Faithless Jehu--The "Blarney Stone"--Mennonites in search of
News--"Water, Water everywhere"--A Herd of Buffaloes--A Mud
Village--Pointe du Chêne and Old Nile--At Dawson Route--A Cheerful
Party--_Toujours perdrix_--The "Best Room"--A Government Shanty--Cats
and Dogs--Birch River--Mushroom-picking--The Mosquito Plague--A Corduroy
Road--The Cariboo Muskeg.
When we resumed our journey, the weather was hazy and seemed to threaten
a thunderstorm. Accordingly, we made great haste, in the hope of reaching
"Pointe du Chêne" proper before the storm broke. But when all else was
ready, neither our Jehu nor his steeds could be found; he had taken them
about a mile further on, to spend the night at a friend's, and did not
make his appearance until eight o'clock. As I bade our old hostess
good-bye, she seized hold of my ulster, and feeling its texture, said--
"Are ye warm enough, child, in that thing? Ye'll feel the cold drivin'.
Ye'd better have a shawl."
Thanking her for her inquiries, I assured her that I was quite warm.
"Ah, well," she said, patting me on the arm, "take care of yourself. Good
people are scarce."
Poor old creature! her good nature made me glad she was my countrywoman.
A kind thought expressed in the familiar accents of "Ould Oireland" is
welcome to the wayfarer in strange lands, even though it may often be
"only blarney" after all.
Reaching a bend in the little river Seine at noon, we halted for dinner,
and lighted a fire. But not daring to waste much time in unpacking, we
took what we could eat in our fingers, and fed the children. Before we
had finished, we were joined by a party of Mennonites, in a comfortable
covered waggon drawn by two powerful horses. The family consisted of an
elderly man; his wife, a pretty, quaint-looking little woman; a daughter,
apparently sixteen; a boy of twelve; and two little girls of about six,
looking like twins. They were well dressed, in the quaint costume of
their country. The man, who alone could speak English, told us they were
going to Winnipeg to hear the war news, and gave a look of utter
astonishment at our ignorance of the latest telegrams. It made me feel
quite ashamed of not having taken more interest in the progress of
current events, to meet a party of emigrants driving miles through these
solitudes to hear what I had passed heedlessly by when close under my
hand. The Mennonite elder was very polite; but, judging from the shrugs
indulged in by the family after a remark uttered in their own language,
they did not think highly of our intelligence.
Before we were packed into the waggon again the rain came down in
earnest, and the whole afternoon was spent in vain endeavours to keep
ourselves dry. Waterproofs, blankets, umbrellas, all were soaked, as hour
after hour we were dragged slowly through the muskeg, or marsh, following
no apparent track, and with the water often up to the "hubs" of the
wheels. No sooner were our umbrellas placed in a suitable position to
keep off the rain, than Jehu would make one of his _détours_, and
the wind and rain meeting us on the other side, away flew our wraps, and
all the umbrellas had to be rearranged. The difficulty of doing this, and
yet keeping them from dripping down some one's neck, was almost
insuperable. Mosquitoes, too, flying about in swarms, added their quota
to our discomfort. The poor canary had a hard time of it, for in spite of
all our care the cage repeatedly filled with water, which I had to empty
over the side of the waggon. Luckily, the cats kept quiet, and no one was
anxious to know whose feet were in the box of plants!
About three miles from Pointe du Chêne, a herd of buffalo feeding in the
distance made us forget our misery for a moment. They had not been met
with so near a civilized neighbourhood for years; the wet and stormy
weather was the cause of their approach. I was disappointed in their
appearance; they looked to me very like a herd of farm cattle, but seemed
to feed closer together. I had, however, not much chance to study their
peculiarities; another _détour_ speedily requiring my attention. On
looking for the buffaloes when again at leisure, they were nowhere to be
seen.
Pointe du Chêne is, without exception, the muddiest village I ever was
in. We drove through streams of mud; fences were built in mud, mud
extended on every side for acres. The houses were so surrounded with mud,
ankle-deep, nay, knee-deep, that one wondered how the inmates ever got
out. Yet they told us that in a few weeks all would be quite dry; that
what were now some of the largest mud-lakes would then be the finest
wheat-fields; and it is possible that mud here may have the same
fertilizing properties as it has on the banks of the Nile, and that
agriculture may be carried on upon the same principles in this part of
Canada as in Egypt.
At the Dawson route way-house we were received by a white-haired old man
_en route_ to take a situation as cook in one of the houses on the
line--though certainly no one ever looked less like a cook. He ushered us
into the kitchen, the only room boasting a fire, and we were there met by
the proprietor, a depressed and apologetic sort of person. After several
whispered consultations with a hopeless wife, who moved in melancholy
protest, or sat with her head leaning against the wall, applying the
corner of her apron to her eyes so constantly, that that particular
corner would not lie flat when allowed to drop, he put up a stove in the
front room, which was soon festooned in every direction with our drenched
garments.
Two rooms upstairs, clean-looking, but almost devoid of furniture, were
allotted to us, and finding that we should be unable to continue our
journey for at least thirty-six hours, we tried to make the best of them.
Fearing that we might encounter further delays where it would be
impossible to get food, we decided to husband what we had, especially as
we discovered that our Jehu, whenever he got into the waggon from the wet
muskeg, had sat on the bag of bread, which still further reduced our
supplies. Accordingly we determined to content ourselves with whatever
might be set before us, which proved to be pork, bread, and tea for
breakfast; bread, tea, and pork for dinner; and tea, pork, and bread for
supper. As we ventured to make a mild remark upon the monotony of the
bill of fare, a bottle of pickles was produced next morning, our dejected
hostess informing us, in a sepulchral tone, that it cost "one dollar,
Hudson Bay Company store prices."
Towards nightfall the French teamster arrived, with his load rather
mixed. He had been compelled to unload and reload so often, that
everything was where it should not be. Stove-pipes, down which the rain
poured in rusty streams, were lying on the top of the best mattresses;
and, generally speaking, all the light things were underneath, and all
the heavy ones on the top. Soon after the Frenchman, "Stick-in-the-Mud"
arrived alone, drenched and miserable. _His_ load was again "stuck
in the muskeg, a matter of two mile off, he guessed." If left there all
night, it would sink so deep in that quicksand-like marsh that there
would be little hope of ever extracting it. The poor lad said his team
was too done up to be of any use, and he was so "dead tired, he hadn't a
leg to stand on." Still, he didn't object to go back if men and teams
were sent with him. And after a great deal of tramping through the muddy
village, our people succeeded in getting a yoke of oxen to send to the
rescue of our Saratogas.
Meantime the best room of the inn had been "tidied up"--I suppose in our
honour, for next day our meals were served there instead of in the
kitchen as at first. It resembled the "best room" of most Canadian
farmhouses. A four-post bedstead stood in one corner, covered with a
patchwork quilt, generally the work of the wife when a girl; a bureau was
decorated with the few books possessed by the family--usually a Bible,
almanac, and photograph album--the best cups and saucers, a looking-glass
and a pin-cushion; an old-fashioned roomy sofa filled another corner. The
dining-table in the centre had extension leaves, very far from level; the
wall was decorated with a big clock, a couple of bright-coloured prints,
a portrait or two and a sampler; and the floor was covered in patches
with rag mats.
If we flattered ourselves that promotion into the "best room" would
ensure privacy, we were doomed to disappointment. The whole family, from
the doleful mamma to the youngest olive-branch, favoured us with their
presence, sat on the sofa, and, looking through the album, were kind
enough to discuss their relations and friends _pro bono publico_.
The youngest child, aged five, having an occasional inclination to lay
violent hands upon portions of our dinner, was pounced upon by one or
other of her family, roughly shaken or thumped, and banged down upon a
hard wooden chair; while from some other loving relative came the remark,
made between set teeth, "I'd slap her, I would!" Poor little thing! she
did not seem "a' there," as the Scotch say; the frequent boxing and
banging her poor head underwent probably increasing, if it did not
occasion, her stupidity.
Early on Friday morning we set out again, under more favourable auspices,
though the day was cold and cloudy. One of the division superintendents,
or "walking bosses" as they are called, employed by the contractors, had
arrived at our resting-place the day before, _en route_ for the
"Angle," and he offered to exchange teams with us, if we would allow him
to accompany his good horses. This proposal was gladly accepted, and with
the utmost satisfaction we saw our French-Indian Jehu depart with his
ill-conditioned brutes.
After leaving Pointe du Chêne, the road for some distance lies up a long
rocky hill, and then passes through a comparatively well-wooded country.
But we thought little of surrounding scenery. The wind was so cold, and
the frequent snow-storms during the day were so disagreeable, that we had
quite enough to do to keep ourselves and the children warm.
We had our dinner near a dismantled log-house on the bank of a narrow
creek, and reaching Whitemouth River about seven, put up at a shanty
built by Government to shelter travellers on the Dawson road. It is kept
by a Norwegian named Nord and his wife, and can only boast of three small
rooms and a kitchen. It was too cold to camp out, so, spreading our rugs
and blankets on the floor, we lay down and slept, too tired to heed the
hardness of the boards.
On Saturday the air was warmer, and the road comparatively good, and we
were sufficiently at ease to look out for and admire the wild-flowers
that grew on every side (Mr. R---- good-naturedly stopping to gather some
for us), and watch for the young rabbits started by the dogs, who yelped
loudly when in full chase after them. We had two dogs when we left
Winnipeg, but now our pack numbered eight, some joining us at every
halting-place. But in the same proportion that the dogs increased, the
cats decreased, a kitten being begged at every house, as they were
overrun with mice; and our cats were received with almost as much delight
as Dick Whittington's historical speculation. Unfortunately, however, the
recipients were too poor to make our fortunes in return. At noon we
passed our teamsters, and Mr. R----'s gang of navvies, rather
picturesquely grouped round their camp fire, where tea was boiling and
pork frying. The untethered horses were feeding by the roadside, and
"Stick-in-the-Mud," for once superior to his name, was alone plodding
steadily on. This was our easiest day's journey, and it was scarcely four
o'clock when we reached Birch river, a dry sandy hill round which a tiny
creek wound. We were glad of a few hours' respite to run about and
stretch our weary limbs. One of our party discovering that the banking of
the shanty was full of mushrooms, we gathered a great many, and took them
to the kitchen to be cooked.
This way-house is kept by two brothers, who have literally nothing to do
but cook, eat, and sleep, bare shelter being all that the Government
supplies to travellers. One of the brothers was making dough-nuts and
boiling them in a pot of fat, and although they did not look tempting I
had the greatest curiosity to taste them. However, as he did not give me
any encouragement to ask for one, my curiosity remained unsatisfied, and
I had to content myself with the mushrooms, which had full justice done
to them. As night came on, the mosquitoes were terrible; smoke was of no
avail to keep them away. The cook told me that the season for them was
only just beginning, and that they were nothing to what they would be in
a month. The previous summer their cow had literally been tortured to
death, between the mosquitoes and deer-flies. Mr. C---- had a mosquito
netting tent which was put up in the room we slept in, so that we had
comparative exemption from their torments; but it was too hot to sleep,
and all night long I heard the men outside fighting with and swearing at
their winged enemies.
We set out early on Sunday, as we had a long day's drive before us, and
were to have our first experience of a corduroy road. The one in question
was a very bad specimen, a succession of deep mud-holes, round some of
which we skirted cautiously, wondering how "Stick-in-the-Mud" would get
through, and plunging into some swamps, which seemed to tax all the
strength our team could exert to lug us out again. We soon arrived at the
great Cariboo muskeg, on the smooth squared-timber road. This muskeg
must, at some earlier stage of the world's existence, have been a great
lake full of islands; now it is a grassy swamp, the water clear as spring
water, studded with groups of high rocks of varied size and shape,
overgrown by tall pines, birch, scrubby underbrush, ferns, and moss. We
had been getting on with such comparative ease that we began to think our
fears of the "corduroy road" had been groundless; but before night we
experienced the wisdom of the warning not to "halloo before we were out
of the bush." We took our lunch on some flat rocks, near a place known on
the road as "six-mile shanty;" not without difficulty, as the dogs, like
ourselves, were hungry, and, while we were in chase of a refractory
umbrella carried away by the wind, one dog demolished the butter and
another ran off with our roast beef; and when we reflected that it was
the last fresh meat we were likely to taste for months, we saw it depart
with regret, even though the ham had been left us.
If the roads were bad in the morning, they were ten times worse in the
afternoon; and nothing, I think, will ever make me forget the last five
miles of real corduroy road we traversed before reaching the "Angle." It
consisted of round logs, loosely bound together, and thrown down upon a
marsh, no two consecutive logs being of the same size. There had
originally been some foundation, and there were still deep drains dug on
each side; but the logs had given way at different ends in some parts,
and altogether in others. It was bump, bump, bang, and swash; swash,
bang, and bump; now up, now down, now all on one side, now all on the
other. Cushions, rugs, everything that could slide, slid off the seats;
the children were frightened and fretting; the bird fluttered itself
almost to death in vain attempts to escape; the kittens were restless;
and all our hair-pins, slipping down our backs, added a cold shiver to
our other miseries.
One longed to cry out and beg to be allowed to stop, if only for a
moment. But of what use would that have been? We had to endure it, so it
was best to get it over quickly. In many places the old road was
completely gone, and we had to drive through such dreadful holes that we
wondered the waggon, came out entire. [Footnote: Much of this part of the
road is now under water and well-nigh impassable, the prospect of soon
having the Canada Pacific Railway in working order making it seem waste
of time and money to repair it.] Never was smooth road greeted with
greater pleasure than we hailed the last mile from the "Angle;" and never
did more stiff and weary travellers arrive at any bourn than our party
when alighting at the "Angle" that night.