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.
"Leve, leve, leve!" he cried, "leve, leve, 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 _leve_, 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 _leve_ is
inexorable, and the voyageur's fate inevitable.
"Oh dear!--yei a--a--ow" (yawning); "hang your _leve_!"
"Oui, vraiment--yei a--a--ow--morbleu!"
"Eh, what's that? Oh, misere."
"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.
"Leve! leve!! leve!!!" 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.
"Hello, 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 garcons," 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.