Book: The Young Fur Traders

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"Bless you, Kate," he said at length. "I am indeed thankful to God,
not only for sparing my life, but for giving me such a darling sister
to live for. But now, Kate, tell me, what do you think of father's
determination to have me placed in the office here?"

"Indeed, I think it's very hard. Oh, I do wish _so_ much that I could
do it for you," said Kate with a sigh.

"Do _what_ for me?" asked Charley.

"Why, the office work," said Kate.

"Tuts! fiddlesticks! But isn't it, now, really a _very_ hard case?"

"Indeed it is; but, then, what can you do?"

"Do?" said Charley impatiently; "run away to be sure."

"Oh, don't speak of that!" said Kate anxiously. "You know it will
kill our beloved mother; and then it would grieve father very much."

"Well, father don't care much about grieving me, when he hunted me
down like a wolf till I nearly broke my neck."

"Now, Charley, you must not speak so. Father loves you tenderly,
although he _is_ a little rough at times. If you only heard how
kindly he speaks of you to our mother when you are away, you could
not think of giving him so much pain. And then the Bible says,
'Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the
land which the Lord thy God giveth thee;' and as God speaks in the
Bible, _surely_ we should pay attention to it!"

Charley was silent for a few seconds; then heaving a deep sigh, he
said,--

"Well, I believe you're right, Kate; but then, what am I to do? If I
don't run away, I must live, like poor Harry Somerville, on a long-
legged stool; and if I do _that_, I'll--I'll--"

As Charley spoke, the door opened, and his father entered.

"Well, my boy," said he, seating himself on the bedside and taking
his son's hand, "how goes it now? Head getting all right again? I
fear that Kate has been talking too much to you.--Is it so, you
little chatterbox?"

Mr. Kennedy parted Kate's clustering ringlets and kissed her
forehead.

Charley assured his father that he was almost well, and much the
better of having Kate to tend him. In fact, he felt so much revived
that he said he would get up and go out for a walk.

"Had I not better tell Tom Whyte to saddle the young horse for you?"
said his father, half ironically. "No, no, boy; lie still where you
are to-day, and get up if you feel better to-morrow. In the meantime,
I've come to say good-bye, as I intend to go home to relieve your
mother's anxiety about you. I'll see you again, probably, the day
after to-morrow. Hark you, boy; I've been talking your affairs over
again with Mr. Grant, and we've come to the conclusion to give you a
run in the woods for a time. You'll have to be ready to start early
in spring with the first brigades for the north. So adieu!"

Mr. Kennedy patted him on the head, and hastily left the room.

A burning blush of shame arose on Charley's cheek as he recollected
his late remarks about his father; and then, recalling the purport of
his last words, he sent forth an exulting shout as he thought of the
coming spring.

"Well now, Charley," said Kate, with an arch smile, "let us talk
seriously over your arrangements for running away."

Charley replied by seizing the pillow and throwing it at his sister's
head; but being accustomed to such eccentricities, she anticipated
the movement and evaded the blow.

"Ah, Charley," cried Kate, laughing, "you mustn't let your hand get
out of practice! That was a shockingly bad shot for a man thirsting
to become a bear and buffalo hunter!"

"I'll make my fortune at once," cried Charley, as Kate replaced the
pillow, "build a wooden castle on the shores of Great Bear Lake, take
you to keep house for me, and when I'm out hunting you'll fish for
whales in the lake; and we'll live there to a good old age; so good-
night, Kate dear, and go to bed."

Kate laughed, gave her brother a parting kiss, and left him.




CHAPTER VI.

Spring and the voyageurs.


Winter, with its snow and its ice: winter, with its sharp winds and
white drifts; winter, with its various characteristic occupations and
employments, is past, and it is spring now.

The sun no longer glitters on fields of white; the woodman's axe is
no longer heard hacking the oaken billets, to keep alive the roaring
fires. That inexpressibly cheerful sound the merry chime of sleigh-
bells, that tells more of winter than all other sounds together, is
no longer heard on the bosom of Red River; for the sleighs are thrown
aside as useless lumber--carts and gigs have supplanted them. The old
Canadian, who used to drive the ox with its water-barrel to the ice-
hole for his daily supply, has substituted a small cart with wheels
for the old sleigh that used to glide so smoothly over the snow, and
_grit_ so sharply on it in the more than usually frosty mornings in
the days gone by. The trees have lost their white patches, and the
clumps of willows, that used to look like islands in the prairie,
have disappeared, as the carpeting that gave them prominence has
dissolved. The aspect of everything in the isolated settlement has
changed. The winter is gone, and spring--bright, beautiful, hilarious
spring--has come again.

By those who have never known an arctic winter, the delights of an
arctic spring can never, we fear, be fully appreciated or understood.
Contrast is one of its strongest elements; indeed, we might say,
_the_ element which gives to all the others peculiar zest. Life in
the arctic regions is like one of Turner's pictures, in which the
lights are strong, the shadows deep, and the _tout ensemble_ hazy and
romantic. So cold and prolonged is the winter, that the first mild
breath of spring breaks on the senses like a zephyr from the plains
of Paradise. Everything bursts suddenly into vigorous life, after the
long, death-like sleep of Nature; as little children burst into the
romping gaieties of a new day, after the deep repose of a long and
tranquil night. The snow melts, the ice breaks up, and rushes in
broken masses, heaving and tossing in the rising floods, that grind
and whirl them into the ocean, or into those great fresh-water lakes
that vie with ocean itself in magnitude and grandeur. The buds come
out and the leaves appear, clothing all nature with a bright
refreshing green, which derives additional brilliancy from sundry
patches of snow, that fill the deep creeks and hollows everywhere,
and form ephemeral fountains whose waters continue to supply a
thousand rills for many a long day, until the fierce glare of the
summer sun prevails at last and melts them all away.

Red River flows on now to mix its long-pent-up waters with Lake
Winnipeg. Boats are seen rowing about upon its waters, as the
settlers travel from place to place; and wooden canoes, made of the
hollowed-out trunks of large trees, shoot across from shore to shore--
these canoes being a substitute for bridges, of which there are
none, although the settlement lies on both sides of the river. Birds
have now entered upon the scene, their wild cries and ceaseless
flight adding to it a cheerful activity. Ground squirrels pop up out
of their holes to bask their round, fat, beautifully-striped little
bodies in the sun, or to gaze in admiration at the farmer, as he
urges a pair of _very_ slow-going oxen, that drag the plough at a
pace which induces one to believe that the wide field _may_ possibly
be ploughed up by the end of next year. Frogs whistle in the marshy
grounds so loudly that men new to the country believe they are being
regaled by the songs of millions of birds. There is no mistake about
their _whistle_. It is not merely _like_ a whistle, but it _is_ a
whistle, shrill and continuous; and as the swamps swarm with these
creatures, the song never ceases for a moment, although each
individual frog creates only _one_ little gush of music, composed of
half-a-dozen trills, and then stops a moment for breath before
commencing the second bar. Bull-frogs, too, though not so numerous,
help to vary the sound by croaking vociferously, as if they
understood the value of bass, and were glad of having an opportunity
to join in the universal hum of life and joy which rises everywhere,
from the river and the swamp, the forest and the prairie, to welcome
back the spring.

Such was the state of things in Red River one beautiful morning in
April, when a band of voyageurs lounged in scattered groups about the
front gate of Fort Garry. They were as fine a set of picturesque,
manly fellows as one could desire to see. Their mode of life rendered
them healthy, hardy, arid good-humoured, with a strong dash of
recklessness--perhaps too much of it--in some of the younger men.
Being descended, generally, from French-Canadian sires and Indian
mothers, they united some of the good and not a few of the bad
qualities of both, mentally as well as physically--combining the
light, gay-hearted spirit and full, muscular frame of the Canadian
with the fierce passions and active habits of the Indian. And this
wildness of disposition was not a little fostered by the nature of
their usual occupations. They were employed during a great part of
the year in navigating the Hudson's Bay Company's boats, laden with
furs and goods, through the labyrinth of rivers and lakes that stud
and intersect the whole continent, or they were engaged in pursuit of
the bisons, [Footnote: These animals are always called buffaloes by
American hunters and fur-traders.] which roam the prairies in vast
herds.

They were dressed in the costume of the country: most of them wore
light-blue cloth capotes, girded tightly round them', by scarlet or
crimson worsted belts. Some of them had blue and others scarlet cloth
leggings, ornamented more or less with stained porcupine quills,
coloured silk, or variegated beads; while some might be seen clad in
the leathern coats of winter--deer-skin dressed like chamois leather,
fringed all round with little tails, and ornamented much in the same
way as those already described. The heavy winter moccasins and duffel
socks, which gave to their feet the appearance of being afflicted
with gout, were now replaced by moccasins of a lighter and more
elegant character, having no socks below, and fitting tightly to the
feet like gloves. Some wore hats similar to those made of silk or
beaver which are worn by ourselves in Britain, but so bedizened with
scarlet cock-tail feathers, and silver cords and tassels, as to leave
the original form of the head-dress a matter of great uncertainty.
These hats, however, are only used on high occasions, and chiefly by
the fops. Most of the men wore coarse blue cloth caps with peaks, and
not a few discarded head-pieces altogether, under the impression,
apparently, that nature had supplied a covering which was in itself
sufficient. These costumes varied not only in character but in
quality, according to the circumstances of the wearer; some being
highly ornamental and mended--evincing the felicity of the owner in
the possession of a good wife--while others were soiled and torn, or
but slightly ornamented. The voyageurs were collected, as we have
said, in groups. Here stood a dozen of the youngest--consequently the
most noisy and showily dressed--laughing loudly, gesticulating
violently, and bragging tremendously. Near to them were collected a
number of sterner spirits--men of middle age, with all the energy,
and muscle, and bone of youth, but without its swaggering hilarity;
men whose powers and nerves had been tried over and over again amid
the stirring scenes of a voyageur's life; men whose heads were cool,
and eyes sharp, and hands ready and powerful, in the mad whirl of
boiling rapids, in the sudden attack of wild beast and hostile man,
or in the unexpected approach of any danger; men who, having been
well tried, needed not to boast, and who, having carried off
triumphantly their respective brides many years ago, needed not to
decorate their persons with the absurd finery that characterised
their younger brethren. They were comparatively few in number, but
they composed a sterling band, of which every man was a hero. Among
them were those who occupied the high positions of bowman and
steersman, and when we tell the reader that on these two men
frequently hangs the safety of a boat, with all its crew and lading,
it will be easily understood how needful it is that they should be
men of iron nerve and strength of mind.

Boat-travelling in those regions is conducted in a way that would
astonish most people who dwell in the civilised quarters of the
globe. The country being intersected in all directions by great lakes
and rivers, these have been adopted as the most convenient highways
along which to convey the supplies and bring back the furs from
outposts. Rivers in America, however, as in other parts of the world,
are distinguished by sudden ebullitions and turbulent points of
character, in the shape of rapids, falls, and cataracts, up and down
which neither men nor boats can by any possibility go with impunity;
consequently, on arriving at such obstructions, the cargoes are
carried overland to navigable water above or below the falls (as the
case may be), then the boats are dragged over and launched, again
reloaded, and the travellers proceed. This operation is called
"making a portage;" and as these portages vary from twelve yards to
twelve miles in length, it may be readily conceived that a voyageur's
life is not an easy one by any means.

This, however, is only one of his difficulties. Rapids occur which
are not so dangerous as to make a "portage" necessary, but are
sufficiently turbulent to render the descent of them perilous. In
such cases, the boats, being lightened of part of their cargo, are
_run_ down, and frequently they descend with full cargoes and crews.
It is then that the whole management of each boat devolves upon its
bowman and steersman. The rest of the crew, or _middlemen_ as they
are called, merely sit still and look on, or give a stroke with their
oars if required; while the steersman, with powerful sweeps of his
heavy oar, directs the flying boat as it bounds from surge to surge
like a thing of life; and the bowman stands erect in front to assist
in directing his comrade at the stern, having a strong and long pole
in his hands, with which, ever and anon, he violently forces the
boat's head away from sunken rocks, against which it might otherwise
strike and be stove in, capsized, or seriously damaged.

Besides the groups already enumerated, there were one or two others,
composed of grave, elderly men, whose wrinkled brows, gray hairs, and
slow, quiet step, showed that the strength of their days was past;
although their upright figures and warm brown complexions gave
promise of their living to see many summers still. These were the
principal steersmen and old guides--men of renown, to whom the others
bowed as oracles or looked up to as fathers; men whose youth and
manhood had been spent in roaming the trackless wilderness, and who
were, therefore, eminently qualified to guide brigades through the
length and breadth of the land; men whose power of threading their
way among the perplexing intricacies of the forest had become a
second nature, a kind of instinct, that was as sure of attaining its
end as the instinct of the feathered tribes, which brings the
swallow, after a long absence, with unerring certainty back to its
former haunts again in spring.




CHAPTER VII.

The store.


At whatever establishment in the fur-trader's dominions you may
chance to alight you will find a particular building which is
surrounded by a halo of interest; towards which there seems to be a
general leaning on the part of everybody, especially of the Indians;
and with which are connected, in the minds of all, the most stirring
reminiscences and pleasing associations.

This is the trading-store. It is always recognisable, if natives are
in the neighbourhood, by the bevy of red men that cluster round it,
awaiting the coming of the storekeeper or the trader with that stoic
patience which is peculiar to Indians. It may be further recognised,
by a close observer, by the soiled condition of its walls occasioned
by loungers rubbing their backs perpetually against it, and the
peculiar dinginess round the keyhole, caused by frequent applications
of the key, which renders it conspicuous beyond all its comrades.
Here is contained that which makes the red man's life enjoyable; that
which causes his heart to leap, and induces him to toil for months
and months together in the heat of summer and amid the frost and snow
of winter; that which _actually_ accomplishes, what music is _said_
to achieve, the "soothing of the savage breast:" in short, here are
stored up blankets, guns, powder, shot, kettles, axes, and knives;
twine for nets, vermilion for war-paint, fishhooks and scalping-
knives, capotes, cloth, beads, needles, and a host of miscellaneous
articles, much too numerous to mention. Here, also occur periodical
scenes of bustle and excitement, when bands of natives arrive from
distant hunting-grounds, laden with rich furs, which are speedily
transferred to the Hudson's Bay Company's stores in exchange for the
goods aforementioned. And many a tough wrangle has the trader on such
occasions with sharp natives, who might have graduated in
Billingsgate, so close are they at a bargain. Here, too, voyageurs
are supplied with an equivalent for their wages, part in advance, if
they desire it (and they generally do desire it), and part at the
conclusion of their long and arduous voyages.

It is to one of these stores, reader, that we wish to introduce you
now, that you may witness the men of the North brigade receive their
advances.

The store at Fort Garry stands on the right of the fort, as you enter
by the front gate. Its interior resembles that of the other stores in
the country, being only a little larger. A counter encloses a space
sufficiently wide to admit a dozen men, and serves to keep back those
who are more eager than the rest. Inside this counter, at the time we
write of, stood our friend, Peter Mactavish, who was the presiding
genius of the scene.

"Shut the door now, and lock it," said Peter, in an authoritative
tone, after eight or ten young voyageurs had crushed into the space
in front of the counter. "I'll not supply you with so much as an
ounce of tobacco if you let in another man."

Peter needed not to repeat the command. Three or four stalwart
shoulders were applied to the door, which shut with a bang like a
cannon-shot, and the key was turned.

"Come now, Antoine," began the trader, "we've lots to do, and not
much time to do it in, so pray look sharp."

Antoine, however, was not to be urged on so easily. He had been
meditating deeply all the morning on what he should purchase.
Moreover, he had a sweetheart, and of course he had to buy something
for her before setting out on his travels. Besides, Antoine was six
feet high, and broad shouldered, and well made, with a dark face and
glossy black hair; and he entertained a notion that there were one or
two points in his costume which required to be carefully rectified,
ere he could consider that he had attained to perfection: so he
brushed the long hair off his forehead, crossed his arms, and gazed
around him.

"Come now, Antoine," said Peter, throwing a green blanket at him; "I
know you want _that_ to begin with. What's the use of thinking so
long about it, eh? And _that_, too," he added, throwing him a blue
cloth capote. "Anything else?"

"Oui, oui, monsieur," cried Antoine, as he disengaged himself from
the folds of the coat which Peter had thrown over his head. "Tabac,
monsieur, tabac!"

"Oh, to be sure," cried Peter. "I might have guessed that _that_ was
uppermost in your mind. Well, how much will you have?" Peter began to
unwind the fragrant weed off a coil of most appalling size and
thickness, which looked like a snake of endless length. "Will that
do?" and he flourished about four feet of the snake before the eyes
of the voyageur.

Antoine accepted the quantity, and young Harry Somerville entered the
articles against him in a book.

"Anything more, Antoine?" said the trader. "Ah, some beads and silks,
eh? Oho, Antoine!--By the way, Louis, have you seen Annette lately?"

Peter turned to another voyageur when he put this question, and the
voyageur gave a broad grin as he replied in the affirmative, while
Antoine looked a little confused. He did not care much, however, for
jesting. So, after getting one or two more articles--not forgetting
half-a-dozen clay pipes, and a few yards of gaudy calico, which
called forth from Peter a second reference to Annette--he bundled up
his goods, and made way for another comrade.

Louis Peltier, one of the principal guides, and a man of importance
therefore, now stood forward. He was probably about forty-five years
of age; had a plain, olive-coloured countenance, surrounded by a mass
of long jet-black hair, which he inherited, along with a pair of
dark, piercing eyes, from his Indian mother; and a robust, heavy, yet
active frame, which bore a strong resemblance to what his Canadian
father's had been many years before. His arms, in particular, were of
herculean mould, with large swelling veins and strongly-marked
muscles. They seemed, in fact, just formed for the purpose of pulling
the heavy sweep of an inland boat among strong rapids. His face
combined an expression of stern resolution with great good-humour;
and truly his countenance did not belie him, for he was known among
his comrades as the most courageous and at the same time the most
peaceable man in the settlement. Louis Peltier was singular in
possessing the latter quality, for assuredly the half-breeds,
whatever other good points they boast, cannot lay claim to very
gentle or dove-like dispositions. His grey capote and blue leggings
were decorated with no unusual ornaments, and the scarlet belt which
encircled his massive figure was the only bit of colour he displayed.

The younger men fell respectfully into the rear as Louis stepped
forward and begged pardon for coming so early in the day. "Mais,
monsieur," he said, "I have to look after the boats to-day, and get
them ready for a start to-morrow."

Peter Mactavish gave Louis a hearty shake of the hand before
proceeding to supply his wants, which were simple and moderate,
excepting in the article of _tabac_, in the use of which he was _im_-
moderate, being an inveterate smoker; so that a considerable portion
of the snake had to be uncoiled for his benefit.

"Fond as ever of smoking, Louis?" said Peter Mactavish, as he handed
him the coil.

"Oui, monsieur--very fond," answered the guide, smelling the weed.
"Ah, this is very good. I must take a good supply this voyage,
because I lost the half of my roll last year;" and the guide gave a
sigh as he thought of the overwhelming bereavement.

"Lost the half of it, Louis!" said Mactavish. "Why, how was that? You
must have lost _more_ than half your spirits with it!"

"Ah, oui, I lost _all_ my spirits, and my comrade François at the
same time!"

"Dear me!" exclaimed the clerk, bustling about the store while the
guide continued to talk.

"Oui, monsieur, oui. I lost _him_, and my tabac, and my spirits, and
very nearly my life, all in one moment!"

"Why, how came that about?" said Peter, pausing in his work, and
laying a handful of pipes on the counter.

"Ah, monsieur, it was very sad (merci, monsieur, merci; thirty pipes,
if you please), and I thought at the time that I should give up my
voyageur life, and remain altogether in the settlement with my old
woman. Mais, monsieur, that was not possible. When I spoke of it to
my old woman, she called _me_ an old woman; and you know, monsieur,
that _two_ old women never could live together in peace for twelve
months under the same roof. So here I am, you see, ready again for
the voyage."

The voyageurs, who had drawn round Louis when he alluded to an
anecdote which they had often heard before, but were never weary of
hearing over again, laughed loudly at this sally, and urged the guide
to relate the story to "_monsieur_" who, nothing loath to suspend his
operations for a little, leaned his arms on the counter and said--

"Tell us all about it, Louis; I am anxious to know how you managed to
come by so many losses all at one time."

"Bien, monsieur, I shall soon relate it, for the story is very
short."

Harry Somerville, who was entering the pipes in Louis's account, had
just set down the figures "30" when Louis cleared his throat to
begin. Not having the mental fortitude to finish the line, he dropped
his pen, sprang off his stool, which he upset in so doing, jumped up,
sitting-ways, upon the counter, and gazed with breathless interest
into the guide's face as he spoke.

"It was on a cold, wet afternoon," said Louis, "that we were
descending the Hill River, at a part of the rapids where there is a
sharp bend in the stream, and two or three great rocks that stand up
in front of the water, as it plunges over a ledge, as if they were
put there a purpose to catch it, and split it up into foam, or to
stop the boats and canoes that try to run the rapids, and cut them up
into splinters. It was an ugly place, monsieur, I can tell you; and
though I've run it again and again, I always hold my breath tighter
when we get to the top, and breathe freer when we get to the bottom.
Well, there was a chum of mine at the bow, Francois by name, and a
fine fellow he was as I ever came across. He used to sleep with me at
night under the same blanket, although it was somewhat inconvenient;
for being as big as myself and a stone heavier, it was all we could
do to make the blanket cover us. However, he and I were great
friends, and we managed it somehow. Well, he was at the bow when we
took the rapids, and a first-rate bowman he made. His pole was twice
as long and twice as thick as any other pole in the boat, and he
twisted it about just like a fiddlestick. I remember well the night
before we came to the rapids, as he was sitting by the fire, which
was blazing up among the pine-branches that overhung us, he said that
he wanted a good pole for the rapids next day; and with that he
jumped up, laid hold of an axe, and went back into the woods a bit to
get one. When he returned, he brought a young tree on his shoulder,
which he began to strip of its branches, and bark. 'Louis, says he,
'this is hot work; give us a pipe.' So I rummaged about for some
tobacco, but found there was none left in my bag; so I went to my kit
and got out my roll, about three fathoms or so, and cutting half of
it off, I went to the fire and twisted it round his neck by way of a
joke, and he said he'd wear it as a necklace all night, and so he
did, too, and forgot to take it off in the morning; and when we came
near the rapids I couldn't get at my bag to stow it away, so says I,
'Francois, you'll have to run with it on, for I can't stop to stow it
now.' 'All right,' says he, 'go ahead;' and just as he said it, we
came in sight of the first run, foaming and boiling like a kettle of
robbiboo. 'Take care, lads,' I cried, and the next moment we were
dashing down towards the bend in the river. As we came near to the
shoot, I saw Francois standing up on the gunwale to get a better view
of the rocks ahead, and every now and then giving me a signal with
his hand how to steer; suddenly he gave a shout, and plunged his long
pole into the water, to fend off from a rock which a swirl in the
stream had concealed. For a second or two his pole bent like a
willow, and we could feel the heavy boat jerk off a little with the
tremendous strain, but all at once the pole broke off short with a
crack, Francois' heels made a flourish in the air, and then he
disappeared head foremost into the foaming water, with my tobacco
coiled round his neck! As we flew past the place, one of his arms
appeared, and I made a grab at it, and caught him by the sleeve; but
the effort upset myself and over I went too. Fortunately, however,
one of my men caught me by the foot, and held on like a vice; but the
force of the current tore Francois' sleeve out of my grasp, and I was
dragged into the boat again just in time to see my comrade's legs and
arms going like the sails of a windmill, as he rolled over several
times and disappeared. Well, we put ashore the moment we got into
still water, and then five or six of us started off on foot to look
for Francois. After half-an-hour's search, we found him pitched upon
a flat rock in the middle of the stream like a bit of driftwood, We
immediately waded out to the rock and brought him ashore, where we
lighted a fire, took off all his clothes, and rubbed him till he
began to show signs of life again. But you may judge, mes garçons, of
my misery when I found that the coil of tobacco was gone. It had come
off his neck during his struggles, and there wasn't a vestige of it
left, except a bright red mark on the throat, where it had nearly
strangled him. When he began to recover, he put his hand up to his
neck as if feeling for something, and muttered faintly, 'The tabac.'
'Ah, morbleu!' said I, 'you may say that! Where is it?' Well, we soon
brought him round, but he had swallowed so much water that it damaged
his lungs, and we had to leave him at the next post we came to; and
so I lost my friend too."

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