CLOSING LABOURS
Bishop Horden did not spend a very great many months in England. He left
again on May 22, 1889, the parting from wife and family being softened by
the hope of shortly returning to them. Taking steamer direct for Quebec,
he went on from thence to Montreal—‘one of the most beautifully situated
cities in the world, containing fine shops, a noble quay, many grand
houses, and a large number of very fine churches.’
The following evening he took his place in the train going west, to
spend three days and two nights in it. The car was crowded, and each
day he—indefatigable man that he was—gave a much appreciated lecture
to the occupants packed closely together around him. After passing
through hundreds of miles of wilderness he at last landed at Winnipeg,
the capital of the West. Two or three hours later he was sitting in the
Parliament House, witnessing the conferring of university degrees by the
Metropolitan, amongst the students being Miss Holmes, the first lady who
had taken a degree in Manitoba. On Sunday there was an ordination and
confirmation, and in the evening Bishop Horden preached in the cathedral,
although he was suffering from a severe cold contracted during his long
railway journey. The following day he started by rail and steamer for
Norway House, which he reached on June 14.
There used to be stirring times at Norway House. Here the great council
was held. Here in olden time the Governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company,
who possessed more real power than the most arbitrary of sovereigns,
held his court annually, and to it flocked the principal officers of the
company. The affairs of the country were discussed, and everything was
arranged for another year. During the whole summer the greatest activity
prevailed. Boats were continually arriving and departing; now an immense
brigade from York Factory, then another from the Saskatchewan or the
Mackenzie River district. The dwelling-houses were crowded, and the great
stores were constantly receiving or giving out supplies.
But the railway and steamers have changed all this, and among other
results have brought about the downfall of Norway House. Goods for the
interior are no longer sent to York Factory, and thence by boat to the
various stations. They are forwarded to the Saskatchewan by rail and
steamer, and thence onward to the interior. Now Norway House supplies
only two or three trading posts in its immediate district. Very few
officers and few men are required for the business. The stores lie empty,
and the great square is almost deserted.
Bishop Horden spent two Sundays here, waiting for the boats to Oxford
House, whence he journeyed on to York Factory. Then he set off for
Churchill, another journey of two hundred miles.
A peaceful voyage of nine days in a schooner, the first that for twenty
years had visited York Factory, brought the bishop to Moose Fort. It was
quite dark when he landed, but a great crowd had gathered on the beach
to welcome him, chief amongst them his daughter, Mrs. Broughton, and her
husband, and their three youngest children, and Archdeacon Vincent, who
had been in charge at Bishop’s Court.
‘I was really at home, and felt so overjoyed and so thankful; I was
happy, and so seemed all around me. Monday was devoted to the affairs of
the mission, and it gratified me to find that things had gone on so well
during my absence. I visited all the people in their houses, for they are
very dear to me, and found all well.’
But his own house was lonely, and would be lonelier still in the winter,
for the Broughtons were to be now stationed at Rupert’s House. He had
not been expected to return so soon to Moose; the archdeacon had the
work there well in hand, whilst at Albany Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt were fully
installed. He himself needed some little quiet and rest. He decided,
therefore, to go with his daughter and grandchildren to Rupert’s House
for the next months.
The Moose ship, Lady Head, had already arrived. The season was advanced,
a parting service was held, and once more the bishop went on board the
Mink, and sailed with his dear ones for Rupert’s House. Here he came
in contact with Indians from various stations, bringing in furs for
barter at the factory. The Rev. E. Richards assisted him in all his
ministrations. A cheerful Christmas was followed by quiet work, and
then a busy and a happy Eastertide, notwithstanding the ‘snow which
lay several feet deep on the ground, biting winds, and the death-like
appearance of all Nature.’
The spring was very dreary. There was nothing for the geese to feed upon,
and the hunters came home evening after evening having shot nothing. When
the Indians from the surrounding districts came in, there was amongst
them one very sad and reduced party. Where were the rest? All, to the
number of eighteen, had perished from starvation.
As the summer approached, the bishop went northward to East Main
River—now a small outpost, but once the most important place in the bay.
About one hundred Indians had met together there, and every moment was
made the most of, for they seldom saw a clergyman.
The bishop thence went in a boat to Fort George. This is almost the most
interesting bit of travel in the country. High and rocky islands, some of
them well wooded, others majestically rugged, rise in constant succession.
A week was spent at the Fort, and then, with Mr. Peck as his companion,
the bishop pushed on to the dreary storm-beaten land of Great Whale
River—a hard and difficult journey along an inhospitable and dangerous
coast. Sometimes they met a few Indians on the way, and the desert was
made to rejoice with ‘some of the songs of Zion.’
One morning they put ashore among a body of Eskimo, who had their books
with them. The bishop heard them all read; for one woman, who could
not read as well as the rest, they made the apology that she had but
just recently joined them from the north, and could not be expected to
do very well yet; but she was getting on, for they taught her every
day. The next day, and half of the following, was spent here, then the
travellers proceeded, the canoe flying before a threatened storm. Just
before midnight they reached the mouth of the river, and two or three
hours afterwards the storm broke with terrible violence, lasting without
intermission for a couple of days.
‘Three days of intense work (I wish it could have been three weeks), and
the schooner was ready for sea; so, leaving Mr. Peck to continue his
labours, I took a passage kindly granted me, and bidding farewell to all,
I set off on my way south.’
The bishop was much gratified with the progress made by the Eskimo,
their earnestness was so evident, their attention so fixed; his heart
was lifted in gratitude to God. After another week spent at Fort George,
his mission completed, his face was once more turned homewards, and he
reached Moose just about ship time. ‘In all this journey God’s hand has
been on me for good.’
Soon after the bishop had returned to Moose, Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt went
to take charge of Rupert’s House, the Rev. E. Richards and his wife
coming to assist the bishop at Moose. Great preparations were made for
the Christmas of 1890. The old mission ox brought home several loads
of pine and cedar-brush from the woods for the church decorations. On
Christmas Eve a high tea was provided at Bishop’s Court for the joyous
band of workers, a dish of splendid trout gracing the hospitable board.
Christmas morning dawned not too cold for enjoyment, and hearty, cheery
services followed throughout the day. A feast had been planned for the
school-children. Cakes were made by ‘the Rev. E. Richards and his wife;’
a large heap of biscuits were provided from the bishop’s own store; huge
kettles were suspended in the school-yard; tea, sugar, and milk were
there in abundance, and one afternoon in the Christmas week the scholars
all assembled and enjoyed a substantial meal.
A Christmas-tree followed, which Mr. and Mrs. Richards had decorated
with artificial flowers and ornaments, lights and gifts. The children’s
parents were there, and the European residents and all stood round the
tree, and sang ‘God save the Queen.’
Muncto pinache Kicheake-maskwas,
O Pimache; Melche puskilakat,
Kitche mihwaletuk Kinwaish
Pimatesit, O Pimache.
Other gatherings there were that joyous Christmastide spent by the bishop
amongst his own especial flock; and doubtless, as he said, for many days
to come the pleasures and wonders of those happy evenings were subjects
of comment in every house.
The bishop had brought with him from York Factory a very promising youth,
Isaiah Squirrel by name, whom he hoped to train under his own eye for the
Christian ministry. He was now at Moose, ‘learning all sorts of things,
and showing himself very teachable.’
At the beginning of the year 1891 the bishop announced with thankful joy,
‘I have now ready for the press the Pentateuch, Isaiah, Jeremiah, the
Lamentations, Ezekiel, and Daniel; the Psalms and New Testament have been
in print some years. The whole Bible will, I trust, form the crown of my
missionary life. I take the deepest delight in this translation work,
which has always engaged very much of my time and attention.’
May was cold and damp this year; snow and ice abounded, and the ground
was still almost bare of pasture. Flocks of snowbirds were about, which
were pursued by the boys with bows and arrows, and a few American robins
sang among the leafless trees; but the geese, like everything else,
failed. Day after day the Indian went forth to his goose-stand in the
marsh, arranged his decoys, loaded his guns, and sat and called, hoping
that a flight of geese would be enticed by the friendly voice to come and
visit his flock of dummies. But no geese came, and the hunter returned
each evening disconsolate and supperless to his tent. When the kettle on
the fire is well filled with _mechim_ (food), there is joy in the camp,
and the Indian does not heed the weather—storm rain, and snow are to him
of no account; but with wife and children hungering around him things are
sad indeed; and thus they were in the month of May.
The summer proved a sickly one in all the district. In June the bishop
went to Rupert’s House, and whilst working there from morning till
night amongst the great body of Indians congregated for the season, the
influenza broke out, and he became at once doctor and nurse, until he was
himself attacked. He was for some time very unwell, and his voice went.
Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt had left to go home by the annual ship, Mr. Nevitt’s
health having failed, and Mr. Richards was at Moose, so he could not, and
would not, give in, except for a day or two. Happily, he was in the house
of his dear daughter Chrissie, where every possible attention was given
him. ‘The voice returned, but strength was slow in coming.’ Then his much
loved little granddaughter was attacked very severely, and it was a sore
trial to have to leave her, still hovering between life and death, when
he was obliged to return to Moose. A long time elapsed before he could
hear from Rupert’s House. Then at last came a little letter from the
child herself to tell of her recovery.
In August, 1891, an event happened which was destined to be of very great
importance to the diocese of Moosonee. This was the arrival at Fort Moose
of the Rev. J. A. Newnham. The bishop had met and conversed with Mr.
Newnham on his visit to Montreal in the previous year, and finding how
his heart was yearning for the mission cause in Moosonee, he had invited
him to join him there.
‘I was charmed,’ wrote Mr. Newnham, ‘with my first acquaintance with
Moose. My room in the bishop’s house looks over a small encampment of
about forty tents and sixty dogs. Just now is the busy season; the hay is
being carried, and the ship unloaded, but quite a congregation gathers
every evening at 6·30 for a short service. I attended it my first evening
on shore, and was much struck with the hearty responses, and the clear
and true singing of our well-known hymn tunes.’
After the service Mr. Newnham was introduced to the Indians, who greeted
him with ‘What cheer?’ their form of ‘How do you do?’ As he sat in his
study later, he could see them constantly coming to the house. The bishop
never locked his door; even in the night it was left unfastened, and
anyone might come to him at any hour for assistance or advice.
The bishop spent nearly the whole of this year at Moose, devoting all his
leisure to the translation of the Cree Bible. He hoped to have the whole
of the Old Testament ready for the press by midsummer 1892. The revision
of the New Testament, which had been printed many years before, would
occupy him, he said, during the following winter. Again he wrote, ‘and
this will be the crowning work of my life, which will give spiritual
food to my people for generations after my decease.’ In less than a year
after these words were penned, the earnest worker and writer lay in his
grave, his work on earth done.
Towards the close of the year 1891, Archdeacon Vincent lost his wife,
who had long been in a declining state. He brought her to Moose for
burial. On December 20 the bishop preached the funeral sermon from the
words, ‘It is well.’ These had been almost her last words before her
death. Returning with the archdeacon to Albany, Bishop Horden there spent
Christmas and New Year’s Day. It was his last winter trip to Albany.
‘The last,’ he wrote, ‘that I shall in all probability ever undertake.
My first winter trip to Albany took place long, long ago, forty years
ago this very month! I was then young and active, and thought nothing a
hardship; I could sleep in the open, bivouac with the cold bright sky
overhead, with the thermometer 40° below zero. I had no back, nor legs,
nor shoulders; at least I had them as well as now, and much better; I
merely did not know of their existence from any pain or inconvenience
they caused me. But forty years make a difference. I know now that I have
several members of my body, and these tell me in the most unmistakable
manner that there must be no more getting over the rough snow and ice,
and that the discomforts of a cold smoky tent must be no longer endured,
unless there be absolute necessity. They tell me that, for the future,
winter travelling must not be indulged in. And we must bow to the
inevitable; we cannot be always young; the halting step and the grey head
will come, and why should we dread their approach, when we know that “if
the earthly house of our tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building from
God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens”?
‘I am not, however, writing a sermon. I was about to speak of my last
winter journey to Albany. I wished to go there, because there was very
little hope of my going next summer. At seven o’clock on the morning
of December 21, I was sitting in my sledge, and ten beautiful dogs in
excellent condition were being harnessed thereto, each having its own
single trace, by which it was attached to the sledge. The archdeacon
occupied a second sledge. When all were harnessed, there was a great
howling, and jumping, and tugging, for the dogs were anxious to be off,
but the sledge was too firmly moored for their united strength until
all was ready; then the binding rope was cast off, howling ceased in
a moment, each dog hauled with all his might, and we were away at the
rate of ten miles an hour. The fine tails of the dogs were curled up
over their backs, they were overjoyed to be once more on the road. The
great pace was not long kept up, but settled into between five and six
miles an hour, and so it continued throughout the day. To the music of
our dog-bells we rushed down the river, soon losing sight of Moose, on
past Middleborough Island, through Hay Creek, and then over a rough
uncomfortable sort of plain at North Bluff, where stands the great beacon
erected to attract the attention of our annual ship, and to tell her
that she is nearing the place of her destination.
‘Near the beacon we brought up for awhile, to give the dogs a rest. We
had accomplished half of our day’s work, and had come about eighteen
miles. We are soon off again; the air is very comfortable, and all our
sensations are pleasurable as we run across North Bay, past Jarvis Bluff
and Little Piskwamisk on to Piskwamisk, where our first “hotel” is
situated—a small circular erection, gradually getting smaller towards
the top, where a number of poles meet together; the whole is covered
with snow, the doorway is blocked up with snow—as comfortless looking
a place as can well be imagined. This is our hotel, and we at once set
about making it as habitable as we can. The snow is dug away from the
entrance with our snow-shoes, as well as from the sides, that there may
be no dripping from its melting as the evening advances. Wood is carried
in and a fire lit, and when a good beef-steak has been fried and a strong
cup of tea made and partaken of, we almost fall in love with our smoky
hotel, and at any rate think it far preferable to the open bivouac in the
heaven-covered forest.
‘On the second day the weather was very warm, and much rain fell in the
early part, but we continued on our way, having but twenty-five miles to
travel, which brought us to our second hotel at Keshepinakok.
‘On the third day we had forty miles of travel. The weather was colder
and our dogs trotted on without much fatigue. About four o’clock in
the afternoon we saw the settlement in the distance, and then the dogs,
knowing that they were nearly home, put on extra speed, and we were soon
in front of the factory. A steep bank had to be ascended, but there was
no difficulty, for a number of men and boys ran down and gave their ready
help, and I was soon in the middle of a large yard, receiving the warm
welcome of all who had congregated there. One day at Albany, and then
came Christmas Day, when I preached two sermons, one in English, the
other in Indian; afterwards I had the examination of the candidates for
confirmation belonging to the two congregations, Indian and English, with
whom I was very well pleased; and the examination of the scholars in the
school, who quite satisfied me, and I visited all the families in their
respective houses. I also gave a feast to the Indians and another to the
school children, and inspected some beautiful fox-skins. Quite a number
of the silver fox came in during my visit. They are black, but the tips
are white. They are too heavy for English wear, but are exported mostly
to China. The late King George the Fourth had new coronation robes made
for him, which were lined with the choicest parts of the silver fox
skins, and for each skin forty guineas were paid; rather expensive robes,
I should think.
‘I found time to correct the proofs of two of my Indian books, which are
printing in England. The days were well filled up and fled swiftly, and
it seemed but a short time before I was compelled to say good-bye to
Albany, and on the third day after we once more ran up Moose River, and
received the congratulations of all my people, who had lined the banks to
see me as I passed.’
The end of February, 1892, came before the ‘packet’ of that year arrived.
All hope of its coming had died away, and many who had travelled hundreds
of miles to meet it had been forced to travel back again without getting
a letter to tell of those far away, or even a paper. ‘Cruel, cruel!’
said the sympathising bishop, and yet he was sometimes inclined to
feel grateful for the very absence of news himself. ‘Our outer door is
opened,’ he wrote, ‘but twice or three times a year, and then we have a
deluge of papers and a great number of letters, and we find the deluge
almost as bad as the previous dearth.’
Moose was enjoying a mild winter, and food was plentiful, rabbits never
more abundant, of pheasants there was no scarcity, and there was no
sickness; the Moose doctor was enjoying quite a sinecure. Far otherwise
was it with Rupert’s House. The weather there also had been very mild,
but rain had fallen in torrents, and the swamps around were giving
forth miasma, which brought disease and death to the little settlement.
Influenza and dysentery attacked almost every individual.
When the Rupert’s House dogs brought the budget for the ‘packet,’ the
bishop’s share of news was a sad and gloomy one. Mr. Broughton wrote that
the Indians were dying out from disease, and his own little daughter had
again been attacked with influenza. Saddest tidings of all, four children
had been frozen to death, almost close to the station. The father of
those children was Weyawastum; he had died, as did also his wife, some
years ago. The grandmother and her husband took the children under their
care, she being a kind old body, and speaking very good English. They
were spending the winter at Pontax Creek, about seven miles distant from
the station, coming in occasionally for provisions, which were never
denied them. At New Year the husband, named Huskey, came in to spend a
few days at the place, and was there attacked by the prevailing disease,
so severely as to be unable to return home. His wife and the children
remained at Pontax Creek, no one feeling the least anxiety about them.
They had a good tent and a sufficiency of provisions, and should those be
consumed more would be given them. But one morning, someone walking down
the river during a terribly cold spell of weather came upon a child lying
dead, and hard frozen, only a mile from the establishment. And still
farther on lay another, and yet another, and still another was found in
the same condition. The tent was entered, but it was cold and silent, and
there lay the dead body of kind old Betsy, the faithful grandmother. All
were taken to Rupert’s House, and buried in one grave. It must have been
a terribly solemn event in that little settlement—five coffins entering
the church in procession, four young lives passing away in such a manner.
The full particulars will never be known, but it is supposed that while
the grandmother was with the children in the tent she was suddenly taken
ill, or being ill had become delirious, and the children being afraid,
or wishing to obtain help for the old woman, had set off to get to the
settlement, but the cold was too severe for them, and so all had perished.
If the winter at Moose had been late in coming, and mild when it came, it
lasted long into the year 1892. On May 6 the bishop wrote:—
‘Day succeeds day, and there is the same cold biting air, the same dark
leaden sky and heavy snowflakes, which have lately again and again
thrown us back into apparent midwinter. I should be glad to write more
cheerfully, but I must write what I see and know, and not give a picture
from the imagination; what I write must be truth, and not romance. You
can’t conceive how anxiously we are longing for spring; to see our noble
river rushing by, carrying on its bosom the laden boat, the beautiful
canoe, the majestic vessel. But it is still blocked up, heavily fettered
with its icy chains. The surface is still white, and an oppressive
silence hangs over it; the fluttering haze has not yet appeared into
which the mighty magician of long ago changed himself, appearing yearly
in the spring, just before the breaking-up of the river, that he may meet
his beautiful sister, the lovely American robin. She has already come,
and it was with joy which can be felt, but not described, that I heard
her singing her sweet song this morning, as if she would thus hasten
the steps of her loitering brother, and bring him to cheer both her
own heart and the hearts of all others who are anxiously awaiting his
arrival. Whilst you enjoy sweet May weather, feel deeply thankful for
it, and think of those in this wild lone land who are fighting the great
Christian battle as your substitutes; pray for them, that their spirits
droop not on account of the hardness of their surroundings, and show
your sympathy practically by making greater and yet greater exertions in
supporting the missionary cause.
‘Now, looking out of my window, what can I see? Besides the cathedral
and adjacent houses, I see the frozen surface of the river, dotted here
and there with goose-stands, for this is the time for geese, and each
goose-stand should be supplied with one or two smart hunters, whose
decoy geese and their perfect imitation of the goose’s call generally
succeed in alluring the silly birds to their destruction. But the stands
are unoccupied, the decoy geese are lying in heaps, the weather is so
unpropitious that no birds are flying. They are delaying their journey to
the sea coast, and are feeding in the plains in the interior; and when
they come they will make but a short stay, and hurry forward to where
they lay their eggs and bring up their families.
‘But something exquisitely beautiful seems to enjoy the dreary
waste—flocks of the snow bunting are constantly flitting by, alighting on
the garden, the plain, and the dust heaps. When they first came they were
white, but now they have begun to assume their summer garb, and clothe
themselves in russet brown. They are not allowed to feed in peace.
The fierce hawk hovers about, and occasionally swoops down and makes a
capture; big boys and men are out with their guns, small boys are out
with their bows and arrows, girls are out with their bird nets—all intent
on business, for food is scarce, and those pretty birds are plump and
fat, and said to be very good eating. And this is really all I can see
from my window, except the dark distant pines, which fill up but do not
enliven the landscape.
‘You must not think that because I have such surroundings I am therefore
dull and melancholy; such is by no means the case. God has blessed me
with a sanguine temperament, and a great capacity for love of work, and
this being the case, hope for better days and their speedy appearance
causes me to look, in dark days, more to the future than the present; it
gives no time for repining, or, as the people here say, thinking long.
‘Well, thank God! I have written the last word of my Cree translation of
the Bible. I had hoped to get it done by the time the river broke up,
that I might then put my work aside for another winter, and devote myself
to the Indians who will be coming in from the far interior; that I might
take my long journeys to those distant centres of the mission whence
the Indians cannot come; that Cree and Ojibbeway and Eskimo might again
hear from my lips of the wondrous love of God in the gift to the world
of His well-beloved Son; and my hope has been realised. The last word of
the New Testament was written many years ago, but all will probably be
re-written; all will at any rate be revised, if God permit, next winter,
so as to bring it into accord with the Revised Version. It is, I think,
a very good translation of the Authorised Version, and I could make but
little improvement in it. My first work next winter will be to go through
very carefully, with my most valued assistant from Rupert’s House, all I
have written this winter. Every word will be examined, and wherever an
improvement can be made it will be made; and then the New Testament will
come under review, and then I trust one of the principal works of my life
will be accomplished, my most cherished hope realised—my people will have
the Word of God in a form they can thoroughly understand.’
In June, 1892, the bishop visited Rupert’s House, and, still full of
energy and indefatigable in his work, had scarcely returned when he
prepared to start off on a much longer trip to Whale River and Fort
George.
On the eve of setting off he wrote, alluding to the arrival of a ‘packet’
with letters and papers:
‘Just think of seven months of reviews and missionary publications, as
well as other periodicals, coming at one time, and that the busiest time
of the year, when every minute must be utilised for work. The consequence
is that many papers are never opened at all. It is sometimes a question
with me as to whether this is a gain or a loss; it certainly keeps my
mind fixed on my work, of which there is always a great deal more to
be done than can be well got through. You good people at home cannot at
all realise our position; we are in another world, and you have the same
difficulty in endeavouring to realise it as you would have in realising
the condition of life in the planet Mars.
‘On Saturday last I returned from Rupert’s House, having with me my
daughter, Mrs. Broughton, her husband, and family. They will now live at
Moose, Mr. Broughton having been appointed to the charge of the whole
southern department. At present they are staying with me, but next week
they go to the Factory, five minutes’ walk from my house, which will
then be vacated by its present occupants, who are returning to Canada.
To-morrow I set off for Fort George and Whale River, Mr. Peck’s district.
I shall be absent about a month, and trust that in that time I may be
able to do much for the Master. We are passing through the hottest summer
known here for many years; the heat is sometimes almost unbearable, while
the mosquitoes are most venomous and annoying. Our gardens look well so
far, and we hope to have good crops by-and-by.’
In August the bishop was back at Moose Fort. ‘I am once more in the old
house,’ he writes, ‘home from my long summer journeyings, and I don’t
think I shall leave it again this year, but employ myself in my usual
educational and translation duties. I first went to Whale River, which
receives its name from the large number of porpoises found there: there
was formerly a great trade in the oil produced from them as well as in
their skins. I started from Moose in the Mink schooner on July 15. We had
foul winds, and the cold became severe, and many icebergs were about,
which occasionally gave our vessel some heavy blows. Then we passed the
Twins, two large islands of equal size, on which grows neither tree nor
shrub; then we caught sight of Cape Jones, which divides James’ Bay from
Hudson’s Bay, and Bear Island, a large, high rock of most forbidding
aspect; and then we ran along Long Island, which has a very bad repute
as the centre of the abode of storms, and as we pass it the great tors
on the mainland rise one after the other in their majesty of desolation;
and there is more ice, and more islands, and an abundance of fog, hiding
everything from view. And here, at last, is the south point of the
river, and presently we come to anchor, for the wind will not allow us
to proceed up to the Hudson’s Bay Company’s establishment; but a canoe
is soon alongside, and in that I am taken ashore, and am presently among
those who have been eagerly looking for me, and who receive me with a
warm welcome. There is much work to do, and I am alone.
‘Our first service on Sunday commences at half-past six in the morning:
all the Indians at the place are present, and all seem to enjoy it; some
among the congregation I have not seen for years. They had wandered
off to Ungava, many hundreds of miles distant, and had long remained
there; they now say that they intend to make Whale River their permanent
trading post. We take breakfast, and then for our Eskimo service. You
see before you a goodly number of clean, intelligent-looking people,
short and stout; you see that they have books in their hands, and notice
that they readily find out the places required; they sing very nicely,
having greatly improved since my last visit to them. Thank God for the
blessing He has vouchsafed to the missionaries’ labour. And now we attend
the English service. One young person is confirmed, and three partake
of the Lord’s Supper. After this we have dinner; this finished, it will
soon be time for our second Indian service, so let us walk quietly to
the house we use as a church. It is already crowded with young and old;
all sing the sweet Indian hymns, and use the Church prayers in their
Indian dress. I baptize twelve children and perform four marriages. The
Indians retire, and soon the interesting Eskimo flock in and take their
places; two people are confirmed, and four partake of the sacrament. We
are all a little tired now, the more so from the atmosphere being very
close in the church; so we go up to the top of the extensive plain on
which are pitched the Indian and Eskimo tents, and take a brisk walk
among the heather, which gives us an appetite for tea. On the table is
tea, preserved milk, sugar, bread, and marrow fat. Our last service is
afterwards held; the old familiar English one. We have had a busy day,
and yet not quite so busy as it would have been at Churchill, on the
western side of the bay, where, in addition to the three languages spoken
here, we should have had the Chipwyan. We have a little conversation and
then go to bed, for we must be early astir tomorrow morning.
‘Yes, in the morning there was a great stir: all hands were up at four
o’clock, loading the schooner, which had taken everything in by six
o’clock, when I held my last service, the last in all probability I shall
ever hold at Whale River. I then had breakfast, after which, having said
good-bye to and shaken hands with every one—English, half-caste, Indian
and Eskimo—I hastened on board. The anchor was at once raised, and we
began to descend the river amidst volley after volley of musketry, the
Indians wishing to testify their appreciation of what had been attempted
for their good.
‘After we had left the river we bent our way southward, and went as fast
as the baffling winds would allow us. We had the high rocky coast on our
left, on which side lay Long Island; then we passed Bear Island and Cape
Jones, and Lucker Creek and Wastekan Island, the highest land between
Cape Jones and Fort George, and Governor’s Island, and Horse Island, and
others, and so came to the mouth of Fort George River. We were seen at
the fort, when instantly the flag was run up. On and on we went until we
arrived opposite the landing-place, when the anchor was dropped and a
boat took me ashore. I was directly in the midst of old and warm friends,
who gave me the heartiest of welcomes.
‘I was eight days at Fort George, and they were all busy ones. I kept
school twice a day, devoting the mornings to the Indian children and the
afternoons to those speaking English. I held likewise two services each
day, one in each language, and for the few days that some Eskimo were
at the place, one for them as well. The principal Eskimo here is called
Nero, and he is really a fine fellow, about the size of a big English
boy, although I think the English boy would have but little chance with
him in a wrestling match. I got him to assist me in one of the services,
and what he did he did well.
‘The Indians are all busy haymaking. They go up the river some distance,
and there find abundance of grass, and bring it down in boats, spreading
it on a large field, where they make it into hay. There are stables
for the cattle, but there are no horses. There are four or five houses
for the workpeople, and on a large plain are some Indian tents—and the
gardens are looking well—the potatoes and turnips look as if good crops
would be secured, a matter for congratulation, as this is by no means
always the case. Day follows day, and the last arrived, when I gave a
treat to all the children.
‘Our farewell service is held, and it is a very solemn one, for every
one at Fort George is very dear to me. I wish all and everyone good-bye,
for I start early on the morrow; but early as it is, everyone is on the
river’s bank to see me as I step into a large canoe, which is to take me
seven miles to the Mink, lying in Stromness harbour. Several farewell
volleys are fired, and I am speedily out of sight of my hospitable
friends and on my way to the old house at Moose.’
To the bishop’s great joy and thankfulness a young missionary, Mr.
Walton, arrived by the ship in the autumn of 1892. He was destined for
the distant post of Ungava. The bishop was much pleased with him, and,
after due examination, ordained him, and sent him on to Fort George to
fill meanwhile the place of Mr. Peck, who was by doctor’s advice to take
his wife and children to England by the ship homeward bound.
Mr. Peck would, the bishop hoped, return in the following May, to proceed
to Ungava with the Rev. W. Walton.
The journey to Ungava is toilsome and very difficult. Mr. Peck had
visited the post in 1885, having been driven back three times before he
succeeded in crossing the Labrador peninsula, eight hundred miles. He
was repaid at length by meeting with many Eskimo anxious for the message
of salvation. The thought of the pressing need for a missionary to this
far-off spot had ever since lain ‘heavy on the heart of the bishop.’ He
said, ‘If we go to the North Pole, we shall be still in the diocese of
Moosonee.’ The ice-bound regions visited by Sir John Franklin, Admiral
McClintock, Captain Parry, and other Arctic explorers, are nearly all in
this diocese.
The bishop worked on, assisted by the Rev. J. A. Newnham, who had
returned from a visit to Montreal, bringing with him a wife, who took
the deepest interest in the women and girls, and proved a great addition
to the mission party. The native pastor, the Rev. E. Richards, was also
staying at Moose at this time, especially to help in the revision of the
Bible translations.