremost into the snow, and your poor head went through the top of
an old cask that had been buried there all winter.”

“Dear me!” ejaculated Charley; “did anyone see me, Kate?”

“Oh yes.”

“Who?” asked Charley, somewhat anxiously; “not Mrs. Grant, I hope? for
if she did she’d never let me hear the last of it.”

“No; only our father, who was chasing you at the time,” replied Kate,
with a merry laugh.

“And no one else?”

“No—oh yes, by-the-by, Tom Whyte was there too.”

“Oh, he’s nobody. Go on.”

“But tell me, Charley, why do you care about Mrs. Grant seeing you?”

“Oh! no reason at all, only she’s such an abominable quiz.”

We must guard the reader here against the supposition that Mrs. Grant
was a quiz of the ordinary kind. She was by no means a sprightly,
clever woman, rather fond of a joke than otherwise, as the term might
lead you to suppose. Her corporeal frame was very large, excessively
fat, and remarkably unwieldy; being an appropriate casket in which to
enshrine a mind of the heaviest and most sluggish nature. She spoke
little, ate largely, and slept much—the latter recreation being very
frequently enjoyed in a large arm-chair of a peculiar kind. It had been
a water-butt, which her ingenious husband had cut half-way down the
middle, then half-way across, and in the angle thus formed fixed a
bottom, which, together with the back, he padded with tow, and covered
the whole with a mantle of glaring bed-curtain chintz, whose pattern
alternated in stripes of sky-blue and china roses, with broken
fragments of the rainbow between. Notwithstanding her excessive
slowness, however, Mrs. Grant was fond of taking a firm hold of
anything or any circumstance in the character or affairs of her
friends, and twitting them thereupon in a grave but persevering manner
that was exceedingly irritating. No one could ever ascertain whether
Mrs. Grant did this in a sly way or not, as her visage never expressed
anything except unalterable good-humour. She was a good wife and an
affectionate mother; had a family of ten children, and could boast of
never having had more than one quarrel with her husband. This
disagreement was occasioned by a rather awkward mischance. One day, not
long after her last baby was born, Mrs. Grant waddled towards her tub
with the intention of enjoying her accustomed siesta. A few minutes
previously, her seventh child, which was just able to walk, had
scrambled up into the seat and fallen fast asleep there. As has been
already said, Mrs. Grant’s intellect was never very bright, and at this
particular time she was rather drowsy, so that she did not observe the
child, and on reaching her chair, turned round preparatory to letting
herself plump into it. She always _plumped_ into her chair. Her muscles
were too soft to lower her gently down into it. Invariably on reaching
a certain point they ceased to act, and let her down with a crash. She
had just reached this point, and her baby’s hopes and prospects were on
the eve of being cruelly crushed for ever, when Mr. Grant noticed the
impending calamity. He had no time to warn her, for she had already
passed the point at which her powers of muscular endurance terminated;
so grasping the chair, he suddenly withdrew it with such force that the
baby rolled off upon the floor like a hedgehog, straightened out flat,
and gave vent to an outrageous roar, while its horror-struck mother
came to the ground with a sound resembling the fall of an enormous sack
of wool. Although the old lady could not see exactly that there was
anything very blameworthy in her husband’s conduct on this occasion,
yet her nerves had received so severe a shock that she refused to be
comforted for two entire days.

But to return from this digression. After Charley had two or three
times recommended Kate (who was a little inclined to be quizzical) to
proceed, she continued,—

“Well, then you were carried up here by father and Tom Whyte, and put
to bed, and after a good deal of rubbing and rough treatment you were
got round. Then Peter Mactavish nearly poisoned you, but fortunately he
was such a goose that he did not think of reading the label of the
phial, and so gave you a dose of tincture of rhubarb instead of
laudanum as he had intended; and then father flew into a passion, and
Tom Whyte was sent to fetch the doctor, and couldn’t find him; but
fortunately he found me, which was much better, I think, and brought me
up here. And so here I am, and here I intend to remain.”

“And so that’s the end of it. Well, Kate, I’m very glad it was no
worse.”

“And I am very _thankful_” said Kate, with emphasis on the word, “that
it’s no worse.”

“Oh, well, you know, Kate, I _meant_ that, of course.”

“But you did not _say_ it,” replied his sister earnestly.

“To be sure not,” said Charley gaily; “it would be absurd to be always
making solemn speeches, and things of that sort, every time one has a
little accident.”

“True, Charley; but when one has a very serious accident, and escapes
unhurt, don’t you think that _then_ it would be—”

“Oh yes, to be sure,” interrupted Charley, who still strove to turn
Kate from her serious frame of mind; “but sister dear, how could I
possibly _say_ I was thankful with my head crammed into an old cask and
my feet pointing up to the blue sky, eh?”

Kate smiled at this, and laid her hand on his arm, while she bent over
the pillow and looked tenderly into his eyes.

“O my darling Charley, you are disposed to jest about it; but I cannot
tell you how my heart trembled this morning when I heard from Tom Whyte
of what had happened. As we drove up to the fort, I thought how
terrible it would have been if you had been killed; and then the happy
days we have spent together rushed into my mind, and I thought of the
willow creek where we used to fish for gold eyes, and the spot in the
woods where we have so often chased the little birds, and the lake in
the prairies where we used to go in spring to watch the water-fowl
sporting in the sunshine. When I recalled these things, Charley, and
thought of you as dead, I felt as if I should die too. And when I came
here and found that my fears were needless, that you were alive and
safe, and almost well, I felt thankful—yes, very, very thankful—to God
for sparing your life, my dear, dear Charley.” And Kate laid her head
on his bosom and sobbed, when she thought of what might have been, as
if her very heart would break.

Charley’s disposition to levity entirely vanished while his sister
spoke; and twining his tough little arm round her neck, he pressed her
fervently to his heart.

“Bless you, Kate,” he said at length. “I am indeed thankful to God, not
only for sparing my life, but for giving me such a darling sister to
live for. But now, Kate, tell me, what do you think of father’s
determination to have me placed in the office here?”

“Indeed, I think it’s very hard. Oh, I do wish _so_ much that I could
do it for you,” said Kate with a sigh.

“Do _what_ for me?” asked Charley.

“Why, the office work,” said Kate.

“Tuts! fiddlesticks! But isn’t it, now, really a _very_ hard case?”

“Indeed it is; but, then, what can you do?”

“Do?” said Charley impatiently; “run away to be sure.”

“Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Kate anxiously. “You know it will kill
our beloved mother; and then it would grieve father very much.”

“Well, father don’t care much about grieving me, when he hunted me down
like a wolf till I nearly broke my neck.”

“Now, Charley, you must not speak so. Father loves you tenderly,
although he _is_ a little rough at times. If you only heard how kindly
he speaks of you to our mother when you are away, you could not think
of giving him so much pain. And then the Bible says, ‘Honour thy father
and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord
thy God giveth thee;’ and as God speaks in the Bible, _surely_ we
should pay attention to it!”

Charley was silent for a few seconds; then heaving a deep sigh, he
said,—

“Well, I believe you’re right, Kate; but then, what am I to do? If I
don’t run away, I must live, like poor Harry Somerville, on a
long-legged stool; and if I do _that_, I’ll—I’ll—”

As Charley spoke, the door opened, and his father entered.

“Well, my boy,” said he, seating himself on the bedside and taking his
son’s hand, “how goes it now? Head getting all right again? I fear that
Kate has been talking too much to you.—Is it so, you little
chatterbox?”

Mr. Kennedy parted Kate’s clustering ringlets and kissed her forehead.

Charley assured his father that he was almost well, and much the better
of having Kate to tend him. In fact, he felt so much revived that he
said he would get up and go out for a walk.

“Had I not better tell Tom Whyte to saddle the young horse for you?”
said his father, half ironically. “No, no, boy; lie still where you are
to-day, and get up if you feel better to-morrow. In the meantime, I’ve
come to say good-bye, as I intend to go home to relieve your mother’s
anxiety about you. I’ll see you again, probably, the day after
to-morrow. Hark you, boy; I’ve been talking your affairs over again
with Mr. Grant, and we’ve come to the conclusion to give you a run in
the woods for a time. You’ll have to be ready to start early in spring
with the first brigades for the north. So adieu!”

Mr. Kennedy patted him on the head, and hastily left the room.

A burning blush of shame arose on Charley’s cheek as he recollected his
late remarks about his father; and then, recalling the purport of his
last words, he sent forth an exulting shout as he thought of the coming
spring.

“Well now, Charley,” said Kate, with an arch smile, “let us talk
seriously over your arrangements for running away.”

Charley replied by seizing the pillow and throwing it at his sister’s
head; but being accustomed to such eccentricities, she anticipated the
movement and evaded the blow.

“Ah, Charley,” cried Kate, laughing, “you mustn’t let your hand get out
of practice! That was a shockingly bad shot for a man thirsting to
become a bear and buffalo hunter!”

“I’ll make my fortune at once,” cried Charley, as Kate replaced the
pillow, “build a wooden castle on the shores of Great Bear Lake, take
you to keep house for me, and when I’m out hunting you’ll fish for
whales in the lake; and we’ll live there to a good old age; so
good-night, Kate dear, and go to bed.”

Kate laughed, gave her brother a parting kiss, and left him.




CHAPTER VI.


Spring and the voyageurs.


Winter, with its snow and its ice: winter, with its sharp winds and
white drifts; winter, with its various characteristic occupations and
employments, is past, and it is spring now.

The sun no longer glitters on fields of white; the woodman’s axe is no
longer heard hacking the oaken billets, to keep alive the roaring
fires. That inexpressibly cheerful sound the merry chime of
sleigh-bells, that tells more of winter than all other sounds together,
is no longer heard on the bosom of Red River; for the sleighs are
thrown aside as useless lumber—carts and gigs have supplanted them. The
old Canadian, who used to drive the ox with its water-barrel to the
ice-hole for his daily supply, has substituted a small cart with wheels
for the old sleigh that used to glide so smoothly over the snow, and
_grit_ so sharply on it in the more than usually frosty mornings in the
days gone by. The trees have lost their white patches, and the clumps
of willows, that used to look like islands in the prairie, have
disappeared, as the carpeting that gave them prominence has dissolved.
The aspect of everything in the isolated settlement has changed. The
winter is gone, and spring—bright, beautiful, hilarious spring—has come
again.

By those who have never known an arctic winter, the delights of an
arctic spring can never, we fear, be fully appreciated or understood.
Contrast is one of its strongest elements; indeed, we might say, _the_
element which gives to all the others peculiar zest. Life in the arctic
regions is like one of Turner’s pictures, in which the lights are
strong, the shadows deep, and the _tout ensemble_ hazy and romantic. So
cold and prolonged is the winter, that the first mild breath of spring
breaks on the senses like a zephyr from the plains of Paradise.
Everything bursts suddenly into vigorous life, after the long,
death-like sleep of Nature; as little children burst into the romping
gaieties of a new day, after the deep repose of a long and tranquil
night. The snow melts, the ice breaks up, and rushes in broken masses,
heaving and tossing in the rising floods, that grind and whirl them
into the ocean, or into those great fresh-water lakes that vie with
ocean itself in magnitude and grandeur. The buds come out and the
leaves appear, clothing all nature with a bright refreshing green,
which derives additional brilliancy from sundry patches of snow, that
fill the deep creeks and hollows everywhere, and form ephemeral
fountains whose waters continue to supply a thousand rills for many a
long day, until the fierce glare of the summer sun prevails at last and
melts them all away.

Red River flows on now to mix its long-pent-up waters with Lake
Winnipeg. Boats are seen rowing about upon its waters, as the settlers
travel from place to place; and wooden canoes, made of the hollowed-out
trunks of large trees, shoot across from shore to shore—these canoes
being a substitute for bridges, of which there are none, although the
settlement lies on both sides of the river. Birds have now entered upon
the scene, their wild cries and ceaseless flight adding to it a
cheerful activity. Ground squirrels pop up out of their holes to bask
their round, fat, beautifully-striped little bodies in the sun, or to
gaze in admiration at the farmer, as he urges a pair of _very_
slow-going oxen, that drag the plough at a pace which induces one to
believe that the wide field _may_ possibly be ploughed up by the end of
next year. Frogs whistle in the marshy grounds so loudly that men new
to the country believe they are being regaled by the songs of millions
of birds. There is no mistake about their _whistle_. It is not merely
_like_ a whistle, but it _is_ a whistle, shrill and continuous; and as
the swamps swarm with these creatures, the song never ceases for a
moment, although each individual frog creates only _one_ little gush of
music, composed of half-a-dozen trills, and then stops a moment for
breath before commencing the second bar. Bull-frogs, too, though not so
numerous, help to vary the sound by croaking vociferously, as if they
understood the value of bass, and were glad of having an opportunity to
join in the universal hum of life and joy which rises everywhere, from
the river and the swamp, the forest and the prairie, to welcome back
the spring.

Such was the state of things in Red River one beautiful morning in
April, when a band of voyageurs lounged in scattered groups about the
front gate of Fort Garry. They were as fine a set of picturesque, manly
fellows as one could desire to see. Their mode of life rendered them
healthy, hardy, arid good-humoured, with a strong dash of
recklessness—perhaps too much of it—in some of the younger men. Being
descended, generally, from French-Canadian sires and Indian mothers,
they united some of the good and not a few of the bad qualities of
both, mentally as well as physically—combining the light, gay-hearted
spirit and full, muscular frame of the Canadian with the fierce
passions and active habits of the Indian. And this wildness of
disposition was not a little fostered by the nature of their usual
occupations. They were employed during a great part of the year in
navigating the Hudson’s Bay Company’s boats, laden with furs and goods,
through the labyrinth of rivers and lakes that stud and intersect the
whole continent, or they were engaged in pursuit of the bisons,[2]
which roam the prairies in vast herds.

 [2] These animals are always called buffaloes by American hunters and
 fur-traders.


They were dressed in the costume of the country: most of them wore
light-blue cloth capotes, girded tightly round them’, by scarlet or
crimson worsted belts. Some of them had blue and others scarlet cloth
leggings, ornamented more or less with stained porcupine quills,
coloured silk, or variegated beads; while some might be seen clad in
the leathern coats of winter—deer-skin dressed like chamois leather,
fringed all round with little tails, and ornamented much in the same
way as those already described. The heavy winter moccasins and duffel
socks, which gave to their feet the appearance of being afflicted with
gout, were now replaced by moccasins of a lighter and more elegant
character, having no socks below, and fitting tightly to the feet like
gloves. Some wore hats similar to those made of silk or beaver which
are worn by ourselves in Britain, but so bedizened with scarlet
cock-tail feathers, and silver cords and tassels, as to leave the
original form of the head-dress a matter of great uncertainty. These
hats, however, are only used on high occasions, and chiefly by the
fops. Most of the men wore coarse blue cloth caps with peaks, and not a
few discarded head-pieces altogether, under the impression, apparently,
that nature had supplied a covering which was in itself sufficient.
These costumes varied not only in character but in quality, according
to the circumstances of the wearer; some being highly ornamental and
mended—evincing the felicity of the owner in the possession of a good
wife—while others were soiled and torn, or but slightly ornamented. The
voyageurs were collected, as we have said, in groups. Here stood a
dozen of the youngest—consequently the most noisy and showily
dressed—laughing loudly, gesticulating violently, and bragging
tremendously. Near to them were collected a number of sterner
spirits—men of middle age, with all the energy, and muscle, and bone of
youth, but without its swaggering hilarity; men whose powers and nerves
had been tried over and over again amid the stirring scenes of a
voyageur’s life; men whose heads were cool, and eyes sharp, and hands
ready and powerful, in the mad whirl of boiling rapids, in the sudden
attack of wild beast and hostile man, or in the unexpected approach of
any danger; men who, having been well tried, needed not to boast, and
who, having carried off triumphantly their respective brides many years
ago, needed not to decorate their persons with the absurd finery that
characterised their younger brethren. They were comparatively few in
number, but they composed a sterling band, of which every man was a
hero. Among them were those who occupied the high positions of bowman
and steersman, and when we tell the reader that on these two men
frequently hangs the safety of a boat, with all its crew and lading, it
will be easily understood how needful it is that they should be men of
iron nerve and strength of mind.

Boat-travelling in those regions is conducted in a way that would
astonish most people who dwell in the civilised quarters of the globe.
The country being intersected in all directions by great lakes and
rivers, these have been adopted as the most convenient highways along
which to convey the supplies and bring back the furs from outposts.
Rivers in America, however, as in other parts of the world, are
distinguished by sudden ebullitions and turbulent points of character,
in the shape of rapids, falls, and cataracts, up and down which neither
men nor boats can by any possibility go with impunity; consequently, on
arriving at such obstructions, the cargoes are carried overland to
navigable water above or below the falls (as the case may be), then the
boats are dragged over and launched, again reloaded, and the travellers
proceed. This operation is called “making a portage;” and as these
portages vary from twelve yards to twelve miles in length, it may be
readily conceived that a voyageur’s life is not an easy one by any
means.

This, however, is only one of his difficulties. Rapids occur which are
not so dangerous as to make a “portage” necessary, but are sufficiently
turbulent to render the descent of them perilous. In such cases, the
boats, being lightened of part of their cargo, are _run_ down, and
frequently they descend with full cargoes and crews. It is then that
the whole management of each boat devolves upon its bowman and
steersman. The rest of the crew, or _middlemen_ as they are called,
merely sit still and look on, or give a stroke with their oars if
required; while the steersman, with powerful sweeps of his heavy oar,
directs the flying boat as it bounds from surge to surge like a thing
of life; and the bowman stands erect in front to assist in directing
his comrade at the stern, having a strong and long pole in his hands,
with which, ever and anon, he violently forces the boat’s head away
from sunken rocks, against which it might otherwise strike and be stove
in, capsized, or seriously damaged.

Besides the groups already enumerated, there were one or two others,
composed of grave, elderly men, whose wrinkled brows, gray hairs, and
slow, quiet step, showed that the strength of their days was past;
although their upright figures and warm brown complexions gave promise
of their living to see many summers still. These were the principal
steersmen and old guides—men of renown, to whom the others bowed as
oracles or looked up to as fathers; men whose youth and manhood had
been spent in roaming the trackless wilderness, and who were,
therefore, eminently qualified to guide brigades through the length and
breadth of the land; men whose power of threading their way among the
perplexing intricacies of the forest had become a second nature, a kind
of instinct, that was as sure of attaining its end as the instinct of
the feathered tribes, which brings the swallow, after a long absence,
with unerring certainty back to its former haunts again in spring.




CHAPTER VII.


The store.


At whatever establishment in the fur-trader’s dominions you may chance
to alight you will find a particular building which is surrounded by a
halo of interest; towards which there seems to be a general leaning on
the part of everybody, especially of the Indians; and with which are
connected, in the minds of all, the most stirring reminiscences and
pleasing associations.

This is the trading-store. It is always recognisable, if natives are in
the neighbourhood, by the bevy of red men that cluster round it,
awaiting the coming of the storekeeper or the trader with that stoic
patience which is peculiar to Indians. It may be further recognised, by
a close observer, by the soiled condition of its walls occasioned by
loungers rubbing their backs perpetually against it, and the peculiar
dinginess round the keyhole, caused by frequent applications of the
key, which renders it conspicuous beyond all its comrades. Here is
contained that which makes the red man’s life enjoyable; that which
causes his heart to leap, and induces him to toil for months and months
together in the heat of summer and amid the frost and snow of winter;
that which _actually_ accomplishes, what music is _said_ to achieve,
the “soothing of the savage breast:” in short, here are stored up
blankets, guns, powder, shot, kettles, axes, and knives; twine for
nets, vermilion for war-paint, fishhooks and scalping-knives, capotes,
cloth, beads, needles, and a host of miscellaneous articles, much too
numerous to mention. Here, also occur periodical scenes of bustle and
excitement, when bands of natives arrive from distant hunting-grounds,
laden with rich furs, which are speedily transferred to the Hudson’s
Bay Company’s stores in exchange for the goods aforementioned. And many
a tough wrangle has the trader on such occasions with sharp natives,
who might have graduated in Billingsgate, so close are they at a
bargain. Here, too, voyageurs are supplied with an equivalent for their
wages, part in advance, if they desire it (and they generally do desire
it), and part at the conclusion of their long and arduous voyages.

It is to one of these stores, reader, that we wish to introduce you
now, that you may witness the men of the North brigade receive their
advances.

The store at Fort Garry stands on the right of the fort, as you enter
by the front gate. Its interior resembles that of the other stores in
the country, being only a little larger. A counter encloses a space
sufficiently wide to admit a dozen men, and serves to keep back those
who are more eager than the rest. Inside this counter, at the time we
write of, stood our friend, Peter Mactavish, who was the presiding
genius of the scene.

“Shut the door now, and lock it,” said Peter, in an authoritative tone,
after eight or ten young voyageurs had crushed into the space in front
of the counter. “I’ll not supply you with so much as an ounce of
tobacco if you let in another man.”

Peter needed not to repeat the command. Three or four stalwart
shoulders were applied to the door, which shut with a bang like a
cannon-shot, and the key was turned.

“Come now, Antoine,” began the trader, “we’ve lots to do, and not much
time to do it in, so pray look sharp.”

Antoine, however, was not to be urged on so easily. He had been
meditating deeply all the morning on what he should purchase. Moreover,
he had a sweetheart, and of course he had to buy something for her
before setting out on his travels. Besides, Antoine was six feet high,
and broad shouldered, and well made, with a dark face and glossy black
hair; and he entertained a notion that there were one or two points in
his costume which required to be carefully rectified, ere he could
consider that he had attained to perfection: so he brushed the long
hair off his forehead, crossed his arms, and gazed around him.

“Come now, Antoine,” said Peter, throwing a green blanket at him; “I
know you want _that_ to begin with. What’s the use of thinking so long
about it, eh? And _that_, too,” he added, throwing him a blue cloth
capote. “Anything else?”

“Oui, oui, monsieur,” cried Antoine, as he disengaged himself from the
folds of the coat which Peter had thrown over his head. “Tabac,
monsieur, tabac!”

“Oh, to be sure,” cried Peter. “I might have guessed that _that_ was
uppermost in your mind. Well, how much will you have?” Peter began to
unwind the fragrant weed off a coil of most appalling size and
thickness, which looked like a snake of endless length. “Will that do?”
and he flourished about four feet of the snake before the eyes of the
voyageur.

Antoine accepted the quantity, and young Harry Somerville entered the
articles against him in a book.

“Anything more, Antoine?” said the trader. “Ah, some beads and silks,
eh? Oho, Antoine!—By the way, Louis, have you seen Annette lately?”

Peter turned to another voyageur when he put this question, and the
voyageur gave a broad grin as he replied in the affirmative, while
Antoine looked a little confused. He did not care much, however, for
jesting. So, after getting one or two more articles—not forgetting
half-a-dozen clay pipes, and a few yards of gaudy calico, which called
forth from Peter a second reference to Annette—he bundled up his goods,
and made way for another comrade.

Louis Peltier, one of the principal guides, and a man of importance
therefore, now stood forward. He was probably about forty-five years of
age; had a plain, olive-coloured countenance, surrounded by a mass of
long jet-black hair, which he inherited, along with a pair of dark,
piercing eyes, from his Indian mother; and a robust, heavy, yet active
frame, which bore a strong resemblance to what his Canadian father’s
had been many years before. His arms, in particular, were of herculean
mould, with large swelling veins and strongly-marked muscles. They
seemed, in fact, just formed for the purpose of pulling the heavy sweep
of an inland boat among strong rapids. His face combined an expression
of stern resolution with great good-humour; and truly his countenance
did not belie him, for he was known among his comrades as the most
courageous and at the same time the most peaceable man in the
settlement. Louis Peltier was singular in possessing the latter
quality, for assuredly the half-breeds, whatever other good points they
boast, cannot lay claim to very gentle or dove-like dispositions. His
grey capote and blue leggings were decorated with no unusual ornaments,
and the scarlet belt which encircled his massive figure was the only
bit of colour he displayed.

The younger men fell respectfully into the rear as Louis stepped
forward and begged pardon for coming so early in the day. “Mais,
monsieur,” he said, “I have to look after the boats to-day, and get
them ready for a start to-morrow.”

Peter Mactavish gave Louis a hearty shake of the hand before proceeding
to supply his wants, which were simple and moderate, excepting in the
article of _tabac_, in the use of which he was _im_-moderate, being an
inveterate smoker; so that a considerable portion of the snake had to
be uncoiled for his benefit.

“Fond as ever of smoking, Louis?” said Peter Mactavish, as he handed
him the coil.

“Oui, monsieur—very fond,” answered the guide, smelling the weed. “Ah,
this is very good. I must take a good supply this voyage, because I
lost the half of my roll last year;” and the guide gave a sigh as he
thought of the overwhelming bereavement.

“Lost the half of it, Louis!” said Mactavish. “Why, how was that? You
must have lost _more_ than half your spirits with it!”

“Ah, oui, I lost _all_ my spirits, and my comrade François at the same
time!”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the clerk, bustling about the store while the
guide continued to talk.

“Oui, monsieur, oui. I lost _him_, and my tabac, and my spirits, and
very nearly my life, all in one moment!”

“Why, how came that about?” said Peter, pausing in his work, and laying
a handful of pipes on the counter.

“Ah, monsieur, it was very sad (merci, monsieur, merci; thirty pipes,
if you please), and I thought at the time that I should give up my
voyageur life, and remain altogether in the settlement with my old
woman. Mais, monsieur, that was not possible. When I spoke of it to my
old woman, she called _me_ an old woman; and you know, monsieur, that
_two_ old women never could live together in peace for twelve months
under the same roof. So here I am, you see, ready again for the
voyage.”

The voyageurs, who had drawn round Louis when he alluded to an anecdote
which they had often heard before, but were never weary of hearing over
again, laughed loudly at this sally, and urged the guide to relate the
story to “_monsieur_” who, nothing loath to suspend his operations for
a little, leaned his arms on the counter and said—

“Tell us all about it, Louis; I am anxious to know how you managed to
come by so many losses all at one time.”

“Bien, monsieur, I shall soon relate it, for the story is very short.”

Harry Somerville, who was entering the pipes in Louis’s account, had
just set down the figures “30” when Louis cleared his throat to begin.
Not having the mental fortitude to finish the line, he dropped his pen,
sprang off his stool, which he upset in so doing, jumped up,
sitting-ways, upon the counter, and gazed with breathless interest into
the guide’s face as he spoke.

“It was on a cold, wet afternoon,” said Louis, “that we were descending
the Hill River, at a part of the rapids where there is a sharp bend in
the stream, and two or three great rocks that stand up in front of the
water, as it plunges over a ledge, as if they were put there a purpose
to catch it, and split it up into foam, or to stop the boats and canoes
that try to run the rapids, and cut them up into splinters. It was an
ugly place, monsieur, I can tell you; and though I’ve run it again and
again, I always hold my breath tighter when we get to the top, and
breathe freer when we get to the bottom. Well, there was a chum of mine
at the bow, Francois by name, and a fine fellow he was as I ever came
across. He used to sleep with me at night under the same blanket,
although it was somewhat inconvenient; for being as big as myself and a
stone heavier, it was all we could do to make the blanket cover us.
However, he and I were great friends, and we managed it somehow. Well,
he was at the bow when we took the rapids, and a first-rate bowman he
made. His pole was twice as long and twice as thick as any other pole
in the boat, and he twisted it about just like a fiddlestick. I
remember well the night before we came to the rapids, as he was sitting
by the fire, which was blazing up among the pine-branches that overhung
us, he said that he wanted a good pole for the rapids next day; and
with that he jumped up, laid hold of an axe, and went back into the
woods a bit to get one. When he returned, he brought a young tree on
his shoulder, which he began to strip of its branches, and bark.
‘Louis,’ says he, ‘this is hot work; give us a pipe.’ So I rummaged
about for some tobacco, but found there was none left in my bag; so I
went to my kit and got out my roll, about three fathoms or so, and
cutting half of it off, I went to the fire and twisted it round his
neck by way of a joke, and he said he’d wear it as a necklace all
night, and so he did, too, and forgot to take it off in the morning;
and when we came near the rapids I couldn’t get at my bag to stow it
away, so says I, ‘Francois, you’ll have to run with it on, for I can’t
stop to stow it now.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘go ahead;’ and just as he
said it, we came in sight of the first run, foaming and boiling like a
kettle of robbiboo. ‘Take care, lads,’ I cried, and the next moment we
were dashing down towards the bend in the river. As we came near to the
shoot, I saw Francois standing up on the gunwale to get a better view
of the rocks ahead, and every now and then giving me a signal with his
hand how to steer; suddenly he gave a shout, and plunged his long pole
into the water, to fend off from a rock which a swirl in the stream had
concealed. For a second or two his pole bent like a willow, and we
could feel the heavy boat jerk off a little with the tremendous strain,
but all at once the pole broke off short with a crack, Francois’ heels
made a flourish in the air, and then he disappeared head foremost into
the foaming water, with my tobacco coiled round his neck! As we flew
past the place, one of his arms appeared, and I made a grab at it, and
caught him by the sleeve; but the effort upset myself and over I went
too. Fortunately, however, one of my men caught me by the foot, and
held on like a vice; but the force of the current tore Francois’ sleeve
out of my grasp, and I was dragged into the boat again just in time to
see my comrade’s legs and arms going like the sails of a windmill, as
he rolled over several times and disappeared. Well, we put ashore the
moment we got into still water, and then five or six of us started off
on foot to look for Francois. After half-an-hour’s search, we found him
pitched upon a flat rock in the middle of the stream like a bit of
driftwood, We immediately waded out to the rock and brought him ashore,
where we lighted a fire, took off all his clothes, and rubbed him till
he began to show signs of life again. But you may judge, mes garçons,
of my misery when I found that the coil of tobacco was gone. It had
come off his neck during his struggles, and there wasn’t a vestige of
it left, except a bright red mark on the throat, where it had nearly
strangled him. When he began to recover, he put his hand up to his neck
as if feeling for something, and muttered faintly, ‘The tabac.’ ‘Ah,
morbleu!’ said I, ‘you may say that! Where is it?’ Well, we soon
brought him round, but he had swallowed so much water that it damaged
his lungs, and we had to leave him at the next post we came to; and so
I lost my friend too.”

“Did Francois get better?” said Charley Kennedy, in a voice of great
concern.

Charley had entered the store by another door, just as the guide began
his story, and had listened to it unobserved with breathless interest.

“Recover! Oh oui, monsieur, he soon got well again.’

“Oh, I’m so glad,” cried Charley.

“But I lost him for that voyage,” added the guide; “and I lost my tabac
for ever.”

“You must take better care of it this time, Louis,” said Peter
Mactavish, as he resumed his work.

“That I shall, monsieur,” replied Louis, shouldering his goods and
quitting the store, while a short, slim, active little Canadian took
his place.

“Now, then, Baptiste,” said Mactavish, “you want a—”

“Blanket, monsieur,”

“Good. And—”

“A capote, monsieur.”

“And—”

“An axe—”

“Stop, stop!” shouted Harry Somerville from his desk. “Here’s an entry
in Louis’s account that I can’t make out—30 something or other; what
can it have been?”

“How often,” said Mactavish, going up to him with a look of
annoyance—“how often have I told you, Mr. Somerville, not to leave an
entry half-finished on any account!”

“I didn’t know that I left it so,” said Harry, twisting his features,
and scratching his head in great perplexity. “What _can_ it have been?
30—30—not blankets, eh?” (Harry was becoming banteringly bitter.) “He
couldn’t have got thirty guns, could he? or thirty knives, or thirty
copper kettles?”

“Perhaps it was thirty pounds of tea,” suggested Charley.

“No doubt it was thirty _pipes_,” said Peter Mactavish.

“Oh, that was it!” cried Harry, “that was it! thirty pipes, to be sure.
What an ass I am!”

“And pray what is _that_?” said Mactavish, pointing sarcastically to an
entry in the previous account—“_5 yards of superfine Annette_. Really,
Mr. Somerville, I wish you would pay more attention to your work and
less to the conversation.”

“Oh dear!” cried Harry, becoming almost hysterical under the combined
effects of chagrin at making so many mistakes, and suppressed merriment
at the idea of selling Annettes by the yard. “Oh, dear me—”

Harry could say no more, but stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth
and turned away.

“Well, sir,” said the offended Peter, “when you have laughed to your
entire satisfaction, we will go on with our work, if you please.”

“All right,” cried Harry, suppressing his feelings with a strong
effort; “what next?”

Just then a tall, raw-boned man entered the store, and rudely thrusting
Baptiste aside, asked if he could get his supplies now.

“No,” said Mactavish, sharply; “you’ll take your turn like the rest.”

The new-comer was a native of Orkney, a country from which, and the
neighbouring islands, the Fur Company almost exclusively recruits its
staff of labourers. These men are steady, useful servants, although
inclined to be slow and lazy _at first_; but they soon get used to the
country, and rapidly improve under the example of the active Canadians
and half-breeds with whom they associate; some of them are the best
servants the Company possess. Hugh Mathison, however, was a very bad
specimen of the race, being rough and coarse in his manners, and very
lazy withal. Upon receiving the trader’s answer, Hugh turned sulkily on
his heel and strode towards the door. Now, it happened that Baptiste’s
bundle lay just behind him, and on turning to leave the place, he
tripped over it and stumbled, whereat the voyageurs burst into an
ironical laugh (for Hugh was not a favourite).

“Confound your trash!” he cried, giving the little bundle a kick that
scattered everything over the floor.

“Crapaud!” said Baptiste, between his set teeth, while his eyes flashed
angrily, and he stood up before Hugh with clinched fists, “what mean
you by that, eh?”

The big Scotchman held his little opponent in contempt; so that,
instead of putting himself on the defensive, he leaned his back against
the door, thrust his hands into his pockets, and requested to know
“what that was to him.”

Baptiste was not a man of many words, and this reply, coupled with the
insolent sneer with which it was uttered, caused him to plant a sudden
and well-directed blow on the point of Hugh’s nose, which flattened it
on his face, and brought the back of his head into violent contact with
the door.

“Well done!” shouted the men; “bravo, Baptiste! _Regardez le nez, mes
enfants!_”

“Hold!” cried Mactavish, vaulting the counter, and intercepting Hugh,
as he rushed upon his antagonist; “no fighting here, you blackguards!
If you want to do _that,_ go outside the fort;” and Peter, opening the
door, thrust the Orkneyman out.

In the meantime, Baptiste gathered up his goods and left the store, in
company with several of his friends, vowing that he would wreak his
vengeance on the “gros chien” before the sun should set.

He had not long to wait, however, for just outside the gate he found
Hugh, still smarting under the pain and indignity of the blow, and
ready to pounce upon him like a cat on a mouse.

Baptiste instantly threw down his bundle, and prepared for battle by
discarding his coat.

Every nation has its own peculiar method of fighting, and its own ideas
of what is honourable and dishonourable in combat. The English, as
everyone knows, have particularly stringent rules regarding the part of
the body which may or may not be hit with propriety, and count it foul
disgrace to strike a man when he is down, although, by some strange
perversity of reasoning, they deem it right and fair to _fall_ upon him
while in this helpless condition, and burst him if possible. The
Scotchman has less of the science, and we are half inclined to believe
that he would go the length of kicking a fallen opponent; but on this
point we are not quite positive. In regard to the style adopted by the
half-breeds, however, we have no doubt. They fight _any_ way and
_every_ way, without reference to rules at all; and really, although we
may bring ourselves into contempt by admitting the fact, we think they
are quite right. No doubt the best course of action is _not_ to fight;
but if a man does find it _necessary_ to do so, surely the wisest plan
is to get it over at once (as the dentist suggested to his timorous
patient), and to do it in the most effectual manner.

Be this as it may, Baptiste flew at Hugh, and alighted upon him, not
head first, or fist first, or feet first, or _anything_ first, but
altogether—in a heap as it were; fist, feet, knees, nails, and teeth,
all taking effect at one and the same time, with a force so
irresistible that the next moment they both rolled in the dust
together.

For a minute or so they struggled and kicked like a couple of serpents,
and then, bounding to their feet again, they began to perform a
war-dance round each other, revolving their fists at the same time in,
we presume, the most approved fashion. Owing to his bulk and natural
laziness, which rendered jumping about like a jack-in-the-box
impossible, Hugh Mathison preferred to stand on the defensive; while
his lighter opponent, giving way to the natural bent of his mercurial
temperament and corporeal predilections, comported himself in a manner
that cannot be likened to anything mortal or immortal, human or
inhuman, unless it be to an insane cat, whose veins ran wild-fire
instead of blood. Or perhaps we might liken him to that ingenious piece
of firework called a zigzag cracker, which explodes with unexpected and
repeated suddenness, changing its position in a most perplexing manner
at every crack. Baptiste, after the first onset, danced backwards with
surprising lightness, glaring at his adversary the while, and rapidly
revolving his fists as before mentioned; then a terrific yell was
heard; his head, arms, and legs became a sort of whirling conglomerate;
the spot on which he danced was suddenly vacant, and at the same moment
Mathison received a bite, a scratch, a dab on the nose, and a kick on
the stomach all at once. Feeling that it was impossible to plant a
well-directed blow on such an assailant, he waited for the next
onslaught; and the moment he saw the explosive object flying through
the air towards him, he met it with a crack of his heavy fist, which,
happening to take effect in the middle of the chest, drove it backwards
with about as much velocity as it had approached, and poor Baptiste
measured his length on the ground.

“Oh, pauvre chien!” cried the spectators, “c’est fini!”

“Not yet,” cried Baptiste, as he sprang with a scream to his feet
again, and began his dance with redoubled energy, just as if all that
had gone before was a mere sketch—a sort of playful rehearsal, as it
were, of what was now to follow. At this moment Hugh stumbled over a
canoe-paddle, and fell headlong into Baptiste’s arms, as he was in the
very act of making one of his violent descents. This unlooked-for
occurrence brought them both to a sudden pause, partly from necessity
and partly from surprise. Out of this state Baptiste recovered first,
and taking advantage of the accident, threw Mathison heavily to the
ground. He rose quickly, however, and renewed the light with freshened
vigour.

Just at this moment a passionate growl was heard, and old Mr. Kennedy
rushed out of the fort in a towering rage.

Now Mr. Kennedy had no reason whatever for being angry. He was only a
visitor at the fort, and so had no concern in the behaviour of those
connected with it. He was not even in the Company’s service now, and
could not, therefore, lay claim, as one of its officers, to any right
to interfere with its men. But Mr. Kennedy never acted much from
reason; impulse was generally his guiding-star. He had, moreover, been
an absolute monarch, and a commander of men, for many years past in his
capacity of fur-trader. Being, as we have said, a powerful, fiery man,
he had ruled very much by means of brute force—a species of suasion, by
the way, which is too common among many of the gentlemen (?) in the
employment of the Hudson’s Bay Company. On hearing, therefore, that the
men were fighting in front of the fort, Mr. Kennedy rushed out in a
towering rage.

“Oh, you precious blackguards!” he cried, running up to the combatants,
while with flashing eyes he gazed first at one and then at the other,
as if uncertain on which to launch his ire. “Have you no place in the
world to fight but _here_? eh, blackguards?”

“O monsieur,” said Baptiste, lowering his hands, and assuming that
politeness of demeanour which seems inseparable from French blood,
however much mixed with baser fluid, “I was just giving _that dog_ a
thrashing, monsieur.”

“Go!” cried Mr. Kennedy in a voice of thunder, turning to Hugh, who
still stood in a pugilistic attitude, with very little respect in his
looks.

Hugh hesitated to obey the order; but Mr. Kennedy continued to advance,
grinding his teeth and working his fingers convulsively, as if he
longed to lay violent hold of the Orkneyman’s swelled nose; so he
retreated in his uncertainty, but still with his face to the foe. As
has been already said, the Assiniboine River flows within a hundred
yards of the gate of Fort Garry. The two men, in their combat, had
approached pretty near to the bank, at a place where it descends
somewhat precipitately into the stream. It was towards this bank that
Hugh Mathison was now retreating, crab fashion, followed by Mr.
Kennedy, and both of them so taken up with each other that neither
perceived the fact until Hugh’s heel struck against a stone just at the
moment that Mr. Kennedy raised his clenched fist in a threatening
attitude. The effect of this combination was to pitch the poor man head
over heels down the bank, into a row of willow bushes, through which,
as he rolled with great speed, he went with a loud crash, and shot head
first, like a startled alligator, into the water, amid a roar of
laughter from his comrades and the people belonging to the fort; most
of whom, attracted by the fight, were now assembled on the banks of the
river.

Mr. Kennedy’s wrath vanished immediately, and he joined in the
laughter; but his face instantly changed when he beheld Hugh sputtering
in deep water, and heard some one say that he could not swim.

“What! can’t swim?” he exclaimed, running down the bank to the edge of
the water. Baptiste was before him, however. In a moment he plunged in
up to the neck, stretched forth his arm, grasped Hugh by the hair, and
dragged him to the land.




CHAPTER VIII.


Farewell to Kate—Departure of the brigade—Charley becomes a voyageur.


On the following day at noon, the spot on which the late combat had
taken place became the theatre of a stirring and animated scene. Fort
Garry, and the space between it and the river, swarmed with voyageurs,
dressed in their cleanest, newest, and most brilliant costume. The
large boats for the north, six in number, lay moored to the river’s
bank, laden with bales of furs, and ready to start on their long
voyage. Young men, who had never been on the road before, stood with
animated looks watching the operations of the guides as they passed
critical examination upon their boats, overhauled the oars to see that
they were in good condition, or with crooked knives (a species of
instrument in the use of which voyageurs and natives are very expert)
polished off the top of a mast, the blade of an oar, or the handle of a
tiller. Old men, who had passed their lives in similar occupations,
looked on in silence—some standing with their heads bent on their
bosoms, and an expression of sadness about their faces, as if the scene
recalled some mournful event of their early life, or possibly reminded
them of wild, joyous scenes of other days, when the blood coursed
warmly in their young veins, and the strong muscles sprang lightly to
obey their will; when the work they had to do was hard, and the sleep
that followed it was sound—scenes and days that were now gone by for
ever. Others reclined against the wooden fence, their arms crossed,
their thin white hair waving gently in the breeze, and a kind smile
playing on their sunburned faces, as they observed the swagger and
coxcombry of the younger men, or watched the gambols of several
dark-eyed little children—embryo buffalo-hunters and voyageurs—whose
mothers had brought them to the fort to get a last kiss from papa, and
witness the departure of the boats.

Several tender scenes were going on in out-of-the-way places—in angles
of the walls and bastions, or behind the gates-between youthful couples
about to be separated for a season. Interesting scenes these of pathos
and pleasantry—a combination of soft glances and affectionate fervent
assurances; alternate embraces (that were _apparently_ received with
reluctance, but _actually_ with delight, and proffers of pieces of
calico and beads and other trinkets (received both _apparently_ and
_actually_ with extreme satisfaction) as souvenirs of happy days that
were past), and pledges of unalterable constancy and bright hope in
days that were yet to come.

A little apart from the others, a youth and a girl might be seen
sauntering slowly towards the copse beyond the stable. These were
Charley Kennedy and his sister Kate, who had retired from the bustling
scene to take a last short walk together, ere they separated, it might
be for years, perhaps for ever! Charley held Kate’s hand, while her
sweet little head rested on his shoulder.

“O Charley, Charley, my own dear, darling Charley, I’m quite miserable,
and you ought not to go away; it’s very wrong, and I don’t mind a bit
what you say, I shall die if you leave me!” And Kate pressed him
tightly to her heart, and sobbed in the depth of her woe. “Now, Kate,
my darling, don’t go on so! You know I can’t help it—”

“I _don’t_ know,” cried Kate, interrupting him, and speaking
vehemently—“I don’t know, and I don’t believe, and I don’t care for
anything at all; it’s very hard-hearted of you, and wrong, and not
right, and I’m just quite wretched!”

Poor Kate was undoubtedly speaking the absolute truth; for a more
disconsolate and wretched look of woebegone misery was never seen on so
sweet and tender and lovable a little face before. Her blue eyes swam
in two lakes of pure crystal, that overflowed continually; her mouth,
which was usually round, had become an elongated oval; and her
nut-brown hair fell in dishevelled masses over her soft cheeks.

“O Charley,” she continued, “why _won’t_ you stay?”

“Listen to me, dearest Kate,” said Charley, in a very husky voice.
“It’s too late to draw back now, even if I wished to do so; and you
don’t consider, darling, that I’ll be back again soon. Besides, I’m a
man now, Kate, and I must make my own bread. Who ever heard of a man
being supported by his old father.”

“Well, but can’t you do that here?”

“No, don’t interrupt me, Kate,” said Charley, kissing her forehead;
“I’m quite satisfied with _two short_ legs, and have no desire whatever
to make my bread on the top of _three long_ ones. Besides, you know I
can write to you.”

“But you won’t; you’ll forget.”

“No, indeed, I will not. I’ll write you long letters about all that I
see and do; and you shall write long letters to me about—”

“Stop, Charley,” cried Kate; “I won’t listen to you. I hate to think of
it.”

And her tears burst forth again with fresh violence. This time
Charley’s heart sank too. The lump in his throat all but choked him; so
he was fain to lay his head upon Kate’s heaving bosom, and weep along
with her.

For a few minutes they remained silent, when a slight rustling in the
bushes was heard. In another moment a tall, broad-shouldered,
gentlemanly man, dressed in black, stood before them. Charley and Kate,
on seeing this personage, arose, and wiping the tears from their eyes,
gave a sad smile as they shook hands with their clergyman.

“My poor children,” said Mr. Addison, affectionately, “I know well why
your hearts are sad. May God bless and comfort you! I saw you enter the
wood, and came to bid you farewell, Charley, my dear boy, as I shall
not have another opportunity of doing so.”

“O dear Mr. Addison,” cried Kate, grasping his hand in both of hers,
and gazing imploringly up at him through a perfect wilderness of
ringlets and tears, “do prevail upon Charley to stay at home; please
do!”

Mr. Addison could scarcely help smiling at the poor girl’s extreme
earnestness.

“I fear, my sweet child, that it is too late now to attempt to dissuade
Charley. Besides, he goes with the consent of his father; and I am
inclined to think that a change of life for a _short_ time may do him
good. Come, Kate, cheer up! Charley will return to us again ere long,
improved, I trust, both physically and mentally.”

Kate did _not_ cheer up, but she dried her eyes, and endeavoured to
look more composed; while Mr. Addison took Charley by the hand, and, as
they walked slowly through the wood, gave him much earnest advice and
counsel.

The clergyman’s manner was peculiar. With a large, warm, generous
heart, he possessed an enthusiastic nature, a quick, brusque manner,
and a loud voice, which, when his spirit was influenced by the strong
emotions of pity or anxiety for the souls of his flock, sunk into a
deep soft bass of the most thrilling earnestness. He belonged to the
Church of England, but conducted service very much in the Presbyterian
form, as being more suited to his mixed congregation. After a long
conversation with Charley, he concluded by saying—

“I do not care to say much to you about being kind and obliging to all
whom you may meet with during your travels, nor about the dangers to
which you will be exposed by being thrown into the company of wild and
reckless, perhaps very wicked, men. There is but _one_ incentive to
every good, and _one_ safeguard against all evil, my boy, and that is
the love of God. You may perhaps forget much that I have said to you;
but remember this, Charley, if you would be happy in this world, and
have a good hope for the next, centre your heart’s affection on our
blessed Lord Jesus Christ; for believe me, boy, _His_ heart’s affection
is centred upon you.”

As Mr. Addison spoke, a loud hello from Mr. Kennedy apprised them that
their time was exhausted, and that the boats were ready to start.
Charley sprang towards Kate, locked her in a long, passionate embrace,
and then, forgetting Mr. Addison altogether in his haste, ran out of
the wood, and hastened towards the scene of departure.

“Good-bye, Charley!” cried Harry Somerville, running up to his friend
and giving him a warm grasp of the hand. “Don’t forget me, Charley. I
wish I were going with you, with all my heart; but I’m an unlucky dog.
Good-bye.” The senior clerk and Peter Mactavish had also a kindly word
and a cheerful farewell for him as he hurried past.

“Good-bye, Charley, my lad!” said old Mr. Kennedy, in an _excessively_
loud voice, as if by such means he intended to crush back some unusual
but very powerful feelings that had a peculiar influence on a certain
lump in his throat. “Good-bye, my lad; don’t forget to write to your
old—Hang it!” said the old man, brushing his coat-sleeve somewhat
violently across his eyes, and turning abruptly round as Charley left
him and sprang into the boat—“I say, Grant, I—I—What are you staring
at, eh?” The latter part of his speech was addressed, in an angry tone,
to an innocent voyageur, who happened accidentally to confront him at
the moment.

“Come along, Kennedy,” said Mr. Grant, interposing, and grasping his
excited friend by the arm—“come with me.”

“Ah, to be sure!—yes,” said he, looking over his shoulder and waving a
last adieu to Charley, “Good-bye, God bless you, my dear boy!—I say,
Grant, come along; quick, man, and let’s have a pipe—yes, let’s have a
pipe.” Mr. Kennedy, essaying once more to crush back his rebellious
feelings, strode rapidly up the bank, and entering the house, sought to
overwhelm his sorrow in smoke: in which attempt he failed.




CHAPTER IX.


The voyage—The encampment—A surprise.


It was a fine sight to see the boats depart for the north. It was a
thrilling, heart-stirring sight to behold these picturesque, athletic
men, on receiving the word of command from their guides, spring lightly
into the long, heavy boats; to see them let the oars fall into the
water with a loud splash, and then, taking their seats, give way with a
will, knowing that the eyes of friends and sweethearts and rivals were
bent earnestly upon them. It was a splendid sight to see boat after
boat shoot out from the landing-place, and cut through the calm bosom
of the river, as the men bent their sturdy backs until the thick oars
creaked and groaned on the gunwales and flashed in the stream, more and
more vigorously at each successive stroke, until their friends on the
bank, who were anxious to see the last of them, had to run faster and
faster in order to keep up with them, as the rowers warmed at their
work, and made the water gurgle at the bows—their bright blue and
scarlet and white trappings reflected in the dark waters in broken
masses of colour, streaked with long lines of shining ripples, as if
they floated on a lake of liquid rainbows. And it was a glorious thing
to hear the wild, plaintive song, led by one clear, sonorous voice,
that rang out full and strong in the still air, while at the close of
every two lines the whole brigade burst into a loud, enthusiastic
chorus, that rolled far and wide over the smooth waters—telling of
their approach to settlers beyond the reach of vision in advance, and
floating faintly back, a last farewell, to the listening ears of
fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters left behind. And it was
interesting to observe how, as the rushing boats sped onwards past the
cottages on shore, groups of men and women and children stood before
the open doors and waved adieu, while ever and anon a solitary voice
rang louder than the others in the chorus, and a pair of dark eyes grew
brighter as a voyageur swept past his home, and recognised his little
ones screaming farewell, and seeking to attract their _sire’s_
attention by tossing their chubby arms or flourishing round their heads
the bright vermilion blades of canoe-paddles. It was interesting, too,
to hear the men shout as they ran a small rapid which occurs about the
lower part of the settlement, and dashed in full career up to the Lower
Fort—which stands about twenty miles down the river from Fort Garry—and
then sped onward again with unabated energy, until they passed the
Indian settlement, with its scattered wooden buildings and its small
church; passed the last cottage on the bank; passed the low swampy land
at the river’s mouth; and emerged at last as evening closed, upon the
wide, calm, sea-like bosom of Lake Winnipeg.

Charley saw and heard all this during the whole of that long, exciting
afternoon, and as he heard and saw it his heart swelled as if it would
burst its prison-bars, his voice rang out wildly in the choruses,
regardless alike of tune and time, and his spirit boiled within him as
he quaffed the first sweet draught of a rover’s life—a life in the
woods, the wild, free, enchanting woods, where all appeared in _his_
eyes bright, and sunny, and green, and beautiful!

As the sun’s last rays sunk in the west, and the clouds, losing their
crimson hue, began gradually to fade into gray, the boats’ heads were
turned landward. In a few seconds they grounded on a low point, covered
with small trees and bushes which stretched out into the lake. Here
Louis Peltier had resolved to bivouac for the night.

“Now then, mes garçons,” he exclaimed, leaping ashore, and helping to
drag the boat a little way on to the beach, “vite, vite! à terre, à
terre!—Take the kettle, Pierre, and let’s have supper.”

Pierre needed no second bidding. He grasped a large tin kettle and an
axe, with which he hurried into a clump of trees. Laying down the
kettle, which he had previously filled with water from the lake, he
singled out a dead tree, and with three powerful blows of his axe,
brought it to the ground. A few additional strokes cut it up into logs,
varying from three to five feet in length, which he piled together,
first placing a small bundle of dry grass and twigs beneath them, and a
few splinters of wood which he cut from off one of the logs. Having
accomplished this, Pierre took a flint and steel out of a gaily
ornamented pouch which depended from his waist, and which went by the
name of a fire-bag in consequence of its containing the implements for
procuring that element. It might have been as appropriately named
tobacco-box or smoking-bag, however, seeing that such things had more
to do with it, if possible, than fire. Having struck a spark, which he
took captive by means of a piece of tinder, he placed in the centre of
a very dry handful of soft grass, and whirled it rapidly round his
head, thereby producing a current of air, which blew the spark into a
flame; which when applied, lighted the grass and twigs; and so, in a
few minutes, a blazing fire roared up among the trees—spouted volumes
of sparks into the air, like a gigantic squib, which made it quite a
marvel that all the bushes in the neighbourhood were not burnt up at
once—glared out red and fierce upon the rippling water, until it
became, as it were, red-hot in the neighbourhood of the boats, and
caused the night to become suddenly darker by contrast; the night
reciprocating the compliment, as it grew later, by causing the space
around the fire to glow brighter and brighter, until it became a
brilliant chamber, surrounded by walls of the blackest ebony.

While Pierre was thus engaged there were at least ten voyageurs
similarly occupied. Ten steels were made instrumental in creating ten
sparks, which were severally captured by ten pieces of tinder, and
whirled round by ten lusty arms, until ten flames were produced, and
ten fires sprang up and flared wildly on the busy scene that had a few
hours before been so calm, so solitary, and so peaceful, bathed in the
soft beams of the setting sun.

In less than half-an-hour the several camps were completed, the kettles
boiling over the fires, the men smoking in every variety of attitude,
and talking loudly. It was a cheerful scene; and so Charley thought as
he reclined in his canvas tent, the opening of which faced the fire,
and enabled him to see all that was going on.

Pierre was standing over the great kettle, dancing round it, and making
sudden plunges with a stick into it, in the desperate effort to stir
its boiling contents—desperate, because the fire was very fierce and
large, and the flames seem to take a fiendish pleasure in leaping up
suddenly just under Pierre’s nose, thereby endangering his beard, or
shooting out between his legs and licking round them at most unexpected
moments, when the light wind ought to have been blowing them quite in
the opposite direction; and then, as he danced round to the other side
to avoid them, wheeling about and roaring viciously in his face, until
it seemed as if the poor man would be roasted long before the supper
was boiled. Indeed, what between the ever-changing and violent flames,
the rolling smoke, the steam from the kettle, the showering sparks, and
the man’s own wild grimaces and violent antics, Pierre seemed to
Charley like a raging demon, who danced not only round, but above, and
on, and through, and _in_ the flames, as if they were his natural
element, in which he took special delight.

Quite close to the tent the massive form of Louis the guide lay
extended, his back supported by the stump of a tree, his eyes blinking
sleepily at the blaze, and his beloved pipe hanging from his lips,
while wreaths of smoke encircled his head. Louis’s day’s work was done.
Few could do a better; and when his work was over, Louis always acted
on the belief that his position and his years entitled him to rest, and
took things very easy in consequence.

Six of the boat’s crew sat in a semicircle beside the guide and
fronting the fire, each paying particular attention to his pipe, and
talking between the puffs to anyone who chose to listen.

Suddenly Pierre vanished into the smoke and flames altogether, whence
in another moment he issued, bearing in his hand the large tin kettle,
which he deposited triumphantly at the feet of his comrades.

“Now, then,” cried Pierre.

It was unnecessary to have said even that much by way of invitation.
Voyageurs do not require to have their food pressed upon them after a
hard day’s work. Indeed it was as much as they could do to refrain from
laying violent hands on the kettle long before their worthy cook
considered its contents sufficiently done.

Charley sat in company with Mr. Park—a chief factor, on his way to
Norway House. Gibault, one of the men who acted as their servant, had
placed a kettle of hot tea before them, which, with several slices of
buffalo tongue, a lump of pemmican, and some hard biscuit and butter,
formed their evening meal. Indeed, we may add that these viands, during
a great part of the voyage, constituted their every meal. In fact, they
had no variety in their fare, except a wild duck or two now and then,
and a goose when they chanced to shoot one.

Charley sipped a pannikin of tea as he reclined on his blanket, and
being somewhat fatigued in consequence of his exertions and excitement
during the day, said nothing. Mr. Park, for the same reasons, besides
being naturally taciturn, was equally mute, so they both enjoyed in
silence the spectacle of the men eating their supper. And it _was_ a
sight worth seeing.

Their food consisted of robbiboo, a compound of flour, pemmican, and
water, boiled to the consistency of very thick soup. Though not a
species of food that would satisfy the fastidious taste of an epicure,
robbiboo is, nevertheless, very wholesome, exceedingly nutritious, and
withal palatable. Pemmican, its principal component, is made of buffalo
flesh, which fully equals (some think greatly excels) beef. The recipe
for making it is as follows:-First, kill your buffalo—a matter of
considerable difficulty, by the way, as doing so requires you to travel
to the buffalo-grounds, to arm yourself with a gun, and mount a horse,
on which you have to gallop, perhaps, several miles over rough ground
and among badger-holes at the imminent risk of breaking your neck. Then
you have to run up alongside of a buffalo and put a ball through his
heart, which, apart from the murderous nature of the action, is a
difficult thing to do. But we will suppose that you have killed your
buffalo. Then you must skin him; then cut him up, and slice the flesh
into layers, which must be dried in the sun. At this stage of the
process you have produced a substance which in the fur countries goes
by the name of dried meat, and is largely used as an article of food.
As its name implies, it is very dry, and it is also very tough, and
very undesirable if one can manage to procure anything better. But to
proceed. Having thus prepared dried meat, lay a quantity of it on a
flat stone, and take another stone, with which pound it into shreds.
You must then take the animal’s hide, while it is yet new, and make
bags of it about two feet and a half long by a foot and a half broad.
Into this put the pounded meat loosely. Melt the fat of your buffalo
over a fire, and when quite liquid pour it into the bag until full; mix
the contents well together; sew the whole up before it cools, and you
have a bag of pemmican of about ninety pounds weight. This forms the
chief food of the voyageur, in consequence of its being the largest
possible quantity of sustenance compressed into the smallest possible
space, and in an extremely convenient, portable shape. It will keep
fresh for years, and has been much used, in consequence, by the heroes
of arctic discovery, in their perilous journeys along the shores of the
frozen sea.

The voyageurs used no plate. Men who travel in these countries become
independent of many things that are supposed to be necessary here. They
sat in a circle round the kettle, each man armed with a large wooden or
pewter spoon, with which he ladled the robbiboo down his capacious
throat, in a style that not only caused Charley to laugh, but
afterwards threw him into a deep reverie on the powers of appetite in
general, and the strength of voyageur stomachs in particular.

At first the keen edge of appetite induced the men to eat in silence;
but as the contents of the kettle began to get low, their tongues
loosened, and at last, when the kettles were emptied and the pipes
filled, fresh logs thrown on the fires, and their limbs stretched out
around them, the babel of English, French, and Indian that arose was
quite overwhelming. The middle-aged men told long stories of what they
_had_ done; the young men boasted of what they _meant_ to do; while the
more aged smiled, nodded, smoked their pipes, put in a word or two as
occasion offered, and listened. While they conversed the quick ears of
one of the men of Charley’s camp detected some unusual sound.

“Hist!” said he, turning his head aside slightly, in a listening
attitude, while his comrades suddenly ceased their noisy laugh.

“Do ducks travel in canoes hereabouts?” said the man, after a moment’s
silence; “for, if not, there’s someone about to pay us a visit. I would
wager my best gun that I hear the stroke of paddles.”

“If your ears had been sharper, François, you might have heard them
some time ago,” said the guide, shaking the ashes out of his pipe and
refilling it for the third time.

“Ah, Louis, I do not pretend to such sharp ears as you possess, nor to
such sharp wit either. But who do you think can be _en route_ so late?”

“That my wit does not enable me to divine,” said Louis; “but if you
have any faith in the sharpness of your eyes, I would recommend you to
go to the beach and see, as the best and shortest way of finding out.”

By this time the men had risen, and were peering out into the gloom in
the direction whence the sound came, while one or two sauntered down to
the margin of the lake to meet the new-comers.

“Who can it be, I wonder?” said Charley, who had left the tent, and was
now standing beside the guide.

“Difficult to say, monsieur. Perhaps Injins, though I thought there
were none here just now. But I’m not surprised that we’ve attracted
_something_ to us. Livin’ creeturs always come nat’rally to the light,
and there’s plenty of fire on the point to-night.”

“Rather more than enough,” replied Charley, abruptly, as a slight
motion of wind sent the flames curling round his head and singed off
his eye-lashes. “Why, Louis, it’s my firm belief that if I ever get to
the end of this journey, I’ll not have a hair left on my head.”

Louis smiled.

“O monsieur, you will learn to _observe_ things before you have been
long in the wilderness. If you _will_ edge round to leeward of the
fire, you can’t expect it to respect you.”

Just at this moment a loud hurrah rang through the copse, and Harry
Somerville sprang over the fire into the arms of Charley, who received
him with a hug and a look of unutterable amazement.

“Charley, my boy!”

“Harry Somerville, I declare!”

For at least five minutes Charley could not recover his composure
sufficiently to _declare_ anything else, but stood with open mouth and
eyes, and elevated eyebrows, looking at his young friend, who capered
and danced round the fire in a manner that threw the cook’s
performances in that line quite into the shade, while he continued all
the time to shout fragments of sentences that were quite unintelligible
to anyone. It was evident that Harry was in a state of immense delight
at something unknown save to himself, but which, in the course of a few
minutes, was revealed to his wondering friends.

“Charley, I’m _going!_ hurrah!” and he leaped about in a manner that
induced Charley to say he would not only be going but very soon _gone_,
if he did not keep further away from the fire.

“Yes, Charley, I’m going with you! I upset the stool, tilted the
ink-bottle over the invoice-book, sent the poker almost through the
back of the fireplace, and smashed Tom Whyte’s best whip on the back of
the ‘noo ’oss’ as I galloped him over the plains for the last time: all
for joy, because I’m going with you, Charley, my darling!”

Here Harry suddenly threw his arms round his friend’s neck, meditating
an embrace. As both boys were rather fond of using their muscles
violently, the embrace degenerated into a wrestle, which caused them to
threaten complete destruction to the fire as they staggered in front of
it, and ended in their tumbling against the tent and nearly breaking
its poles and fastenings, to the horror and indignation of Mr. Park,
who was smoking his pipe within, quietly waiting till Harry’s
superabundant glee was over, that he might get an explanation of his
unexpected arrival among them.

“Ah, they will be good voyageurs!” cried one of the men, as he looked
on at this scene.

“Oui, oui! good boys, active lads,” replied the others, laughing. The
two boys rose hastily.

“Yes,” cried Harry, breathless, but still excited, “I’m going all the
way, and a great deal farther. I’m going to hunt buffaloes in the
Saskatchewan, and grizzly bears in the—the—in fact everywhere! I’m
going down the Mackenzie River—I’m going _mad_, I believe;” and Harry
gave another caper and another shout, and tossed his cap high into the
air. Having been recklessly tossed, it came down into the fire. When it
went in, it was dark blue; but when Harry dashed into the flames in
consternation to save it, it came out of a rich brown colour.

“Now, youngster,” said Mr. Park, “when you’ve done capering, I should
like to ask you one or two questions. What brought you here?”

“A canoe,” said Harry, inclined to be impudent.

“Oh, and pray for what _purpose_ have you come here?”

“These are my credentials,” handing him a letter.

Mr. Park opened the note and read.

“Ah! oh! Saskatchewan—hum—yes—outpost—wild boy—just so—keep him at
it—ay, fit for nothing else. So,” said Mr. Park, folding the paper, “I
find that Mr. Grant has sent you to take the place of a young gentleman
we expected to pick up at Norway House, but who is required elsewhere;
and that he wishes you to see a good deal of rough life—to be made a
trader of, in fact. Is that your desire?”

“That’s the very ticket!” replied Harry, scarcely able to restrain his
delight at the prospect.

“Well, then, you had better get supper and turn in, for you’ll have to
begin your new life by rising at three o’clock to-morrow morning. Have
you got a tent?”

“Yes,” said Harry, pointing to his canoe, which had been brought to the
fire and turned bottom up by the two Indians to whom it belonged, and
who were reclining under its shelter enjoying their pipes, and watching
with looks of great gravity the doings of Harry and his friend.

“_That_ will return whence it came to-morrow. Have you no other?”

“Oh yes,” said Harry, pointing to the overhanging branches of a willow
close at hand, “lots more.”

Mr. Park smiled grimly, and, turning on his heel, re-entered the tent
and continued his pipe, while Harry flung himself down beside Charley
under the bark canoe.

This species of “tent” is, however, by no means a perfect one. An
Indian canoe is seldom three feet broad—frequently much narrower—so
that it only affords shelter for the body as far down as the waist,
leaving the extremities exposed. True, one _may_ double up as nearly as
possible into half one’s length, but this is not a desirable position
to maintain throughout an entire night. Sometimes, when the weather is
_very_ bad, an additional protection is procured by leaning several
poles against the bottom of the canoe, on the weather side, in such a
way as to slope considerably over the front; and over these are spread
pieces of birch bark or branches and moss, so as to form a screen,
which is an admirable shelter. But this involves too much time and
labour to be adopted during a voyage, and is only done when the
travellers are under the necessity of remaining for some time in one
place.

The canoe in which Harry arrived was a pretty large one, and looked so
comfortable when arranged for the night that Charley resolved to
abandon his own tent and Mr. Park’s society, and sleep with his friend.

“I’ll sleep with you, Harry, my boy,” said he, after Harry had
explained to him in detail the cause of his being sent away from Red
River; which was no other than that a young gentleman, as Mr. Park
said, who _was_ to have gone, had been ordered elsewhere.

“That’s right, Charley; spread out our blankets, while I get some
supper, like a good fellow.” Harry went in search of the kettle while
his friend prepared their bed. First, he examined the ground on which
the canoe lay, and found that the two Indians had already taken
possession of the only level places under it. “Humph!” he ejaculated,
half inclined to rouse them up, but immediately dismissed the idea as
unworthy of a voyageur. Besides, Charley was an amiable, unselfish
fellow, and would rather have lain on the top of a dozen stumps than
have made himself comfortable at the expense of anyone else.

He paused a moment to consider. On one side was a hollow “that” (as he
soliloquised to himself) “would break the back of a buffalo.” On the
other side were a dozen little stumps surrounding three very prominent
ones, that threatened destruction to the ribs of anyone who should
venture to lie there. But Charley did not pause to consider long.
Seizing his axe, he laid about him vigorously with the head of it, and
in a few seconds destroyed all the stumps, which he carefully
collected, and, along with some loose moss and twigs, put into the
hollow, and so filled it up. Having improved things thus far, he rose
and strode out of the circle of light into the wood. In a few minutes
he reappeared, bearing a young spruce fir tree on his shoulder, which
with the axe he stripped of its branches. These branches were flat in
form, and elastic—admirably adapted for making a bed on; and when
Charley spread them out under the canoe in a pile of about four inches
in depth by four feet broad and six feet long, the stumps and the
hollow were overwhelmed altogether. He then ran to Mr. Park’s tent, and
fetched thence a small flat bundle covered with oilcloth and tied with
a rope. Opening this, he tossed out its contents, which were two large
and very thick blankets—one green, the other white; a particularly
minute feather pillow, a pair of moccasins, a broken comb, and a bit of
soap. Then he opened a similar bundle containing Harry’s bed, which he
likewise tossed out; and then kneeling down, he spread the two white
blankets on the top of the branches, the two green blankets above
these, and the two pillows at the top, as far under the shelter of the
canoe as he could push them. Having completed the whole in a manner
that would have done credit to a chambermaid, he continued to sit on
his knees, with his hands in his pockets, smiling complacently, and
saying, “Capital—first-rate!”

“Here we are, Charley. Have a second supper—do!”

Harry placed the smoking kettle by the head of the bed, and squatting
down beside it, began to eat as only a boy _can_ eat who has had
nothing since breakfast.

Charley attacked the kettle too—as he said, “out of sympathy,” although
he “wasn’t hungry a bit.” And really, for a man who was not hungry, and
had supped half-an-hour before, the appetite of _sympathy_ was
wonderfully strong.

But Harry’s powers of endurance were now exhausted. He had spent a long
day of excessive fatigue and excitement, and having wound it up with a
heavy supper, sleep began to assail him with a fell ferocity that
nothing could resist. He yawned once or twice, and sat on the bed
blinking unmeaningly at the fire, as if he had something to say to it
which he could not recollect just then. He nodded violently, much to
his own surprise, once or twice, and began to address remarks to the
kettle instead of to his friend. “I say, Charley, this won’t do. I’m
off to bed!” and suiting the action to the word, he took off his coat
and placed it on his pillow. He then removed his moccasins, which were
wet, and put on a dry pair; and this being all that is ever done in the
way of preparation before going to bed in the woods, he lay down and
pulled the green blankets over him.

Before doing so, however, Harry leaned his head on his hands and
prayed. This was the one link left of the chain of habit with which he
had left home. Until the period of his departure for the wild scenes of
the Northwest, Harry had lived in a quiet, happy home in the West
Highlands of Scotland, where he had been surrounded by the benign
influences of a family the members of which were united by the sweet
bonds of Christian love—bonds which were strengthened by the additional
tie of amiability of disposition. From childhood he had been accustomed
to the routine of a pious and well-regulated household, where the Bible
was perused and spoken of with an interest that indicated a genuine
hungering and thirsting after righteousness, and where the name of
JESUS sounded often and sweetly on the ear. Under such training, Harry,
though naturally of a wild, volatile disposition, was deeply and
irresistibly impressed with a reverence for sacred things, which, now
that he was thousands of miles away from his peaceful home, clung to
him with the force of old habit and association, despite the jeers of
comrades and the evil influences and ungodliness by which he was
surrounded. It is true that he was not altogether unhurt by the
withering indifference to God that he beheld on all sides. Deep
impression is not renewal of heart. But early training in the path of
Christian love saved him many a deadly fall. It guarded him from many
of the grosser sins, into which other boys, who had merely broken away
from the _restraints_ of home too easily fell. It twined round him—as
the ivy encircles the oak—with a soft, tender, but powerful grasp, that
held him back when he was tempted to dash aside all restraint; and held
him up when, in the weakness of human nature, he was about to fall. It
exerted its benign sway over him in the silence of night, when his
thoughts reverted to home, and during his waking hours, when he
wandered from scene to scene in the wide wilderness; and in after
years, when sin prevailed, and intercourse with rough men had worn off
much of at least the superficial amiability of his character, and to
some extent blunted the finer feelings of his nature, it clung faintly
to him still, in the memory of his mother’s gentle look and tender
voice, and never forsook him altogether. Home had a blessed and
powerful influence on Harry. May God bless such homes, where the ruling
power is _love!_ God bless and multiply such homes in the earth! Were
there more of them there would be fewer heart-broken mothers to weep
over the memory of the blooming, manly boys they sent away to foreign
climes—with trembling hearts but high hopes—and never saw them more.
They were vessels launched upon the troubled sea of time, with stout
timbers, firm masts, and gallant sails—with all that was necessary
above and below, from stem to stern, for battling with the billows of
adverse fortune, for stemming the tide of opposition, for riding the
storms of persecution, or bounding with a press of canvas before the
gales of prosperity; but without the rudder—without the guiding
principle that renders the great power of plank and sail and mast
available; with which the vessel moves obedient to the owner’s will,
without which it drifts about with every current, and sails along with
every shifting wind that blows. Yes, may the best blessings of
prosperity and peace rest on such families, whose bread, cast
continually on the waters, returns to them after many days.

After Harry had lain down, Charley, who did not feel inclined for
repose, sauntered to the margin of the lake, and sat down upon a rock.

It was a beautiful, calm evening. The moon shone faintly through a mass
of heavy clouds, casting a pale light on the waters of Lake Winnipeg,
which stretched, without a ripple, out to the distant horizon. The
great fresh-water lakes of America bear a strong resemblance to the
sea. In storms the waves rise mountains high, and break with heavy,
sullen roar upon a beach composed in many places of sand and pebbles;
while they are so large that one not only looks out to a straight
horizon, but may even sail _out of sight of land_ altogether.

As Charley sat resting his head on his hand, and listening to the soft
hiss that the ripples made upon the beach, he felt all the solemnising
influence that steals irresistibly over the mind as we sit on a still
night gazing out upon the moonlit sea. His thoughts were sad; for he
thought of Kate, and his mother and father, and the home he was now
leaving. He remembered all that he had ever done to injure or annoy the
dear ones he was leaving; and it is strange how much alive our
consciences become when we are unexpectedly or suddenly removed from
those with whom we have lived and held daily intercourse. How bitterly
we reproach ourselves for harsh words, unkind actions; and how
intensely we long for one word more with them, one fervent embrace, to
prove at once that all we have ever said or done was not _meant_ ill,
and, at any rate, is deeply, sincerely repented of now! As Charley
looked up into the starry sky, his mind recurred to the parting words
of Mr. Addison. With uplifted hands and a full heart, he prayed that
God would bless, for Jesus’ sake, the beloved ones in Red River, but
especially Kate; for whether he prayed or meditated, Charley’s thoughts
_always_ ended with Kate.

A black cloud passed across the moon, and reminded him that but a few
hours of the night remained; so hastening up to the camp again, he lay
gently down beside his friend, and drew the green blanket over him.

In the camp all was silent. The men had chosen their several beds
according to fancy, under the shadow of a bush or tree. The fires had
burned low—so low that it was with difficulty Charley, as he lay, could
discern the recumbent forms of the men, whose presence was indicated by
the deep, soft, regular breathing of tired but, healthy constitutions.
Sometimes a stray moonbeam shot through the leaves and branches, and
cast a ghost-like, flickering light over the scene, which ever and anon
was rendered more mysterious by a red flare of the fire as an ember
fell, blazed up for an instant, and left all shrouded in greater
darkness than before.

At first Charley continued his sad thoughts, staring all the while at
the red embers of the expiring fire; but soon his eyes began to blink,
and the stumps of trees began to assume the form of voyageurs, and
voyageurs to look like stumps of trees. Then a moonbeam darted in, and
Mr. Addison stood on the other side of the fire. At this sight Charley
started, and Mr. Addison disappeared, while the boy smiled to think how
he had been dreaming while only half asleep. Then Kate appeared, and
seemed to smile on him; but another ember fell, and another red flame
sprang up, and put her to flight too. Then a low sigh of wind rustled
through the branches, and Charley felt sure that he saw Kate again
coming through the woods, singing the low, soft tune that she was so
fond of singing, because it was his own favourite air. But soon the air
ceased; the fire faded away; so did the trees, and the sleeping
voyageurs; Kate last of all dissolved, and Charley sank into a deep,
untroubled slumber.




CHAPTER X.


Varieties, vexations, and vicissitudes.


Life is checkered—there is no doubt about that; whatever doubts a man
may entertain upon other subjects, he can have none upon this, we feel
quite certain. In fact, so true is it that we would not for a moment
have drawn the reader’s attention to it here, were it not that our
experience of life in the backwoods corroborates the truth; and truth,
however well corroborated, is none the worse of getting a little
additional testimony now and then in this sceptical generation.

Life is checkered, then, undoubtedly. And life in the backwoods
strengthens the proverb, for it is a peculiarly striking and remarkable
specimen of life’s variegated character.

There is a difference between sailing smoothly along the shores of Lake
Winnipeg with favouring breezes, and being tossed on its surging
billows by the howling of a nor’-west wind, that threatens destruction
to the boat, or forces it to seek shelter on the shore. This difference
is one of the checkered scenes of which we write, and one that was
experienced by the brigade more than once during its passage across the
lake.

Since we are dealing in truisms, it may not, perhaps, be out of place
here to say that going to bed at night is not by any means getting up
in the morning; at least so several of our friends found to be the case
when the deep sonorous voice of Louis Peltier sounded through the camp
on the following morning, just as a very faint, scarcely perceptible,
light tinged the eastern sky.

“Lève, lève, lève!” he cried, “lève, lève, mes enfants!”

Some of Louis’s _infants_ replied to the summons in a way that would
have done credit to a harlequin. One or two active little Canadians, on
hearing the cry of the awful word _lève_, rose to their feet with a
quick bound, as if they had been keeping up an appearance of sleep as a
sort of practical joke all night, on purpose to be ready to leap as the
first sound fell from the guide’s lips. Others lay still, in the same
attitude in which they had fallen asleep, having made up their minds,
apparently, to lie there in spite of all the guides in the world. Not a
few got slowly into the sitting position, their hair dishevelled, their
caps awry, their eyes alternately winking very hard and staring awfully
in the vain effort to keep open, and their whole physiognomy wearing an
expression of blank stupidity that is peculiar to man when engaged in
that struggle which occurs each morning as he endeavours to disconnect
and shake off the entanglement of nightly dreams and the realities of
the breaking day. Throughout the whole camp there was a low, muffled
sound, as of men moving lazily, with broken whispers and disjointed
sentences uttered in very deep, hoarse tones, mingled with confused,
unearthly noises, which, upon consideration, sounded like prolonged
yawns. Gradually these sounds increased, for the guide’s _lève_ is
inexorable, and the voyageur’s fate inevitable.

“Oh dear!—yei a—a—ow” (yawning); “hang your _lève!_”

“Oui, vraiment—yei a-a——ow—morbleu!”

“Eh, what’s that? Oh, misère!”

“Tare an’ ages!” (from an Irishman), “an’ I had only got to slaape yit!
but—yei a—a——ow!”

French and Irish yawns are very similar, the only difference being,
that whereas the Frenchman finishes the yawn resignedly, and springs to
his legs, the Irishman finishes it with an energetic gasp, as if he
were hurling it remonstratively into the face of Fate, turns round
again and shuts his eyes doggedly—a piece of bravado which he knows is
useless and of very short duration.

“Lève! lève!! lève!!!” There was no mistake this time in the tones of
Louis’s voice. “Embark, embark! vite, vite!”

The subdued sounds of rousing broke into a loud buzz of active
preparation, as the men busied themselves in bundling up blankets,
carrying down camp-kettles to the lake, launching the boats, kicking up
lazy comrades, stumbling over and swearing at fallen trees which were
not visible in the cold, uncertain light of the early dawn, searching
hopelessly, among a tangled conglomeration of leaves and broken
branches and crushed herbage, for lost pipes and missing
tobacco-pouches.

“Hollo!” exclaimed Harry Somerville, starting suddenly from his
sleeping posture, and unintentionally cramming his elbow into Charley’s
mouth, “I declare they’re all up and nearly ready to start.”

“That’s no reason,” replied Charley, “why you should knock out all my
front teeth, is it?”

Just then Mr. Park issued from his tent, dressed and ready to step into
his boat. He first gave a glance round the camp to see that all the men
were moving, then he looked up through the trees to ascertain the
present state and, if possible, the future prospects of the weather.
Having come to a satisfactory conclusion on that head, he drew forth
his pipe and began to fill it, when his eye fell on the two boys, who
were still sitting up in their lairs, and staring idiotically at the
place where the fire had been, as if the white ashes, half-burned logs,
and bits of charcoal were a sight of the most novel and interesting
character, that filled them with intense amazement.

Mr. Park could scarce forbear smiling.

“Hollo, youngsters, precious voyageurs _you’ll_ make, to be sure, if
this is the way you’re going to begin. Don’t you see that the things
are all aboard, and we’ll be ready to start in five minutes, and you
sitting there with your neckcloths off?”

Mr. Park gave a slight sneer when he spoke of _neckcloths_, as if he
thought, in the first place, that they were quite superfluous portions
of attire, and in the second place, that having once put them on, the
taking of them off at night was a piece of effeminacy altogether
unworthy of a Nor’-wester.

Charley and Harry needed no second rebuke. It flashed instantly upon
them that sleeping comfortably under their blankets when the men were
bustling about the camp was extremely inconsistent with the heroic
resolves of the previous day. They sprang up, rolled their blankets in
the oil-cloths, which they fastened tightly with ropes; tied the
neckcloths, held in such contempt by Mr. Park, in a twinkling; threw on
their coats, and in less than five minutes were ready to embark. They
then found that they might have done things more leisurely, as the
crews had not yet got all their traps on board; so they began to look
around them, and discovered that each had omitted to pack up a blanket.

Very much crestfallen at their stupidity, they proceeded to untie the
bundles again, when it became apparent to the eyes of Charley that his
friend had put on his capote inside out; which had a peculiarly ragged
and grotesque effect. These mistakes were soon rectified, and
shouldering their beds, they carried them down to the boat and tossed
them in. Meanwhile Mr. Park, who had been watching the movements of the
boys with a peculiar smile, that filled them with confusion, went round
the different camps to see that nothing was left behind. The men were
all in their places with oars ready, and the boats floating on the calm
water, a yard or two from shore, with the exception of the guide’s
boat, the stern of which still rested on the sand awaiting Mr. Park.

“Who does this belong to?” shouted that gentleman, holding up a cloth
cap, part of which was of a mottled brown and part deep blue.

Harry instantly tore the covering from his head, and discovered that
among his numerous mistakes he had put on the head-dress of one of the
Indians who had brought him to the camp. To do him justice the cap was
not unlike his own, excepting that it was a little more mottled and
dirty in colour, besides being decorated with a gaudy but very much
crushed and broken feather.

“You had better change with our friend here, I think,” said Mr. Park,
grinning from ear to ear, as he tossed the cap to its owner, while
Harry handed the other to the Indian, amid the laughter of the crew.

“Never mind, boy,” added Mr. Park, in an encouraging tone, “you’ll make
a voyageur yet.—Now then, lads, give way;” and with a nod to the
Indians, who stood on the shore watching their departure, the trader
sprang into the boat and took his place beside the two boys.

“Ho! sing, mes garçons,” cried the guide, seizing the massive sweep and
directing the boat out to sea.

At this part of the lake there occurs a deep bay or inlet, to save
rounding which travellers usually strike straight across from point to
point, making what is called in voyageur parlance a _traverse_. These
traverses are subjects of considerable anxiety and frequently of delay
to travellers, being sometimes of considerable extent, varying from
four to five, and in such immense seas as Lake Superior, to fourteen
miles. With boats, indeed, there is little to fear, as the inland craft
of the fur-traders can stand a heavy sea, and often ride out a pretty
severe storm; but it is far otherwise with the bark canoes that are
often used in travelling. These frail craft can stand very little
sea—their frames being made of thin flat slips of wood and sheets of
bark, not more than a quarter of an inch thick, which are sewed
together with the fibrous roots of the pine (called by the natives
_wattape_), and rendered water-tight by means of melted gum. Although
light and buoyant, therefore, and extremely useful in a country where
portages are numerous, they require very tender usage; and when a
traverse has to be made, the guides have always a grave consultation,
with some of the most sagacious among the men, as to the probability of
the wind rising or falling—consultations which are more or less marked
by anxiety and tediousness in proportion to the length of the traverse,
the state of the weather and the courage or timidity of the guides.

On the present occasion there was no consultation, as has been already
seen. The traverse was a short one, the morning fine, and the boats
good. A warm glow began to overspread the horizon, giving promise of a
splendid day, as the numerous oars dipped with a plash and a loud hiss
into the water, and sent the boats leaping forth upon the white wave.

“Sing, sing!” cried the guide again, and clearing his throat, he began
the beautiful quick-tuned canoe-song “Rose Blanche,” to which the men
chorused with such power of lungs that a family of plovers, which up to
that time had stood in mute astonishment on a sandy point, tumbled
precipitately into the water, from which they rose with a shrill,
inexpressibly wild, plaintive cry, and fled screaming away to a more
secure refuge among the reeds and sedges of a swamp. A number of ducks
too, awakened by the unwonted sound, shot suddenly out from the
concealment of their night’s bivouac with erect heads and startled
looks, sputtered heavily over the surface of their liquid bed, and
rising into the air, flew in a wide circuit, with whistling wings, away
from the scene of so much uproar and confusion.

The rough voices of the men grew softer and softer as the two Indians
listened to the song of their departing friends, mellowing down and
becoming more harmonious and more plaintive as the distance increased,
and the boats grew smaller and smaller, until they were lost in the
blaze of light that now bathed both water and sky in the eastern
horizon, and began rapidly to climb the zenith, while the sweet tones
became less and less audible as they floated faintly across the still
water, and melted at last into the deep silence of the wilderness.

The two Indians still stood with downcast heads and listening ears, as
if they loved the last echo of the dying music, while their grave,
statue-like forms added to rather than detracted from, the solitude of
the deserted scene.




CHAPTER XI.


Charley and Harry begin their sporting career without much
success—Whisky-john catching.


The place in the boats usually allotted to gentlemen in the Company’s
service while travelling is the stern. Here the lading is so arranged
as to form a pretty level hollow, where the flat bundles containing
their blankets are placed, and a couch is thus formed that rivals
Eastern effeminacy in luxuriance. There are occasions, however, when
this couch is converted into a bed, not of thorns exactly, but of
corners; and really it would be hard to say which of the two is the
more disagreeable. Should the men be careless in arranging the cargo,
the inevitable consequence is that “monsieur” will find the leg of an
iron stove, the sharp edge of a keg, or the corner of a wooden box
occupying the place where his ribs should be. So common, however, is
this occurrence that the clerks usually superintend the arrangements
themselves, and so secure comfort.

On a couch, then, of this kind Charley and Harry now found themselves
constrained to sit all morning—sometimes asleep, occasionally awake,
and always earnestly desiring that it was time to put ashore for
breakfast, as they had now travelled for four hours without halt,
except twice for about five minutes, to let the men light their pipes.

“Charley,” said Harry Somerville to his friend, who sat beside him, “it
strikes me that we are to have no breakfast at all to-day. Here have I
been holding my breath and tightening my belt, until I feel much more
like a spider or a wasp than a—a—”

“_Man_, Harry; out with it at once, don’t be afraid,” said Charley.

“Well, no, I wasn’t going to have said _that_ exactly, but I was going
to have said a voyageur, only I recollected our doings this morning,
and hesitated to take the name until I had won it.”

“It’s well that you entertain so modest an opinion of yourself,” said
Mr. Park, who still smoked his pipe as if he were impressed with the
idea that to stop for a moment would produce instant death. “I may tell
you for your comfort, youngster, that we shan’t breakfast till we reach
yonder point.”

The shores of Lake Winnipeg are flat and low, and the point indicated
by Mr. Park lay directly in the light of the sun, which now shone with
such splendour in the cloudless sky, and flashed on the polished water,
that it was with difficulty they could look towards the point of land.

“Where is it?” asked Charley, shading his eyes with his hand; “I cannot
make out anything at all.”

“Try again, my boy; there’s nothing like practice.”

“Ah yes! I make it out now; a faint shadow just under the sun. Is that
it?”

“Ay, and we’ll break our fast _there_.”

“I would like very much to break your head _here_,” thought Charley,
but he did not say it, as, besides being likely to produce unpleasant
consequences, he felt that such a speech to an elderly gentleman would
be highly improper; and Charley had _some_ respect for gray hairs for
their own sake, whether the owner of them was a good man or a goose.

“What shall we do, Harry? If I had only thought of keeping out a book.”

“I know what _I_ shall do,” said Harry, with a resolute air: “I’ll go
and shoot!”

“Shoot!” cried Charley. “You don’t mean to say that you’re going to
waste your powder and shot by firing at the clouds! for unless you take
_them_, I see nothing else here.”

“That’s because you don’t use your eyes,” retorted Harry. “Will you
just look at yonder rock ahead of us, and tell me what you see?”

Charley looked earnestly at the rock, which to a cursory glance seemed
as if composed of whiter stone on the top. “Gulls, I declare!” shouted
Charley, at the same time jumping up in haste.

Just then one of the gulls, probably a scout sent out to watch the
approaching enemy, wheeled in a circle overhead. The two youths dragged
their guns from beneath the thwarts of the boat, and rummaged about in
great anxiety for shot-belts and powder-horns. At last they were found;
a

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