Falcon River--An Unlucky Supper--The Fate of our Fried Pork--A Weary
Paddle--A Sundial in the Wilderness--A Gipsy Picnic--"Floating away"--The
Dried Musk-rats--Falcon Lake--How can we land?--Mr. M---- "in
again"--Surprised by Indians--How we dried our Clothes--The Last Night in
Camp.
Half an hour after leaving the Indian village we reached Falcon River, a
narrow winding stream running in a swamp between hills. About half a mile
down we struck our camp for the night, at a spot where a rude wharf or
landing of logs had been built by the contractors' haymakers. Inside a
rude "corelle," or paddock, where they had kept their cattle, we pitched
our tent and made a fire. The night set in so dark and cloudy that,
unless within the immediate blaze, it was impossible to see what we were
doing. We were hungry, and the added luxury of potatoes made us anxious
to have dinner as soon as possible. Carrière brought in wood for the
night, Mr. F---- made up our tent, and Mr. M---- superintended the
stowage of the canoes, while Frank put our precious potatoes in a tin
kettle over the fire, and, in mistaken zeal, the frying-pan of pork at
the same time. The latter, of course, was cooked long before the former,
so, taking it off the fire, he set it on the ground hard by. Mr. M----
coming up a moment after, and yielding to the universal desire to "poke
the fire," stepped into the pan of pork. While we were laughing over his
propensity for tumbling into things, Carrière, who, poor fellow, was
still suffering terribly from rheumatism, limped up with a log on his
shoulder, and also fell foul of the pork. At the same moment a lantern
appeared in the distance, carried by Mr. F----, on his return from the
canoe. Jumping over the fence, he exclaimed, "By Jove! that blaze is
good. I'll get warm before I do anything else," and stepped back splash
into the ill-fated pan of pork, making what was left of the contents fly
in every direction.
"That's a bad place for it!" said Carrière, coolly picking up the pieces,
and putting it on the other side of the fire.
"Are those potatoes boiled yet?" Frank shouted from the darkness, and,
being answered in the affirmative, made his appearance with the bag
containing our dinner service of tin and other table necessaries. Tea
made, drawn, and the potatoes boiled to a turn, Frank prepared to serve
up the dinner, but looked in vain for the pork. "I say, Carrière, what
have you done with the frying-pan? I left it just here!" he cried,
seizing a brand from the fire for a torch. Scarcely had he uttered the
words when a stumble and "O Lord!" told us that the pork was really done
for this time.
Rain fell heavily all night, but held off in the morning long enough for
us to get breakfast and start, which we lost no time in doing as there
was a long paddle before us to our next camping-ground. Oh, the windings
of that Falcon River! In some parts not more than a canoe's length wide,
and in none more than two, it wound in and out, up and down, this way and
that. For a hundred feet we were dead against the wind, then a sharp turn
sent us spinning along before it, when, standing up, I held the
waterproof in my outstretched arms as a sail. Each bend of the shore was
so abrupt that the impetus of turning drove the canoe half a length into
the long grass, and it was with some difficulty backed out. We were cut
off from our companions' canoe, but could see their heads apparently only
a few feet from us, as the crow flies; but so numerous were the turns of
the river between us, that they were really half a mile behind.
At noon we stopped at another haymaker's deserted camping-ground, and
took shelter from the now pouring rain under a lean-to of poles covered
with bark. A low shanty near having a rude crank for holding a kettle
over the fire, we had a comfortable lunch. Out in the open, where there
were remnants of rough cultivation, was a sundial made of a jagged-edged
flat piece of tin, the figures scratched with a knife. Carrière said that
it was the best camping-ground on the river, and while a gang of men were
there was very comfortable. Had any one from the more civilized world
seen us idly lolling about on the logs or ground in our travelling
costumes, the Indians leaning against the uprights, the baby as happy as
a queen on an outspread buffalo robe, the tin plates and mugs, knives,
forks, and kettles, to say nothing of the whisky-keg, and general
_debris_ of a finished feast, and at the same time heard the steady,
drenching rain descending round us, he might have wondered at the
laughter, fun, and chaff in which we all indulged.
But we could not stay there all day, and the rain showing no signs of
abating, we set out again. Not far from the camping-ground we passed an
Indian standing on the bank near two birch-bark canoes, while up on the
hill a wretched wigwam sent forth the usual number of squaws, children,
and dogs to greet our approach. The Indian had no potatoes, no ducks, no
fish, no anything to sell; so, with a "Bon jour, nitchee," we sped on.
About this time I noticed that my hat, a brown straw with green leaves
somewhere amongst the trimming, was weeping blue tears all down my
ulster. Taking the drenched and now almost colourless leaves out, I sent
them afloat on the river, mentally resolving that if I ever undertook a
journey of the kind again, I would have a casing of waterproof, and leave
voluminous skirts and useless adornments at home.
At one of the landing spots was an upright pole, from the top of which
hung half a dozen musk-rats, tied together with a red string; and such is
the honesty of the Indians, that they might hang there until they rotted
off, before any but the rightful owner would touch them.
Carrière said the swamp was full of traps, and pointed out many spots
where he knew they were placed to catch the musk-rats, but which to our
eyes were undistinguishable from the rest of the swamp.
On, on, down the interminable river. The rain was still falling, and we
were all gradually getting numbed and quiet; running into the shore, or
spinning before the wind, no longer affording any excitement. We got so
far ahead of the other canoe that we could not hear even Mr. K----'s
"Whoop it up!" as he called a wild halloo he indulged in whenever he
thought our spirits needed raising. Pulling up under the shelter of some
bulrushes, for the wind was becoming keener every moment, we waited with
chattering teeth until our comrades joined us, when we kept together
better for the remainder of the way. During the afternoon we several
times crossed the south or first line surveyed for the Canada Pacific,
which has been proved by recent inquiries the most inexpensive route. But
I could not help pitying the "party" that had to work through such a
wretched country.
As we neared the mouth of the river we felt the wind very much, and vague
fears of what the weather would be like outside, and what chance there
was of landing, began to assail us. However, there was nothing for it but
to persevere. When nearly dusk, the wash of the waves on the shore warned
us that we were on the Falcon Lake. Subdued by atmospheric woes, we heard
the sound without comment, but it revived the drooping energies of our
canoe-men, and, putting on a spurt, we were soon across the bay. Beyond
the point great white capped waves tossed and raged before the fury of
the wind. If we could only round the point, a good camping-ground awaited
us, but it was a question whether the canoes could live through the turn.
However, the alternative of landing in a swamp made it worth the attempt.
Asking me if I was afraid to venture, and being answered, "Not if
_you_ are not!" Mr. M---- headed the canoe towards the lake, and in
a moment we were abreast of the point, when Carrière said--"Better not
try it, sir; it is too dark to cross the lake, and on this shore the
canoe would be dashed to pieces before we could unload her."
So we turned, and a few vigorous strokes drove the canoe well up into the
long grass, where we sat a moment waiting for the next scene of the
tragi-comedy. It was Mr. M---- "in again"--but purposely this time.
Rolling up their trousers as high as they could, the men jumped into the
swamp, and though sinking nearly to their waists, they with a
"Heave-ahoy!" pulled the loaded canoe well up to the bank. Then bidding
us stay quiet until they got the tents pitched and the fire alight, they
left us in the fast-gathering darkness to do that hardest work of all,
which generally falls to woman's lot--to wait. As we sat silently there,
the baby asleep, the maid telling her woes over the side of the canoe in
the most heart-rending manner, we were nearly startled out of our wits by
the sudden appearance of a birch-bark canoe propelled by two shaggy-haired
Indians, which glided into the swamp alongside of us. Listening to the
ring of axes and voices on shore, then pointing to us, they asked some
question in their own tongue, which we answered by pointing to the land
and nodding. With an "Ugh!" they left their canoe and went on shore,
where they were immediately pressed into the service to unload and gather
hay for our beds. They had a "tom-tom"--an instrument something between a
drum and a tambourine, which they play at all their feasts and gambling
bouts--a scarlet top knotted cock of the woods, a small fish, a little
birch bark basket with the lid tightly sewed down, and an old worn-out
blanket in their canoe.
It was quite dark by the time we landed, cramped and cold from our long
day on the river. I, however, was the best off, as I had the width of the
canoe to myself, and was not afraid to move about a little, while Mrs.
F---- had to share her seat with the maid and the baby. We floundered
helplessly up the wet path, sinking over our ankles in many places, but a
glorious fire on the top of the height greeted us, and a mug of hot
whisky and water--taken medicinally, of course--made us quite ready to
eat a hearty dinner and dry our wet clothes. The tent was prepared, and,
drying under its folds, we divested ourselves of one garment, and after
drying it dived under again, to put it on while we dried the next.
Hammering sticks into the ground round the fire, we soon surmounted them
with an array of different-sized boots and various-coloured stockings. We
held more voluminous articles to the fire ourselves, avoiding the sparks
as best we might, and closing our eyes to let the smoke-drawn tears roll
slowly down our cheeks, to be opened suddenly by an outcry from the other
side of the fire of--
"Look out there, Miss F----; your flannel skirt is burning!"
And as I grasp the precious article, and quench the sparks with my hands,
I see through the flames some of his own garments floating into the fire.
The wind blows the sticks down and prostrates an impromptu clothes-line
with all its load, while the maid's lugubrious countenance, as she dries
petticoat after petticoat and skirt after skirt, set me speculating how
much there would be left of her if she took them _all_ off. Our
Indian visitors sit hugging their knees and holding their bare feet to
the fire, gazing at all the trouble we take over our absurd superfluities
of clothing with stolid indifference. Frank is lying on the hay near,
threatening them with the dire vengeance he will wreak on their backs if
they get up in the night and burn the dry wood be has had such difficulty
in collecting, and which is to be kept for cooking breakfast; and of how
little value their life will be to them if they so much as lay a finger
on the tent he is going to leave standing there ready to occupy on his
way back. The wilder his threats become, the more expressionless are
their faces; not a gleam of intelligence crosses them when he says he
knows well enough they can talk English as well as he can.
"Wasn't he taken in once? But never will Redskin impose on him again."
And he laughs scornfully at the idea.
We sat up late that night, as the rain had ceased, and we had been so
dull all day that we felt bound to make up for it now, especially as this
was to be our last night in camp. Frank and Carrière vied with each other
in relating their narrow escapes from accidents and scarcity of
provisions, when Hudson Bay fare of "one pound of flour, half a pound of
tea, and one pound of fat pork, or one jack-fish six mile long," would
have been appreciated. These stories were varied by anecdotes of people
they had travelled with; some trick of speaking or peculiarity of
expression or action, cleverly mimicked by the Indians, pointing their
story and giving pungency to their wit.