the game I was seeking, while Bruce and Oscar ranged right and left, so
that we covered a good deal of ground between us. By mid-day the
climbing became so steep and difficult that I had to take off my
snow-shoes, and strapped them on my back. They were no longer
necessary, at any rate, for the snow was covered with a crust which bore
me up admirably, and made easy going for my moccasined feet.
"It was not until afternoon that the first sheep were sighted, and, much
to my delight, they seemed not far away, and easy to get at. There were
five in the flock: a huge ram with superb horns--just the thing I
hankered after--and four fine ewes, which, however, had nothing to fear
from me.
"Calling the dogs to heel, I proceeded to stalk the unsuspecting
creatures with all the skill I possessed. It proved a harder job than I
thought. They were on a kind of ledge several hundred feet above me,
and in order to get a proper shot without giving them warning, it was
necessary to make a wide circuit, so as to reach a point opposite their
ledge from which a capital chance might be had.
"By dint of great exertion, however, I reached the point all right, and
was just waiting a moment to catch my breath before taking aim at the
ram, when Oscar's impatience overcame him, and he gave a sharp bark.
Instantly the whole live animals started to flee. I threw the rifle to
my shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was nothing better than a
snap-shot, yet it did not miss; for with the report the ram sprang into
the air, stumbled as he came down, and then dashed off again, leaving
behind him a plain trail of blood-drops on the white snow.
"With an exultant shout I sent the dogs forward, and followed as fast as
I could. I had to go down into a ravine and get up the other side
before reaching the bloody trail. Forgetting everything else in my wild
excitement, I pressed on, guided by my dogs' sharp barking. It was
terribly hard work, and I had many a slip and stumble; but the red
splashes in the snow grew larger the further I went. Bleeding at the
rate he was, the ram surely could not keep up his flight for any great
distance.
"Presently I came to a place that at any other time would have brought
me to a full stop. A ridge of hard frozen snow stretched between two
rocky ledges. On the one side it reached down to the edge of a
precipice, which then fell away abruptly into an unknown depth. On the
other side, in one unbroken sheet, it sloped down full five hundred feet
to a level upon, which the snow lay in great drifts. The ram was
already half-way across the ridge, although evidently in distress, and
the dogs were hard at his heel, barking fiercely, for they knew that
victory was not far off.
"Throwing all considerations of prudence to the winds, I set out to
follow them. So narrow was the ridge that I could not stand erect, but
had to sit astride it, and push myself forward by using both hands and
feet. I never glanced below me, lest I should lose my head; and at
length, almost completely exhausted, I succeeded in making the other
side.
"Here awaiting me was my quarry, standing at bay against the cliff, and
butting off the dogs that were springing for his throat. It was some
minutes before my nerves were sufficiently steadied for me to use my
rifle; then one shot was sufficient. With a convulsive spring the noble
animal scattered the dogs and fell dead at my feet.
"Oh, but what a proud moment for me! The horns were splendid. A man
might not get a finer pair in a lifetime. With the utmost care I
detached the head, and then, for the first time since the chase began,
sat down to rest.
"I was so tired that I would have been glad to camp here for the night.
But there was absolutely nothing in the way of shelter, and it promised
to be bitterly cold and windy. I must get back to the lower level before
darkness came on.
"Securing the ram's head on my shoulders, where I must say it felt
abominably heavy, I returned to the ridge. Not until then did I realize
into what a critical position my reckless ardour had brought me. One
look at that perilous passage-way was sufficient to assure me that in my
wearied and unnerved condition to recross it was a feat utterly
impracticable. My dogs--two clever, sure-footed creatures as they
were--shrank back in evident dismay, although I sought to urge them
forward; yet for me to remain on that exposed ledge meant death by
freezing before morning.
"I was in a terrible predicament. Little more than an hour of daylight
remained. Whatever was to be done needed to be done right away. While
I stood there bewildered and irresolute, Oscar again ventured out a
little distance on the ridge, but, becoming frightened, tried to turn
back. In so doing he lost his footing, and, despite desperate efforts
to regain it, shot swiftly down the slope that ended in a level five
hundred feet below.
"With keen concern I watched him through the waning light rolling
helplessly over and over until after a final tumble he landed in a great
drift, out of which, to my great joy, he emerged the next moment, shook
himself vigorously, and sent back a brisk bark as though to say, 'Come
along; it's not so bad as it looks.'
"Instantly I caught the idea. If my dog made the descent uninjured, why
could not I? Great as the risk might be, it was, after all, no worse
than staying on the ledge all night. To think was to act. Loosening
the ram's head from my back, I sent it down after Oscar. It sped to the
bottom and buried itself in a snow-bank. Next I tied my rifle, hatchet,
and hunting-knife on one of the snow-shoes, and despatched them. They,
too, made the trip all right, and vanished in the snow. Then came my
turn. Rolling up the plaid I lashed it on the remaining snow-shoe, and
committed myself to this extemporized toboggan.
"What followed is more than I can tell. So steep was the slope that I
seemed to drop into space. I was not conscious of touching anything,
but simply of being shot through the icy air, blinded by particles of
snow, and choking for lack of breath, until I was hurled like a stone
from a catapult into a mass of loosely-packed snow, and lost
consciousness.
"When I came to myself, Bruce and Oscar were both beside me, licking my
face with affectionate anxiety. At first I could not move, and my whole
body was so full of pain that I feared I had been seriously injured.
But, after lying still awhile, I made shift to get upon my feet, and to
my vast relief found myself none the worse of my wild descent, save for
a scratched face and a severe shaking.
"My next thought was for the horns. I had no difficulty in extricating
them or the rifle from their snowy bed, and found both were uninjured.
Strapping them once more on my shoulders, and adjusting my snow-shoes, I
set off down the ravine.
"To get back to the fort that evening was, of course, out of the
question, but I hoped to find some cavity in the cliff where I could
spend the night safely. Just before dark I discovered a snug little
place, perfectly protected from the wind; and there, with my plaid
wrapped tight around me, and my dogs curled up close against me, I put
in quite a comfortable night. As soon as the day broke I started for
the fort, and reached it by noon, half starved and very tired, but as
proud of my trophy as David was of Goliath's head."
A hearty round of applause followed the conclusion of the old
Scotchman's story, and by general consent it was voted the best told
during the evening.
*THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST.*
The two features of nature in which her might, her majesty, her mystery,
find fullest expression, are the ocean and the forest. Regarding their
vastness and their unchanging character, in our weak endeavour to find
terms for the infinite we have made them symbols of eternity.
Irresistible, perennial is the fascination they possess for man, and
all-satisfying the measure with which they respond to his demands. On
ocean's bosom or in the forest's heart he finds free play for his
noblest qualities. In making them subservient to his will he has
achieved his grandest development.
Nowhere round the globe are the forests finer than on this continent of
ours. Boundless in extent and endless in diversity, the eye never
wearies of resting upon them or seeking to penetrate their depths.
Happily free as they are from the dense matted undergrowth that makes
progress through the forests of the tropics a continuous penitential
pilgrimage, they present glorious vistas of silvan shade, shot through
with golden shafts of sunlight, down which you may wander at your ease
in unchecked communion with nature.
By way of comparison just place these two pictures side by side.
Seeking to give some conception of the interminable Congo forest, in
which he spent so many months of misery, Stanley exclaims: "Take a thick
Scottish copse dripping with rain; imagine this copse to be a mere
undergrowth, nourished under the impenetrable shade of ancient trees,
ranging from one hundred feet to one hundred and eighty feet high;
briers and thorns abundant; lazy creeks meandering through the depths of
the jungle, and sometimes a deep affluent of a great river. Imagine
this forest and jungle in all stages of decay and growth--old trees
falling, leaning perilously over, fallen prostrate: ants and insects of
all kinds, sizes, and colours murmuring around; monkeys and chimpanzees
above, queer noises of birds and animals, crashes in the jungle as
troops of elephants rush away; rain pattering down on you every other
day in the year; an impure atmosphere, with its dread consequences,
fever and dysentery, gloom throughout the day and darkness almost
palpable throughout the night."
Turn now to Parkman, who knows and loves his forests as Miss Murfree her
mountains, and who has once and for all time painted the picture of the
great American forest: "Deep recesses, where, veiled in foliage, some
wild, shy rivulet steals with timid music through breathless caves of
verdure; gulfs where feathered crags rise like castle walls, where the
noonday sun pierces with keen rays athwart the torrent, and the mossed
arms of fallen pines cast wandering shadows on the illumined foam; pools
of liquid crystal turned emerald in the reflected green of impending
woods; rocks on whose rugged front the gleam of sunlit waters dances in
quivering light; ancient trees hurled headlong by the storm to dam the
raging stream with their forlorn and savage ruin; or the stern depths of
immemorial forests, dim and silent as a cavern, columned with
innumerable trunks, each like an Atlas upholding its world of leaves,
and sweating perpetual moisture down its dark and channelled rind--some
strong in youth, some gouty with decrepit age, nightmares of strange
distortion, gnarled and knotted with wens and goitres, roots intertwined
beneath like serpents petrified in an agony of contorted strife: green
and glistening mosses carpeting the rough ground, mantling the rocks,
turning pulpy stumps to mounds of verdure, and swathing fallen trunks,
as, bent in the impotence of rottenness, they lie outstretched over
knoll and hollow like mouldering reptiles of the primeval world, while
around, and on, and through them springs the young growth that fattens
on their decay--the forest devouring its own dead. Or, to turn from its
funereal shade to the light and life, to the open woodland, the sheen of
sparkling lakes, and mountains basking in the glory of the summer noon,
flecked by the shadows of passing clouds that sail on snowy wings across
the transparent azure."
No pestilent fever or insidious deadly miasma lurks in our forests. On
the contrary, their pure, piny breath brings back health to many an
ailing mortal, and beneath their feathery hemlocks and aromatic spruces
one may lie down at night in sweet security from snakes, or centipedes,
or other crawling horrors that make each night in a tropical forest a
period of peril.
Is there one of us recalling the life of the _coureurs de bois_, the men
who above all others made the trackless forest their own, does not feel
a stirring of the pulses of admiration and envy, and a pathetic regret
that those romantic days in which they flourished are over for ever?
They were the natural outcome of the beaver trade, which in the earliest
stage of Canadian history formed the struggling French colony's chief
source of support. All that was most active and vigorous in the colony
took to the woods, thereby escaping from the oppressive control of
intendants, councils, and priests, to the savage freedom of the
wilderness. Not only were the possible profits great, but in the
pursuit of them there was a fascinating element of adventure and danger,
which irresistibly appeals to the spirit of enterprise and daring that
civilization has not yet quite extinguished within our breasts.
Though not a very valuable member of society, and a thorn in the side of
princes and rulers, the _coureur do bois_ had his uses, at least from an
artistic point of view; and his strange figure, sometimes brutally
savage, but oftener marked with the lines of a dare-devil courage, and a
reckless, thoughtless gaiety, will always be joined to the memories of
that grand world of woods which the nineteenth century is fast
civilizing out of existence.
[Illustration: COUREUR DE BOIS. _Page_ 244.]
Lost in the forest! What a thrill runs swift to the heart as we repeat
the words! Ever since our young eyes overflowed at the immortal legend
of the babes in the wood, sleeping the sleep that knew no awakening
beneath the leafy winding-sheet brought them by their bird mourners, we
seem to have had a clear conception of all the terrors the phrase
implies, and we follow with throbbing pulses and bated breath the
recital of such an experience as the foremost and noblest of all the
pioneers of these North American forests had.
One eventful autumn, nearly three centuries ago, Champlain had caught
sight of a strange-looking bird, and left his party to go in pursuit.
Flitting from tree to tree, the bird lured him deeper and deeper into
the forest, then took wing and vanished. On essaying to retrace his
steps Champlain found himself at a loss. Whither should he turn? The
day was clouded, and he had left his compass in camp. The forest closed
around him, trees mingled with trees in limitless confusion. Bewildered
and lost he wandered all day, and at night slept fasting at the foot of
a great tree. Awaking chilled and faint, he walked until afternoon,
then happily found a pond upon whose bosom were water-fowl, some of
which he shot, and for the first time broke his fast. Kindling a fire
he prepared his supper, and lay down to sleep in a drenching rain.
Another day of blind and weary wandering succeeded, and another night of
exhaustion. He found paths in the wilderness, but they had not been
made by human feet. After a time the tinkling of a brook touched his
ear, and he determined to follow its course, in the hope that it would
lead him to the river where his party was encamped. "With toilsome
steps he traced the infant stream, now lost beneath the decaying masses
of fallen trunks or the impervious intricacies of matted windfalls, now
stealing through swampy thickets or gurgling in the shade of rocks, till
it entered at length, not into the river, but into a small lake.
Circling around the brink, he found the point where, gliding among
clammy roots of alders, the brook ran out and resumed its course."
Pressing persistently forward, he at length forced his way out of the
entanglement of underbrush into an open meadow, and there before him
rolled the river, broad and turbulent, its bank marked with the
portage-path by which the Indians passed the neighbouring rapids. The
good God be praised! he had found the clue he sought. Inexpressibly
relieved, he hastened along the river-side, and in a few hours more was
being joyfully welcomed by his companions, who had been anxiously
searching for him. "From that day forth," we are told, "his host,
Durantal, would never suffer him to go into the forest alone."
Although the _coureur de bois_ has long since made his exit, there still
remains in Canada a class of men who have somewhat in common with him.
These are lumber-scouts or bush-rangers, whose business it is to seek
for "limits" that will pay handsome profits. It is boards, not beavers,
they have upon their minds. They are often Indians or half-breeds, and
the skill of these self-taught surveyors is sometimes very remarkable.
They will explore the length and breadth of the _terra incognita_, and
report upon the kind and value of its timber, the situation, and
capability of its streams for floating out the logs, and the facilities
for hauling and transportation. They will even map out the surface of
the country, showing the position of its streams and lakes, its groves
of timber, and its mountainous or level appearance, with a skill and
accuracy bewildering to ordinary mortals, in whose eyes the whole
district would be one great confused wilderness.
No more interesting experience in woodcraft could be had than a scouting
excursion in such company. The trackless forest has no terrors, no
mysteries for them. To them Nature opens her heart, and tells all her
secrets. In lightest marching order, each man's entire equipment being
carried in a shoulder-pack upheld by a "tump-line" around the forehead,
they plunge into the wilderness. With unerring instinct they pursue
their way, now following the course of some winding stream, now circling
a tiny lake lying gem-like in a verdurous setting, now scrambling
amongst cliffs, where, to paraphrase Parkman, seeing but unseen, the
crouched wild-cat eyes them from the thicket; now threading a maze of
water-girded rocks, which the white cedar and the spruce clasp with
serpent-like roots; then diving into leafy depths where the rock-maple
rears its green masses, the beech its glistening leaves and clear smooth
stem, while behind, stiff and sombre, stands the balsam fir, and the
white pine towers proudly over all.
When night falls they make their simple bivouac, and their roaring
camp-fire like a magician's wand strangely transforms the scene. As the
flame casts its keen red light around, wild forms stand forth against
the outer gloom--the oak, a giant in rusty mail; the mighty pyramid of
the pine; the wan and ghastly birch, looking like a spectre in the
darkness. The campers gather close around the ruddy flame made welcome
by the cool breath of approaching autumn, and after the broiled trout or
roast duck have disappeared, and an incense offering of fragrant smoke
ascended from their pipes, they curl up in their blankets, and sleep as
only those who live such a life can sleep, serenely oblivious of the
harsh shriek of the owl, the mournful howl of the wolf, or the soft
footfall of some prowling beast that breaks in upon the breathless
stillness.
Splendid as our forests are at midsummer when the delighted eye roams
unweariedly over their billowy expanses of sumptuous verdure, it is in
the autumn time that they reach their rarest beauty. Then for a brief
space before they strip themselves of their foliage to stand bare and
shivering through the long, cold winter, they change their garb of green
into a myriad of hues of gold and flame.
A keen frosty night following upon the decline of summer heat, and lo,
as though some mighty magician had been at work, a marvellous
transformation awaits our admiration! Where yesterday a single colour
in various tints prevailed, to-day we behold every possible shade of
brilliant scarlet, tender violet, sombre brown, vivid crimson, and
glittering yellow. The beech, the birch, the oak, and above all, the
maple, have burst forth into one harmonious and entrancing chorus of
colour--the swan song of the dying foliage--the stern, straight fir
alone maintaining its eternal green, as if it said: "Behold in me the
symbol of steadfastness." Verily, the wide world round, a more splendid
and enchanting silvan panorama cannot be found.
*WRECKS AND WRECKERS OF ANTICOSTI.*
Right in the mouth of the great St. Lawrence, which without exaggeration
has been called "the noblest, the purest, the most enchanting river on
all God's beautiful earth," lies a long, narrow island that might with
equal propriety be called the dreariest, most inhospitable, and most
destructive island on the earth; for it is doubtful if any other spot of
corresponding size has caused so many shipwrecks and so much human
suffering.
In ten years, according to official records, there have been as many as
one hundred and six wrecks, including seven steamships and sixty-seven
sailing-ships or barques, having on board no less than three thousand
precious souls, and cargoes worth millions of pounds.
Years ago, before the Canadian Government erected lighthouses and
established relief stations, the wrecks were more numerous still, and
were rarely unattended with loss of life. But times are better now, and
when a wreck occurs, unless it be in one of those terrible winter storms
that seem to make this ill-omened isle their centre, the crew generally
manage to make the land in safety, where they are well cared for by the
government officials.
Far different was it in 1737, when the French sloop-of-war _La Renommee_
stranded upon a cruel ledge of rocks, hardly a mile off shore, about
eight leagues from the southern point of Anticosti.
It was in the month of November, just as winter, which could nowhere
have been more dreadful than on that bleak, barren, shelterless island,
was fast closing in. In their mad haste to reach the land--for the
waves were breaking high over the vessel--the crew took little food with
them, although gallant Captain de Freneuse did not forget to take the
ship's colours.
When in the gray, grim morning they came to reckon up, they found, to
their dismay, that with six months of hopeless captivity before them,
they had barely enough food for forty days, allowing the scantiest of
daily rations to each of the sixty-five men who had survived the
shipwreck.
The sequel, as related with simple, graphic pathos by Father Crespel,
one of the few who ultimately emerged from the terrible ordeal,
constitutes as grand a record of human courage and endurance and as
harrowing a history of human suffering as ever has been told.
The poor castaways had nothing but a little canvas to shelter them from
the keen, biting blasts. Fever presently broke out amongst them. Then
half of them set forth in two small boats to coast around that merciless
shore for forty leagues, after which they made a hazardous dash across
twelve leagues of open sea to Mingan, where French fishermen were known
to winter.
The "jolly-boat" was swamped after they had been five days out, and its
thirteen occupants were thus spared further misery. At last the ice
setting in made the progress of the other boat impossible, and they had
no alternative but to go into winter quarters and wait for the tardy
spring.
With two pounds of damp, mouldy flour and two pounds of unsavoury
fox-meat per day, these seventeen men, housed in rude huts of spruce
boughs, prepared to endure the long agony of winter. Once a week a
spoonful of peas was served out to each man; which constituted such a
treat that, as Father Crespel naively puts it, "On those days we had our
best meal."
Hunger, cold, and disease carried off one by one as the months dragged
themselves along, until at length only three still lived, when a band of
Indians came just in time to save this remnant from perishing.
All this and more is told by heroic Father Crespel with a quaint
simplicity, a minuteness of detail, and a perfect submission to the
Divine will, that renders his recital extremely touching.
Not less saddening is the story of the stout brig _Granicus_, which in
1828 went to pieces off the east end of the island, also in the month of
November. Many of the crew escaped to land, but with little more than
the clothing they wore.
[Illustration: "HUNGER, COLD, AND DISEASE CARRIED OFF ONE BY ONE, UNTIL
ONLY THREE STILL LIVED. _Page_ 252"]