The Boys are Marching—The Trent Affair—The
Fenian Raid—The Riel Rebellion—A Dangerous
Mission—Lost on the Trail—The First and
Last Naval Engagement on the Saskatchewan—Rescue
of the Maclean
Family—A Church Parade in the
Wilderness—Indian Signals
Of course, the Great World’s War has completely overshadowed all
previous unpleasantnesses, but in the old days, minor events, as they
are deemed to-day, were of the most vital importance. Take, for
instance, the Trent Affair in 1861, when the United States had forcibly
taken Mason and Slidell, the Confederate ambassadors, on their way to
Great Britain from the British steamer _Trent_ at Nassau, Bahama
Islands. Great Britain demanded their instant release, and there being a
prolonged delay in complying by the United States, steps were
immediately taken to enforce the demand. There was a call to arms and a
surprising response in Canada. Many thousands more recruits volunteered
than were asked for. Although only fourteen years of age, I, with other
Whitby youths who, like myself were tall for their age, enlisted. There
was no medical examination in those times, and in a couple of days we
donned the now discarded scarlet infantry uniform. We drilled every
night, carrying the old heavy Enfield rifle which seemed to weigh a ton,
and we kids went through our military exercises until we almost became
as lop-sided as a pig with one ear. There wasn’t one of us but devoutly
hoped, like the man with the invalid wife that she would get well—or
something—only we hoped something or other would happen and we didn’t
care a continental what it was, so long as we were relieved of that
awful tiring, monotonous drill. The United States, knowing it was in the
wrong, according to the laws of nations, gracefully delivered up Messrs.
Mason and Slidell and the episode happily ended without any blood being
shed.
An Adventure With Colonel Denison
In 1866, there was another call to arms, when the Fenians invaded Canada
at Fort Erie. Whitby sent an able bodied contingent, of which I was a
high private, to Niagara Falls, which was reached as the skirmish at
Ridgeway was being fought. That campaign was a picnic, and as we were
billeted at the swagger Cataract House, and afterwards in barracks, it
was not so bad. We had particular instructions to allow no one to enter
the camp without the password, and one day, Private Jimmy Shier and I
were on sentry go. Colonel Bob Denison, a fine soldier, as all the
Denisons were, endeavored to pass the lines on horseback. I halted him
and demanded the password, and he, evidently to try me out, said:
“You know me, I’m Col. Denison.”
“Yes, sir, you doubtless are, but orders are orders. Password, please.”
He didn’t give it, and I called for Jimmy, who, dropping his rifle,
climbed like a cat up the horse’s side, and unceremoniously pulled the
colonel to the ground. We called out the guard, and marched the Colonel
to headquarters. Then the trouble commenced, and Jimmy and I were
brought before the commanding officer, who had issued the orders which
we had faithfully fulfilled. We were promptly and properly acquitted.
Col. Bob, who evidently enjoyed the little affair, got even with us. The
next day we were out drilling as usual, and when deploying in full
extended order, were instructed by Col. Denison to lie down. It was no
bed of roses we dropped on, but—well, I never saw so many thistles in
all my life, nor ever felt so many. In fact our uniforms were more
thistles than clothing, and the gallant Colonel chuckled, as he saw us
picking the prickles from every conceivable part of our persons.
Previous to this, on our way to the front, a sergeant’s guard of us were
billeted in Toronto at Mike Murphy’s joint—Mike being the Fenian head
centre. Well, we bully-ragged that place all night, and had a very
frugal breakfast, the chief part of which consisted of playing ball with
ill smelling salt-herring and in our throwing boiled potatoes up and
trying to catch them in our cups of alleged coffee. Mike had passed the
word around, and a menacing gang of big dock wallopers gathered at the
door, but we marched steadily, with rifles in one hand our heavy buckled
belts in the other, and no attempt was made to interfere with us, but
their pointed remarks were just what you would imagine they might be.
Then we were sent to the Bay Tree (after the Tremont) and when my
bed-mate discovered some apple sauce on the sheets, we marked it with a
lead-pencil and recognized it at dinner next day. Such are the horrors
of war.
The Riel Rebellion
When the Metis rebellion broke out in 1885, Ned Farrer, then editor of
the Toronto _Mail_, wired me at Winnipeg, to secure a man to represent
his paper at the front. My efforts were unavailing and I dropped into
the telegraph office to send him a message to that effect, when who
should walk in but Davis, of the Toronto _Globe_, who told me he was
getting a team of horses and a buckboard and the Lord only knows what
else, and intended joining the troops at Qu’Appelle. There was nothing
private about the conversation, and I wired his programme to Ned.
Quickly came back the characteristic reply:
“Go thou and do likewise.”
I went, but before I did I engaged Alex. Berard, a Fort Rouge Metis,
whom I knew well, to accompany me. I agreed to give him $300 if he got
me into Riel’s camp before the troops at Batoche, and as a pledge of
good faith gave his wife $18, on the distinct understanding that if I
were killed, I wouldn’t pay the $300 and would get my $18 back. Aleck
and I, with a lot of provisions, went out to Qu’Appelle where General
Middleton and his forces were preparing for the northern movement.
Unfortunately, like the parrot who got its neck twisted, I talked too
much and disclosed my plan to a comrade, who told it to some one else
and finally it reached the ears of the General, who at once sent Aleck
home. Thus what might possibly have been one of the greatest newspaper
scoops of the day was frustrated and the ultimate decision arrived at by
myself was that whenever a blooming idiot was missing I could assuredly
find him by gazing into a mirror.
In no cheerful frame of mind I strolled out along the beautiful valley
of the Qu’Apelle, which in English means “Who calls?”—and I heard a
voice “Hey there, George” calling me—the sweet dulcet voice of Col.
Allan Macdonald, the Indian agent at Qu’Appelle.
“Hop in here, old man, and take a drive,” he said.
So I got into his buckboard and innocently asked where he thought his
destination might be.
“Oh, just over to the File Hills,” he said. “There’s a report that
Nicol, the farm instructor, and his wife have been killed by the Indians
and I’m going out to see.”
We passed an Indian on a load of straw en route, and I never realized
till then how much better poor Lo looks on a load of straw than he does
on the war path. We reached the Superintendent’s house just before dark
to find that the report of his death was a little premature, and also
ascertained that the File Hill Indians were not in the most beautiful
frame of mind. After supper, beds were made for us on the floor, and the
Colonel cautioned me to sleep with one eye open and to have my gun
ready, which I did by promptly falling sound asleep.
Next morning a band of the Crees appeared in war paint and well-armed.
We had a pow-wow in a little shack about 12 feet square, in which there
was a large stone chimney. I’ve been to grand opera and five o’clock
teas, but I never spent such a delightfully uncomfortable half hour as I
did in the ensuing thirty minutes. There were Rosebud, Sparrow Hawk and
Star Blanket, brother-in-law of Frank Hunt, an old friend of mine, who
must have been an all nighter, for his full name was “The man who has a
Star for a Blanket,” and they were all dressed in their war paint and
feathers. Their demands were many and urgent, but the sturdy old colonel
never blinked an eye. He gave his opinion of them individually and
collectively in the most classic of all classical languages. All the
while I was gazing up the chimney, and wondering how far I could climb
before something or other might happen to me. But nothing did, for the
colonel bravely browbeat them so that they skulked out and “we” had a
glorious victory.
I’m not going to tell the story of the uprising—that’s too old a story.
But I just want to record another adventure—remember these are personal
experiences—of a little unpleasantness. At Clarke’s Crossing the
General one evening, when there was a stiff breeze blowing, rode out of
camp all alone. I rustled up a horse, and without saddle or bridle
followed him. Catching up to him, a few miles from camp he hailed me:
“Hello, what are you doing here.” I explained I was hunting Indians. He
began to admonish the weather. “This beastly wind, you know—why I came
out here for a smoke, and I’ll be hanged if I can light my pipe.” “Is
that all, General?” I remarked. “That’s no trouble. Just get a little to
leeward.” He drew up beside me, I scratched a match, lighted his pipe
unconcernedly and he said: “Well, you westerners are a most remarkable
people; you can do anything.” And I thanked Providence he didn’t ask me
to light his pipe a second time, for it was a thousand to one shot. But
it made me his friend for life—and when he was appointed Constable of
the Tower of London, he invited me over to see him. Which was not
accepted for fear he might want me to strike another match for him.
Middleton and the Queen
General Middleton was a kindly bluff old soldier, and was unmercifully
criticized by people who had no knowledge of military affairs. The best
answer to those who abused him is that, by request of good old Queen
Victoria, he was instructed to spare the lives of his untrained soldier
boys, for most of them were mere lads, and of the misguided Indians and
Metis, who were her Majesty’s subjects. This is what he told me, and it
is another, if another were needed, example of how wise and humane was
the Great White Mother across the seas. I think now, if she had been
spared she might possibly have subdued rebellious Ireland.
Selected for Dangerous Mission
Just another incident, which, while it does not amount to much, was
all-important to me at that critical moment.
[Illustration: WINNIPEG OF TO-DAY
Main Street (above); Portage Avenue (below). ]
It happened on the Saskatchewan whose lazily-rolling waters flow from
the far-away Rockies, through the pine lands and plains of the Canadian
Northwest and empty into murky Lake Winnipeg, from which they are
carried to Hudson Bay, and for all I know mingle with those of the
Arctic and Atlantic oceans. And it came about through that almost
incomprehensible perversity or foolhardiness or obliging disposition
which impels one to help a fellow out of a hole and causes a certain
class of happy-go lucky people to rush in where white-winged spirits
would not attempt to fly, let alone tread. To be exact, it was the day
before the beginning of the long-stretched out skirmishing at Batoche,
which resulted in the charge which led to the discomfiture of Riel and
the dispersal of his dusky forces. The sun shone bright and strong on
that lazy May afternoon, with not a breath of air stirring; and
Gabriel’s Crossing, where the stern-wheeler _Northcote_ was tied to the
bank, was drowsy and sleepy as if the recalcitrant halfbreeds and
Indians were a thousand miles away and not lurking in the nearby woods.
The arrival of the mail—a not very regular occurrence—was a decided
break in the irksome monotony—the pleasantness of which, however, was
modified by instant disappointment. The Canadian troops had marched away
that morning to take up a position behind the rebel headquarters at
Batoche, and the mail carrier would not deliver up the bag for reasons
sufficient for him, but insisted on taking it on to the camp sixteen
miles away. There was nothing to do but follow after him for our letters
and our papers, and George Macleod, one of the couriers attached to the
small detachment on the steamer, was detailed for the duty. There was to
be a fight on the morrow with a strongly-entrenched savage foe of whose
strength we knew very little, but whose wily tactics and deadly aim had
been deeply impressed upon us a short time before at Fish Creek, and we
were eager to hear what perhaps might be the last word from home. For
the _Northcote_ was to take part in the coming engagement—steaming down
the river past the rebel stronghold and drawing the enemy’s fire while
the troops were to rush in from the rear, and—but this story has
nothing whatever to do with that.
Macleod quickly reported himself ready. Then Captain So-and-So asked him
to bring something or other from camp, and Lieutenant What’s-his-name
wanted him to carry a message to a comrade, and non-coms. and men had
requests galore for parcels and other truck until poor Macleod had more
commissions than a corporal’s guard could execute in a fortnight. He
remarked—sarcastic like—that perhaps it would be easier to march the
whole column from Batoche back to the boat than “to git all them
things,” so it was decided that someone or other should accompany him.
Why that someone should have been myself does not after all these years
appear very clearly to me, nor did it then; but Colonel Bedson—God rest
his soul—suggested that I should go and even if we didn’t return the
naval brigade would not be so seriously handicapped as to render it
entirely ineffective. That settled it; so Macleod and I—a humble
newspaper correspondent—and Peter Hourie’s pony which was attached to
Peter Hourie’s buckboard, kindly loaned for the occasion—Peter was an
interpreter—started out on our mission. A well-beaten trail led due
south through dense woods, and we followed it for five or six miles and
then the freshly broken turf showed that the column had turned sharp to
the left, and paralleled the river towards Batoche, marching through a
park-like country with bluffs and openings and dotted with little ponds.
There was a remarkable similarity in the surroundings for many a mile,
so much so that one portion was confusingly like another—but it was a
winsome scene whose restfulness and calm were accentuated by the jarring
discordant events of previous days. In these northern latitudes, Nature
is unusually lavish with her gifts and here she had created a
picturesque demesne that was remindful of well-kept ancestral estates in
the Old Country. It was Nature in her simple beauty—unadorned except
with that adornment which the hand of the Master alone can give. It was
the summer dreamland—a scenic poem—a fragment of incomparable Kentish
landscape in a glorious Canadian setting.
Lost on the Trail
The stars shone that night in the cloudless northern sky in all their
accustomed brilliancy, and the long-drawn out summer twilight, never
reaching more than semi-darkness, rendered the surroundings indistinctly
visible. Peter Hourie’s played-out pony had been replaced by a captured
rebel broncho, unused to the restraint of harness and shafts;
commissions had faithfully been executed, the last outpost had bidden us
a cheery good-night, and we were bowling along smoothly towards the
_Northcote_. The partially broken broncho, however, did not take kindly
to anything like work, and so soon as this one began to realize the
ignominy of its task it started in to cavort and swerve around and
despite the united efforts of Macleod and myself, we soon found
ourselves off the trail. While Macleod held the fractious beast, I
groped about in the darkness for the wagon tracks, and having found
them, soon lost them again, only to recover and again lose them more
frequently than I can now remember. A dim light in the distance was the
first indication of anybody’s presence but our own. Macleod couldn’t see
it until we were within a few hundred yards of an Indian camp fire
carefully secreted in one of the bluffs. We—in some trepidation, so far
as I was concerned—managed to make a wide detour and just as we were
beginning to congratulate ourselves that we had avoided these emissaries
of the enemy, a cry like that of a bittern gave warning that the Indians
were signalling to one another. Macleod intimated that I and the broncho
and the buckboard should make for a particular bluff which he pointed
out, and he would remain where he was and await developments. Then came
the bad half-hour of loneliness and anxiety and misgiving for we knew
not our exact location—nor the whereabouts of the foe. After what
seemed an age, Macleod caught up to me, and reported that we had
evidently not been observed.
A moment later other signals were heard issuing from near where the
Indian camp was, and answers seemed to come from several different
quarters. Macleod, who was as plucky as they make ’em, suggested a
repetition of the previous tactics. But I remonstrated. I held that we
ought to stand together; I fully realized that if anything happened to
him, the Lord only knew how I would get out of that tangled maze of
country. Besides, between you and me, there are times when one would
rather not be altogether alone, and this was one of them. He persisted,
however, in following out his plan of campaign, and told me to take my
bearings by a couple of stars which he pointed out. If he didn’t turn up
soon, I was to be guided by them until I reached the trail leading to
the boat. I went on with the broncho and the buckboard, and if ever an
astronomer watched stars as steadfastly as I did, he’s a wonder. My neck
would get stiff as a poker from the unusual craning it had to undergo,
and then I would bend it down to ease it, and when I again glanced
upwards I would catch a couple of other stars, until I honestly believe
the whole firmament was completely taken in. My idea of location was
disgustingly hazy, but I had a firm impression when I saw what I thought
to be a blanketed Indian sneaking towards me that, once I got a fair
shot at him, I would make a break for the timber and never stop until I
struck the Gulf of Mexico or some other place near a railway. The
tension was extreme; it is the dread of the unknown and the unseen and
the darkness and the uncertainty that make a fellow’s flesh creep.
I—and the broncho-buckboard combination—were strategically placed, and
with gun drawn over the animal’s withers I was prepared to make a good
Indian out of at least one redskin. The figure came nearer and nearer,
and, however it was, while my heart beats sounded like the pounding of a
big bass drum, my hand was steady, and my mind strayed away from
thoughts of my predicament. Every incident of a lifetime flashed before
me, trivial events that had long before been forgotten, occurrences that
had not been recalled to memory in many a day. I thought of those at
home, and of my first little boy Jack, dead and gone, and wondered if he
would know me in the other world. I guess it’s that way when one feels
he’s facing death. Mr. Indian was just within good range, but I was
waiting to make sure of him, when “all right” was sounded. My fancied
Indian was Macleod himself. I never was so glad to see anybody in all my
whole life, even my best girl. He had not only evaded the enemy,
but—the Indian’s craftiness doesn’t amount to much at night—he had put
him on the wrong track. There was but one fly in our pot of ointment. We
were off the trail and how far off we didn’t know—but we knew that if
we kept due west we would strike the trail leading to the river
somewhere or other this side of the Rocky Mountains.
About midnight that long looked for trail was reached. It was a perfect
tree-lined avenue, dark as blackness itself, and so we trudged
along—Mac as the advance guard, and I carefully leading the broncho. We
had not advanced a mile before Mac stepped upon a dry poplar limb that
had been placed across the road by the Indians as a signal to their
fellows, and it snapped like a pistol. Mac sprang I don’t know how many
feet in the air, and I leaned against the broncho and, notwithstanding
the seriousness of the occasion, laughed till the tears came. It was a
wonderful leap. He assumed all kinds of postures in that jump; it was
positively the best bit of ground and lofty tumbling I had ever seen,
even in a circus. I didn’t laugh long, though, because as we proceeded
through a little opening, to the right I saw a dim camp fire, around
which it didn’t require much imagination to see figures flitting. Mac
could see this one too, and we watched it growing larger and larger. In
whispered consultation, I suggested that we abandon the broncho outfit
and take to the woods on the left.
“But we can’t,” remonstrated Mac.
“Why not?” I whisperingly wanted to know.
“Because it’s Peter Hourie’s buckboard, and I told him I’d bring it
back.”
“Oh, hang,”—I think that’s the word I used—“hang Peter Hourie’s
buckboard.”
But Mac was obdurate and we mournfully and noiselessly moved on. Then
came another glimpse of that camp fire, and the awful import of the old
saying that silence is golden flashed upon me. Then I laughed
again—heartily and boisterously. The confounded old camp fire we had
conjured up was only the moon rising!
At three o’clock in the morning, we passed through a spot which I
afterwards learned was to have been the gathering place of the rebels at
that hour. Fortunately the meeting had not materialized through some
providential misunderstanding in their orders.
As the sun’s rays came streaming from the east we reached the
_Northcote_, only to be welcomed by the gruff demand as to what on
earth—well, we’ll say it was earth—kept us so long, and that’s the
sort of thanks Mac and I got for our trouble. Afterwards, my companion
confided in me that, for some reason or other, he couldn’t see very well
at night. Others told me he was blind as a bat in darkness. That was
some consolation.
A Naval Battle in the West
The next day, orders were to start the steamer at 8 o’clock sharp and
steam down the river. I was on the upper deck, indulging in a fragrant
five cent cigar when I read a funny paragraph in a newspaper I had
brought along. I went down to the barricaded lower deck to show it to
Major Bedson, when the rebels opened fire upon us. That part of the
_Northcote_ was barricaded with bags of flour so arranged as to make
port holes. My old friend, Hugh John Macdonald, was seriously ill, and I
grabbed his gun and shoving it through the porthole, banged away, only
to set fire to the bags. Quickly extinguishing the burning bags, I
hastened to another porthole in the bow of the boat, not barricaded, and
fired away, until a lot of splinters struck me in the face—the
splinters being the outcome of a fairly well directed rebel shot.
Discretion being the better part of valor, just then, I moved to another
porthole, and a soldier came up and with his fingers easily picked a
bullet from the tendrils of the wood, and quietly remarked, “Pretty
close shave.” It was pointing straight for my heart. Then we struck the
ferry cable which had been lowered for our especial benefit, and to
avoid a rock, Capt. Jim Sheets, an experienced old Missouri steamboat
man, in command of the _Northcote_, let the craft swing around, and we
went down stream, stern foremost, with the current. In the meantime the
Canadian forces engaged the enemy, an hour late according to schedule.
The _Northcote_ stopped a few miles below Batoche, where, ensconced
behind a pile of mail-bags which made a splendid barricade, I kept up a
steady fire at something unknown. I don’t know whether I hit any clouds
or not, but I am assured of one thing: if any lead mines are ever
discovered on the banks of the Saskatchewan, I should have a prior claim
over anybody in their ownership. This was the first naval battle in the
Canadian Northwest, and I imagine it will be the last. At any rate, it
will be as far as yours truly is concerned.
Rescuing the Maclean Family
When I was a kid, the favorite literature amongst the youngsters was
Beadle’s Dime Novels—long ago discontinued and almost forgotten. There
was a remarkable similarity in the different books issued. The same old
story was of a lovely heroine who was captured by the wild Indians and
rescued by a gallant, brave and loving hero, after no end of miraculous
escapes, in which he did many unheard-of feats. I never thought then
that I would ever be chasing Indians or be chased by them. The romantic
days of fiction had passed. But one fine June morning at Fort Pitt, I
found they hadn’t.
While I was strolling along the river bank, trying my best to smoke a
real bang-up ten-center, Major Bedson, master of transportation of
General Middleton’s column, drove up in a carriage and yelled at me:
“Get in, old man.”
I did so and, after we had started off again, I naturally asked where we
were going and why. He told me that Big Bear had released the Maclean
family and we were going out to find them. Might as well look for a
needle in a haystack in that immense tract, but the Major had an idea of
their whereabouts, and so we struck for Loon Lake, on reaching which we
found in camp about as tough a looking crowd as ever you saw. Unwashed,
unkempt, with tattered clothing and little food, there they all were,
the twenty-two prisoners who had been allowed, when provisions ran
short, to escape from Big Bear’s camp—the Maclean family, father and
mother and nine children, Amelia and Eliza being young ladies of 18 and
16 years of age, Kitty being 14, and the others ranging from 12 years to
an infant in arms; and George Mann, farm instructor at Frog Lake, his
wife and three children, Stanley Simpson and other employees of the
Hudson’s Bay Co. at Fort Pitt, Frog Lake and Onion Lake. For once,
somebody was mighty glad to see me, and more glad to see Major Bedson,
who was a brother-in-law of Maclean. That staunch old Westerner, Major
Hayter Reed, who did splendid service during the uprising, came up with
supplies and clothes, and when they arrived and the freed captives had
donned their new habiliments, and washed up and eaten the first square
meal for a long time, the transformation was complete. Sam Steele came
too. After all their trekking through wild lands and swamps with little
food, here were freedom and liberty and friends. I shall never forget
that memorable 21st June—the longest day of the year—when W. J.
Maclean, the father, commonly known as Big Bear Maclean, and I trudged
along the trail, and he told me the story of their wanderings. They had
never been ill-treated, some kindly disposed half-breeds guarding them,
but once, at Loon Lake, the squaws whose husbands or sons had been
killed wanted to slaughter them, but they were prevented. The only one
to complain was Stanley Simpson (who afterwards was accidentally
drowned) who confidentially informed me that boiled dog as a regular
article of diet was a fraud, a delusion and a sham. What was a delicacy
to the red man was sickening to him, and between dog and starvation, the
latter was largely preferable in his humble opinion.
However the sun was shining brightly and everybody was joyful and happy.
And no wonder, after the days and weeks of terror and hardship which
they had endured. We reached Fort Pitt in safety, after a long wearisome
trip, most of which we had to tramp or ride in rude, jolting, springless
wagons. There was no complaint, no grumbling, no post mortems, and
motherly Mrs. Maclean, I could see, silently thanked God for their happy
deliverance.
We didn’t know where Big Bear and his aboriginal warriors were, but we
kept one eye open to see that, if he had changed his alleged mind, he
would get the worst of any encounter with us. And when, after a long fit
of silence on my part, Mrs. Maclean kindly asked me what I was thinking
about I laconically replied: “Beadle’s Dime Novels.”
A Church Parade in the Wilderness
The banks of the Beaver River have seldom, if ever, witnessed the sight
which was to be seen on the morning of June 6th, 1885, a military church
parade. There was no stately edifice, no solemn sounding organ, no rich
upholstered pews, no carved or gilded pillars, nor fashionably dressed
ladies attired in silks and satins. But the place of worship was a
grander one, with the blue vaulted Heaven for dome, the fringe of
far-extended green budding trees the living walls, while the ripple of a
brook and the carolling of birds furnished a sweet accompaniment to the
songs of praise sung by the uncultured and unpractised voices of the
choir. Nor marble floor nor silk-woven carpet was here, but on the
flower-flecked prairie we found easy seats or shaking off the
conventionality of eastern etiquette, sought grassy couches and lay
prone on the luxuriant verdure. This picture may have been rudely marred
by the canvas-covered wagons and clumsily constructed carts which formed
the corral, but they were in keeping with the congregation, a mixed and
motley crew, mainly red-coats with Sunday shaven faces, slouch-hatted
teamsters, booted and spurred rough riders of the plain, buckskin-clad
scouts, herders, cowboys, camp cooks, redolent of grease and flour, all
semi-circling the preacher—the grand old western Methodist pioneer,
Rev. John MacDougal—who for the nonce had donned sombre garments, and
listening to the message of Christ and His love to man and man’s duty to
Him. The sermon ended—no polished oration, but a simple and earnest
discourse—all most reverently, with uncovered heads, stood silent and
still while the benediction was pronounced and then they dispersed, not
with the rush and hurly-burly of the more cultured churchgoer, but
quietly and orderly to their camps, while from the mission house on the
crest of the upland, now sacrilegiously occupied by the military, came
the dusky-hued Chippewayans, with shawl-enveloped squaws, from the more
imposing service of the Catholic Church. The service may soon have been
forgotten, the lesson it taught unlearned, but for the nonce at any
rate, the roughest and rudest felt the influence of the Word, and the
camp was better for the day and the day’s gathering of worshippers.
Indian Signals
The traveller on the plains in the early days soon learned the
significance of the spires of smoke that he sometimes saw rising from a
distant ridge or hill and that in turn he might see answered from a
different direction. It was the signal talk of the Indians across miles
of intervening ground, a signal used in rallying the warriors for an
attack, or warning them for a retreat if that seemed advisable.
The Indian had a way of sending up the smoke in rings or puffs, knowing
that such a smoke column would at once be noticed and understood as a
signal, and not taken for the smoke of some camp-fire. He made the rings
by covering the little fire with his blanket for a moment and allowing
the smoke to ascend, when he instantly covered the fire again. The
column of ascending smoke rings said to every Indian within thirty
miles, “Look out! There is an enemy near!” Three smokes built close
together meant danger. One smoke merely meant attention. Two smokes
meant “camp at this place.”
Sometimes at night the settler or the traveller saw fiery lines crossing
the sky, shooting up and falling, perhaps taking a direction diagonal to
the lines of vision. He might guess that these were signals of the
Indians, but unless he were an old-timer, he might not be able to
interpret the signals. The old-timer and the squaw man knew that one
fire-arrow, an arrow prepared by treating the head of the shaft with
gunpowder and fine bark, meant the same as the columns of smoke
puffs—“An enemy is near.” Two arrows meant “Danger.” Three arrows said
imperatively, “This danger is great.” Several arrows said “The enemy are
too many for us.” Thus the untutored savage could telephone fairly well
at night as well as at day.
And this was where the red man was ahead of the white, for this long
distance system of communication was in daily use years before the Morse
code of telegraphy by wire, which was practically on the same lines, was
invented.
Another system of wireless telegraphy by mirrors was also operated by
the red man, but it would only be used on bright sunshiny days and never
at night. The holder of the mirror, by catching the rays of the sun
could direct them right into the eyes of a passing person at some
distance, and thus attract his attention, and communication between them
was thus established.
All of which goes to show the truthfulness of the adage; “There’s
nothing new under the sun.”
At the time of the Custer massacre, the first tidings of the fight were
learned in the Red River valley from Indians from the Red Lake River, a
tributary of the Red River, who came down in canoes in war paint and
told the people of Crookston, Minnesota, of the great Indian victory.
The Winnipeg _Free Press_ and the St. Paul and Minneapolis evening
papers published the story simultaneously, and this was the first
intimation given of Custer’s terrible fate. The next day, the news came
by wire from Deadwood, but the Indian signals beat out the telegraph
companies, and these Red Lake Indians were several hundred miles from
the scene of the massacre.
Some Curious Indian Names.
A chapter could be written about the names of some of the red men whom I
have either met or heard of and who were practically wards of the
Mounted Police. A few samples will give an idea of the originality
exercised by the Indians in this respect. One of Big Bear’s councillors
rejoiced in the modest cognomen “All and a Half.” One of the same old
rascal’s head men was known as “Miserable Man.” Incidentally it might be
mentioned that he “dearly lo’ed the lassies, O,” and was possessor of a
harem of considerable proportions. Was this responsible for his name?
Other names which occur to me are “Piapot,” “Almighty Voice,” “Beardy”
(possessed by an Indian chief who had a decided attempt at a beard),
“Calf Shirt,” “Mighty Gun,” “Scraping High,” and “Bad Eggs.”
Amongst the great men of these Indians, Crowfoot, chief of the
Blackfeet, stood pre-eminent. He was of commanding appearance, with a
higher intelligence than many of our clever pale faces possess, and he
and Poundmaker, of the Crees, and Red Crow, of the Bloods, made a brainy
trio.