Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until,
overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and
gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each
forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher
ground with his cattle and property.
These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very
level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in
the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots
which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the
plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily
submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still
higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles
from the river there was an elevation of ground named the "Little
Mountain," and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as
deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe
asylum in the end.
Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the
house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one
of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the
current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its
strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his
goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after
assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it
might be set afloat--as some of the houses had already been--and finally
made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was
the question.
"To zee hause of old Liz," observed his friend. "It is close to hand,
an' zere is yet room."
This was true, but Lambert's inclinations turned in the direction of
Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.
"No, no," he said; "it's not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are
doing. I'll ride down to Ravenshaw's and see if there is room on his
ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the
water should go on rising, which I hope it won't, my house can't float
for many hours. Meanwhile, if you'll fetch round the boat, and place
some of the heavy goods in it, you'll be doing me a good turn."
"Vell, vell," muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a
quiet smile and a shake of the head, "dere is no madness like lof! Ven
a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!"
The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the
wings of "lof." Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though
good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places,
where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency
over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost
rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was
compelled to make many a vexatious detour in his headlong course down to
Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could
not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through
which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen
standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either
engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest
eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of
greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had
become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they
offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of
them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.
Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred
yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large
boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat,
embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window.
Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.
"Hallo, Flett, d'ee want help?"
"Thank 'ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the
church; the minister is lettin' us stow things in the loft."
"You're in too great haste, Flett," returned Lambert. "The water can't
rise much higher; your place is sure to stand."
"Not so sure o' that, Louis; there's a report brought in by a redskin
that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri
is turned into a sea, and the waters o' the Missouri itself are passing
down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins
has been swept away."
"Bah! it's not true," said Lambert.
"True or false," rejoined Flett, resuming his work, "it's time for me to
clear out o' this."
Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert
now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small
creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and
that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong
direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed,
which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not
necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an
awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to
jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which
he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.
Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off
again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop
there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with
settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was
covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian
and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of
destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It,
like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The
family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying
a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.
"You've heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I
fancy?"
"Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports," said the old gentleman,
emitting an indignant puff of smoke; "they often end like _that_."
"True; nevertheless, it's as well to be prepared," said Lambert, with a
glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; "and I've
come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house
is not so safe as I had thought."
"There's plenty of room in the barn for people in distress," said Elsie,
with a glance at her sister.
"Or in the cow-house," added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her
head; "we've had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you."
"How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant
associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion,"
said the gallant Louis.
A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a
great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church
spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the
garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more
successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head
among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would
have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush
of water.
The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw,
but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would
all be drowned.
"I hope not!" exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.
"We're high and dry just now, Louis," said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, "but
Willow Creek won't be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this
rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness,
though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own."
As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald,
where a large cart was being loaded with his property.
Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his
valuables to his friend's barn.
"It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it
iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know,
will pe quite destroyed py watter, an' it is puttin' them out of harm's
way that I will pe after."
"Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald," said Mr Ravenshaw
promptly; "Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared.
You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won't rise
much higher."
"The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw," returned Angus, with the
decision of an oracle; "an' it will pe goot for us if it will leave our
houses standin' where they are. Peegwish will be tellin' me that; an'
Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever."
Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus
was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald's
house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he
knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a
welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran--in charge at the time--had a
weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing
about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen,
smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones,
stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly
exhibiting himself in one of the minister's cast-off black coats, which
contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a
scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the
homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a
little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly
endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on
his failure in the brewing line.
At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the
mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it
reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who
had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr
Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the
people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to
the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded
confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence
in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly
impressed.
At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the
foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had
carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to
take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.
On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the
banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and
were either destroyed or stranded on localities far from their original
sites. As far as the eye could reach, the whole region had been
converted into a mighty lake, or rather sea; for in the direction of the
plains the waters seemed to join the horizon. Everywhere this sea was
studded with islets and knolls, which grew fewer and smaller as the
floods increased. Here and there piles of floating firewood looked like
boats with square-sails in the distance, while deserted huts passed over
the plains with the stream like fleets of Noah's arks!
When the water began to touch the parsonage, its owner gave orders to
collect timber and make preparation for the erection of a strong stage
as a final place of refuge.
"Come," said he to Peegwish, when his orders were being carried out;
"come, get your canoe, Peegwish, and we will pay a visit to the poor
fellows on the knoll up the river."
The Indian waded to a spot close by, where his canoe was fastened to a
post, and brought it to the door, after the fashion of a gondolier of
Venice. The faithful Wildcat took the bow paddle; the clergyman stepped
into the middle of the craft and sat down.
They shot swiftly away, and were soon out of sight. The day was calm
and warm, but the sky had a lurid, heavy appearance, which seemed to
indicate the approach of bad weather. Paddling carefully along to avoid
running against sunk fences, they soon came into the open plains, and
felt as though they had passed out upon the broad bosom of Lake Winnipeg
itself. Far up the river--whose course was by that time chiefly
discernible by empty houses, and trees, as well as bushes,
half-submerged--they came in sight of a stage which had been erected
beside a cottage. It stood only eighteen inches out of the water, and
here several women and children were found engaged in singing Watts'
hymns. They seemed quite comfortable, under a sort of tarpaulin tent,
with plenty to eat, and declined to be taken off, though their visitors
offered to remove them one at a time, the canoe being unable to take
more. Further up, the voyagers came to the hut of old Liz.
This hut was by that time so nearly touched by the water that all the
people who had formerly crowded round it had forsaken it and made for
the so-called mountain. Only Liz herself remained, and Herr Winklemann,
to take care of their respective parents.
"Do you think it safe to stay?" asked the clergyman, as he was about to
leave.
"Safe, ya; qvite safe. Besides, I have big canoe, vich can holt us
all."
"Good-bye, then, and remember, if you want anything that I can give you,
just paddle down to the station and ask for it. Say I sent you."
"Ya, I vill go down," said Herr Winklemann gratefully. And Herr
Winklemann _did_ go down, much to his own subsequent discomfiture and
sorrow, as we shall see.
Meanwhile Mr Cockran reached the knoll which he had set out to visit.
It was of considerable extent, and crowded with a very miscellaneous,
noisy, and quarrelsome crew, of all sorts, ages, and colours, in tents
and wigwams and extemporised shelters.
They received the clergyman heartily, however, and were much benefited
by his visit, as was made apparent by the complete though temporary
cessation of quarrelling.
The elements, however, began to quarrel that evening. Mr Cockran had
intended to return home, but a gale of contrary wind stopped him, and he
was fain to accept the hospitality of a farmer's tent. That night the
storm raged with fury. Thunder and lightning added to the grandeur as
well as to the discomfort of the scene. Some time after midnight a gust
of wind of extreme fury threw down the farmer's tent, and the pole hit
the farmer on the nose! Thus rudely roused, he sprang up and
accidentally knocked down Peegwish, who happened to be in his way. They
both fell on the minister, who, being a powerful man, caught them in a
bear-like grasp and held them, under the impression that they had
overturned the tent in a quarrel while he was asleep.
At that moment a cry of fire was raised. It was found that a spark from
a tent which stood on the windward side of the camp had caught the long
grass, and a terrestrial conflagration was added to the celestial
commotions of the night. It was a moment of extreme peril, for the old
grass was plentiful and sufficiently dry to burn. It is probable that
the whole camp would have been destroyed but for a providential deluge
of rain which fell at the time and effectually put the fire out.
Of course Mr Cockran became very anxious about those he had left at
home, for the storm had increased the danger of their position
considerably. Happily, with the dawn the gale moderated. The
improvement did not, indeed, render canoeing safe, for the white-crested
waves of that temporary sea still lashed the shores of the new-made
islet; but the case was urgent, therefore the clergyman launched his
canoe, and, with Peegwish and the faithful Wildcat, steered for the
station.