Peter Mactavish becomes an amateur doctor; Charley promulgates his
views of tilings in general to Kate; and Kate waxes sagacious.
Shortly after the catastrophe just related, Charley opened his eyes to
consciousness, and aroused himself out of a prolonged fainting fit,
under the combined influence of a strong constitution and the medical
treatment of his friends.
Medical treatment in the wilds of North America, by the way, is very
original in its character, and is founded on principles so vague that
no one has ever been found capable of stating them clearly. Owing to
the stubborn fact that there are no doctors in the country, men have
been thrown upon their own resources, and as a natural consequence
_every_ man is a doctor. True, there _are_ two, it may be three, real
doctors in the Hudson’s Bay Company’s employment; but as one of these
is resident on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, another in Oregon, and a
third in Red River Settlement, they are not considered available for
every case of emergency that may chance to occur in the hundreds of
little outposts, scattered far and wide over the whole continent of
North America, with miles and miles of primeval wilderness between
each. We do not think, therefore, that when we say there are _no_
doctors in the country, we use a culpable amount of exaggeration.
If a man gets ill, he goes on till he gets better; and if he doesn’t
get better, he dies. To avert such an undesirable consummation,
desperate and random efforts are made in an amateur way. The old
proverb that “extremes meet” is verified. And in a land where no
doctors are to be had for love or money, doctors meet you at every
turn, ready to practise on everything, with anything, and all for
nothing, on the shortest possible notice. As maybe supposed, the
practice is novel, and not unfrequently extremely wild. Tooth-drawing
is considered child’s play—mere blacksmith’s work; bleeding is a
general remedy for everything, when all else fails; castor-oil, Epsom
salts, and emetics are the three keynotes, the foundations, and the
copestones of the system.
In Red River there is only one _genuine_ doctor; and as the settlement
is fully sixty miles long, he has enough to do, and cannot always be
found when wanted, so that Charley had to rest content with amateur
treatment in the meantime. Peter Mactavish was the first to try his
powers. He was aware that laudanum had the effect of producing sleep,
and seeing that Charley looked somewhat sleepy after recovering
consciousness, he thought it advisable to help out that propensity to
slumber, and went to the medicine-chest, whence he extracted a small
phial of tincture of rhubarb, the half of which he emptied into a
wine-glass, under the impression that it was laudanum, and poured down
Charley’s throat! The poor boy swallowed a little, and sputtered the
remainder over the bedclothes. It may be remarked here that Mactavish
was a wild, happy, half-mad sort of fellow—wonderfully erudite in
regard to some things, and profoundly ignorant in regard to others.
Medicine, it need scarcely be added, was not his _forte_. Having
accomplished this feat to his satisfaction, he sat down to watch by the
bedside of his friend. Peter had taken this opportunity to indulge in a
little private practice just after several of the other gentlemen had
left the office, under the impression that Charley had better remain
quiet for a short time.
“Well, Peter,” whispered Mr. Kennedy, senior, putting his head in at
the door (it was Harry’s room in which Charley lay), “how is he now?”
“Oh! doing capitally,” replied Peter, in a hoarse whisper, at the same
time rising and entering the office, while he gently closed the door
behind him. “I gave him a small dose of physic, which I think has done
mm good. He’s sleeping like a top now.”
Mr. Kennedy frowned slightly, and made one or two remarks in reference
to physic which were not calculated to gratify the ears of a physician.
“What did you give him?” he inquired abruptly.
“Only a little laudanum.”
“_Only,_ indeed! it’s all trash together, and that’s the worst kind of
trash you could have given him. Humph!” and the old gentleman jerked
his shoulders testily.
“How much did yon give him?” said the senior clerk, who had entered the
apartment with Harry a few minutes before.
“Not quite a wineglassful,” replied Peter, somewhat subdued.
“A what!” cried the father, starting from his chair as if he had
received an electric shock, and rushing into the adjoining room, up and
down which he raved in a state of distraction, being utterly ignorant
of what should be done under the circumstances.
Poor Harry Somerville fell rather than leaped off his stool, and dashed
into the bedroom, where old Mr. Kennedy was occupied in alternately
heaping unutterable abuse on the head of Peter Mactavish, and imploring
him to advise what was best to be done. But Peter knew not. He could
only make one or two insane proposals to roll Charley about the floor,
and see if _that_ would do him any good; while Harry suggested in
desperation that he should be hung by the heels, and perhaps it would
run out!
Meanwhile the senior clerk seized his hat, with the intention of going
in search of Tom Whyte, and rushed out at the door; which he had no
sooner done than he found himself tightly embraced in the arms of that
worthy, who happened to be entering at the moment, and who, in
consequence of the sudden onset, was pinned up against the wall of the
porch.
“Oh, my buzzum!” exclaimed Tom, laying his hand on his breast; “you’ve
a’most bu’st me, sir. W’at’s wrong, sir?”
“Go for the doctor, Tom, quick! run like the wind. Take the freshest
horse; fly, Tom, Charley’s poisoned—laudanum; quick!”
“’Eavens an’ ’arth!” ejaculated the groom, wheeling round, and stalking
rapidly off to the stable like a pair of insane compasses, while the
senior clerk returned to the bedroom, where he found Mr. Kennedy still
raving, Peter Mactavish still aghast and deadly pale, and Harry
Somerville staring like a maniac at his young friend, as if he expected
every moment to see him explode, although, to all appearance, he was
sleeping soundly, and comfortably too, notwithstanding the noise that
was going on around him. Suddenly Harry’s eye rested on the label of
the half-empty phial, and he uttered a loud, prolonged cheer.
“It’s only tincture of—”
“Wild cats and furies!” cried Mr. Kennedy, turning sharply round and
seizing Harry by the collar, “why d’you kick up such a row, eh?”
“It’s only tincture of rhubarb,” repeated the boy, disengaging himself
and holding up the phial triumphantly.
“So it is, I declare,” exclaimed Mr. Kennedy, in a tone that indicated
intense relief of mind; while Peter Mactavish uttered a sigh so deep
that one might suppose a burden of innumerable tons weight had just
been removed from his breast.
Charley had been roused from his slumbers by this last ebullition; but
on being told what had caused it, he turned languidly round on his
pillow and went to sleep again, while his friends departed and left him
to repose.
Tom Whyte failed to find the doctor. The servant told him that her
master had been suddenly called to set a broken leg that morning for a
trapper who lived ten miles _down_ the river, and on his return had
found a man waiting with a horse and cariole, who carried him violently
away to see his wife, who had been taken suddenly ill at a house twenty
miles _up_ the river, and so she didn’t expect him back that night.
“An’ where has ’e been took to?” inquired Tom.
She couldn’t tell; she knew it was somewhere about the White-horse
Plains, but she didn’t know more than that.
“Did ’e not say w’en ’e’d be home?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Oh dear!” said Tom, rubbing his long nose in great perplexity. “It’s
an ’orrible case o’ sudden and onexpected pison.”
She was sorry for it, but couldn’t help that; and thereupon, bidding
him good-morning, shut the door.
Tom’s wits had come to that condition which just precedes “giving it
up” as hopeless, when it occurred to him that he was not far from old
Mr. Kennedy’s residence; so he stepped into the cariole again and drove
thither. On his arrival he threw poor Mrs. Kennedy and Kate into great
consternation by his exceedingly graphic, and more than slightly
exaggerated, account of what had brought him in search of the doctor.
At first Mrs. Kennedy resolved to go up to Fort Garry immediately, but
Kate persuaded her to remain at home, by pointing out that she could
herself go, and if anything very serious had occurred (which she didn’t
believe), Mr. Kennedy could come down for her immediately, while she
(Kate) could remain to nurse her brother.
In a few minutes Kate and Tom were seated side by side in the little
cariole, driving swiftly up the frozen river; and two hours later the
former was seated by her brother’s bedside, watching him as he slept
with a look of tender affection and solicitude.
Rousing himself from his slumbers, Charley looked vacantly round the
room.
“Have you slept well, darling?” inquired Kate, laying her hand lightly
on his forehead.
“Slept—eh! oh yes. I’ve slept. I say, Kate, what a precious bump I came
down on my head, to be sure!”
“Hush, Charley!” said Kate, perceiving that he was becoming energetic.
“Father said you were to keep quiet—and so do I,” she added, with a
frown. “Shut your eyes, sir, and go to sleep.”
Charley complied by shutting his eyes, and opening his mouth, and
uttering a succession of deep snores.
“Now, you bad boy,” said Kate, “why _won’t_ you try to rest?”
“Because, Kate, dear,” said Charley, opening his eyes again—“because I
feel as if I had slept a week at least; and not being one of the seven
sleepers, I don’t think it necessary to do more in that way just now.
Besides, my sweet but particularly wicked sister, I wish just at this
moment to have a talk with you.”
“But are you sure it won’t do you harm to talk? do you feel quite
strong enough?”
“Quite: Sampson was a mere infant compared to me.”
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Charley dear, and keep your hands quiet, and
don’t lift the clothes with your knees in that way, else I’ll go away
and leave you.”
“Very well, my pet; if you do, I’ll get up and dress and follow you,
that’s all! But come, Kate, tell me first of all how it was that I got
pitched off that long-legged rhinoceros, and who it was that picked me
up, and why wasn’t I killed, and how did I come here; for my head is
sadly confused, and I scarcely recollect anything that has happened;
and before commencing your discourse, Kate, please hand me a glass of
water, for my mouth is as dry as a whistle.”
Kate handed him a glass of water, smoothed his pillow, brushed the
curls gently off his forehead, and sat down on the bedside.
“Thank you, Kate; now go on.”
“Well, you see,” she began—
“Pardon me, dearest,” interrupted Charley, “if you would please to look
at me you would observe that my two eyes are tightly closed, so that I
don’t _see_ at all.”
“Well, then, you must understand—”
“Must I? Oh!—”
“That after that wicked horse leaped with you over the stable fence,
you were thrown high into the air, and turning completely round, fell
head foremost into the snow, and your poor head went through the top of
an old cask that had been buried there all winter.”
“Dear me!” ejaculated Charley; “did anyone see me, Kate?”
“Oh yes.”
“Who?” asked Charley, somewhat anxiously; “not Mrs. Grant, I hope? for
if she did she’d never let me hear the last of it.”
“No; only our father, who was chasing you at the time,” replied Kate,
with a merry laugh.
“And no one else?”
“No—oh yes, by-the-by, Tom Whyte was there too.”
“Oh, he’s nobody. Go on.”
“But tell me, Charley, why do you care about Mrs. Grant seeing you?”
“Oh! no reason at all, only she’s such an abominable quiz.”
We must guard the reader here against the supposition that Mrs. Grant
was a quiz of the ordinary kind. She was by no means a sprightly,
clever woman, rather fond of a joke than otherwise, as the term might
lead you to suppose. Her corporeal frame was very large, excessively
fat, and remarkably unwieldy; being an appropriate casket in which to
enshrine a mind of the heaviest and most sluggish nature. She spoke
little, ate largely, and slept much—the latter recreation being very
frequently enjoyed in a large arm-chair of a peculiar kind. It had been
a water-butt, which her ingenious husband had cut half-way down the
middle, then half-way across, and in the angle thus formed fixed a
bottom, which, together with the back, he padded with tow, and covered
the whole with a mantle of glaring bed-curtain chintz, whose pattern
alternated in stripes of sky-blue and china roses, with broken
fragments of the rainbow between. Notwithstanding her excessive
slowness, however, Mrs. Grant was fond of taking a firm hold of
anything or any circumstance in the character or affairs of her
friends, and twitting them thereupon in a grave but persevering manner
that was exceedingly irritating. No one could ever ascertain whether
Mrs. Grant did this in a sly way or not, as her visage never expressed
anything except unalterable good-humour. She was a good wife and an
affectionate mother; had a family of ten children, and could boast of
never having had more than one quarrel with her husband. This
disagreement was occasioned by a rather awkward mischance. One day, not
long after her last baby was born, Mrs. Grant waddled towards her tub
with the intention of enjoying her accustomed siesta. A few minutes
previously, her seventh child, which was just able to walk, had
scrambled up into the seat and fallen fast asleep there. As has been
already said, Mrs. Grant’s intellect was never very bright, and at this
particular time she was rather drowsy, so that she did not observe the
child, and on reaching her chair, turned round preparatory to letting
herself plump into it. She always _plumped_ into her chair. Her muscles
were too soft to lower her gently down into it. Invariably on reaching
a certain point they ceased to act, and let her down with a crash. She
had just reached this point, and her baby’s hopes and prospects were on
the eve of being cruelly crushed for ever, when Mr. Grant noticed the
impending calamity. He had no time to warn her, for she had already
passed the point at which her powers of muscular endurance terminated;
so grasping the chair, he suddenly withdrew it with such force that the
baby rolled off upon the floor like a hedgehog, straightened out flat,
and gave vent to an outrageous roar, while its horror-struck mother
came to the ground with a sound resembling the fall of an enormous sack
of wool. Although the old lady could not see exactly that there was
anything very blameworthy in her husband’s conduct on this occasion,
yet her nerves had received so severe a shock that she refused to be
comforted for two entire days.
But to return from this digression. After Charley had two or three
times recommended Kate (who was a little inclined to be quizzical) to
proceed, she continued,—
“Well, then you were carried up here by father and Tom Whyte, and put
to bed, and after a good deal of rubbing and rough treatment you were
got round. Then Peter Mactavish nearly poisoned you, but fortunately he
was such a goose that he did not think of reading the label of the
phial, and so gave you a dose of tincture of rhubarb instead of
laudanum as he had intended; and then father flew into a passion, and
Tom Whyte was sent to fetch the doctor, and couldn’t find him; but
fortunately he found me, which was much better, I think, and brought me
up here. And so here I am, and here I intend to remain.”
“And so that’s the end of it. Well, Kate, I’m very glad it was no
worse.”
“And I am very _thankful_” said Kate, with emphasis on the word, “that
it’s no worse.”
“Oh, well, you know, Kate, I _meant_ that, of course.”
“But you did not _say_ it,” replied his sister earnestly.
“To be sure not,” said Charley gaily; “it would be absurd to be always
making solemn speeches, and things of that sort, every time one has a
little accident.”
“True, Charley; but when one has a very serious accident, and escapes
unhurt, don’t you think that _then_ it would be—”
“Oh yes, to be sure,” interrupted Charley, who still strove to turn
Kate from her serious frame of mind; “but sister dear, how could I
possibly _say_ I was thankful with my head crammed into an old cask and
my feet pointing up to the blue sky, eh?”
Kate smiled at this, and laid her hand on his arm, while she bent over
the pillow and looked tenderly into his eyes.
“O my darling Charley, you are disposed to jest about it; but I cannot
tell you how my heart trembled this morning when I heard from Tom Whyte
of what had happened. As we drove up to the fort, I thought how
terrible it would have been if you had been killed; and then the happy
days we have spent together rushed into my mind, and I thought of the
willow creek where we used to fish for gold eyes, and the spot in the
woods where we have so often chased the little birds, and the lake in
the prairies where we used to go in spring to watch the water-fowl
sporting in the sunshine. When I recalled these things, Charley, and
thought of you as dead, I felt as if I should die too. And when I came
here and found that my fears were needless, that you were alive and
safe, and almost well, I felt thankful—yes, very, very thankful—to God
for sparing your life, my dear, dear Charley.” And Kate laid her head
on his bosom and sobbed, when she thought of what might have been, as
if her very heart would break.
Charley’s disposition to levity entirely vanished while his sister
spoke; and twining his tough little arm round her neck, he pressed her
fervently to his heart.
“Bless you, Kate,” he said at length. “I am indeed thankful to God, not
only for sparing my life, but for giving me such a darling sister to
live for. But now, Kate, tell me, what do you think of father’s
determination to have me placed in the office here?”
“Indeed, I think it’s very hard. Oh, I do wish _so_ much that I could
do it for you,” said Kate with a sigh.
“Do _what_ for me?” asked Charley.
“Why, the office work,” said Kate.
“Tuts! fiddlesticks! But isn’t it, now, really a _very_ hard case?”
“Indeed it is; but, then, what can you do?”
“Do?” said Charley impatiently; “run away to be sure.”
“Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Kate anxiously. “You know it will kill
our beloved mother; and then it would grieve father very much.”
“Well, father don’t care much about grieving me, when he hunted me down
like a wolf till I nearly broke my neck.”
“Now, Charley, you must not speak so. Father loves you tenderly,
although he _is_ a little rough at times. If you only heard how kindly
he speaks of you to our mother when you are away, you could not think
of giving him so much pain. And then the Bible says, ‘Honour thy father
and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord
thy God giveth thee;’ and as God speaks in the Bible, _surely_ we
should pay attention to it!”
Charley was silent for a few seconds; then heaving a deep sigh, he
said,—
“Well, I believe you’re right, Kate; but then, what am I to do? If I
don’t run away, I must live, like poor Harry Somerville, on a
long-legged stool; and if I do _that_, I’ll—I’ll—”
As Charley spoke, the door opened, and his father entered.
“Well, my boy,” said he, seating himself on the bedside and taking his
son’s hand, “how goes it now? Head getting all right again? I fear that
Kate has been talking too much to you.—Is it so, you little
chatterbox?”
Mr. Kennedy parted Kate’s clustering ringlets and kissed her forehead.
Charley assured his father that he was almost well, and much the better
of having Kate to tend him. In fact, he felt so much revived that he
said he would get up and go out for a walk.
“Had I not better tell Tom Whyte to saddle the young horse for you?”
said his father, half ironically. “No, no, boy; lie still where you are
to-day, and get up if you feel better to-morrow. In the meantime, I’ve
come to say good-bye, as I intend to go home to relieve your mother’s
anxiety about you. I’ll see you again, probably, the day after
to-morrow. Hark you, boy; I’ve been talking your affairs over again
with Mr. Grant, and we’ve come to the conclusion to give you a run in
the woods for a time. You’ll have to be ready to start early in spring
with the first brigades for the north. So adieu!”
Mr. Kennedy patted him on the head, and hastily left the room.
A burning blush of shame arose on Charley’s cheek as he recollected his
late remarks about his father; and then, recalling the purport of his
last words, he sent forth an exulting shout as he thought of the coming
spring.
“Well now, Charley,” said Kate, with an arch smile, “let us talk
seriously over your arrangements for running away.”
Charley replied by seizing the pillow and throwing it at his sister’s
head; but being accustomed to such eccentricities, she anticipated the
movement and evaded the blow.
“Ah, Charley,” cried Kate, laughing, “you mustn’t let your hand get out
of practice! That was a shockingly bad shot for a man thirsting to
become a bear and buffalo hunter!”
“I’ll make my fortune at once,” cried Charley, as Kate replaced the
pillow, “build a wooden castle on the shores of Great Bear Lake, take
you to keep house for me, and when I’m out hunting you’ll fish for
whales in the lake; and we’ll live there to a good old age; so
good-night, Kate dear, and go to bed.”
Kate laughed, gave her brother a parting kiss, and left him.