ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE UNKNOWN
"When shall we reach Rigolet, Captain?"
"Before daylight, I hopes, sir, if the fog holds off, but there's a
mist settling, and if it gets too thick, we may have to come to."
Crowded with an unusual cargo of humanity, fishermen going to their
summer work on "The Labrador" with their accompanying tackle and
household goods, meeting with many vexatious delays in discharging the
men and goods at the numerous ports of call, and impeded by fog and
wind, the mail boat _Virginia Lake_ had been much longer than is her
wont on her trip "down north."
It was now June twenty-first. Six days before (June fifteenth), when
we boarded the ship at St. Johns we had been informed that the steamer
_Harlow_, with a cargo for the lumber mills at Kenemish, in Groswater
Bay, was to leave Halifax that very afternoon. She could save us a
long and disagreeable trip in an open boat, ninety miles up Groswater
Bay, and I bad hoped that we might reach Rigolet in time to secure a
passage for myself and party from that point. But the _Harlow_ had no
ports of call to make, and it was predicted that her passage from
Halifax to Rigolet would be made in four days.
I had no hope now of reaching Rigolet before her, or of finding her
there, and, resigned to my fate, I left the captain on the bridge and
went below to my stateroom to rest until daylight. Some time in the
night I was aroused by some one saying:
"We're at Rigolet, sir, and there's a ship at anchor close by."
Whether I had been asleep or not, I was fully awake now, and found that
the captain had come to tell me of our arrival. The fog had held off
and we had done much better than the captain's prediction. Hurrying
into my clothes, I went on deck, from which, through the slight haze
that hung over the water, I could discern the lights of a ship, and
beyond, dimly visible, the old familiar line of Post buildings showing
against the dark spruce-covered hills behind, where the great silent
forest begins.
All was quiet save for the thud, thud, thud of the oarlocks of a small
boat approaching our ship and the dismal howl of a solitary "husky" dog
somewhere ashore. The captain had preceded me on deck, and in answer
to my inquiries as to her identity said he did not know whether the
stranger at anchor was the _Harlow_ or not, but he thought it was.
We had to wait but a moment, however, for the information. The small
boat was already alongside, and John Groves, a Goose Bay trader and one
of my friends of two years before, clambered aboard and had me by the
hand.
"I'm glad to see you, sir; and how is you?"
Assuring him that I was quite well, I asked the name of the other ship.
"The _Harlow_, sir, an' she's goin' to Kenemish with daylight."
"Well, I must get aboard of her then, and try to get a passage up. Is
your flat free, John, to take me aboard of her?"
"Yes, sir. Step right in, sir. But I thinks you'd better go ashore,
for the _Harlow's_ purser's ashore. If you can't get passage on the
_Harlow_ my schooner's here doing nothin' while I goes to St. Johns for
goods, and I'll have my men run you up to Nor'west River."
I thanked him and lost no time in going ashore in his boat, where I
found Mr. James Fraser, the factor, and received a hearty welcome. In
Mr. Fraser's office I found also the purser of the _Harlow_, and I
quickly arranged with him for a passage to Kenemish, which is ninety
miles up the inlet, and just across Groswater Bay (twelve miles) from
Northwest River Post. The _Harlow_ was to sail at daylight and I at
once returned to the mail boat, called the boys and, with the help of
the _Virginia's_ crew and one of their small boats, we were
transferred, bag and baggage, to the _Harlow_.
Owing to customs complications the _Harlow_ was later than expected in
leaving Rigolet, and it was evening before she dropped anchor at
Kenemish. I went ashore in the ship's boat and visited again the
lumber camp "cook house" where Dr. Hardy and I lay ill throng those
weary winter weeks, and where poor Hardy died. Hardy was the young
lumber company doctor who treated my frozen feet in the winter of
1903-1904. Here I met Fred Blake, a Northwest River trapper. Fred had
his flat, and I engaged him to take a part of our luggage to Northwest
River. Then I returned to the ship to send the boys ahead with the
canoes and some of our baggage, while I waited behind to follow with
Fred and the rest of the kit in his flat a half hour later.
Fred and I were hardly a mile from the ship when a heavy thunderstorm
broke upon us, and we were soon drenching wet--the baptism of our
expedition. This rain was followed by a dense fog and early darkness.
On and on we rowed, and I was berating myself for permitting the men to
go on so far ahead of us with the canoes, for they did not know the way
and the fog had completely shut out the lights of the Post buildings,
which otherwise would have been visible across the bay for a
considerable distance.
Suddenly through the fog and darkness, from shoreward, came a "Hello!
Hello!" We answered, and heading our boat toward the sound of
continued "Hellos," found the men, with the canoes unloaded and hauled
ashore, preparing to make a night camp. I joined them and, launching
and reloading the canoes again, with Richards and Easton in one canoe
and Pete and I in the other, we followed Fred and Stanton, who preceded
us in the rowboat, keeping our canoes religiously within earshot of
Fred's thumping oarlocks. Finally the fog lifted, and not far away we
caught a glimmer of lights at the French Post. All was dark at the
Hudson Bay Post across the river when at last our canoes touched the
sandy beach and we sprang ashore.
What a flood of remembrances came to me as I stepped again upon the old
familiar ground! How vividly I remembered that June day when Hubbard
and I had first set foot on this very ground and Mackenzie had greeted
us so cordially! And also that other day in November when, ragged and
starved, I came here to tell of Hubbard, lying dead in the dark forest
beyond! The same dogs that I had known then came running to meet us
now, the faithful fellows with which I began that sad funeral journey
homeward over the ice. I called some of them by name "Kumalik,"
"Bo'sun," "Captain," "Tinker"--and they pushed their great heads
against my legs and, I believe, recognized me.
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. We went immediately to the
Post house and roused out Mr. Stuart Cotter, the agent (Mackenzie is no
longer there), and received from him a royal welcome. He called his
Post servant and instructed him to bring in our things, and while we
changed our dripping clothes for dry ones, his housekeeper prepared a
light supper. It was five o'clock in the morning when I retired.
In the previous autumn I had written Duncan McLean, one of the four men
who came to my rescue on the Susan River, that should I ever come to
Labrador again and be in need of a man I would like to engage him.
Cotter told me that Duncan had just come from his trapping path and was
at the Post kitchen, so when we had finished breakfast, at eight
o'clock that morning, I saw Duncan and, as he was quite willing to go
with us, I arranged with him to accompany us a short distance into the
country to help us pack over the first portage and to bring back
letters.
He expressed a wish to visit his father at Kenemish before starting
into the country, but promised to be back the next evening ready for
the start on Monday morning, the twenty-sixth, and I consented. I knew
hard work was before us, and as I wished all hands to be well rested
and fresh at the outset, I felt that a couple of days' idleness would
do us no harm.
Some five hundred yards east of Mr. Cotter's house is an old, abandoned
mission chapel, and behind it an Indian burying ground. The cleared
space of level ground between the house and chapel was, for a century
or more, the camping ground of the Mountaineer Indians who come to the
Post each spring to barter or sell their furs. In the olden time there
were nearly a hundred families of them, whose hunting ground was that
section of country between Hamilton Inlet and the Upper George River.
These people now, for the most part, hunt south of the inlet and trade
at the St. Lawrence Posts. The chapel was erected about 1872, but ten
years ago the Jesuit missionary was withdrawn, and since then the
building has fallen into decay and ruin, and the crosses that marked
the graves in the old burying grounds have been broken down by the
heavy winter snows. It was this withdrawal of the missionary that
turned the Indians to the southward, where priests are more easily
found. The Mountaineer Indian, unlike the Nascaupee, is very
religious, and must, at least once a year, meet his father confessor.
The camping ground since the abandonment of the mission, has lain
lonely and deserted, save for three or four families who, occasionally
in the summer season, come back again to pitch their tents where their
forefathers camped and held their annual feasts in the old days.
Competition between the trading companies at this point has raised the
price of furs to such an extent that the few families of Indians that
trade at this Post are well-to-do and very independent. There were two
tents of them here when we arrived--five men and several women and
children. I found two of my old friends there--John and William
Ahsini. They expressed pleasure in meeting me again, and a lively
interest in our trip. With Mr. Cotter acting as interpreter, John made
for me a map of the old Indian trail from Grand Lake to Seal Lake, and
William a map to Lake Michikamau and over the height of land to the
George River, indicating the portages and principal intervening lakes
as they remembered them.
Seal Lake is a large lake expansion of the Nascaupee River, which
river, it should be explained, is the outlet of Lake Michikamau and
discharges its waters into Grand Lake and through Grand Lake into
Groswater Bay. Lake Michikamau, next to Lake Mistasinni, is the
largest lake in the Labrador peninsula, and approximately from eighty
to ninety miles in length. Neither John nor William had been to Lake
Michikamau by this route since they were young lads, but they told us
that the Indians, when traveling very light without their families,
used to make the journey in twenty-three days.
During my previous stay in Labrador one Indian told me it could be done
in ten days, while another said that Indians traveling very fast would
require about thirty days. It is difficult to base calculations upon
information of this kind. But I was sure that, with our comparatively
heavy outfit, and the fact that we would have to find the trail for
ourselves, we should require at least twice the time of the Indians,
who know every foot of the way as we know our familiar city streets at
home.
They expressed their belief that the old trail could be easily found,
and assured us that each portage, as we asked about it in detail, was a
"miam potagan" (good portage), but at the same time expressed their
doubts as to our ability to cross the country safely.
In fact, it has always been the Indians' boast, and I have heard it
many times, that no white man could go from Groswater Bay to Ungava
alive without Indians to help him through. "Pete" was a Lake Superior
Indian and had never run a rapid in his life. He was to spend the
night with Tom Blake and his family in their snug little log cabin, and
be ready for an early start up Grand Lake on the morrow. It was Tom
that headed the little party sent by me up the Susan Valley to bring to
the Post Hubbard's body in March, 1904; and it was through his
perseverance, loyalty and hard work at the time that I finally
succeeded in recovering the body. Tom's daughter, Lillie, was
Mackenzie's little housekeeper, who showed me so many kindnesses then.
The whole family, in fact, were very good to me during those trying
days, and I count them among my true and loyal friends.
We had supper with Cotter, who sang some Hudson's Bay songs, Richards
sang a jolly college song or two, Stanton a "classic," and then all who
could sing joined in "Auld Lang Syne."
My thoughts were of that other day, when Hubbard, so full of hope, had
begun this same journey-of the sunshine and fleecy clouds and beckoning
fir tops, and I wondered what was in store for us now.