<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2></div>
<div class="blockquot inhead medium">
<p>Strange Visitors.—At-tistighat the Philosopher.—Indian
Converts.—A Domestic Scene.—The Winter Packet.—Adam
and his Dogs.</p>
</div>
<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">December</span> passed away, the new year came, the
cold became more intense. The snow deepened
and the broad rivers lay hushed under their
sparkling covering; wide roadways for our dog
sleighs. At times there came a day of beautiful
clearness, the sun shone brightly, the sky was of
the deepest blue, and the earth sparkled in its
spotless covering. At night the moon hung over
the snow-wrapt river and silent pines with the
brilliancy of a fairy scene; but many a day
and night of storm and bitter tempest passed,
and not unfrequently the thermometer placed
against the hut wall marked full 70 degrees of
frost.</p>
<p>Towards the end of the year four of our horses
died, from the depth and hardness of the snow.
The others would have soon followed if left to
find their own sustenance, but a timely removal to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span>
the Fort à la Corne, twenty miles lower down the
river, saved them.</p>
<p>When the year was drawing to its close two
Indians pitched their lodge on the opposite side
of the North River, and finding our stage pretty
well stocked with food they began to starve
immediately. In other words, it was easier to
come to us for buffalo meat than to hunt deer for
themselves: at all hours of the day they were with
us, and frequently the whole family, two men, two
squaws, and three children, would form a doleful
procession to our hut for food. An Indian never
knocks at a door; he lifts the latch, enters quietly,
shakes hands with every one, and seats himself,
without a word, upon the floor. You may be at
breakfast, at dinner, or in bed, it doesn’t matter.
If food be not offered to him, he will wait until
the meal is finished, and then say that he has not
eaten for so many hours, as the case may be.
Our stock of food was not over sufficient, but it
was impossible to refuse it to them even though
they would not hunt for themselves; and when
the three children were paraded—all pretty little
things from four to seven years of age—the
argument of course became irresistible.</p>
<p>It was useless to tell them that the winter was
long, that no more buffalo could be obtained; they
seemed to regard starvation as an ordinary event<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>
to be calculated upon, that as long as any food
was to be obtained it was to be eaten at all times,
and that when it was gone—well then the best
thing was to do without it.</p>
<p>January drew to a close in very violent storms
accompanied by great cold. Early one morning
“At-tistighat,” or as we called him Bourgout No.
1, arrived with news that his brother had gone
away two days before, that he had no blanket, no
food; and that, as it had not been his intention
to stay out, he concluded that he had perished.
“At-tistighat” was a great scoundrel, but nevertheless,
as the night had been one of terrible
storm, we felt anxious for the safety of his brother,
who was really a good Indian. “Go,” we said to
him, “look for your brother; here is pemmican to
feed you during your search.” He took the food,
but coolly asserted that in all probability his
brother had shot himself, and that consequently
there was no use whatever in going to look for
him; “or,” he said, “he is dead of cold, in which
case it is useless to find him.”</p>
<p>While he spoke a footstep outside announced
an arrival, the door opened, and the lost Bourgout
No. 2 entered, bearing on his back a heavy load of
venison.</p>
<p>At-tistighat’s line of argument was quite in
keeping with the Indian character, and was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span>
laughable in its selfish logic. If the man was
alive, he would find his own way home; if dead,
there was nothing more to be done in the matter:
but in any case pemmican was not to be despised.</p>
<p>But despite their habits of begging, and their
frequently unseasonable visits, our Cree neighbours
afforded us not a little food for amusement in the
long winter evenings. Indian character is worth
the study, if we will only take the trouble to
divest ourselves of the notion that all men should
be like ourselves. There is so much of simplicity
and cunning, so much of close reasoning and
child-like suspicion; so much natural quickness,
sense of humour, credulousness, power of observation,
faith and fun and selfishness, mixed up
together in the Red man’s mental composition;
that the person who will find nothing in Indian
character worth studying will be likely to start
from a base of nullity in his own brain system.</p>
<p>In nearly all the dealings of the white man with
the red, except perhaps in those of the fur trade,
as conducted by the great fur companies, the
mistake of judging and treating Indians by
European standards has been made. From the
earliest ages of American discovery, down to the
present moment, this error has been manifest; and
it is this error which has rendered the whole
missionary labour, the vast machinery set on foot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span>
by the charity and benevolence of the various
religious bodies during so many centuries, a
practical failure to-day.</p>
<p>When that Christian King Francis the First
commissioned Cartier to convert the Indians, they
were described in the royal edict as “men without
knowledge of God, or use of reason;” and as the
speediest mode of giving them one, and bringing
them to the other, the Quebec chief savage was at
once kidnapped, carried to France, baptized, and
within six months was a dead man. We may
wonder if his wild subjects had imbibed sufficient
“reason” during the absence of the ship to
realize during the following season the truth of
what they were doubtless told, that it was better
to be a dead Christian than a live savage; but no
doubt, under the circumstances, they might be
excused if they “didn’t quite see it.” Those who
would imagine that the case of Menberton could not
now occur in missionary enterprise are deceived.</p>
<p>Menberton, who is said to have been a devout
Christian in the early days of Acadie, was duly
instructed in the Lord’s Prayer; at a certain
portion of the prayer he was wont to append a
request that “fish and moose meat” might also
be added to his daily bread. And previous to his
death, which occurred many years after his conversion,
he is said to have stoutly demanded that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span>
the savage rites of sepulture should be bestowed
upon his body, in order that he might be well
prepared to make vigorous war upon his enemies
in the next world. This is of the past; yet it is
not many years since a high dignitary of the
Church was not a little horrified by a request
made by some recently converted Dog-Rib Chiefs
that the rite of Baptism should be bestowed upon
three flaming red flannel shirts, of which they had
for the first time in their lives become the joint
possessors.</p>
<p>But all this is too long to enter upon
here; enough that to me at least the Indian
character is worth the trouble of close examination.
If those, whose dealings religious and political
with the red man are numerous, would only take
a leaf from Goldsmith’s experience when he first
essayed to become a teacher of English in France,
(“for I found,” he writes, “that it was necessary
I should previously learn French before I could
teach them English,”) very much of the ill success
which had attended labours projected by benevolence,
and prosecuted with zeal and devotion, might
perhaps be avoided.</p>
<p>Long before ever a white man touched the
American shore a misty idea floated through the
red man’s brain that from far-off lands a stranger
would come as the messenger of peace and plenty,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span>
where both were so frequently unknown. In
Florida, in Norembega, in Canada, the right hand
of fellowship was the <em>first</em> proffered to the new
comer; and when Cartier entered the palisaded
village where now the stately capital of Canada
spreads out along the base of the steep ridge, which
he named Royal after that master whose “honour”
had long been lost ere on Pavia’s field he yielded up
all else, the dusky denizens of Hochelaga brought
forth their sick and stricken comrades “as though
a God had come among them.”</p>
<p>Three centuries and a half have passed since
then; war, pestilence and famine have followed the
white man’s track. Whole tribes have vanished
even in name from the continent, yet still that
strange tradition of a white stranger, kind and
beneficent, has outlived the unnumbered cruelties
of ages; and to-day the starving camp and the
shivering bivouac hears again the hopeful yet
hopeless story of “a good time coming.”</p>
<p>Besides our Indians we were favoured with but
few visitors, silence reigned around our residence;
a magpie or a whisky-jack sometimes hopped or
chattered about our meat stage; in the morning
the sharp-tailed grouse croaked in birch or spruce
tree, and at dusk, when every other sound was
hushed, the small grey owl hooted his lonely cry.
Pleasant was it at night when returning after a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>
long day on snow shoes, or a dog trip to the
nearest fort, to reach the crest of the steep ridge
that surrounded our valley, and see below the firelight
gleaming through the little window of our
hut, and the red sparks flying upward from the
chimney like fire-flies amidst the dark pine-trees;
nor was it less pleasant when as the night wore
on the home letter was penned, or the book read,
while the pine-log fire burnt brightly and the
dogs slept stretched before it, and the light glared
on rifle-barrel or axe-head and showed the skin-hung
rafters of our lonely home.</p>
<p>As January drew towards a close, it became
necessary to make preparations for a long journey.
Hitherto I had limited my wanderings to the
prairie region of the Saskatchewan, but these
wanderings had only been a preliminary to further
travel into the great northern wilds.</p>
<p>To pierce the forest region lying north of the
Saskatchewan valley, to see the great lakes of the
Athabasca and that vast extent of country which
pours its waters into the Frozen Ocean, had long
been my desire; and when four months earlier I had
left the banks of the Red River and turned away
from the last limit of civilization, it was with the
hope that ere the winter snow had passed from plain
and forest my wanderings would have led me at least
2000 miles into that vast wilderness of the north.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span></p>
<p>But many preparations had to be made against
cold and distance. Dogs had to be fattened,
leather clothing got ready, harness and sleds
looked to, baggage reduced to the very smallest
limit, and some one found willing to engage to
drive the second dog sled, and to face the vicissitudes
of the long northern road. The distance
itself was enough to make a man hesitate ere for
hire he embarked on such a journey. The first
great stage was 750 miles, the second was as many
more, and when 1500 miles had been traversed
there still must remain half as much again before,
on the river systems of the North Pacific, we
could emerge into semi-civilized ways of travel.</p>
<p>Many were the routes which my brain sketched
out during the months of autumn, but finally my
choice rested between two rivers, the Mackenzie
rolling its waters into the Frozen Ocean, the Peace
River piercing the great defiles of the Rocky
Mountains through the cañons and stupendous
gorges of Northern British Columbia. A chance
meeting decided my course.</p>
<p>One day at the end of October I had camped
during a snow-storm for dinner in the Touchwood
Hills. Suddenly through the drift a horseman came
in sight. He proved to be an officer of the Hudson’s
Bay Company from the distant post of Dunvegan on
the Peace River: of all men he was the one I most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span>
wished to see. Ninety days earlier he had left his
station; it was far away, but still with dogs over
the ice of frozen rivers and lakes, through the
snow of long leagues of forest and muskey and
prairie, I might hope to reach that post on Upper
Peace River in sixty days; twenty days more
might carry me through the defiles of the Rocky
Mountains to waters which flow south into the
Pacific. “Good-bye, <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">bon voyage</i>,” and we went
our different ways; he towards Red River, I for
Athabasca and the Peace River.</p>
<p>And now, as I have said, the end of January had
come, and it was time to start; all my preparations
were completed, Cerf-vola and his companions
were fat, strong, and hearty. Dog shoes, copper
kettles, a buffalo robe, a thermometer, some three
or four dozen rounds of ammunition, a little
tobacco and pain-killer, a dial compass, a pedometer,
snow shoes, about fifteen pounds of baggage,
tea, sugar, a little flour, and lastly, the
inevitable pemmican; all were put together, and
I only waited the arrival of the winter packet
from the south to set out.</p>
<p>Let me see if I can convey to the reader’s mind
a notion of this winter packet.</p>
<p>Towards the middle of the month of December
there is unusual bustle in the office of the Hudson’s
Bay Company at Fort Garry on the Red River;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span>
the winter packet is being made ready. Two
oblong boxes are filled with letters and papers
addressed to nine different districts of the
northern continent. The limited term district is a
singularly unappropriate one: a single instance
will suffice. From the post of the Forks of the
Athabasca and Clear Water Rivers to the Rocky
Mountain Portage is fully 900 miles as a man can
travel, yet all that distance lies within the limits
of the single Athabasca district; and there are
others larger still. From the Fort Resolution on
the Slave River to the ramparts on the Upper
Yukon, 1100 miles lay their lengths within the
limits of the Mackenzie River district.</p>
<p>Just as the days are at their shortest, a dog
sled bearing the winter packet starts from Fort
Garry; a man walks behind it, another man some
distance in advance of the dogs. It holds its way
down the Red River to Lake Winnipeg; in about
nine days’ travel it crosses that lake to the north
shore at Norway House; from thence, lessened of
its packet of letters for the Bay of Hudson and
the distant Churchill, it journeys in twenty days’
travel up the Great Saskatchewan River to Carlton
House. Here it undergoes a complete readjustment;
the Saskatchewan and Lesser Slave Lake
letters are detached from it, and about the 1st of
February it starts on its long journey to the north.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span></p>
<p>During the succeeding months it holds steadily
along its northern way, sending off at long, long
intervals branch dog packets to right and left;
finally, just as the sunshine of mid-May is beginning
to carry a faint whisper of the coming spring
to the valleys of the Upper Yukon, the dog train,
last of many, drags the packet, now but a tiny
bundle, into the enclosure of La Pierre’s House.
It has travelled nearly 3000 miles; a score of
different dog teams have hauled it, and it has
camped for more than a hundred nights in the
great northern forest.</p>
<p>The end of January had come, but contrary to
the experience of several years had brought no
packet from Fort Garry, and many were the
surmises afloat as to the cause of this delay. The
old Swampy Indian Adam who, for more than a
score of years had driven the dog packet, had
tumbled into a water-hole in the ice, and his dogs
had literally exemplified one portion of the popular
saying of following their leader through fire and
water; and the packet, Adam, and the dogs, lay at
the bottom of the Saskatchewan River. Such was
one anticipated cause of this non-appearance.</p>
<p>To many persons the delay was very vexatious,
but to me it was something more. Time was a
precious article: it is true a northern winter is a
long one, but so also was the route I was about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span>
to follow, and I hoped to reach the upper regions
of the Rocky Mountains while winter yet held
with icy grasp the waters of the Peace River
Cañon.</p>
<p>The beginning of February came, and I could
wait no longer for the missing packet. On the
3rd, at mid-day, I set out on my journey. The
day was bright and beautiful, the dogs climbed
defiantly the steep high point, and we paused a
moment on the summit; beneath lay hut and pine
wood and precipitous bank, all sparkling with
snow and sunshine; and beyond, standing motionless
and silent, rose the Great Sub-Arctic
Forest.</p>
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<div id="toclink_83" class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span></p>
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