After his disasters in New Ireland, our friend Blungle could not be
prevailed upon to go fishing again.[1] The sport was conducted under
circumstances which deprived it of all attraction to him. He could
understand fishing in the Thames,—sitting all day in a comfortable
arm-chair in a punt, moored off Ditton, with a stock of brandy and water
and mild Havannahs. This was true sport; but digging holes in the ice to
catch fish was neither sportsman-like nor exciting. Under the
circumstances, he was not to be reasoned with; so we only laughed at
him,—Perroque advising him, on his return to St. Pancras, to try his
luck in a parlour fishbowl. This put him on his mettle,—and to show that
he was ready to “rough it” with any man, he challenged us to go hunting
with him. Perroque, who was as great an adept on snow-shoes as on
skates, gave him no time to retract, and a hunt after Moose was at once
determined upon.
Footnote 1:
See page 243.
Our accoutrements consisted of snow-shoes (which, when slung over the
shoulders, looked not unlike a pair of large wings), a rifle, an
“Arkansas toothpick,” and a flask. We started without delay, and on the
afternoon of the second day were once more in the township of Leeds,
which we had fixed upon as the scene of our operations.
Archibald McQuaigh was an old Highlander who had emigrated from
Strathtoddy, and who prided himself greatly on his ancestry, and on
having been the man who “felled the first tree in Leeds,” in 1817; since
which time the township had made marvellous strides in advancement and
prosperity, and McQuaigh was fond of saying that the crash of the first
victim to the axe was still ringing in his ears. He had pushed his way
boldly into the woods, with nothing but an axe, a set of bagpipes, a
peck of oatmeal, and a bottle of whiskey,—the last two being the remains
of the stock of provisions which he had taken on board with him at
Glasgow. With this scanty outfit he began the hardy life of a
settler,—borrowing flour and pork from his neighbours, the nearest of
whom was fifteen miles off, until the gathering of his first crop, when
he became an independent man. Years, although not without a fight for
it, had produced their effect even on McQuaigh. He had shrunk somewhat
in all his proportions, but his skin and flesh looked like plastic horn,
which seemed to bid defiance to decay. Blungle felt qualmish, when first
presented to him, for he had still a very fiery look, calculated to
affect the nervous,—his hair, which was becoming grey at the tips, now
looking like so many red-hot wires elevated to a white heat at the
points. His manly activity had not yet forsaken him, his frame being
still well knit and compact, and there were few in the township who
would even then venture to wrestle with him. He had been originally a
deer-keeper to the Marquis of Glen-Fuddle, and his early vocation gave
him a taste for the chase which never forsook him, and it was in the
double capacity of an enthusiastic sportsman and a hospitable man, that
we carried letters of introduction to him.
We were received with true Highland hospitality, after the old style.
After dinner McQuaigh repeated half of “Ossian” in the original to us,
giving us incidentally to understand that the poet belonged to a younger
branch of his family. He spoke English as a convenience, but had great
contempt for it as a language. Indeed, he used to call it, sneeringly,
“a tongue,” and maintained that Gaelic was the only real language on
earth.
The next morning at breakfast, McQuaigh announced that in five minutes
after that meal was disposed of, we should be on our way for the part of
the forest which was to be the scene of our operations. A Moose deer is
a great prize, which is not often secured, and the appearance of one
makes quite a noise in a neighbourhood. For some days back a rumour had
been rife throughout the township that one had been seen at a point
about three miles distant from McQuaigh’s residence; and it was only on
the evening before our arrival, that that worthy had been himself
informed by a man who had come from a neighbouring settlement that he
had crossed its track on the way. This accounted for a somewhat high
state of fever in which we found him on arrival; and our appearance gave
him great relief, by furnishing him at once with an excuse for a hunt,
and companions in his sport.
Having plentifully provided ourselves with creature comforts from
McQuaigh’s larder and whiskey-cask, we started in a common farm sleigh,
in which we had all to stand upright, for the point at which we were to
push into the forest. McQuaigh had secured the attendance of a French
Canadian named Jean Baptiste, who was a servant on an adjoining farm,
and who was as expert a Moosehunter as any man in the province.
Having gained the summit of a steep hill, the gillie was sent back with
the sleigh, and we prepared to diverge into the bush. The snow lay fully
five feet deep around us; and before leaving the beaten track, our first
care was to adjust our snow-shoes, which are indispensable to Canadian
winter sport. Each shoe is about the size of a large kite, which it also
resembles in shape. The outer frame is made of light cedar, bent and
bound together by two slender bars, placed about equidistant from both
ends. The thin spaces contained between the outer frame and the bars,
are filled up with a network composed of a substance resembling cat-gut.
The toe is attached to the snow-shoe close to the front bar, the heel
being left at liberty: so that when it is raised in the act of dragging
the foot forward, the snow-shoe is not raised with it, being dragged
horizontally upon the surface. The object of the snow-shoe is to prevent
the pedestrian from sinking in the soft snow, which it effects by giving
him a far broader basis to rest upon than Nature has provided him. Thus
accoutred, a man will pass rapidly, and in safety over the deepest
deposits—having to take much longer strides than usual, in order that
the snow-shoes may clear one another. The exercise is somewhat
fatiguing, and requires some practice to be perfect in it. Blungle was
not an adept, and before he had proceeded ten paces, he was prostrate on
his face, and fully three feet beneath the surface. His plight in
somewhat resembled that of the boy who had let the inflated
bladders—with the aid of which he attempted to swim—slip down to his
feet, which they elevated to the surface, keeping his head, however,
under water. The only thing discernible for the moment, of our
fellow-companion, was his snow-shoes, which were moving convulsively to
and fro, near the surface. Encumbered by them, he would never have risen
again but for our aid; and it was some time ere he succeeded in getting
his mouth, ears, and nose, emptied of the snow; he was more cautious
afterwards in the management of his feet, although his inexperience
somewhat retarded our progress.
We were soon in the very depths of the forest, and lonely indeed are
these Canadian woods in the dreary winter time. All under foot was
enveloped in snow, from which as from a white sea, rose like so many
colossal columns, the stately trunks of the trees, through the leafless
boughs of which, as through an extended trellis-work, the blue sky was
discernible over head. The undulations of the surface pleasantly
diversified a scene which would otherwise have been monotonous; and we
made our way merrily over hill and valley, but ever through the unbroken
forest, in the deep dells of which we now and then crossed a streamlet,
whose course had been arrested, and whose voice had been hushed for
months by the relentless frost.
We had been thus occupied for about three hours, when we at length came
upon the track of the game:—a deep furrow had been made in the snow;
bespeaking the labour which the animal must have had in ploughing his
way through it. We stopped; and McQuaigh, giving vent to a long
expiration, half between a whistle and a sigh, exclaimed, wiping the
perspiration from his horny features, “We have him as sure as a gun, if
nobody else has got scent of him; and you see,” he added, pointing to
the untrodden snow around, “there’s not the track of a living soul after
him.”
“But what chance have we?” I asked, “seeing that it must be more than
two days at least since the Moose passed this spot?”
“Give a deer any reasonable start in the winter time,” replied McQuaigh,
“and a man on his snow-shoes will run him down. We have only to follow
his track, and depend on’t we’ll go over more ground than he will in a
day.” So saying, he led off in the direction which our prey had
evidently taken. Blungle did not like the possibility of being for a
week on the track of one deer; but he put the best face on it, and
laboured to keep up with us.
We had not gone far, ere, like the confluence of a small with a larger
stream, we found the track of an ordinary deer converge upon that of the
Moose. From the point of junction, the follower, as affording him an
easier passage through the snow, had kept to the track of his more
powerful leader.
“Let’s hurry, and we’ll have the two of them,” said McQuaigh, and he
doubled the length of his strides. Blungle groaned, but laboured on.
We thus pursued the now double track, until the shades of evening stole
over the forest, and imparted a mysterious solemnity to the lonely
solitudes, which we had invaded. After a hard day’s work, we looked out
for a spot in which to rest for the night. We resolved to bivouac by a
huge elm, whose hollow trunk rose without branch or twig to break its
symmetry, for nearly sixty feet from the ground. We dug a hole in the
snow, more than four feet deep, spreading our blankets on the bottom of
it. On one side we were sheltered by the elm; on the other three by our
snowy circumvallation. Our next care was to light a blazing fire, which
we did in the hollow of the tree; after which we laid ourselves down to
sleep, Jean Baptiste having orders to keep the first watch, and to awake
any of us, whom he might find getting stiff. In five minutes Blungle was
snoring as comfortably as if he were reposing on his own pillow in
Bloomsbury.
I was about turning the corner of consciousness, when McQuaigh, who was
stretched beside me, and who never seemed to shut more than one eye at a
time, started suddenly to his feet, and seizing the axe which was
resting against the tree, raised it to his shoulder, and stood intently
watching the hollow in which the fire was burning. He was quite a
picture, standing out, as he did, in fine relief from the surrounding
darkness, as the crackling flames threw their ruddy glare on his brawny
frame and furrowed visage. But his sudden movement indisposing me for
the artistic mood, I was at once on my feet beside him, and it was not
till then that I heard sounds proceed from the hollow trunk, which gave
me some clue to what had so suddenly called him into action. I had but
brief time for consideration, for, in a moment or two afterwards, down
came a heavy body into the fire, scattering the faggots about in all
directions. Blungle, who was still asleep, was aroused by one of the
blazing embers grazing his nose, and on jumping up precipitated himself
into the embrace of a shaggy bear, which was about to treat him to a
fatal hug, when McQuaigh’s axe descended with terrific force upon its
skull, which it cleft in twain. The slaughtered brute fell on its side
carrying Blungle along with it, who, when he was removed, was nearly as
insensible as the bear.
“There’s never two of them in a tree,” said McQuaigh, “so we may go to
sleep now.” We did so, and I slept soundly for two or three hours, Jean
Baptiste kept watch as before, employing himself, until his turn came
for sleeping, in dressing the carcass of the bear, from which, in the
morning, we were supplied with hot chops for breakfast. If we did not
consider them unsavory, it was perhaps because our appetites were too
good to be very discriminating. We could not persuade Blungle to touch
them. He was possessed of an abstract idea that it was unchristian to
eat a bear. At first he positively refused to accompany us any further,
but on McQuaigh expressing a friendly hope that he would get safe out of
the woods if he attempted to return alone, he made up his mind that the
lesser of two evils was to stick to the party. He made a solemn vow,
however, that should he ever live to see the Zoological Gardens again,
he would carefully avoid even a glance at the bears.
After breakfast, we resumed our course, keeping close to the track as on
the preceding day. We had not gone far when, on descending a steep bank,
we heard a rustling sound proceed from a thicket on the margin of a
tolerably sized stream which lay across our path.
“It’s but the little one,” said McQuaigh, whose keen eye caught a
momentary sight of a deer, which was immediately lost again to him in
the thicket. “Make ready for action.”
We were, of course, all excitement, and Blungle obeyed the injunction by
deliberately levelling his rifle at Jean Baptiste, who was a little in
advance of us, with a view to driving the deer from his hiding place.
McQuaigh, observing this movement, with a sudden wave of his arm
elevated the muzzle into the air, just as Blungle drew the trigger, and
the ball went whistling through the trees, cutting off several twigs in
its course.
“To take a man when there’s venison in the way,” said McQuaigh, who
seemed to impute Blungle’s aim solely to a want of taste, “who ever
heard of such a thing?” Blungle could not have been more frightened, had
he pointed his rifle against himself, and, for some time afterwards, he
apostrophised the adverse character of his fate, in terms not the most
suited for delicate ears. The discharge of the rifle startled the deer,
which bounded at once in full sight from the thicket. A ball from
Perroque wounded him in the flank, McQuaigh’s trigger was drawn in an
instant, but his piece missed fire, much to his annoyance, and as he
said himself, “for the first time in its life.” I fired too—but to this
day I have not the slightest idea what became of the ball—the wounded
animal plunged wildly towards the stream, which he endeavoured to cross.
But it was rapid at that particular point, and the ice which was but
imperfectly formed gave way with him. He struggled hard to keep himself
on the surface, until a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect on his
head, and he was at once dragged under by the impetuous current. A
little further on, the stream plunged down several rocky ledges in
foaming rapids, which bade defiance to the frost. We gained this point
just in time to see the body of the deer emerge from beneath the ice; it
was immediately afterwards carried over a cataract and precipitated
amongst masses of ice, which rose from the chasm like a cluster of
basaltic columns and inverted stalactites.
As it would have taken too much time to recover it, we left the mangled
body of the deer in the icy crevice into which it had fallen, and
ascending to a point above the rapids, crossed the river, where the ice
was strong. We then recovered the track, which we followed for the rest
of the day, passing several small settlements in the woods, all of which
had been carefully avoided by the Moose. In the evening we bivouacked as
before, but this time in the neighbourhood of a solid tree. Blungle
struck it all round with the axe to assure himself that it was not
hollow, and expressed his satisfaction that it rung sound. Next morning
we plunged deeper and deeper into the forest wilds. About mid-day,
Blungle, whose patience was well nigh exhausted, began to be seriously
offended at the non-appearance of our prey, and confidentially hinted to
Perroque and myself that wild goose rhymed to wild Moose. But, at that
moment, Baptiste who was in advance, was observed to fling his arms into
the air, and then to direct our attention to a point a little to the
right of us, where we caught the first sight of the object of pursuit.
The Moose was at some distance from us, buried to the belly in snow, and
scraping the green bark from a young tree. Being too far off to fire
with effect, we glided silently towards him over the snow, concealing
ourselves as much as possible by going from tree to tree. He was a
full-grown animal, and, for some time, was not aware of our approach;
but, as we came within doubtful shot of him, he looked anxiously around,
exhibiting symptoms of agitation and alarm.
“Bang at him,” said McQuaigh, “or we may lose our chance.” He had
scarcely uttered the words, when our four rifles were simultaneously
discharged. The Moose gave a tremendous bound and plunged through the
snow, endeavouring to escape us. We made after him at once, reloading
our rifles as we proceeded. When we came up to the spot occupied by him,
it was evident that he had been seriously wounded, from the extent to
which the snow was stained with blood. We soon observed that his efforts
to escape became fainter and fainter, and, as he was staggering and
about to fall, a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect in his heart,
and he sank in the snow.
The Moose deer’s nose is considered a great dainty by both civilised man
and savage. Blungle, although well provided in that facial department
himself, was almost petrified at its size. “It looked,” he said, “as if
the animal carried a small carpet-bag in front in which to keep his
provender.” Having cut the nose off, we confided it to the care of Jean
Baptiste.
“Look out for blazes,” said McQuaigh, as we prepared to return.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Blungle, raising his rifle to his
shoulder as if he expected an attack from another bear. But there was
nothing the matter, “blazes” being the term applied to the marks left by
the surveyors on certain trees, to denote the lines of the different
townships, as they are cleared from the woods. By means of these marks
the woodsman can readily direct himself to a settlement—to find which
was now McQuaigh’s object. Dragging the body of the deer after us, we
proceeded for about two hours guided by the blazes, and, at last, came
to a small settlement, where we procured a couple of sleighs, one for
Jean Baptiste and the slaughtered Moose, and the other for ourselves. At
a late hour of the night we gained McQuaigh’s residence, considerably
fatigued after our exertions.
We spent two days more with our eccentric but warm-hearted host, after
which he let us depart reluctantly. We reached Quebec on the following
day, and soon regaled a party of friends on our valuable trophy, the
Moose deer’s nose.