Turn we once again to the great wilderness, and if we do so with half
the zest felt by Big Otter when he set forth on his journey, we will
certainly enjoy the trip, you and I, whoever you be.
But we must take the journey at a bound.
It is Christmas-time once more. Lake Wichikagan has put on its top-coat
of the purest Carrara marble. The roof of the little fort once again
resembles a French cake overloaded with creamy sugar. The pines are
black by contrast. The willows are smothered, all save the tops where
the snow-flakey ptarmigan find food and shelter. Smoke rises from the
various chimneys, showing that the dwellers in that remote outpost are
enjoying themselves as of old. The volumes of smoke also suggest
Christmas puddings.
Let us look in upon our old friends. In the men's house great
preparation for something or other is going on, for each man is doing
his best with soap, water, razor, brush, and garments, to make himself
spruce. Salamander is there, before a circular looking-glass three
inches in diameter in the lid of a soap-box, making a complicated mess
of a neck-tie in futile attempts to produce the sailor's knot. Blondin
is there, before a similar glass, carefully scraping the bristles round
a frostbite on his chin with a blunt razor. Henri Coppet, having
already dressed, is smoking his pipe and quizzing Marcelle Dumont--who
is also shaving--one of his chief jokes being an offer to give Dumont's
razor a turn on the grindstone. Donald Bane is stooping over a tin
basin on a chair, with his hair and face soap-sudded and his eyes tight
shut, which fact being observed by his friend Dougall, induces that
worthy to cry,--"Tonal', man--look here. Did iver man or wuman see the
likes o' _that_!"
The invitation is so irresistible to Donald that he half involuntarily
exclaims, "Wow, man, Shames--what is't?" and opens his eyes to find that
Shames is laughing at him, and that soap does not improve sight. The
old chief, Muskrat, is also there, having been invited along with Masqua
and his son Mozwa, with their respective squaws, to the great event that
is pending, and, to judge from the intense gravity--not to say owlish
solemnity--of these redskins, they are much edified by the proceedings
of the men.
In the hall preparations are also being carried on for something of some
sort. Macnab is there, with his coat off, mounted on a chair, which he
had previously set upon a rickety table, hammering away at a festoon of
pine-branches with which one end of the room is being decorated.
Spooner is also there, weaving boughs into rude garlands of gigantic
size. The dark-haired pale-face, Jessie, is there too, helping
Spooner--who might almost be called Spooney, he looks so imbecile and
sweet. Jack Lumley is likewise there. He is calm, collected, suave, as
usual, and is aiding Macnab.
It was a doubly auspicious day, for it was not only Christmas, but, a
wedding-day.
"It seems like a dream," cried Macnab, stopping his noisy hammer in
order to look round and comment with his noisy voice, "to think, Jessie,
that you should refuse at least a dozen sturdy Highlanders north o' the
Grampians, and come out to the backwoods at last to marry an
Englishman."
"I wish you would attend to what you are doing, brother," said Jessie,
blushing very much.
"She might have done worse," remarked Spooner, who happened to be an
Englishman.
Lumley said nothing, but a pleased smile flickered for a minute on his
lips, while Macnab resumed his hammering with redoubled zest to a
chuckling accompaniment.
"It would be nothing," he resumed, turning round again and lowering his
hammer, "if you hadn't always protested that you would _never_ marry,
but--oh, Jessie, I wonder at a girl who has always been so firm in
sticking to her resolves, turning out so fickle. I really never thought
that the family of Macnab could be brought so low through one of its
female members."
"I know one of its male members," said Lumley, in a warning voice, "who
will be brought still lower if he keeps dancing about so on that
rickety--there--I told you so!"
As he spoke, Peter Macnab missed his footing and came down on the table
with a crash so tremendous that the crazy article of furniture became
something like what Easterns style a split-camel--its feeble legs spread
outwards, and its body came flat to the ground.
Sprawling for a moment Macnab rose dishevelled from a mass of
pine-branches and looked surprised.
"Not hurt, I hope," said Lumley, laughing, while Jessie looked anxious
for a moment.
"I--I think not. No--evidently not. Yes, Jessie, my dear, you may
regard this as a sort of practical illustration of the value of
submission. If that table had resisted me I had been hurt, probably.
Giving way as it did--I'm all right."
"Your illustration is not a happy one," said Lumley, "for your own
safety was purchased at the cost of the table. If you had taken the
lesson home, and said that `pride goes before a fall,' it would have
been more to the purpose."
"Perhaps so," returned Macnab, assisting to clear away the split table:
"my pride is at its lowest ebb now, anyhow, for not only does Jessie
Macnab become Mrs Lumley within an hour, but I am constrained to
perform the marriage ceremony myself, as well as give her away."
The Highlander here referred to the fact that, for the convenience of
those numerous individuals whose lives were spent in the Great
Nor'-west, far removed at that time from clergymen, churches, and other
civilised institutions, the commissioned gentlemen in the service of the
Hudson's Bay Company were legally empowered to perform the marriage
ceremony.
Of course Jessie regretted much the impossibility of procuring a
minister of any denomination to officiate in that remote corner of the
earth, and had pleaded for delay in order that they might go home and
get married there; but Lumley pointed out firstly, that there was not
the remotest chance of his obtaining leave of absence for years to come;
secondly, that the marriage tie, as tied by her brothers would be as
legally binding as if managed by an Archbishop of Canterbury or a
moderator of the Scottish General Assembly; and thirdly, that as he was
filled with as deep a reverence for the Church as herself, he would have
the rite re-performed, ("_ceremonially_, observe, Jessie, not _really_,
for that will be done to-day,") on the first possible opportunity.
If Jessie had been hard to convince, Lumley would not have ended that
little discourse with "thirdly." As it was, Jessie gave in, and the
marriage was celebrated in the decorated hall, with voyageurs, and
hunters, and fur-traders as witnesses. Macnab proved himself a worthy
minister, for he read the marriage-service from the Church of England
prayer-book with an earnest and slightly tremulous tone which betrayed
the emotion of his heart. And if ever a true prayer, by churchman or
layman, mounted to the Throne, that prayer was the fervent, "God bless
you, Jessie!" to which the Highlander gave vent, as he pressed the bride
to his heart when the ceremony was over.
There were some peculiarities about this wedding in the wilderness which
call for special notice. In the first place, the wedding-feast, though
held shortly after mid-day, was regarded as a dinner--not as a
breakfast. It was rather more real, too, than civilised feasts of the
kind. Those who sat down to it were hungry. They meant feeding, as was
remarked by Salamander when more "venison steaks" were called for. Then
there was no champagne or strong drink of any kind. Teetotalism--with
or without principle--was the order of the day, but they had gallons of
tea, and they consumed them, too; and these stalwart Nor'westers
afterwards became as uproarious on that inspiring beverage as if they
had all been drunk. There was this peculiarity, however, in their
uproar, that it was reasonable, hearty, good-humoured; did not
degenerate into shameful imbecility, or shameless impropriety, nor did
it end in stupid incapacity. It subsided gradually into pleasant
exhaustion, and terminated in profound refreshing slumber.
Before that point was reached, however, much had to be done. Games had
to be undertaken as long as the daylight lasted--chief among which were
tobogganing down the snow-slope, and football on the ice. Then, after
dark, the Hall was lighted up with an extra supply of candles round the
room--though the powerful blaze of the mighty wood fire in the open
chimney rendered these almost unnecessary, and another feast was
instituted under the name of supper, though it commenced at the early
hour of six o'clock.
At this feast there was some speechifying--partly humorous and partly
touching--and it remains a disputed point to this day whether the
touching was more humorous or the humorous more touching. I therefore
refrain from perplexing the reader with the speeches in detail. Only
part of one speech will I refer to, as it may be said to have had a sort
of prophetic bearing on our tale. It fell from the lips of Lumley.
"My friends," he said, with that grave yet pleasant urbanity which I
have before said was so natural to him, "there is only one regret which
I will venture to express on this happy day, and it is this, that some
of those who were wont to enliven us with their presence at Fort
Wichikagan, are not with us to-night. I really do not think there would
be a single element wanting in the joy which it has pleased a loving God
to send me, if I could only have had my dear young friend, George Maxby,
to be my best man--"
He had to pause a few moments at this point, because of noisy
demonstrations of assent.
"And I am quite sure," he continued, "that it would have afforded as
much satisfaction to you as it would to my dear wife and me, if we could
only have had our sedate friend, Big Otter--"
Again he had to pause, for the shouting with which this name was
received not only made the rafters ring, but caused the very candles on
the walls to wink.
"If we could only have had Big Otter," repeated Lumley, "to dance at our
wedding. But it is of no use to sigh after the impossible. The days of
miracles are over, and--"
As he spoke the hall door slowly opened, and a sight appeared which not
only bereft the speaker of speech, but for a few minutes absolutely
petrified all the rest of the company. It was the face and figure of a
man--tall, gaunt and worn.
Now, good reader, as Lumley said (without very good authority!) the days
of miracles are over, yet I venture to think that many events in this
life do so much resemble miracles that we could not distinguish them
from such unless the keys to their solution were given to us.
I give you the key to the supposed miracle now in hand, by asking you to
accompany me deep into the wild-woods, and backward in time to about an
hour before noon of the day preceding Christmas. It is a tangled shady
spot to which I draw attention, the snow-floor of which is over-arched
by dark pine-branches and surrounded by walls of willows and other
shrubs. There is a somewhat open circular space in the centre of the
spot, into which an Indian on snow-shoes strode at the hour mentioned.
Even his most intimate friends might have failed at a first glance to
recognise Big Otter, for he was at the time very near the close of a
long, hard, wearisome journey, during the course of which he had
experienced both danger and privation. Latterly he had conceived an
idea, which he had striven with all his powers--and they were not
small--to carry out. It was neither more nor less than to arrive in
time to spend Christmas Day with his friends at Fort Wichikagan.
But to accomplish this feat, commencing at the time he conceived it,
required that the Indian should travel without fail upwards of forty
miles every day. This, on snow-shoes, could only be done by a very
Hercules, and that only for a few days at a stretch. Big Otter knew his
powers of endurance, and had carried out his resolve nearly to
completion, when a storm arose so fierce, with temperature so bitterly
cold, that he could not force against it, and thus lost the greater part
of a day. Still, the thing was not impossible, and, as the difficulties
multiplied, our Indian's resolve to conquer increased.
In this state of mind, and much worn and fagged in body, with soiled and
rent garments that told of weeks upon weeks of toil, he entered the
circle, or open space before referred to, and, coming to a stand, rested
the butt of his gun on one of his snowshoes, heaved a deep sigh, and
looked round, as if undecided how to act.
But Big Otter's periods of indecision never lasted long. Being
naturally of a sociable turn of mind he partially revealed his mental
condition by low mutterings which I take leave to translate.
"Yes, I can do it. The pale-faces are pleasant men; pleasanter at
Christmas-time than at other times. They love song, and Big Otter loves
to hear song, though he does not love to do it. Men do not love to try
what they cannot do. The pale-faces have much food, too, on Christmas
Day, and much good-will. Big Otter loves both the good-will and the
food, especially that round thing they are so fond of--plum-puddinn they
call it. They dance much also. Dancing gives not much joy, though Big
Otter can do some of it--but plum-puddinn is glorious! Waugh! I will
do it!"
Having communed with himself thus far, the Indian leaned his gun against
a tree, flung down his provision-bag, took off his snow-shoes, cleared
away the snow, kindled a fire, spread his bed of pine-brush and his
blanket above it--and, in short went through the usual process of
encamping. It was early in the day to encamp, but there was only one
way in which our Indian could hope to partake of the plum-puddinn, and
that was to walk a little over fifty miles at one stretch. That
distance still lay between him and Fort Wichikagan, and it had to be
traversed within fourteen and fifteen hours--including rests and food.
To prepare himself for the feat Big Otter drew from his wallet an
enormous mass of venison which he roasted and consumed. Then he filled
a small portable kettle with snow, which, with the aid of a fierce fire,
he soon converted into tea. You see our Indian was becoming civilised
by intercourse with pale-faces, and rather luxurious, for he carried tea
and sugar on this journey. He did not deem butter a necessity, but
could afford to dispense with that, because of having the remains of a
rogan, or birch basket, of bear's grease (unscented, of course!) which
he had reserved at the end of his fall hunt.
The meal, or rather the gorging, over, Big Otter rolled himself head and
feet in a blanket, pillowed his head on the provision-wallet, and
suddenly went to sleep.
Hour after hour passed, but not the slightest motion was perceptible in
that recumbent figure save the slow regular rise and fall of the deep
chest. The short-lived sun of winter soon passed its zenith and began
to decline towards its early couch in the west, but still the sleeper
lay motionless like a log. At last the shades of early evening began to
fall, and then Big Otter awoke. He rose at once, stretched himself with
a sort of awful energy, rolled up his blanket, put on his snow-shoes,
caught up wallet and gun, and set off on his journey.
To see a strong man stride over the land on snowshoes is a grand sight
at any time, but to see Big Otter do it on this occasion would have been
worth a long journey. With his huge and weighty frame and his mighty
stride he made nothing of small obstacles, and was but little affected
by things that might have retarded ordinary mortals. Small bushes went
down before him like grass, larger ones he turned aside, and thick ones
he went crashing through like an African elephant through jungle, while
the fine frosted snow went flying from his snow-shoes right and left.
There was no hesitancy or wavering as to direction or pace. The land he
was acquainted with, every inch. Reserve force, he knew, lay stored in
every muscle, and he was prepared to draw it all out when fatigue should
tell him that revenue was expended and only capital remained.
As the sun went down the moon rose up. He had counted on this and on
the fact that the land was comparatively open. Yet it was not
monotonous. Now he was crossing a stretch of prairie at top speed, anon
driving through a patch of woodland. Here he went striding over the
surface of a frozen river, or breasting the slope of a small hill. As
the night wore on he tightened his belt but did not halt to do so. Once
or twice he came to a good-sized lake where all impediments vanished.
Off went the snowshoes and away he went over the marble surface at a
slow trot--slow in appearance, though in reality quicker than the
fastest walk.
Then the moon went down and the grey light of morning--Christmas
morning--dawned. Still the red-man held on his way unchanged--
apparently unchangeable. When the sun was high, he stopped suddenly
beside a fallen tree, cleared the snow off it, and sat down to eat. He
did not sit long, and the breakfast was a cold one.
In a few minutes the journey was resumed. The Indian was drawing
largely on his capital now, but, looking at him, you could not have told
it. By a little after six o'clock that evening the feat was
accomplished, and, as I have said, Big Otter presented himself at a
critical moment to the wonder-stricken eyes of the wedding guests.
"Did they make much of him?" you ask. I should think they did! "Did
they feed him?" Of course they did--stuffed him to repletion--set him
down before the massive ruins of the plum-puddinn, and would not let him
rise till the last morsel was gone! Moreover, when Big Otter discovered
that he had arrived at Fort Wichikagan, not only on Christmas Day, but
on Chief Lumley's wedding-day, his spirit was so rejoiced that his
strength came back again unimpaired, like Sampson's, and he danced that
night with the pale-faces, till the small hours of the morning, to the
strains of a pig-in-its-agonies fiddle, during which process he consumed
several buckets of hot tea. He went to rest at last on a buffalo robe
in a corner of the hall in a state of complete exhaustion and perfect
felicity.