The voyage—The encampment—A surprise.
It was a fine sight to see the boats depart for the north. It was a
thrilling, heart-stirring sight to behold these picturesque, athletic
men, on receiving the word of command from their guides, spring lightly
into the long, heavy boats; to see them let the oars fall into the
water with a loud splash, and then, taking their seats, give way with a
will, knowing that the eyes of friends and sweethearts and rivals were
bent earnestly upon them. It was a splendid sight to see boat after
boat shoot out from the landing-place, and cut through the calm bosom
of the river, as the men bent their sturdy backs until the thick oars
creaked and groaned on the gunwales and flashed in the stream, more and
more vigorously at each successive stroke, until their friends on the
bank, who were anxious to see the last of them, had to run faster and
faster in order to keep up with them, as the rowers warmed at their
work, and made the water gurgle at the bows—their bright blue and
scarlet and white trappings reflected in the dark waters in broken
masses of colour, streaked with long lines of shining ripples, as if
they floated on a lake of liquid rainbows. And it was a glorious thing
to hear the wild, plaintive song, led by one clear, sonorous voice,
that rang out full and strong in the still air, while at the close of
every two lines the whole brigade burst into a loud, enthusiastic
chorus, that rolled far and wide over the smooth waters—telling of
their approach to settlers beyond the reach of vision in advance, and
floating faintly back, a last farewell, to the listening ears of
fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters left behind. And it was
interesting to observe how, as the rushing boats sped onwards past the
cottages on shore, groups of men and women and children stood before
the open doors and waved adieu, while ever and anon a solitary voice
rang louder than the others in the chorus, and a pair of dark eyes grew
brighter as a voyageur swept past his home, and recognised his little
ones screaming farewell, and seeking to attract their _sire’s_
attention by tossing their chubby arms or flourishing round their heads
the bright vermilion blades of canoe-paddles. It was interesting, too,
to hear the men shout as they ran a small rapid which occurs about the
lower part of the settlement, and dashed in full career up to the Lower
Fort—which stands about twenty miles down the river from Fort Garry—and
then sped onward again with unabated energy, until they passed the
Indian settlement, with its scattered wooden buildings and its small
church; passed the last cottage on the bank; passed the low swampy land
at the river’s mouth; and emerged at last as evening closed, upon the
wide, calm, sea-like bosom of Lake Winnipeg.
Charley saw and heard all this during the whole of that long, exciting
afternoon, and as he heard and saw it his heart swelled as if it would
burst its prison-bars, his voice rang out wildly in the choruses,
regardless alike of tune and time, and his spirit boiled within him as
he quaffed the first sweet draught of a rover’s life—a life in the
woods, the wild, free, enchanting woods, where all appeared in _his_
eyes bright, and sunny, and green, and beautiful!
As the sun’s last rays sunk in the west, and the clouds, losing their
crimson hue, began gradually to fade into gray, the boats’ heads were
turned landward. In a few seconds they grounded on a low point, covered
with small trees and bushes which stretched out into the lake. Here
Louis Peltier had resolved to bivouac for the night.
“Now then, mes garçons,” he exclaimed, leaping ashore, and helping to
drag the boat a little way on to the beach, “vite, vite! à terre, à
terre!—Take the kettle, Pierre, and let’s have supper.”
Pierre needed no second bidding. He grasped a large tin kettle and an
axe, with which he hurried into a clump of trees. Laying down the
kettle, which he had previously filled with water from the lake, he
singled out a dead tree, and with three powerful blows of his axe,
brought it to the ground. A few additional strokes cut it up into logs,
varying from three to five feet in length, which he piled together,
first placing a small bundle of dry grass and twigs beneath them, and a
few splinters of wood which he cut from off one of the logs. Having
accomplished this, Pierre took a flint and steel out of a gaily
ornamented pouch which depended from his waist, and which went by the
name of a fire-bag in consequence of its containing the implements for
procuring that element. It might have been as appropriately named
tobacco-box or smoking-bag, however, seeing that such things had more
to do with it, if possible, than fire. Having struck a spark, which he
took captive by means of a piece of tinder, he placed in the centre of
a very dry handful of soft grass, and whirled it rapidly round his
head, thereby producing a current of air, which blew the spark into a
flame; which when applied, lighted the grass and twigs; and so, in a
few minutes, a blazing fire roared up among the trees—spouted volumes
of sparks into the air, like a gigantic squib, which made it quite a
marvel that all the bushes in the neighbourhood were not burnt up at
once—glared out red and fierce upon the rippling water, until it
became, as it were, red-hot in the neighbourhood of the boats, and
caused the night to become suddenly darker by contrast; the night
reciprocating the compliment, as it grew later, by causing the space
around the fire to glow brighter and brighter, until it became a
brilliant chamber, surrounded by walls of the blackest ebony.
While Pierre was thus engaged there were at least ten voyageurs
similarly occupied. Ten steels were made instrumental in creating ten
sparks, which were severally captured by ten pieces of tinder, and
whirled round by ten lusty arms, until ten flames were produced, and
ten fires sprang up and flared wildly on the busy scene that had a few
hours before been so calm, so solitary, and so peaceful, bathed in the
soft beams of the setting sun.
In less than half-an-hour the several camps were completed, the kettles
boiling over the fires, the men smoking in every variety of attitude,
and talking loudly. It was a cheerful scene; and so Charley thought as
he reclined in his canvas tent, the opening of which faced the fire,
and enabled him to see all that was going on.
Pierre was standing over the great kettle, dancing round it, and making
sudden plunges with a stick into it, in the desperate effort to stir
its boiling contents—desperate, because the fire was very fierce and
large, and the flames seem to take a fiendish pleasure in leaping up
suddenly just under Pierre’s nose, thereby endangering his beard, or
shooting out between his legs and licking round them at most unexpected
moments, when the light wind ought to have been blowing them quite in
the opposite direction; and then, as he danced round to the other side
to avoid them, wheeling about and roaring viciously in his face, until
it seemed as if the poor man would be roasted long before the supper
was boiled. Indeed, what between the ever-changing and violent flames,
the rolling smoke, the steam from the kettle, the showering sparks, and
the man’s own wild grimaces and violent antics, Pierre seemed to
Charley like a raging demon, who danced not only round, but above, and
on, and through, and _in_ the flames, as if they were his natural
element, in which he took special delight.
Quite close to the tent the massive form of Louis the guide lay
extended, his back supported by the stump of a tree, his eyes blinking
sleepily at the blaze, and his beloved pipe hanging from his lips,
while wreaths of smoke encircled his head. Louis’s day’s work was done.
Few could do a better; and when his work was over, Louis always acted
on the belief that his position and his years entitled him to rest, and
took things very easy in consequence.
Six of the boat’s crew sat in a semicircle beside the guide and
fronting the fire, each paying particular attention to his pipe, and
talking between the puffs to anyone who chose to listen.
Suddenly Pierre vanished into the smoke and flames altogether, whence
in another moment he issued, bearing in his hand the large tin kettle,
which he deposited triumphantly at the feet of his comrades.
“Now, then,” cried Pierre.
It was unnecessary to have said even that much by way of invitation.
Voyageurs do not require to have their food pressed upon them after a
hard day’s work. Indeed it was as much as they could do to refrain from
laying violent hands on the kettle long before their worthy cook
considered its contents sufficiently done.
Charley sat in company with Mr. Park—a chief factor, on his way to
Norway House. Gibault, one of the men who acted as their servant, had
placed a kettle of hot tea before them, which, with several slices of
buffalo tongue, a lump of pemmican, and some hard biscuit and butter,
formed their evening meal. Indeed, we may add that these viands, during
a great part of the voyage, constituted their every meal. In fact, they
had no variety in their fare, except a wild duck or two now and then,
and a goose when they chanced to shoot one.
Charley sipped a pannikin of tea as he reclined on his blanket, and
being somewhat fatigued in consequence of his exertions and excitement
during the day, said nothing. Mr. Park, for the same reasons, besides
being naturally taciturn, was equally mute, so they both enjoyed in
silence the spectacle of the men eating their supper. And it _was_ a
sight worth seeing.
Their food consisted of robbiboo, a compound of flour, pemmican, and
water, boiled to the consistency of very thick soup. Though not a
species of food that would satisfy the fastidious taste of an epicure,
robbiboo is, nevertheless, very wholesome, exceedingly nutritious, and
withal palatable. Pemmican, its principal component, is made of buffalo
flesh, which fully equals (some think greatly excels) beef. The recipe
for making it is as follows:-First, kill your buffalo—a matter of
considerable difficulty, by the way, as doing so requires you to travel
to the buffalo-grounds, to arm yourself with a gun, and mount a horse,
on which you have to gallop, perhaps, several miles over rough ground
and among badger-holes at the imminent risk of breaking your neck. Then
you have to run up alongside of a buffalo and put a ball through his
heart, which, apart from the murderous nature of the action, is a
difficult thing to do. But we will suppose that you have killed your
buffalo. Then you must skin him; then cut him up, and slice the flesh
into layers, which must be dried in the sun. At this stage of the
process you have produced a substance which in the fur countries goes
by the name of dried meat, and is largely used as an article of food.
As its name implies, it is very dry, and it is also very tough, and
very undesirable if one can manage to procure anything better. But to
proceed. Having thus prepared dried meat, lay a quantity of it on a
flat stone, and take another stone, with which pound it into shreds.
You must then take the animal’s hide, while it is yet new, and make
bags of it about two feet and a half long by a foot and a half broad.
Into this put the pounded meat loosely. Melt the fat of your buffalo
over a fire, and when quite liquid pour it into the bag until full; mix
the contents well together; sew the whole up before it cools, and you
have a bag of pemmican of about ninety pounds weight. This forms the
chief food of the voyageur, in consequence of its being the largest
possible quantity of sustenance compressed into the smallest possible
space, and in an extremely convenient, portable shape. It will keep
fresh for years, and has been much used, in consequence, by the heroes
of arctic discovery, in their perilous journeys along the shores of the
frozen sea.
The voyageurs used no plate. Men who travel in these countries become
independent of many things that are supposed to be necessary here. They
sat in a circle round the kettle, each man armed with a large wooden or
pewter spoon, with which he ladled the robbiboo down his capacious
throat, in a style that not only caused Charley to laugh, but
afterwards threw him into a deep reverie on the powers of appetite in
general, and the strength of voyageur stomachs in particular.
At first the keen edge of appetite induced the men to eat in silence;
but as the contents of the kettle began to get low, their tongues
loosened, and at last, when the kettles were emptied and the pipes
filled, fresh logs thrown on the fires, and their limbs stretched out
around them, the babel of English, French, and Indian that arose was
quite overwhelming. The middle-aged men told long stories of what they
_had_ done; the young men boasted of what they _meant_ to do; while the
more aged smiled, nodded, smoked their pipes, put in a word or two as
occasion offered, and listened. While they conversed the quick ears of
one of the men of Charley’s camp detected some unusual sound.
“Hist!” said he, turning his head aside slightly, in a listening
attitude, while his comrades suddenly ceased their noisy laugh.
“Do ducks travel in canoes hereabouts?” said the man, after a moment’s
silence; “for, if not, there’s someone about to pay us a visit. I would
wager my best gun that I hear the stroke of paddles.”
“If your ears had been sharper, François, you might have heard them
some time ago,” said the guide, shaking the ashes out of his pipe and
refilling it for the third time.
“Ah, Louis, I do not pretend to such sharp ears as you possess, nor to
such sharp wit either. But who do you think can be _en route_ so late?”
“That my wit does not enable me to divine,” said Louis; “but if you
have any faith in the sharpness of your eyes, I would recommend you to
go to the beach and see, as the best and shortest way of finding out.”
By this time the men had risen, and were peering out into the gloom in
the direction whence the sound came, while one or two sauntered down to
the margin of the lake to meet the new-comers.
“Who can it be, I wonder?” said Charley, who had left the tent, and was
now standing beside the guide.
“Difficult to say, monsieur. Perhaps Injins, though I thought there
were none here just now. But I’m not surprised that we’ve attracted
_something_ to us. Livin’ creeturs always come nat’rally to the light,
and there’s plenty of fire on the point to-night.”
“Rather more than enough,” replied Charley, abruptly, as a slight
motion of wind sent the flames curling round his head and singed off
his eye-lashes. “Why, Louis, it’s my firm belief that if I ever get to
the end of this journey, I’ll not have a hair left on my head.”
Louis smiled.
“O monsieur, you will learn to _observe_ things before you have been
long in the wilderness. If you _will_ edge round to leeward of the
fire, you can’t expect it to respect you.”
Just at this moment a loud hurrah rang through the copse, and Harry
Somerville sprang over the fire into the arms of Charley, who received
him with a hug and a look of unutterable amazement.
“Charley, my boy!”
“Harry Somerville, I declare!”
For at least five minutes Charley could not recover his composure
sufficiently to _declare_ anything else, but stood with open mouth and
eyes, and elevated eyebrows, looking at his young friend, who capered
and danced round the fire in a manner that threw the cook’s
performances in that line quite into the shade, while he continued all
the time to shout fragments of sentences that were quite unintelligible
to anyone. It was evident that Harry was in a state of immense delight
at something unknown save to himself, but which, in the course of a few
minutes, was revealed to his wondering friends.
“Charley, I’m _going!_ hurrah!” and he leaped about in a manner that
induced Charley to say he would not only be going but very soon _gone_,
if he did not keep further away from the fire.
“Yes, Charley, I’m going with you! I upset the stool, tilted the
ink-bottle over the invoice-book, sent the poker almost through the
back of the fireplace, and smashed Tom Whyte’s best whip on the back of
the ‘noo ’oss’ as I galloped him over the plains for the last time: all
for joy, because I’m going with you, Charley, my darling!”
Here Harry suddenly threw his arms round his friend’s neck, meditating
an embrace. As both boys were rather fond of using their muscles
violently, the embrace degenerated into a wrestle, which caused them to
threaten complete destruction to the fire as they staggered in front of
it, and ended in their tumbling against the tent and nearly breaking
its poles and fastenings, to the horror and indignation of Mr. Park,
who was smoking his pipe within, quietly waiting till Harry’s
superabundant glee was over, that he might get an explanation of his
unexpected arrival among them.
“Ah, they will be good voyageurs!” cried one of the men, as he looked
on at this scene.
“Oui, oui! good boys, active lads,” replied the others, laughing. The
two boys rose hastily.
“Yes,” cried Harry, breathless, but still excited, “I’m going all the
way, and a great deal farther. I’m going to hunt buffaloes in the
Saskatchewan, and grizzly bears in the—the—in fact everywhere! I’m
going down the Mackenzie River—I’m going _mad_, I believe;” and Harry
gave another caper and another shout, and tossed his cap high into the
air. Having been recklessly tossed, it came down into the fire. When it
went in, it was dark blue; but when Harry dashed into the flames in
consternation to save it, it came out of a rich brown colour.
“Now, youngster,” said Mr. Park, “when you’ve done capering, I should
like to ask you one or two questions. What brought you here?”
“A canoe,” said Harry, inclined to be impudent.
“Oh, and pray for what _purpose_ have you come here?”
“These are my credentials,” handing him a letter.
Mr. Park opened the note and read.
“Ah! oh! Saskatchewan—hum—yes—outpost—wild boy—just so—keep him at
it—ay, fit for nothing else. So,” said Mr. Park, folding the paper, “I
find that Mr. Grant has sent you to take the place of a young gentleman
we expected to pick up at Norway House, but who is required elsewhere;
and that he wishes you to see a good deal of rough life—to be made a
trader of, in fact. Is that your desire?”
“That’s the very ticket!” replied Harry, scarcely able to restrain his
delight at the prospect.
“Well, then, you had better get supper and turn in, for you’ll have to
begin your new life by rising at three o’clock to-morrow morning. Have
you got a tent?”
“Yes,” said Harry, pointing to his canoe, which had been brought to the
fire and turned bottom up by the two Indians to whom it belonged, and
who were reclining under its shelter enjoying their pipes, and watching
with looks of great gravity the doings of Harry and his friend.
“_That_ will return whence it came to-morrow. Have you no other?”
“Oh yes,” said Harry, pointing to the overhanging branches of a willow
close at hand, “lots more.”
Mr. Park smiled grimly, and, turning on his heel, re-entered the tent
and continued his pipe, while Harry flung himself down beside Charley
under the bark canoe.
This species of “tent” is, however, by no means a perfect one. An
Indian canoe is seldom three feet broad—frequently much narrower—so
that it only affords shelter for the body as far down as the waist,
leaving the extremities exposed. True, one _may_ double up as nearly as
possible into half one’s length, but this is not a desirable position
to maintain throughout an entire night. Sometimes, when the weather is
_very_ bad, an additional protection is procured by leaning several
poles against the bottom of the canoe, on the weather side, in such a
way as to slope considerably over the front; and over these are spread
pieces of birch bark or branches and moss, so as to form a screen,
which is an admirable shelter. But this involves too much time and
labour to be adopted during a voyage, and is only done when the
travellers are under the necessity of remaining for some time in one
place.
The canoe in which Harry arrived was a pretty large one, and looked so
comfortable when arranged for the night that Charley resolved to
abandon his own tent and Mr. Park’s society, and sleep with his friend.
“I’ll sleep with you, Harry, my boy,” said he, after Harry had
explained to him in detail the cause of his being sent away from Red
River; which was no other than that a young gentleman, as Mr. Park
said, who _was_ to have gone, had been ordered elsewhere.
“That’s right, Charley; spread out our blankets, while I get some
supper, like a good fellow.” Harry went in search of the kettle while
his friend prepared their bed. First, he examined the ground on which
the canoe lay, and found that the two Indians had already taken
possession of the only level places under it. “Humph!” he ejaculated,
half inclined to rouse them up, but immediately dismissed the idea as
unworthy of a voyageur. Besides, Charley was an amiable, unselfish
fellow, and would rather have lain on the top of a dozen stumps than
have made himself comfortable at the expense of anyone else.
He paused a moment to consider. On one side was a hollow “that” (as he
soliloquised to himself) “would break the back of a buffalo.” On the
other side were a dozen little stumps surrounding three very prominent
ones, that threatened destruction to the ribs of anyone who should
venture to lie there. But Charley did not pause to consider long.
Seizing his axe, he laid about him vigorously with the head of it, and
in a few seconds destroyed all the stumps, which he carefully
collected, and, along with some loose moss and twigs, put into the
hollow, and so filled it up. Having improved things thus far, he rose
and strode out of the circle of light into the wood. In a few minutes
he reappeared, bearing a young spruce fir tree on his shoulder, which
with the axe he stripped of its branches. These branches were flat in
form, and elastic—admirably adapted for making a bed on; and when
Charley spread them out under the canoe in a pile of about four inches
in depth by four feet broad and six feet long, the stumps and the
hollow were overwhelmed altogether. He then ran to Mr. Park’s tent, and
fetched thence a small flat bundle covered with oilcloth and tied with
a rope. Opening this, he tossed out its contents, which were two large
and very thick blankets—one green, the other white; a particularly
minute feather pillow, a pair of moccasins, a broken comb, and a bit of
soap. Then he opened a similar bundle containing Harry’s bed, which he
likewise tossed out; and then kneeling down, he spread the two white
blankets on the top of the branches, the two green blankets above
these, and the two pillows at the top, as far under the shelter of the
canoe as he could push them. Having completed the whole in a manner
that would have done credit to a chambermaid, he continued to sit on
his knees, with his hands in his pockets, smiling complacently, and
saying, “Capital—first-rate!”
“Here we are, Charley. Have a second supper—do!”
Harry placed the smoking kettle by the head of the bed, and squatting
down beside it, began to eat as only a boy _can_ eat who has had
nothing since breakfast.
Charley attacked the kettle too—as he said, “out of sympathy,” although
he “wasn’t hungry a bit.” And really, for a man who was not hungry, and
had supped half-an-hour before, the appetite of _sympathy_ was
wonderfully strong.
But Harry’s powers of endurance were now exhausted. He had spent a long
day of excessive fatigue and excitement, and having wound it up with a
heavy supper, sleep began to assail him with a fell ferocity that
nothing could resist. He yawned once or twice, and sat on the bed
blinking unmeaningly at the fire, as if he had something to say to it
which he could not recollect just then. He nodded violently, much to
his own surprise, once or twice, and began to address remarks to the
kettle instead of to his friend. “I say, Charley, this won’t do. I’m
off to bed!” and suiting the action to the word, he took off his coat
and placed it on his pillow. He then removed his moccasins, which were
wet, and put on a dry pair; and this being all that is ever done in the
way of preparation before going to bed in the woods, he lay down and
pulled the green blankets over him.
Before doing so, however, Harry leaned his head on his hands and
prayed. This was the one link left of the chain of habit with which he
had left home. Until the period of his departure for the wild scenes of
the Northwest, Harry had lived in a quiet, happy home in the West
Highlands of Scotland, where he had been surrounded by the benign
influences of a family the members of which were united by the sweet
bonds of Christian love—bonds which were strengthened by the additional
tie of amiability of disposition. From childhood he had been accustomed
to the routine of a pious and well-regulated household, where the Bible
was perused and spoken of with an interest that indicated a genuine
hungering and thirsting after righteousness, and where the name of
JESUS sounded often and sweetly on the ear. Under such training, Harry,
though naturally of a wild, volatile disposition, was deeply and
irresistibly impressed with a reverence for sacred things, which, now
that he was thousands of miles away from his peaceful home, clung to
him with the force of old habit and association, despite the jeers of
comrades and the evil influences and ungodliness by which he was
surrounded. It is true that he was not altogether unhurt by the
withering indifference to God that he beheld on all sides. Deep
impression is not renewal of heart. But early training in the path of
Christian love saved him many a deadly fall. It guarded him from many
of the grosser sins, into which other boys, who had merely broken away
from the _restraints_ of home too easily fell. It twined round him—as
the ivy encircles the oak—with a soft, tender, but powerful grasp, that
held him back when he was tempted to dash aside all restraint; and held
him up when, in the weakness of human nature, he was about to fall. It
exerted its benign sway over him in the silence of night, when his
thoughts reverted to home, and during his waking hours, when he
wandered from scene to scene in the wide wilderness; and in after
years, when sin prevailed, and intercourse with rough men had worn off
much of at least the superficial amiability of his character, and to
some extent blunted the finer feelings of his nature, it clung faintly
to him still, in the memory of his mother’s gentle look and tender
voice, and never forsook him altogether. Home had a blessed and
powerful influence on Harry. May God bless such homes, where the ruling
power is _love!_ God bless and multiply such homes in the earth! Were
there more of them there would be fewer heart-broken mothers to weep
over the memory of the blooming, manly boys they sent away to foreign
climes—with trembling hearts but high hopes—and never saw them more.
They were vessels launched upon the troubled sea of time, with stout
timbers, firm masts, and gallant sails—with all that was necessary
above and below, from stem to stern, for battling with the billows of
adverse fortune, for stemming the tide of opposition, for riding the
storms of persecution, or bounding with a press of canvas before the
gales of prosperity; but without the rudder—without the guiding
principle that renders the great power of plank and sail and mast
available; with which the vessel moves obedient to the owner’s will,
without which it drifts about with every current, and sails along with
every shifting wind that blows. Yes, may the best blessings of
prosperity and peace rest on such families, whose bread, cast
continually on the waters, returns to them after many days.
After Harry had lain down, Charley, who did not feel inclined for
repose, sauntered to the margin of the lake, and sat down upon a rock.
It was a beautiful, calm evening. The moon shone faintly through a mass
of heavy clouds, casting a pale light on the waters of Lake Winnipeg,
which stretched, without a ripple, out to the distant horizon. The
great fresh-water lakes of America bear a strong resemblance to the
sea. In storms the waves rise mountains high, and break with heavy,
sullen roar upon a beach composed in many places of sand and pebbles;
while they are so large that one not only looks out to a straight
horizon, but may even sail _out of sight of land_ altogether.
As Charley sat resting his head on his hand, and listening to the soft
hiss that the ripples made upon the beach, he felt all the solemnising
influence that steals irresistibly over the mind as we sit on a still
night gazing out upon the moonlit sea. His thoughts were sad; for he
thought of Kate, and his mother and father, and the home he was now
leaving. He remembered all that he had ever done to injure or annoy the
dear ones he was leaving; and it is strange how much alive our
consciences become when we are unexpectedly or suddenly removed from
those with whom we have lived and held daily intercourse. How bitterly
we reproach ourselves for harsh words, unkind actions; and how
intensely we long for one word more with them, one fervent embrace, to
prove at once that all we have ever said or done was not _meant_ ill,
and, at any rate, is deeply, sincerely repented of now! As Charley
looked up into the starry sky, his mind recurred to the parting words
of Mr. Addison. With uplifted hands and a full heart, he prayed that
God would bless, for Jesus’ sake, the beloved ones in Red River, but
especially Kate; for whether he prayed or meditated, Charley’s thoughts
_always_ ended with Kate.
A black cloud passed across the moon, and reminded him that but a few
hours of the night remained; so hastening up to the camp again, he lay
gently down beside his friend, and drew the green blanket over him.
In the camp all was silent. The men had chosen their several beds
according to fancy, under the shadow of a bush or tree. The fires had
burned low—so low that it was with difficulty Charley, as he lay, could
discern the recumbent forms of the men, whose presence was indicated by
the deep, soft, regular breathing of tired but, healthy constitutions.
Sometimes a stray moonbeam shot through the leaves and branches, and
cast a ghost-like, flickering light over the scene, which ever and anon
was rendered more mysterious by a red flare of the fire as an ember
fell, blazed up for an instant, and left all shrouded in greater
darkness than before.
At first Charley continued his sad thoughts, staring all the while at
the red embers of the expiring fire; but soon his eyes began to blink,
and the stumps of trees began to assume the form of voyageurs, and
voyageurs to look like stumps of trees. Then a moonbeam darted in, and
Mr. Addison stood on the other side of the fire. At this sight Charley
started, and Mr. Addison disappeared, while the boy smiled to think how
he had been dreaming while only half asleep. Then Kate appeared, and
seemed to smile on him; but another ember fell, and another red flame
sprang up, and put her to flight too. Then a low sigh of wind rustled
through the branches, and Charley felt sure that he saw Kate again
coming through the woods, singing the low, soft tune that she was so
fond of singing, because it was his own favourite air. But soon the air
ceased; the fire faded away; so did the trees, and the sleeping
voyageurs; Kate last of all dissolved, and Charley sank into a deep,
untroubled slumber.