ON THE PORTAGE
We sing the open road, good friends,
But here's a health to you.--WILLIAM GRIFFITH.
As one watches the efforts of the wagoners to store away the valises
and rolls of blankets without ejecting the passengers, one remembers
that Caesar's word for baggage was impedimenta. But Prosper, our
wagoner, is the best packer on the trail, also he can sing, "I've got
rings on my fingers."
"It is strange there are so many dingy half-breeds in the world," says
the person by my side who objects to her blankets being tied on behind.
"To my thinking there is no colour to compare with white. 'Ishmaels,'
I call these breeds."
Prosper's bearing under her choleric criticism is so superbly apathetic
that I like him swiftly and completely. Any one can see that he is a
man of substantial qualities and not to be excited by fidgety women.
It is fourteen rough miles from Mirror Landing to Soto Landing, along a
black trail that lifts and dips through the tall ranks of the poplars
and pines. The scenery offers no great varieties except those of light
and shade, vista and perspective.
Whenever we pass through a thick-knit stand of pines, the people in the
wagons are instinctively reticent and subdued, but, upon emerging into
open space where there are only birches to throw a shimmering wayward
shadow, 'tis observable that every one laughs or sings. It was _La
Marseillaise_ the eight Oblate Brothers sang, and once they broke into
a French ballad the theme of which was--
"Mary, I love you,
Will you marry me?"
The team on our wagon is a badly mated one. The off beast trots like a
sheep and has a way of hanging her head as if some one had told her a
story too shocking to contemplate: while Lisette, the nigh mare,
although strong as a steel cable, picks objections to every foot of the
way either with a kick or an idiotic sidelong prance. Now and then
Prosper, who knows the whole truth about Lisette, and who looks more
religious than he really is, advises her as to her forbears and
predicts as to her posterity, but, like Job's wild ass, this
whimsical-minded trailer "scorneth the multitude of the city and
regardeth not the crying of the driver."
"She's a female voter, she is," says an Englishman, who has been back
home on a visit, "and it's a tidy bit of walloping she needs."
The London suffragettes would have been pleased with our opinion of
their countryman and that we were able to express it in the exact
words. After a full and unreserved apology from the frightened
traveller, we, in turn, retracted the indecorous charge that he was a
ridiculous pinhead, and a man of low understanding, whereupon peace
once more reigned in our wagon. It is astonishing what pernicious
consequences may follow from the kicking of a wayward-minded mare on
the trail. Most of the frontier tragedies are attributable to this
very thing.
Anderson's stopping-place which we are passing used to be the only
house between Grouard and Athabasca Landing, and accordingly is a
notable landmark. Anderson is still unmarried. It is forced upon the
notice of a traveller in these North-Western Provinces that every
bachelor has little spruce-trees around his house. The bachelor thinks
we don't suspect his reason, but we know it is because he hopes, some
day, they may come in handy for Christmas-trees.
We stay for a little while at the house of Ernst and Minna, who came
from Europe more than six years ago. It is a sheer joy to know Minna,
who is a little round-bodied woman, firm-fleshed and wholesome as an
autumn apple. She has been at Athabasca Landing once. She hears there
are trains there now. It may be that Madam saw them.
Minna had planned a trip to the Landing this summer but it happened she
did not go after all. Ah, well! there is the money saved and she is
sure to see the Landing again. Minna was going to the hospital of the
good sisters to lie in with her fifth baby and Ernst was to stay here
with the children. You may believe it too, that Ernst is no
butter-fingers with children and a most cunning baker of bread. Minna
says that down this way every man can bake bread--and does bake bread.
The little house by the trail would, of course, miss its mother for a
while, but the garden seeds were in; the children's clothes were mended
to the last stitch, and a parcel of baby's fixings was on its way to
her from Edmonton. Now it happened there was too much important
freight from the boat to carry this parcel and so it was left behind
till the next trip. It was nearly too late and Minna was greatly
perplexed, for surely she was going to see the Landing and how could
she go without the baby's clothing.
But, at last, the parcel came, and the wagoner who delivered it was to
call the next day on his return trip and take Minna with him over the
portage to the boat. He came, and with him were several passengers.
It was unfortunate there was no woman among them, for Minna had no
neighbours; Ernst had gone down the trail, and her hour was upon her.
"Mother, she iss sick," explained her little son, "and no one iss in to
come. I am by the door to stand till Father he comes back." It was
nearly an hour before the distressful travellers were able to find
Ernst, but no man ventured past the young sentinel.
The little daughter was half-an-hour old when Ernst was deposited on
his door-step, but Minna had cared for the child herself. It was too
bad the mother had fallen from the loft and hurt herself, for now, she
cannot go to the hospital and she wanted to see the Landing. Ah, well!
there is the money saved and that is something. It takes much money
for five children.
"How old is the baby girl?" I ask, as I take my turn in kissing the
mite's forehead, and in wishing that she may be a good little scout
like Minna.
"She was one week last Tuesday. No! two weeks last Tuesday. Ah!
Madam, I cannot surely say. Ernst I will ask him how old is the baby."
* * * * *
Once on the journey we passed a speckled owl in a pine-tree, but she
did not answer to our "Oo-hoo!" neither did she so much as open an eye.
She looks rich unto millions, and thoroughly proof against all appeals.
She is what Cowper called the University of Oxford, "a rich old vixen."
I intend affecting this pose myself when I find the gold at the foot of
the rainbow, in order that I may be extremely insolent to the bankers
and to other offensive collectors.
Prosper says he often shoots owls who lodge in the fir-trees, and that
he gets two dollars bounty from the government from each one. He does
not know it is accounted a sin to him who kills a bird that has
sheltered in a fir-tree, or an animal that has crouched thereunder, for
this is the tree of the Christ-Child, and a House of Refuge in the
forest to the denizens thereof. To those men or women who love the
fir, its bitter taste on their tongues may be more holy than bread or
wine, and may convey to them an inly grace.
Also it is wrong to cast away the Christmas-tree, or the ropes of
greenery which have been used for the celebration of Christmastide.
These should be burned upon the hearth as a sweet savour, and the
fire-master should say, "Peace be to this household and to all the
household of Canada."
The resin of conifers is a more agreeable and a more seemly offering to
Our Lady of the Snow than aloes, or myrrh or spices, so that it behoves
us, her children, to look anew to our censing pots.
Since leaving Athabasca Landing, we have passed through enough
uncultivated land to solve all the problems of Great Britain which
arise out of unemployed workmen, and out of slum conditions with their
attendant evils.
As its stupendous acreage, enormous fertility, and its lifeless voids
are daily thrust upon me, I am filled with amazement. Surely no land
was ever so little appreciated by its owners. If there were an ocean
between it and our more populous provinces to the south, one might the
better understand the reasons. This waste heritage can only be
accounted for on the grounds of a lack of interest, and because people
are indolent and like to live softly. Only two members of the Alberta
legislature have ever visited this country, and these two belong here.
It does not need a new Moses to stand and say, "This is a goodly land";
it needs a new and more drastic Joshua, to take them by the ear and
lead them in. The time is coming when the crops from this land will,
each year, outstrip in value all the gold money in the world, and it
will not be so long either. I intend to buy as much of it myself as I
can afford, and if I can persuade the Christians of my own town to lend
me the money instead of building churches, I shall buy more than I can
afford. I have read much about this country, but I find it better to
come here and tread out the grapes for myself.
While I have been taking stock mentally of these things, we have
arrived at Soto Landing, on the Lesser Slave River, and already the
Indian women have come out of their tents to watch our movements.
These people are called squatters hereabout, but I prefer to call them
nesters. They sow not, neither do they gather into barns. They don't
care to do either.
They view us women with a quiet appraising look, but not understanding
"their dark, ambigious, fantasticall, propheticall, gibrish," I cannot
learn their conclusions. The Factor's widow, who is still with us,
heard one of the Indian men describe her hat as a pot, whereupon she
remarked to him in excellent Cree that her pot lacked a handle. If I
were to set down how the other Indians enjoyed this stabbing surprise,
and how they were contorted with laughter by reason of their fellow's
confusion, you would hardly believe me, so I shall not set it down.
One Indian woman wears a dress that has in it the many shocking colours
of a Berlin-wool mat. She is pleased when we stroke it with our hands,
and I can see she is as proud of it as I am of my dimity bed-gown with
the pink rosebuds on it.
Dinner is ready on the boat and our appetites are too sharp-set to
permit of delay. We eat and eat just as if eating were our chief and
ever-lasting happiness, and as if life itself lay in a fleshpot.
This is a larger and better equipped boat than those on the Athabasca
because it is meant for the lake traffic. We do not leave Soto Landing
till three hours past the scheduled time, for Mr. J. K. Cornwall, the
Member of Parliament for the Peace River Constituency, affectionately
known hereabouts as "Jim," has chosen to make the portage afoot.
This country, from Athabasca Landing to the Peace River, is commonly
described as "Jim's Country," and if you travel it over you will
understand the reason.
Who supports the stopping-places on the river? Jim's freighters.
Who cuts the wood on the bank? Jim's Indians.
Who hauls the passengers, the freight, and the mail-bags over the
portage? Jim's wagoners.
Who owns the ships on the Athabasca and the Slave? Why, Jim himself.
How Jim can look his pay-sheet in the eye every fortnight and keep
laughing, is, to my thinking, the miracle of the North. But then it
must be borne in mind that I have never seen Jim's ledger-book, and, as
yet, no one else has except his accountants and bankers.
The dream of Jim's life has been to lay bare the wealth of the North,
for the good of the North, and every day he is making his dream come
true.
But I was telling you about Soto Landing. The freight shed here is in
charge of a bachelor whose wardrobe is drying audaciously on the trees.
He says he ties his clothes together with a rope and lets the current
of the river wash them, but I think this statement is what Montaigne
would describe as "A shameless and solemne lie."
He asks me how long I have been out from Ireland and I tell him three
years. "What was the charge!" he pursues.
"Stealing the crown jewels," I reply.
"Oh!" says he, "it's the same time since I left the sod. It was for
killing a landlord."
Now as this man came from New Brunswick, and as I came from Ontario, it
may readily be seen that we have both become Albertans.
"Are you not ashamed to deceive a woman like me, and an ignoramus who
is travelling north to gain instruction?" I ask of him.
"Woman! You're no woman. I mean you're no ignoramus--and, although
you question us, I perceive you know more about the north than all of
us. But seeing you wish to be further instructed, come with me to the
freight shed that I may show you how the wholesale houses pack their
goods. Believe me, Lady, I cut to the root of the matter when I say
the only downright packers in this north country are the Hudson's Bay
Company. You can plainly see this for yourself, and I hope you will
inform the Board of Trade about it when you go home. Here, you will
observe a set of scales, but the weights were insecurely attached and
have been lost.
"This heap of refuse is the remains of a shipment of crockery that was
crated too lightly. Errant improvidence, I call it. Lady, the pitcher
is no longer broken at the fountain: it is our habit here to break it
on the portage. It is no exaggeration when I say I am worked like a
transcontinental railway system, hammering up boxes or shovelling out
damaged merchandise.
"Cast your eye up at these chairs in the rafters, six dozen of them by
actual count, sent north by a furniture house last year but delivery
was refused by the purchaser."
"They look like good chairs," say I, "what is the matter with them?"
"Matter enough," he continues, "shipped as 'knocked-down' furniture,
four legs to each chair, all of them hind legs. This was a matter of
considerable vexation to the purchaser, who paid cash for the goods and
for their transportation."
"But the furniture house will send the front legs," I argue.
"Might as well try to get blood out of sawdust," says he. Now,
personally, I think this simile is an inconclusive one, for I have
known timbermen to sweat great drops of blood into sawdust, and there
is no reason why those drops could not be extracted.
This freight master is a compelling man, and he says the shippers are
expert sinners and a parcel of ignorant and makeshift people. It may
be he is right: it is not for me to gainsay him, or to further
discompose his temper, when all the evidence is so plainly visible.
After this discussion, I play with the other children who tumble about
on the hillside. They all talk Cree, and some of them who have been to
school talk French and English.
One little girl, with the fine insouciance of eight years, says there
is no use praying _Le Bon Dieu_, for He doesn't understand Cree very
well. She has repeated her prayer over and over but she has never had
a soft-faced doll yet.
Solemn little mother! Her prayer, at any rate, is reasonably specific,
and I can see how one of these days it is going to be answered.
It is good to rest in the shade of the trees while these
copper-coloured babies jabber about me in soft Cree, and finger my hair
and clothes. Truly, I am very fortunate and have much fulness of
pleasure. I might be that same good girl whom an English playwright
describes as having never compromised herself, and yet the wickedest
child who ever was slapped could hardly have had a better time.