CHURCHILL AND MATAWAKUMMA
In 1886 the bishop wrote with much thankfulness of the location of the
Rev. J. Lofthouse at Churchill—‘the last house in the world,’ as he
called it, for there is no other between it and the North Pole. Churchill
boasts, however, of quite a little colony of English and half-caste
Chipwyans, Eskimo, and Crees. The Chipwyans are difficult to trade with,
and apt to avoid a station for years if their demands are not complied
with. They are cruel to their wives and their dogs, and are terrible
thieves, but they stand in great fear of the Eskimo. The Eskimo of
Churchill are not so bloodthirsty as their brethren in the west, who come
in with their faces marked with red ochre, to indicate that they have
committed a murder during the winter, a mark in which they glory, for
in their opinion there is more honour in killing a human being than in
killing a walrus or white bear.
[Illustration: CHURCHILL IN SUMMER]
Out of the world as it seems, Churchill is a busy place with the coming
and going of Crees, Eskimo, and Chipwyans. The annual ship goes thither
from York Factory, and boats have to be built for the loading and
unloading of the cargo, as well as or carrying on the trade further
north with Mable Island. Food is very dear, and is obtained with toil and
difficulty. In summer, porpoises are hunted; in winter, bears, wolves,
and foxes are shot. The cold is intense, and quantities of wood must
be hewn, and hauled home on sledges drawn by the Eskimo dog. The short
summer will scarcely allow any garden produce to come to perfection. A
few very poor and puny potatoes are grown, which are highly prized by
the Europeans, and carefully eked out. A very little hay is made for the
winter fodder of the cows; which, however, gladly eat the nourishing
white moss, which is the food of the reindeer.
‘I must tell you,’ says the bishop, with a spice of humour,’ about the
Churchill cows, for they are—or were—a curious lot. There were three of
them. About one there was nothing very particular, except that it was
somewhat of a dwarf. The second went about harnessed, for, Churchill
pasture not making her particularly fat, she was so supple that she
required no milkmaid to milk her; she did it herself, and seemed to enjoy
the exercise. The harness supported a bag, which enclosed the udder, and
which prevented her from indulging in a draught of new milk. The third
had an artificial tail. The poor brute had been off at a little distance
from the place, when she was set upon by some wolves; she bellowed, and
at once made for home, where she arrived almost frightened to death, and
without a tail. What was to be done now? The flies were in myriads, and,
if she had no protection against them, they would put her to a much more
cruel death than that threatened by the wolves. A happy thought struck
one of the colony of fifty. They had a dead cow’s tail lying in the
store! Why not use that? The suggestion was at once acted upon; the tail
was attached to the stump by means of some twine, and over it was tied
some canvas, well saturated with Stockholm tar. It was a great success,
and the creature was again able to do battle with her diminutive but
persevering foes.’
In undertaking the distant station of Churchill, in the midst of a dreary
waste, Mr. Lofthouse had a life of self-denial before him, as well as
very serious work, not the least of which was the necessity for learning
three languages, neither of them bearing any resemblance to the other.
For example, the phrase ‘It is good’ is in Chipwyan _nazo_, in Cree
_milwashiu_, and in Eskimo _peyokumme_.
Far away from Moose, five hundred miles distant, very difficult to
reach—the journey to it occupying about twenty days—is the station
of Matawakumma. Long and dangerous rapids have to be ascended, long
and disagreeable portages to be crossed, one of which is four miles
in length. One long lake—Kinokummisse, meaning ‘long lake’—must be
traversed, and another—Matawakumma, ‘The meeting of the waters’—must be
gone over.
[Illustration: ON THE CHURCHILL RIVER]
The station is very prettily situated on a long point of land which
runs almost across the lake. There are a few houses representing
the fur-trading establishment. At a short distance is the modest
parsonage-house and neat church, both of which have been almost entirely
erected by the Rev. J. Saunders’ own hands. It was the most isolated
station in Moosonee, but it is so no longer, as at only two days’ journey
distant runs the great Canadian Pacific railroad, by which all supplies
are now introduced into that part of the country.
There is at present no danger of starvation here, but formerly, when
all supplies were got up from Moose, and were consequently limited,
great privation was frequently experienced. If the rabbits failed,
famine stared the inhabitants in the face. The worst year ever known
was the one the bishop first spent in the country, when a fourth of the
entire population died, some from actual starvation, the rest being
killed and eaten by their friends! The tales of that terrible winter are
heartrending in the extreme. The most painful case was that of a man and
his wife who lost their whole family of six children.
Among the Indians of Matawakumma was one named Arthur Martin.
‘I forget his Indian name,’ says the bishop. ‘I give the name he received
at his baptism. At the time referred to he was a young man, and was not
subjected to as great privations as some of his countrymen. I received
him into the Church in 1852, and in 1854 I received his wife, on my first
visit to Matawakumma, where I married them. Many of the Indians there
clung very closely to their old superstitions, and the drum and the
conjuring tents were in constant requisition. Some of them still hold
back, not having yet taken the Saviour to their hearts.
‘But this was not the case with Arthur and his wife; when once they had
put their hand to the plough, they looked not back again. Their Saviour
was their all in all. They both learnt to read, and made themselves well
acquainted with the books as they came out in the Ojibbeway language,
the only one they knew, and they did their best to train their children
in the ways of the Lord. Their eldest son, Louis, one of the most
intelligent Indians I have ever known, followed in his father’s steps,
and eventually became a valuable catechist in the mission. His letters
were excellent, while to Mr. Saunders he was invaluable, assisting him in
everything; for he handled hammer, axe, and paddle with equal facility,
and he was his constant companion in his journeys through the country. I
had hopes that eventually I might ordain him, and thus increase both his
influence and usefulness among his countrymen; but this was not to be. He
went with Mr. Saunders to their railway station, Biscotasing; in getting
into a carriage while in motion, he fell and injured his leg. It required
amputation; the operation was performed, and it was hoped that all would
go well; but a few days after mortification set in, and the end soon
came. He seemed necessary for our work; it never occurred to us that we
might be obliged to do without him. Truly
God moves in a mysterious way.
‘The death of this son was a heavy blow to his father, now growing old;
but he was soon resigned to the will of God, and went on his Christian
course. Like Job of old, he was tried by personal suffering; in that,
too, his faith remained firm and steadfast. A mist and darkness came over
him—blindness took possession of both his eyes. It was thought that his
sight might be restored by an operation, and he was sent down to Moose
for that purpose. He was quite alone, having no relative with him, but he
was taken good care of by a Christian woman, who tended him with sisterly
devotion.
‘For awhile he kept well, was never absent from the house of God; then
weakness attacked him in the legs, and he could no longer attend the
services, yet not a word of complaint fell from him. He longed for news
from home, and this he received; his wife was very unwell, but hoped soon
to see him back with her again. Inflammation of the lungs set in, and in
three or four days he had passed away. God was with him in his trial, and
supported him. He made all his bed in his sickness. I saw him on the day
of his death, September 12, between the morning and afternoon services.
Blind and speechless, he lay in his tent surrounded by a few Christian
friends, who said that he was quite insensible. He regained consciousness
as I spoke to him of Jesus and His love. When I asked him whether he felt
Jesus near, a joyous, assuring smile came over his countenance, more
expressive than the most eloquent of speeches.
‘He was waiting in peace the Master’s call, and it was not long in
coming. I commended him to God in prayer, and, shaking him warmly by
the hand, hurried off to church to conduct service. Soon afterwards the
messenger arrived to summon him to the Master’s presence. With the Lord
he went through the dark valley; with Him he crossed the dividing river,
and then entered the joy of his Lord.’