The winter packet—Harry hears from old friends, and wishes that he was
with them.
Letters from home! What a burst of sudden emotion—what a riot of
conflicting feelings of dread and joy, expectation and anxiety—what a
flood of old memories—what stirring up of almost forgotten associations
these three words create in the hearts of those who dwell in distant
regions of this earth, far, far away from kith and kin, from friends
and acquaintances, from the much-loved scenes of childhood, and from
_home_! Letters from home! How gratefully the sound falls upon ears
that have been long unaccustomed to sounds and things connected with
home, and so long accustomed to wild, savage sounds, that these have at
length lost their novelty, and become everyday and commonplace, while
the first have gradually grown strange and unwonted. For many long
months home and all connected with it have become a dream of other
days, and savage-land a present reality. The mind has by degrees become
absorbed by surrounding objects—objects so utterly unassociated with or
unsuggestive of any other land, that it involuntarily ceases to think
of the scenes of childhood with the same feelings that it once did. As
time rolls on, home assumes a misty, undefined character, as if it were
not only distant in reality, but were also slowly retreating further
and further away—growing gradually faint and dream-like, though not
less dear, to the mental view.
“Letters from home!” shouted Mr. Wilson, and the doctor, and the
skipper, simultaneously, as the sportsmen, after dashing through the
wild storm, at last reached the fort, and stumbled tumultuously into
Bachelors’ Hall.
“What!—Where!—How!—You don’t mean it!” they exclaimed, coming to a
sudden stand, like three pillars of snow-clad astonishment.
“Ay,” replied the doctor, who affected to be quite cool upon all
occasions, and rather cooler than usual if the occasion was more than
ordinarily exciting—“ay, we _do_ mean it. Old Rogan has got the packet,
and is even now disembowelling it.”
“More than that,” interrupted the skipper, who sat smoking as usual by
the stove, with his hands in his breeches pockets—“more than that, I
saw him dissecting into the very marrow of the thing; so if we don’t
storm the old admiral in his cabin, he’ll go to sleep over these prosy
yarns that the governor-in-chief writes to him, and we’ll have to
whistle for our letters till midnight.”
The skipper’s remark was interrupted by the opening of the outer door
and the entrance of the butler. “Mr. Rogan wishes to see you, sir,”
said that worthy to the accountant.
“I’ll be with him in a minute,” he replied, as he threw off his capote
and proceeded to unwind himself as quickly as his multitudinous haps
would permit.
By this time Harry Somerville and Hamilton were busily occupied in a
similar manner, while a running fire of question and answer, jesting
remark and bantering reply, was kept up between the young men, from
their various apartments and the hall. The doctor was cool, as usual,
and impudent. He had a habit of walking up and down while he smoked,
and was thus enabled to look in upon the inmates of the several
sleeping-rooms, and make his remarks in a quiet, sarcastic manner, the
galling effect of which was heightened by his habit of pausing at the
end of every two or three words, to emit a few puffs of smoke. Having
exhausted a good deal of small talk in this way, and having, moreover,
finished his pipe, the doctor went to the stove to refill and relight.
“What a deal of trouble you do take to make yourself comfortable!” said
he to the skipper, who sat with his chair tilted on its hind legs, and
a pillow at his back.
“No harm in that, doctor,” replied the skipper, with a smile.
“No harm, certainly, but it looks uncommonly lazy-like.”
“What does?”
“Why, putting a pillow at your back, to be sure.”
The doctor was a full-fleshed, muscular man, and owing to this fact it
mattered little to him whether his chair happened to be an easy one or
not. As the skipper sometimes remarked, he carried padding always about
with him; he was, therefore, a little apt to sneer at the attempts of
his brethren to render the ill-shaped, wooden-bottomed chairs, with
which the hall was ornamented, bearable.
“Well, doctor,” said the skipper, “I cannot see how you make me out
lazy. Surely it is not an evidence of laziness, my endeavouring to
render these instruments of torture less tormenting? Seeking to be
comfortable, if it does not inconvenience anyone else, is not laziness.
Why, what _is_ comfort?” The skipper began to wax philosophical at this
point, and took the pipe from his mouth as he gravely propounded the
momentous question. “What _is_ comfort? If I go out to camp in the
woods, and after turning in find a sharp stump sticking into my ribs on
one side, and a pine root driving in the small of my back on the other
side, is _that_ comfort? Certainly not. And if I get up, seize a
hatchet, level the stump, cut away the root, and spread pine brush over
the place, am I to be called lazy for doing so? Or if I sit down on a
chair, and on trying to lean back to rest myself find that the stupid
lubber who made it has so constructed it that four small hard points
alone touch my person—two being at the hip-joints and two at the
shoulder-blades; and if to relieve such physical agony I jump up and
clap a pillow at my back, am I to be called lazy for doing _that_?”
“What a glorious entry that would make in the log!” said the doctor, in
a low tone, soliloquizingly, as if he made the remark merely for his
own satisfaction, while he tapped the ashes out of his pipe.
The skipper looked as if he meditated a sharp reply; but his
intentions, whatever they might have been, were interrupted by the
opening of the door, and the entrance of the accountant, bearing under
his arm a packet of letters.
A general rush was made upon him, and in a few minutes a dead silence
reigned in the hall, broken only at intervals by an exclamation of
surprise or pathos, as the inmates, in the retirement of their separate
apartments, perused letters from friends in the interior of the country
and friends at home: letters that were old—some of them bearing dates
many months back—and travel-stained, but new and fresh and cheering,
nevertheless, to their owners, as the clear bright sun in winter or the
verdant leaves in spring.
Harry Somerville’s letters were numerous and long. He had several from
friends in Red River, besides one or two from other parts of the Indian
country, and one—it was very thick and heavy—that bore the post-marks
of Britain. It was late that night ere the last candle was extinguished
in the hall, and it was late too before Harry Somerville ceased to
peruse and re-peruse the long letter from home, and found time or
inclination to devote to his other correspondents. Among the rest was a
letter from his old friend and companion, Charley Kennedy, which ran as
follows:—
MY DEAR HARRY,—It really seems more than an age since I saw you. Your
last epistle, written in the perturbation of mind consequent upon being
doomed to spend another winter at York Fort, reached me only a few days
ago, and filled me with pleasant recollections of other days. Oh! man,
how much I wish that you were with me in this beautiful country! You
are aware that I have been what they call “roughing it” since you and I
parted on the shores of Lake Winnipeg; but, my dear fellow, the idea
that most people have of what that phrase means is a very erroneous one
indeed. “Roughing it,” I certainly have been, inasmuch as I have been
living on rough fare, associating with rough men, and sleeping on rough
beds under the starry sky; but I assure you that all this is not half
so rough upon the constitution as what they call leading an _easy
life_, which is simply a life that makes a poor fellow stagnate, body
and spirit, till the one comes to be unable to digest its food, and the
other incompetent to jump at so much as half an idea. Anything but an
easy life, to my mind. Ah! there’s nothing like roughing it, Harry, my
boy. Why, I am thriving on it—growing like a young walrus, eating like
a Canadian voyageur, and sleeping like a top! This is a splendid
country for sport, and as our _bourgeois_[4] has taken it into his head
that I am a good hand at making friends with the Indians, he has sent
me out on several expeditions, and afforded me some famous
opportunities of seeing life among the red-skins. There is a talk just
now of establishing a new outpost in this district, so if I succeed in
persuading the governor to let me accompany the party, I shall have
something interesting to write about in my next letter. By the way, I
wrote to you a month ago, by two Indians who said they were going to
the missionary station at Norway House. Did you ever get it? There is a
hunter here just now who goes by the name of Jacques Caradoc. He is a
first-rater—can do anything, in a wild way, that lies within the power
of mortal man, and is an inexhaustible anecdote-teller, in a quiet way.
He and I have been out buffalo-hunting two or three times, and it would
have done your heart good, Harry, my dear boy, to have seen us scouring
over the prairie together on two big-boned Indian horses—regular
trained buffalo-runners, that didn’t need the spur to urge, nor the
rein to guide them, when once they caught sight of the black cattle,
and kept a sharp look-out for badger-holes, just as if they had been
reasonable creatures. The first time I went out I had several rather
ugly falls, owing to my inexperience. The fact is, that if a man has
never run buffaloes before, he’s sure to get one or two upsets, no
matter how good a horseman he may be. And that monster Jacques,
although he’s the best fellow I ever met with for a hunting companion,
always took occasion to grin at my mishaps, and gravely to read me a
lecture to the effect that they were all owing to my own clumsiness or
stupidity; which, you will acknowledge, was not calculated to restore
my equanimity.
[4] The gentleman in charge of an establishment is always designated
the bourgeois.
The very first run we had cost me the entire skin of my nose, and
converted that feature into a superb Roman for the next three weeks. It
happened thus. Jacques and I were riding over the prairies in search of
buffaloes. The place was interspersed with sundry knolls covered with
trees, slips and belts of woodland, with ponds scattered among them,
and open sweeps of the plain here and there; altogether a delightful
country to ride through. It was a clear early morning, so that our
horses were fresh and full of spirit. They knew, as well as we
ourselves did, what we were out for, and it was no easy matter to
restrain them. The one I rode was a great long-legged beast, as like as
possible to that abominable kangaroo that nearly killed me at Red
River; as for Jacques, he was mounted on a first-rate charger. I don’t
know how it is, but somehow or other everything about Jacques, or
belonging to him, or in the remotest degree connected with him, is
always first-rate! He generally owns a first-rate horse, and if he
happens by any unlucky chance to be compelled to mount a bad one, it
immediately becomes another animal. He seems to infuse some of his own
wonderful spirit into it! Well, as Jacques and I curvetted along,
skirting the low bushes at the edge of a wood, out burst a whole herd
of buffaloes. Bang went Jacques’s gun, almost before I had winked to
make sure that I saw rightly, and down fell the fattest of them all,
while the rest tossed up their tails, heels, and heads in one grand
whirl of indignant amazement, and scoured away like the wind. In a
moment our horses were at full stretch after them, on their _own_
account entirely, and without any reference to _us_. When I recovered
my self-possession a little, I threw forward my gun and fired; but
owing to my endeavouring to hold the reins at the same time, I nearly
blew off one of my horse’s ears, and only knocked up the dust about six
yards ahead of us! Of course Jacques could not let this pass unnoticed.
He was sitting quietly loading his gun, as cool as a cucumber, while
his horse was dashing forward at full stretch, with the reins hanging
loosely on his neck.
“Ah, Mister Charles,” said he, with the least possible grin on his
leathern visage, “that was not well done. You should never hold the
reins when you fire, nor try to put the gun to your shoulder. It a’n’t
needful. The beast’ll look arter itself, if it’s a riglar
buffalo-runner; any ways holdin’ the reins is of no manner of use. I
once know’d a gentleman that came out here to see the buffalo-huntin’.
He was a good enough shot in his way, an’ a first-rate rider. But he
was full o’ queer notions: he _would_ load his gun with the ramrod in
the riglar way, instead o’ doin’ as we do, tumblin’ in a drop powder,
spittin’ a ball out your mouth down the muzzle, and hittin’ the stock
on the pommel of the saddle to send it home. And he had them miserable
things—the _somethin’_ ’cussion-caps, and used to fiddle away with them
while we were knockin’ over the cattle in all directions. Moreover, he
had a notion that it was altogether wrong to let go his reins even for
a moment, and so, what between the ramrod and the ’cussion-caps and the
reins, he was worse than the greenest clerk that ever came to the
country. He gave it up in despair at last, after lamin’ two horses, and
finished off by runnin’ after a big bull, that turned on him all of a
suddent, crammed its head and horns into the side of his horse, and
sent the poor fellow head over heels on the green grass. He wasn’t much
the worse for it, but his fine double-barrelled gun was twisted into a
shape that would almost have puzzled an Injin to tell what it was.”
Well, Harry, all the time that Jacques was telling me this we were
gaining on the buffaloes, and at last we got quite close to them, and
as luck would have it, the very thing that happened to the amateur
sportsman happened to me. I went madly after a big bull in spite of
Jacques’s remonstrances, and just as I got alongside of him up went his
tail (a sure sign that his anger was roused), and round he came, head
to the front, stiff as a rock; my poor charger’s chest went right
between his horns, and, as a matter of course, I continued the race
upon _nothing_, head first, for a distance of about thirty yards, and
brought up on the bridge of my nose. My poor dear father used to say I
was a bull-headed rascal, and, upon my word, I believe he was more
literally correct than he imagined; for although I fell with a fearful
crash, head first, on the hard plain, I rose up immediately, and in a
few minutes was able to resume the chase again. My horse was equally
fortunate, for although thus brought to a sudden stand while at full
gallop, he wheeled about, gave a contemptuous flourish with his heels,
and cantered after Jacques, who soon caught him again. My head bothered
me a good deal for some time after this accident, and swelled up till
my eyes became almost undistinguishable; but a few weeks put me all
right again. And who do you think this man Jacques is? You’d never
guess. He’s the trapper whom Redfeather told us of long ago, and whose
wife was killed by the Indians. He and Redfeather have met, and are
very fond of each other. How often in the midst of these wild
excursions have my thoughts wandered to you, Harry! The fellows I meet
with here are all kind-hearted, merry companions, but none like
yourself. I sometimes say to Jacques, when we become communicative to
each other beside the camp-fire, that my earthly felicity would be
perfect if I had Harry Somerville here; and then I think of Kate, my
sweet, loving sister Kate, and feel that, even although I had you with
me, there would still be something wanting to make things perfect.
Talking of Kate, by the way, I have received a letter from her, the
first sheet of which, as it speaks of mutual Red River friends, I
herewith enclose. Pray keep it safe, and return per first opportunity.
We’ve loads of furs here and plenty of deerstalking, not to mention
galloping on horseback on the plains in summer and dog-sledging in the
winter. Alas! my poor friend, I fear that it is rather selfish in me to
write so feelingly about my agreeable circumstances, when I know you
are slowly dragging out your existence at that melancholy place York
Fort; but believe me, I sympathize with you, and I hope earnestly that
you will soon be appointed to more genial scenes. I have much, very
much, to tell you yet, but am compelled to reserve it for a future
epistle, as the packet which is to convey this is on the point of being
closed.
Adieu, my dear Harry, and wherever you may happen to pitch your tent,
always bear in kindly remembrance your old friend,
CHARLES KENNEDY.
The letter was finished, but Harry did not cease to hold intercourse
with his friend. With his head resting on his two hands, and his elbows
on the table, he sat long, silently gazing on the signature, while his
mind revelled in the past, the present, and the future. He bounded over
the wilderness that lay between him and the beautiful plains of the
Saskatchewan. He seized Charley round the neck, and hugged and wrestled
with him as in days of yore. He mounted an imaginary charger, and swept
across the plains along with him; listened to anecdotes innumerable
from Jacques, attacked thousands of buffaloes, singled out scores of
wild bulls, pitched over horses’ heads and alighted precisely on the
bridge of his nose, always in close proximity to his old friend.
Gradually his mind returned to its prison-house, and his eye fell on
Kate’s letter, which he picked up and began to read. It ran thus:—
MY DEAR, DEAR, DARLING CHARLEY,—I cannot tell you how much my heart has
yearned to see you, or hear from you, for many long, long months past.
Your last delightful letter, which I treasure up as the most precious
object I possess, has indeed explained to me how utterly impossible it
was to have written a day sooner than you did; but that does not
comfort me a bit, or make those weary packets more rapid and frequent
in their movements, or the time that passes between the periods of
hearing from you less dreary and anxious. God bless and protect you, my
darling, in the midst of all the dangers that surround you. But I did
not intend to begin this letter by murmuring, so pray forgive me, and I
shall try to atone for it by giving you a minute account of everybody
here about whom you are interested. Our beloved father and mother, I am
thankful to say, are quite well. Papa has taken more than ever to
smoking since you went away. He is seldom out of the summer-house in
the garden now, where I very frequently go, and spend hours together in
reading to and talking with him. He very often speaks of you, and I am
certain that he misses you far more than we expected, although I think
he cannot miss you nearly so much as I do. For some weeks past, indeed
ever since we got your last letter, papa was engaged all the forenoon
in some mysterious work, for he used to lock himself up in the
summer-house—a thing he never did before. One day I went there at my
usual time and instead of having to wait till he should unlock the
door, I found it already open, and entered the room, which was so full
of smoke that I could hardly see. I found papa writing at a small
table, and the moment he heard my footstep he jumped up with a fierce
frown, and shouted, “Who’s there?” in that terrible voice that he used
to speak in long ago when angry with his men, but which he has almost
quite given up for some time past. He never speaks to me, as you know
very well, but in the kindest tones, so you may imagine what a dreadful
fright I got for a moment; but it was only for a moment, because the
instant he saw that it was me his dear face changed, and he folded me
in his arms, saying, “Ah, Kate, forgive me, my darling! I did not know
it was you, and I thought I had locked the door, and was angry at being
so unceremoniously interrupted.” He then told me he was just finishing
a letter of advice to you, and going up to the table, pushed the papers
hurriedly into a drawer. As he did so, I guessed what had been his
mysterious occupation, for he seemed to have covered _quires_ of paper
with the closest writing. Ah, Charley, you’re a lucky fellow to be able
to extort such long letters from our dear father. You know how
difficult he finds it to write even the shortest note, and you remember
his old favourite expression, “I would rather skin a wild buffalo bull
alive than write a long letter.” He deserves long ones in return,
Charley; but I need not urge you on that score—you are an excellent
correspondent. Mamma is able to go out every day now for a drive in the
prairie. She was confined to the house for nearly three weeks last
month, with some sort of illness that the doctor did not seem to
understand, and at one time I was much frightened, and very, very
anxious about her, she became so weak. It would have made your heart
glad to have seen the tender way in which papa nursed her through the
illness. I had fancied that he was the very last man in the world to
make a sick-nurse, so bold and quick in his movements, and with such a
loud, gruff voice—for it _is_ gruff, although very sweet at the same
time. But the moment he began to tend mamma he spoke more softly even
than dear Mr. Addison does, and he began to walk about the house on
tiptoe, and persevered so long in this latter that all his moccasins
began to be worn out at the toes, while the heels remained quite
strong. I begged of him often not to take so much trouble, as _I_ was
naturally the proper nurse for mamma; but he wouldn’t hear of it, and
insisted on carrying breakfast, dinner, and tea to her, besides giving
her all her medicine. He was for ever making mistakes, however, much to
his own sorrow, the darling man; and I had to watch him pretty closely,
for more than once he has been on the point of giving mamma a glass of
laudanum in mistake for a glass of port wine. I was a good deal
frightened for him at first, as, before he became accustomed to the
work, he tumbled over the chairs and tripped on the carpets while
carrying trays with dinners and breakfasts, till I thought he would
really injure himself at last, and then he was so terribly angry with
himself at making such a noise and breaking the dishes—I think he has
broken nearly an entire dinner and tea set of crockery. Poor George,
the cook, has suffered most from these mishaps—for you know that dear
papa cannot get angry without letting a _little_ of it out upon
somebody; and whenever he broke a dish or let a tray fall, he used to
rush into the kitchen, shake his fist in George’s face, and ask him, in
a fierce voice, what he meant by it. But he always got better in a few
seconds, and finished off by telling him never to mind, that he was a
good servant on the whole, and he wouldn’t say any more about it just
now, but he had better look sharp out and not do it again. I must say,
in praise of George, that on such occasions he looked very sorry
indeed, and said he hoped that he would always do his best to give him
satisfaction. This was only proper in him, for he ought to be very
thankful that our father restrains his anger so much; for you know he
was rather violent _once_, and you’ve no idea, Charley, how great a
restraint he now lays on himself. He seems to me quite like a lamb, and
I am beginning to feel somehow as if we had been mistaken, and that he
never was a passionate man at all. I think it is partly owing to dear
Mr. Addison, who visits us very frequently now, and papa and he are
often shut up together for many hours in the smoking-house. I was sure
that papa would soon come to like him, for his religion is so free from
everything like severity or affected solemnity. The cook, and Rosa, and
my dog that you named Twist, are all quite well. The last has grown
into a very large and beautiful animal, something like the stag-hound
in the picture-book we used to study together long ago. He is
exceedingly fond of me, and I feel him to be quite a protector. The
cocks and hens, the cow and the old mare, are also in perfect health;
so now, having told you a good deal about ourselves, I will give you a
short account of the doings in the colony.
First of all, your old friend Mr. Kipples is still alive and well, and
so are all our old companions in the school. One or two of the latter
have left, and young Naysmith has joined the Company’s service. Betty
Peters comes very often to see us, and she always asks for you with
great earnestness. I think you have stolen the old woman’s heart,
Charley, for she speaks of you with great affection. Old Mr. Seaforth
is still as vigorous as ever, dashing about the settlement on a
high-mettled steed, just as if he were one of the youngest men in the
colony. He nearly poisoned himself, poor man, a month ago, by taking a
dose of some kind of medicine by mistake. I did not hear what it was,
but I am told that the treatment was rather severe. Fortunately the
doctor happened to be at home when he was sent for, else our old friend
would, I fear, have died. As it was, the doctor cured him with great
difficulty. He first gave him an emetic, then put mustard blisters to
the soles of his feet, and afterwards lifted him into one of his own
carts, without springs, in which he drove him for a long time over all
the ploughed fields in the neighbourhood. If this is not an exaggerated
account, Mr. Seaforth is certainly made of sterner stuff than most men.
I was told a funny anecdote of him a few days ago, which I am sure you
have never heard, otherwise you would have told it to me, for there
used to be no secrets between us, Charley—alas! I have no one to
confide in or advise with now that you are gone. You have often heard
of the great flood; not Noah’s one, but the flood that nearly swept
away our settlement and did so much damage before you and I were born.
Well, you recollect that people used to tell of the way in which the
river rose after the breaking up of the ice, and how it soon overflowed
all the low points, sweeping off everything in its course. Old Mr.
Seaforth’s house stood at that time on the little point, just beyond
the curve of the river, at the foot of which our own house stands, and
as the river continued to rise, Mr. Seaforth went about actively
securing his property. At first he only thought of his boat and canoes,
which, with the help of his son Peter and a Canadian, who happened at
the time to be employed about the place, he dragged up and secured to
an iron staple in the side of his house. Soon, however, he found that
the danger was greater than at first he imagined. The point became
completely covered with water, which brought down great numbers of
_half_-drowned and _quite_-drowned cattle, pigs, and poultry, and
stranded them at the garden fence, so that in a short time poor Mr.
Seaforth could scarcely move about his overcrowded domains. On seeing
this, he drove his own cattle to the highest land in his neighbourhood
and hastened back to the house, intending to carry as much of the
furniture as possible to the same place. But during his short absence
the river had risen so rapidly that he was obliged to give up all
thoughts of this, and think only of securing a few of his valuables.
The bit of land round his dwelling was so thickly covered with the poor
cows, sheep, and other animals, that he could scarcely make his way to
the house, and you may fancy his consternation on reaching it to find
that the water was more than knee-deep round the walls, while a few of
the cows and a whole herd of pigs had burst open the door (no doubt
accidentally) and coolly entered the dining-room, where they stood with
drooping heads, very wet, and apparently very miserable. The Canadian
was busy at the back of the house, loading the boat and canoe with
everything he could lay hands on, and was not aware of the foreign
invasion in front. Mr. Seaforth cared little for this, however, and
began to collect all the things he held most valuable, and threw them
to the man, who stowed them away in the boat. Peter had been left in
charge of the cattle, so they had to work hard. While thus employed the
water continued to rise with fearful rapidity, and rushed against the
house like a mill-race, so that it soon became evident that the whole
would ere long be swept away. Just as they finished loading the boat
and canoes, the staple which held them gave way; in a moment they were
swept into the middle of the river, and carried out of sight. The
Canadian was in the boat at the time the staple broke, so that Mr.
Seaforth was now left in a dwelling that bid fair to emulate Noah’s ark
in an hour or two, without a chance of escape, and with no better
company than five black oxen, in the dining-room, besides three sheep
that were now scarcely able to keep their heads above water, and three
little pigs that were already drowned. The poor old man did his best to
push out the intruders, but only succeeded in ejecting two sheep and an
ox. All the others positively refused to go, so he was fain to let them
stay. By shutting the outer door he succeeded in keeping out a great
deal of water. Then he waded into the parlour, where he found some more
little pigs, floating about and quite dead. Two, however, more
adventurous than their comrades, had saved their lives by mounting
first on a chair and then upon the table, where they were comfortably
seated, gazing languidly at their mother, a very heavy fat sow, which
sat, with what seemed an expression of settled despair, on the sofa. In
a fit of wrath, Mr. Seaforth seized the young pigs and tossed them out
of the window; whereupon the old one jumped down, and half-walking,
half-swimming, made her way to her companions in the dining-room. The
old gentleman now ascended to the garret, where from a small window he
looked out upon the scene of devastation. His chief anxiety was about
the foundation of the house, which, being made of a wooden framework,
like almost all the others in the colony, would certainly float if the
water rose much higher. His fears were better founded than the house.
As he looked up the river, which had by this time overflowed all its
banks, and was spreading over the plains, he saw a fresh burst of water
coming down, which, when it dashed against his dwelling, forced it
about two yards from its foundation. Suddenly he remembered that there
were a large anchor and chain in the kitchen, both of which he had
brought there one day, to serve as a sort of anvil when he wanted to do
some blacksmith work. Hastening down, he fastened one end of the chain
to the sofa, and cast the anchor out of the window. A few minutes
afterwards another rush of water struck the building, which yielded to
pressure, and swung slowly down until the anchor arrested its further
progress. This was only for a few seconds, however. The chain was a
slight one. It snapped, and the house swept majestically down the
stream, while its terrified owner scrambled to the roof, which he found
already in possession of his favourite cat. Here he had a clear view of
his situation. The plains were converted into a lake, above whose
surface rose trees and houses, several of which, like his own, were
floating on the stream or stranded among shallows. Settlers were rowing
about in boats and canoes in all directions, but although some of them
noticed the poor man sitting beside his cat on the housetop, they were
either too far off or had no time to render him assistance.
For two days nothing was heard of old Mr. Seaforth. Indeed, the
settlers had too much to do in saving themselves and their families to
think of others; and it was not until the third day that people began
to inquire about him. His son Peter had taken a canoe and made diligent
search in all directions, but although he found the house sticking on a
shallow point, neither his father nor the cat was on or in it. At last
he was brought to the island, on which nearly half the colony had
collected, by an Indian who had passed the house, and brought him away
in his canoe, along with the old cat. Is he not a wonderful man, to
have come through so much in his old age? and he is still so active and
hearty! Mr. Swan of the mill is dead. He died of fever last week. Poor
old Mr. Cordon is also gone. His end was very sad. About a month ago he
ordered his horse and rode off, intending to visit Fort Garry. At the
turn of the road, just above Grant’s house, the horse suddenly swerved,
and its rider was thrown to the ground. He did not live more than
half-an-hour after it. Alas! how very sad to see a man, after escaping
all the countless dangers of a long life in the woods (and his, you
know, was a very adventurous one), thus cut violently down in his old
age. O Charley, how little we know what is before us! How needful to
have our peace made with God through Jesus Christ, so that we may be
ready at any moment when our Father calls us away. There are many
events of great interest that have occurred here since you left. You
will be glad to hear the Jane Patterson is married to our excellent
friend Mr. Cameron, who has taken up a store near to us, and intends to
run a boat to York Fort next summer. There has been another marriage
here which will cause you astonishment at least, if not pleasure. Old
Mr. Peters has married Marie Peltier! What _could_ have possessed her
to take such a husband? I cannot understand it. Just think of her,
Charley, a girl of eighteen, with a husband of seventy-five!—
At this point the writing, which was very close and very small,
terminated. Harry laid it down with a deep sigh, wishing much that
Charley had thought it advisable to send him the second sheet also. As
wishes and regrets on this point were equally unavailing, he
endeavoured to continue it in imagination, and was soon as deeply
absorbed in following Kate through the well-remembered scenes of Red
River as he had been, a short time before, in roaming with her brother
over the wide prairies of Saskatchewan. The increasing cold, however
soon warned him that the night was far spent. He rose and went to the
stove; but the fire had gone out, and the almost irresistible frost of
these regions was already cooling everything in Bachelors’ Hall down to
the freezing-point. All his companions had put out their candles, and
were busy, doubtless, dreaming of the friends whose letters had struck
and reawakened the long-dormant chords that used to echo to the tones
and scenes of other days. With a slight shiver, Harry returned to his
apartment, and kneeled to thank God for protecting and preserving his
absent friends, and especially for sending him “good news from a far
land.” The letter with the British post-marks on it was placed under
his pillow. It occupied his waking and sleeping thoughts that night,
and it was the first thing he thought of and reread on the following
morning, and for many mornings afterwards. Only those can fully
estimate the value of such letters who live in distant lands, where
letters are few—very, very few—and far between.