THE RETURN TO MOOSE
In the spring of 1882, the good folk at Moose became more and more
pressing for their beloved bishop’s return. They were looking eagerly
forward to his presence amongst them again; and he went, but he went
alone, Mrs. Horden remaining in England with their children. A fortnight
after his arrival in Moose he wrote:
‘My canoe journey occupied eighteen days, and was rather arduous. The
heat, against which there could never be the slightest protection, was
terrible, sometimes rising as high as 110° in the shade, which was
aggravated by the rocky and difficult character of many of our portages.
These things were nothing to me some years ago, but it is different now.
I cannot bear fatigue as I could when I came by the same route fifteen
years ago; then it was physically a pleasure, now it is a labour.’
The bishop had travelled _viâ_ New York, Montreal and Matawa. ‘We
alighted at the station,’ he writes, ‘and a mile ride on a very rough
road brought us to the thriving young town. Fifteen years ago, with wife
and two young children, I had found the reaching Matawa a difficult
journey by canoe, and when I had reached it, it consisted of three
houses; now its population is about five hundred, while the number of
people passing through is very large. It has fine shops, many hotels, a
broad street, and an English church and parsonage are being built for a
very energetic resident clergyman. It is the seat of the lumber trade
in the Upper Ottawa; hence its importance. But where are the Indians,
who not long since were numerous here? This place knows them no more!
I saw scarcely any; as a race they have passed away; many have died,
for they cannot stand the diseases Europeans bring with them—measles,
whooping-cough, diphtheria, make short work of them. Many, too, have gone
to work on the railways, while the women have married French Canadians,
and so the Indian becomes swallowed up by the advancing whites.
‘I travelled on by rail as far as the railroad went—forty miles from
Matawa. The country is rocky and uninteresting, with a good spot for
farming here and there. This railroad forms part of the Great Canadian
Pacific, which is being carried forward with extraordinary rapidity, and
will be accomplished years before it was expected to be, the part causing
most difficulty being that north of Lake Superior. At Matawa I remained
four days, the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, spending a Sunday there,
which I much enjoyed. I preached both morning and evening, and in the
afternoon gave an address to the children. I never spend an idle Sunday.
I should hope no one ever does; but a Sunday never passes without my
saying something for the Master in a public manner. I feel that I must
work; the truth comes home to me more and more forcibly every day that
“the time is short,” that it behoves us to work while it is called to-day.
‘On Tuesday, August 1, I had done with railways and telegrams, almost
with letters, and was once more in my birch-bark canoe up the Ottawa.
There lies the bedding, tied up in an oil-cloth to prevent its getting
wet; there the provisions, and the kettles and frying-pan, and tent and
paddles; and here are my companions—four Temiscamingue Indians, fine
strong fellows, who with alacrity place the canoe in the water, and
then everything in it in a very orderly manner; then one of them with
a respectful touch of his cap says, “_Ashi nen he posetonau kekinow_”
(“Already we have embarked everything”). I step into the canoe; a nice
seat has been prepared for me, and we are off. The sound of the paddles
is familiar; I could almost forget that I had not heard it for two years.
Through the whole course of our journey I did not see a dozen farms. But
what is this I see? Logs, logs, logs; tens, hundreds, thousands, all
formed into a raft, on their way to build houses, churches, palaces,
cottages, in the civilised world. And here we are at the foot of a
great rapid; we are obliged to get out of our canoe, which, with all
the baggage, has to be carried over a long portage. But there comes a
curious-looking structure, square in shape, and on it a couple of small
houses and four men. It is composed of a large number of squared logs
formed into a small raft called a “crib”; the men look resolute and
determined, and handle immense oars called sweeps. They come on towards
the rapid, slowly at first, then the speed increases, and down they go,
covered with water, down, down, down, until quieter waters are reached.
A few more strokes of the oar send it out into mid-stream, where it will
wait until all the other cribs have descended, when they will be again
joined together, and so go on until the next rapid is reached. As we sit,
crib after crib descends without accident; but it is dangerous work, and
the Ottawa frequently secures its victims.
[Illustration: CANADIAN TIMBER]
‘We have a good deal of portaging, and very hot it is. On this portage
there is an abundance of blueberries; we gather and eat them, and
capitally they quench our thirst, almost making us forget the fiery sun
above us. At the head of the Long Sault our difficulties are over, we are
on the placid waters of the great Lake Temiscamingue. Some time after it
has become quite dark, one of my companions exclaims, “_Ma!_” (“Listen”)
“_kagat iskota chemau_” (“truly the fire-boat”—the steamer); and in the
distance I hear the puffing of the giant, who has now invaded these
hitherto quiet waters. At midnight we put up our tent and seek repose; we
set off again early, and about four P.M. reach Temiscamingue.
‘Five days beyond Temiscamingue we found ourselves on the broad waters of
the Abbitibbe Lake, a grand expanse, dotted with islands, which make it
in places very picturesque. And there stands the Hudson’s Bay Company
establishment, where I am sure of a welcome.’
A few days later the bishop landed at Long Portage House, a small and
lonely establishment. All are friends here, and preparations are at once
made for a service, which all greatly enjoy. ‘And there is a beautiful
little baby to baptize,’ continues the child-loving bishop, and there are
several who are anxious to receive the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.
‘I wished to get to Moose before the ship, so before six o’clock we
are in our canoe and hurrying forwards; down we plunge over our last
great rapid, and are in the Moose River. We are soon nearing Moose, and
already come upon some of its people. Here is Widow Charlotte in her
canoe, fishing; her face brightens as she grasps my hand and tells me how
thankful she is to see me once more; she looks well, but the last three
years have told greatly upon her. A little further on we meet stirring
Widow Harriet, engaged in the same occupation. At breakfast-time we meet
a large canoe on its way to Abbitibbe, containing a family returning to
Canada; we breakfast and have prayers together, and I learn that the
ship arrived safely from England two days ago, and that all were well.
We paddle on, pass the Bill of Portland, and the Mill, and the winter
fishing-place at the mouth of Maidman’s Creek, and we cross the broad
river, and sweep round the head of Charles Island. Here is Sawpit Island,
and there, directly in front of us, is Moose Island, but showing no
signs of being inhabited. We travel along it, we round its head, and
a new world lies before us—for it seems indeed nothing less, coming as
one does on the large thriving establishment after days of travel in the
wilderness.’
[Illustration: MOOSE FACTORY, CAPITAL OF THE DIOCESE OF MOOSONEE
1, Bishop’s Court; 2, school-house; 3, cottage (residence of a good
helper); 4, cottage (residence of catechist); 5, stores; 6, church; 7,
residence of chief factor; 8, residence of officers; 9, large store and
sale shop; 10, cattle byres; 11, Pontypool, a mile below the church]
Moose at this time and at this season presented an even still more
pleasant aspect than when, some thirty years before, the Bishop of
Rupertsland had described it as the prettiest spot in the country. Since
then it has somewhat increased in importance, and the condition of the
buildings and their surroundings give it a charming appearance.
The grazing cattle first attract attention, then the neat residence of
the bishop and the other mission buildings, the adjoining cottages with
their well-kept gardens, and a number of Indian tents and marquees in the
foreground, the church with its metal covered spire glistening in the
sun’s rays a little distance off. Near the landing-place are the Hudson’s
Bay Company buildings, the substantial residence of the company’s
representative and that of his subordinate officers. The large handsome
store, and a good garden, with the steward’s house adjoining, with a
group of workshops—carpenter’s, joiner’s, cooper’s, and the blacksmith’s
forge behind, cow-houses and stables for cattle, horses, pigs, and sheep.
In the foreground is the grave-yard neatly fenced round; then a field of
waving barley, another of potatoes, and a large hay-meadow, with again a
group of cottages, gardens, and tents.
The ship had come in, and people were hurrying about everywhere. The
Mink was receiving cargo, the Marten too, as well as a barge with
sails set. These transferred their contents to large flat-bottomed
boats, which conveyed them to a store by the riverside. Along the banks
were moored many smaller craft, full of grass, brought from the salt
marshes, to be turned into hay for the cattle during the long winter.
In the midst of all the bustle the advent of the bishop in his canoe
is observed. The white mission flag is hastily run up. The red flag of
the Hudson’s Bay Company is hoisted. The mission party, which includes
Archdeacon Vincent from Albany and Mr. Peck from Fort George, as well
as two young missionaries, the Rev. H. Nevitt and Rev. J. Lofthouse,
who had come by the ship, and Mrs. Saunders from Matawakumma, hasten to
the landing-stage. The bishop’s daughter Chrissie, with her husband,
Mr. Broughton, and their three boys, Kelk, Fred and Arthur, are there
already, and the first greetings are not given before the chief members
of the station are all collected about the bishop. All are anxious to
welcome him and to give him the news he longs to hear, of the welfare of
themselves and the various members of his flock in the different parts of
his diocese. Then the bell from the church tower sends forth its summons,
and the Indians hurry to respond to it, and soon the church is filled
from end to end by an eager and interested congregation. He to whom they
all look as a father has come back, and having given their greeting and
received his blessing, they depart again to their several occupations.
The bishop was speedily immersed in work. Only a few days after his
return he confirmed forty-five young Indians, men and women who had
been carefully prepared by Mr. Vincent. Later on he confirmed all the
English-speaking young people, both half-caste and Indian. His heart
was cheered by the progress made in the mission during his absence. The
church was not large enough to contain the congregation. The winter came
and passed.
The spring-tide of 1883 was not a cheerful one, and the bishop felt
the contrast between the scene in his out-of-the-world home and the
surroundings in which he had passed the preceding year. ‘_Mispoor,
mispoor, mispoor_’—‘Snow, snow, snow,’ he wrote on May 2, ‘everything
white, the ground all covered, the river all dead and still—the
ice-covering four feet thick.... I turned to my table and found comfort
from reading a portion of the Book of books, God’s great gift to
mankind, until I was called to prayers. Family prayers they were, and
yet no member of my family knelt with me; the nearest is a hundred miles
distant, the rest thousands.’
Not until May 21 did the ice begin to break. ‘On Trinity Sunday I looked
out at three o’clock—all was still, and I lay down again. At five I
once more looked out—the operation of breaking-up had commenced. In the
evening the river, which for so many months had shown no signs of life,
was rolling on in a vast flood.’
In the summer of this year whooping-cough once more broke out at Moose
and Albany. At the latter place forty-four died of it; amongst the number
the bishop’s infant grandson. At Moose, the illness raged almost as
fiercely. Day after day funerals are recorded by the bishop, who was much
depressed by the mourning and sadness around him. ‘Could I,’ he says,
‘when the service is over, come back to a cheerful home, it would be
different, but I come back to the once joyous, but now solitary house, to
hear my own footsteps, and to feed upon my own thoughts.’
On August 22 a terrible storm broke over Moose. The morning dawned
brightly, and everything betokened a beautiful summer day. The sun shone
out, the air was warm, and the wind blew from the south-east. After
breakfast the wind grew stronger and yet stronger, until it became a
perfect hurricane. Forest trees bent like wands, some were torn up by the
roots, others snapped in two. The river was like a tempest-tossed sea.
The great flagstaff of the Hudson’s Bay Company came down with a mighty
crash. The mission flagstaff swayed to and fro, threatening every instant
to fall. The houses suffered little, being built of solid logs, strongly
bolted together with iron bolts. That Wednesday night was a fearful one,
the next day not quite so bad. The weather continued dull and raining.
The ship was expected, and a load of anxiety would be removed by its
arrival. But September dawned, and there was no ship!
‘It is now September 5, and one of the gloomiest days I have known for
a very long time. The haycocks are lying in the fields, thoroughly
drenched, and turning black from their long exposure to the daily
downpour. The potatoes are cut down by the heavy frost of last Saturday,
and the barley lies prostrate. All this we could bear, but this year
there is a fear that we may have to depend more on what our fields may
give than is generally the case, for as yet there is no ship. We have had
a vessel lying at the river’s mouth for nearly a month waiting for her,
and every face begins to look serious. There is good cause, for there are
not sufficient supplies here for another year. Of wine there is none. Of
medicine, scarcely any. A restriction has been put on the sale of food
and clothing; the supply is scanty, and the look-out is really very dark
indeed. What adds so much to our gloom is the saddening fact that death
is still amongst us, carrying off our little ones amid great suffering.’
The 7th of September passed, but the joyful cry of ‘The ship is come!’
had not been raised. The hearts of the watchers began to grow sick with
hope deferred, and all sorts of conjectures were formed as to the cause
of the delay. On September 10 the bishop wrote, ‘Our gloom deepens as
day succeeds day, and we get no tidings of our ship. There are parties
here from distant stations all waiting, but in a couple of days all must
leave, so as to burden us no longer for the provisions they require.
September 15. Our ship has not come, and I am afraid now it will not
come. You can have no idea of our state of anxiety. She may come yet, and
I trust she may; but it is now so late that we are beginning to give up
hope. And here we are, with no medicine or wine for the sick, scarcely
any candles, a very limited supply of tea and sugar, a very scanty supply
of clothing, only half a crop of potatoes, and no hope of improvement
for nearly twelve months. I feel that we must not run these risks in
future. It is absolutely necessary that we should have at Moose a full
year’s supply for all our missions in this quarter. It _must be done_,[2]
and I shall require 500_l._, which will be expended in the purchase of
flour, tea, sugar, salt pork, bacon, preserved Australian beef, &c. We
shall then always have a year’s stock of necessaries on hand, and so be
independent for one year of the ship’s arrival.’
At last, when all hope had fled from the breasts of those who so long
had watched, and watched in vain, on the morning of September 21 the cry
was raised, ‘The ship’s come!’ ‘Magic words,’ the bishop wrote, ‘which
entirely changed the current of our thoughts.’
The flag was hoisted to announce the event, and everyone was full of
grateful joy, everyone busy with a helping hand, for the weather was
already winterly, with snow falling every day, and the ship must start
quickly on her return voyage. The danger was that she might not reach
home again in safety so late in the season. She had been delayed for
weeks in the ice in coming out, and the return voyage was indeed a
terrible one. The water in the ship’s tanks froze some inches thick, and
heavy gales and blinding snow-storms accompanied her until she reached
England late in November.
Moosonee has two ports, Moose Factory and York Factory, and the York
ship that year could not return to England at all. She had arrived at
York when the people were almost in despair, and had then set out for
Churchill, where she was weather-bound. This place is so small and out
of the world, that as soon as possible the crew was transferred to York
Factory, where there was better accommodation for them, the men having to
walk thither two hundred miles on snow-shoes.