Elsie and Cora Ravenshaw were seated at a table in Willow Creek, with
their mother and Miss Trim, repairing garments, one night in that same
inclement January of which we have been writing.
Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was
making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news
had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he
felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company,
but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he
not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his
scalp at that moment.
"It is an awful winter," observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to
nearly blow in the windows.
"I pity the hunters in the plains," said Cora. "They say a rumour has
come that they are starving."
"I heard of that, but hope it is not true," observed Lambert.
"Oh! they always talk of starving," said old Ravenshaw. "No fear of
'em."
At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was
thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled
garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the
background of the dark porch.
"Baptiste Warder!" exclaimed Lambert, starting up.
"Ay, what's left o' me; and here's the remains o' Winklemann," said
Warder, pointing to the cadaverous face of the starving German, who
followed him.
Need we say that the hunters received a kindly welcome by the Ravenshaw
family, as they sank exhausted into chairs. The story of starvation,
suffering, and death was soon told--at least in outline.
"You are hungry. When did you eat last?" asked Mr Ravenshaw,
interrupting them.
"Two days ago," replied Warder, with a weary smile.
"It seems like two veeks," observed the German, with a sigh.
"Hallo! Elsie, Cora, victuals!" cried the sympathetic old man, turning
quickly round.
But Elsie, whose perceptions were quick, had already placed bread and
beer on the table.
"Here, have a drink of beer first," said the host, pouring out a foaming
glass.
Warder shook his head. Winklemann remarked that, "beer vas goot, ver
goot, but they had been used to vatter of late."
"Ah!" he added, after devouring half a slice of bread while waiting for
Cora to prepare another; "blessed brod an' booter! Nobody can know vat
it is till he have starve for two veek--a--I mean two days; all de same
ting in my feel--"
The entrance of a huge bite put a sudden and full stop to the sentence.
"Why did you not stop at some of the houses higher up the river to
feed?" asked Lambert.
Warder explained that they meant to have done so, but they had missed
their way. They had grown stupid, he thought, from weakness. When they
lost the way they made straight for the river, guided by the pole-star,
and the first house they came in sight of was that of Willow Creek.
"How can the pole-star guide one?" asked Cora, in some surprise.
"Don't you know?" said Lambert, going round to where Cora sat, and
sitting down beside her. "I will explain."
"If I did know I wouldn't ask," replied Cora coquettishly; "besides, I
did not put the question to _you_."
"Nay, but you don't object to my answering it, do you?"
"Not if you are quite sure you can do so correctly."
"I think I can, but the doubts which you and your sister so often throw
on my understanding make me almost doubt myself," retorted Lambert, with
a laughing glance at Elsie. "You must know, then, that there is a
constellation named the Great Bear. It bears about as much resemblance
to a bear as it does to a rattlesnake, but that's what astronomers have
called it. Part of it is much more in the shape of a plough, and one of
the stars in that plough is the pole-star. You can easily distinguish
it when once you know how, because two of the other stars are nearly in
line with it, and so are called `pointers.' When you stand looking at
the pole-star you are facing the north, and of course, when you know
where the north is, you can tell all the other points of the compass."
It must not be supposed that the rest of the party listened to this
astronomical lecture. The gallant Louis had sought to interest Elsie as
well as Cora, but Elsie was too much engrossed with the way-worn hunters
and their sad tale to think of anything else. When they had eaten
enough to check the fierce cravings of hunger they related more
particulars.
"And now," said Warder, sitting erect and stretching his long arms in
the air as if the more to enjoy the delightful sensation of returning
strength, "we have pushed on at the risk of our lives to save time.
This news must be carried at once to the Governor. The Company can help
us best in a fix like this."
"Of course, of course; I shall send word to him at once," said his host.
"All right, Baptiste," said Lambert, coming forward, "I expected you'd
want a messenger. Here I am. Black Dick's in the stable. He'll be in
the cariole in ten minutes. What shall I say to the Governor?"
"I'll go with you," answered Warder.
"So vill I," said Winklemann.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Ravenshaw. "You both need
rest. A sound sleep will fit you to do your work more actively in the
morning. I myself will go to the fort."
"Only _one_ can go, at least in my cariole," remarked Lambert, "for it
only holds two, and no one can drive Black Dick but myself."
Baptiste Warder was immoveable; it ended in his going off in the cariole
with Lambert to inform the governor of the colony, who was also chief of
the Hudson's Bay Company in Red River, and to rouse the settlement.
They had to pass the cottage of Angus Macdonald on the way.
"Oh! wow!" cried that excitable old settler when he heard the news.
"Can it pe possible? So many tead an' tying. Oh! wow!--Here, Martha!
Martha! where iss that wuman? It iss always out of the way she iss when
she's wantit. Ay, Peegwish, you will do equally well. Go to the
staple, man, an' tell the poy to put the mare in the cariole. Make him
pe quick; it's slow he iss at the best, whatever."
Lambert did not wait to hear the remarks of Angus, but drove off at
once. Angus put on his leather coat, fut cap, and mittens, and
otherwise prepared himself for a drive over the snow-clad plains to Fort
Garry, where the Governor dwelt, intending to hear what was going to be
done, and offer his services.
With similarly benevolent end in view, old Ravenshaw harnessed his horse
and made for the same goal, regardless alike of rheumatism, age, and
inclement weather. At a certain point, not far from the creek, the old
trader's private track and that which led to the house of Angus
Macdonald united, and thereafter joined the main road, which road, by
the way, was itself a mere track beaten in the snow, with barely room
for two carioles to pass. Now, it so happened that the neighbours came
up to the point of junction at the same moment. Both were driving hard,
being eager and sympathetic about the sufferings of the plain-hunters.
To have continued at the same pace would have been to insure a meeting
and a crash. One _must_ give way to the other! Since the affair of the
knoll these two men had studiously cut each other. They met every
Sabbath day in the same church, and felt this to be incongruous as well
as wrong. The son of the one was stolen by savages. The son of the
other was doing his utmost to rescue the child. Each regretted having
quarrelled with the other, but pride was a powerful influence in both.
What was to be done? Time for thought was short, for two fiery steeds
were approaching each other at the rate of ten miles an hour. Who was
to give in?
"I'll see both carioles smashed to atoms first!" thought Ravenshaw,
grinding his teeth.
"She'll tie first," thought Angus, pursing his lips.
The instinct of self-preservation caused both to come to a dead and
violent halt when within six yards of the meeting-point. A happy
thought burst upon Angus at that instant.
"Efter you, sir," he said, with a palpable sneer, at the same time
backing his horse slightly.
It was an expression of mock humility, and would become an evidence of
superior courtesy if Ravenshaw should go insolently on. If, on the
other hand, he should take it well, a friendly reference to the roads or
the weather would convert the sneer into a mere nasal tone.
"Ah, thanks, thanks," cried Mr Ravenshaw heartily, as he drove past;
"bad news that about the plain-hunters. I suppose you've heard it."
"Ay, it iss pad news--ferry pad news inteed, Mister Ruvnshaw. It will
pe goin' to the fort ye are?"
"Yes; the poor people will need all the help we can give them."
"They wull that; oo ay."
Discourse being difficult in the circumstances, they drove the remainder
of the way in silence, but each knew that the breach between them was
healed, and felt relieved. Angus did not, however, imagine that he was
any nearer to his desires regarding the knoll. Full well did he
understand and appreciate the unalterable nature of Sam Ravenshaw's
resolutions, but he was pleased again to be at peace, for, to say truth,
he was not fond of war, though ready to fight on the smallest
provocation.
Baptiste Warder was right in expecting that the Company would lend their
powerful aid to the rescue.
The moment the Governor heard of the disaster, he took immediate and
active steps for sending relief to the plains. Clothing and provisions
were packed up as fast as possible, and party after party was sent out
with these. But in the nature of things the relief was slow. We have
said that some of the hunters and their families had followed the
Indians and buffalo to a distance of between 150 and 200 miles. The
snow was now so deep that the only means of transport was by
dog-sledges. Dogs, being light and short-limbed, can travel where
horses cannot, but even dogs require a track, and the only way of making
one on the trackless prairie, or in the forest, is by means of a man on
snow-shoes, who walks ahead of the dogs and thus "beats the track." The
men employed, however, were splendid and persevering walkers, and their
hearts were in the work.
Both Samuel Ravenshaw and Angus Macdonald gave liberally to the cause;
and each obtaining a team of dogs, accompanied one of the relief parties
in a dog-cariole. If the reader were to harness four dogs to a
slipper-bath, he would have a fair idea of a dog-cariole and team.
Louis Lambert beat the track for old Ravenshaw. He was a recognised
suitor at Willow Creek by that time. The old gentleman was well
accustomed to the dog-cariole, but to Angus it was new--at least in
experience.
"It iss like as if she was goin' to pathe," he remarked, with a grim
smile, on stepping into the machine and sitting down, or rather
reclining luxuriously among the buffalo robes.
The dogs attempted to run away with him, and succeeded for a hundred
yards or so. Then they got off the track, and discovered that Angus was
heavy. Then they stopped, put out their tongues, and looked humbly back
for the driver to beat the track for them.
A stout young half-breed was the driver. He came up and led the way
until they reached the open plains, where a recent gale had swept away
the soft snow, and left a long stretch that was hard enough for the dogs
to walk on without sinking. The team was fresh and lively.
"She'd petter hold on to the tail," suggested Angus.
The driver assented. He had already left the front, and allowed the
cariole to pass him, in order to lay hold of the tail-line and check the
pace, but the dogs were too sharp for him. They bolted again, ran more
than a mile, overturned the cariole, and threw its occupant on the snow,
after which they were brought up suddenly by a bush.
On the way the travellers passed several others of the wealthy settlers
who were going personally to the rescue. Sympathy for the plain-hunters
was universal. Every one lent a willing hand. The result was that the
lives of hundreds were saved, though many were lost. Their sufferings
were so great that some died on their road to the colony, after being
relieved at Pembina. Those found alive had devoured their horses, dogs,
raw hides, leather, and their very moccasins. Mr Ravenshaw and his
neighbour passed many corpses on the way, two of which were scarcely
cold. They also passed at various places above forty sufferers in seven
or eight parties, who were crawling along with great difficulty. To
these they distributed the provisions they had brought with them. At
last the hunters were all rescued and conveyed to the settlement--one
man, with his wife and three children, having been dug out of the snow,
where they had been buried for five days and nights. The woman and
children recovered, but the man died.
Soon after this sad event the winter began to exhibit unwonted signs of
severity. It had begun earlier, and continued later than usual. The
snow averaged three feet deep in the plains and four feet in the woods,
and the cold was intense, being frequently down to forty-five degrees
below zero of Fahrenheit's scale, while the ice measured between five
and six feet in thickness on the rivers.
But the great, significant, and prevailing feature of that winter was
snow. Never within the memory of man had there been such heavy,
continuous, persistent snow. It blocked up the windows so that men had
constantly to clear a passage for daylight. It drifted up the doors so
that they were continually cutting passages for themselves to the world
outside. It covered the ground to such an extent that fences began to
be obliterated, and landmarks to disappear, and it weighted the roofs
down until some of the weaker among them bid fair to sink under the
load.
"A severe winter" was old Mr Ravenshaw's usual morning remark as he
went to the windows, pipe in hand, before breakfast. To which his
better half invariably replied, "Never saw anything like it before;" and
Miss Trim remarked, "It is awful."
"It snows hard--whatever," was Angus Macdonald's usual observation about
the same hour. To which his humble and fast friend Peegwish--who
assisted in his kitchen--was wont to answer, "Ho!" and glare solemnly,
as though to intimate that his thoughts were too deep for utterance.
Thus the winter passed away, and when spring arrived it had to wage an
unusually fierce conflict before it gained the final victory over ice
and snow.