Читать книгу Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska - Willis Boyd Allen - Страница 2

It was a merry party that assembled in the Windsor Station, Monday evening. No sooner had they found their places in the “Kamloops” than out they jumped again, and began promenading up and down the long platform.

“Let’s see what the names of the other cars are,” said Fred; and Bess, thereupon, called them out, as they walked beside the train: “‘Calgary,’ ‘Nepigon,’ ‘Toronto,’ ‘Missanabie.’”

“What do they mean?” inquired Kittie.

“Why, they’re names of Alaskan chieftains,” replied Randolph.

“‘Kamloops’ was the old head one, then,” added Tom.

But Mr. Houghton, who was everywhere at once, superintending the embarkation, caught the words and explained that the names were those of cities and towns on the line of the Canadian Pacific.

“All aboard!” came the now familiar call, and away went the train, out into the night, bound for the far West.

The Percivals and their neighbors sang for a while, adding several new college songs to their previous répertoire, and then the head of the family announced that it was time to retire. The porter, William, had already arranged the drawing-room, and amid a chorus of “Good-nights,” Mr. and Mrs. Percival withdrew.

“Now, William,” said Randolph, “make up Number Three and Five for the ladies.”

“And Four, for the gentlemen,” added the irrepressible Tom.

Kittie and Bess soon disappeared behind their curtains, and the rest having followed suit shortly afterward, there was silence – for about three minutes. Then came the sound of a bump, and a delighted chuckle from Tom, in the upper berth.

“Coming right up through, Ran?” the girls heard him ask. “I thought the train was off the track.”

“You laugh much more, and I’ll get up there, somehow” —

“Boys, boys,” came Fred Seacomb’s voice. “Don’t quarrel.”

“Say, Fred” (from Tom), “lend me your eyeglasses, will you? I’ve lost my pillow.”

At this point Miss Adelaide became fearfully thirsty, and putting her head out between her curtains, timidly called across to her brother to “please get her a drink of water.”

The Reverend Rossiter, who was just settling himself for a nap, dressed again, and staggered off down the car, returning with the welcome draught.

“Anybody else want any?” he asked good-naturedly.

Everybody was thirsty, and the clergyman’s ministrations with his cups of cold water did not cease until he had made several journeys to the ice tank.

During the night the heavy train rumbled steadily along over two hundred and fifty miles of iron rails, and when Randolph awoke next morning, he found they were at Chalk River, a small town on the frontiers of the great forest wilderness of inner Canada, where a fifteen-minute stop was made.

Breakfast was served in the dining-car. Our friends secured seats close together, and made a jolly meal of it.

“Curious,” observed Fred, “to eat a breakfast twenty miles long!”

“That suits me!” laughed Tom, helping himself to griddle cakes.

“But it’s so pretty outside that I can’t stop to eat,” exclaimed Adelaide, with a nice little flush in her cheeks.

She had lived a very quiet, home-keeping life, the girls found. Everything was new and strange and wonderful to her.

“I should say somebody had been pretty careless with their camp-fires,” Randolph remarked, as they passed mile after mile of burned timber land, an hour or two later.

Mr. Houghton told them that thousands upon thousands of acres of forest near the railroad had been ruined in this way.

“Why,” asked Randolph, “how long has this railroad been built?”

Mr. Houghton thereupon gave them a brief account of the Canadian Pacific, one of the marvels of modern engineering.

“A railway from Canada to the Pacific,” he said, “laid all the way on British soil, was long the dream of public-spirited Canadians and Englishmen. On the confederation of the British Provinces in 1867, it became a real necessity.”

“I don’t see why,” put in Tom.

“The Queen must have a means of transporting troops, arms and ammunition from the home stores to the extremities of her dominion. Suppose her Pacific cities, existing and to be built, should be attacked by a foreign power. She can now throw fifty thousand men across the Continent in four days; or in less than a fortnight from Liverpool.”

“I should think it must have been a tough job to get through this wilderness,” said Randolph, glancing out of the window at the wild district through which they were passing.

“Much of the route lay through unexplored country. All about Lake Superior the engineers found a vast rocky region which opposed them at every step. You’ll see for yourselves to-morrow. Beyond Red River for a thousand miles stretched a great plain, known only to the Indian and fur trader; then came the mountains, range after range, in close succession, and all unexplored.”

“When did they really get to work?” asked Fred Seacomb.

“In 1875. The Government undertook the enterprise, and afterward handed it over for completion, to a private company. The explorations” —

At this point in the conductor’s story, the train began to slow up.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, rising from his seat and glancing at his watch, “this is North Bay, on Lake Nipissing. We stop here half an hour.”

“Come on!” shouted Tom, as the train came to a standstill, and down he rushed toward the shore of the lake, only a few rods distant. “Now, Captain Bess, let’s see what you can do for a fire. I’ll have one going before you get your match lighted.”

Bessie evidently accepted the challenge on the spot, for although she said nothing, she began hunting about for kindling at once. There had been a light shower the night before, and every thing was damp.

Tom made a great fuss, scrambling about for chips and twigs, which he threw down in a heap on the pebbly beach, kneeling beside them, and hastily pulling a match from his pocket. It looked as though his sister was beaten.

“Just wait a bit,” remarked Mr. Percival, who was watching the contest with interest. Several passengers from the other cars also gathered about the fire-builders, applauding each in turn.

Tom’s first match spluttered, and went out.

“Ho! she’s given up,” he cried, as Bess walked away from the group.

But the girl knew what she was about. She stooped down beside a large log which had long ago drifted ashore. From its upper surface she stripped some thin shreds of birch bark, and beneath it she found a handful of chips, perfectly dry.

Back she came, and down she went on the pebbles, at a little distance from her brother.

“Hurry up, Tom!” shouted Randolph.

For Tom’s fire did not seem to progress favorably. Several matches had already been blown out by the fresh lake breeze, and the few twigs that had at last caught, now smoked feebly.

“This is the meanest wood!” labored Tom. “Wet’s water.” And he essayed another match.

All this time Bessie had worked industriously, saying nothing. She had broken and whittled her chips into small pieces, and now pulled off her pretty yachting cap, holding it closely over the bark while she struck her first match. Protected by her dress, and gathering courage in the shelter of the cap, it flared up cheerfully, catching the crisp edges of the bark in grand style.

Down goes the cap, the girl’s brown hair escaping in little curly tresses that toss in the wind.

“I’ve almost got it!” shouts Tom, blowing at his smoking heap with all his might.

“Go in, old fellow!”

“Hurry, Bess!”

The passengers added their cheers and laughter to the cries of the others.

“There!” said Bess triumphantly, leaning back from her fire.

For fire it was, truly, with the red flames dancing upward gleefully through the twigs, and cracking in a manner that said plainly they had come to stay.

Tom generously joined in the applause that followed, and heaped all his hoarded fuel on his sister’s fire, nearly extinguishing it in his zeal.

“Camp Birch!” said Mr. Percival, naming it, as they named all their camp-fires.

A few minutes later the coals were scattered, for safety; and the engine giving its preconcerted call, the passengers hurried on board once more.

“Now,” said Selborne, “let’s hear the rest of the railroad story, Mr. Houghton.”

The latter gentleman, by no means averse to the task, accordingly continued.

“The surveys for the road made known the character of the country it had to traverse. In the wilderness about Superior, were found forests of pine and other timber, together with valuable farming land, and mineral deposits of immense value. The prairies beyond Winnipeg proved wonderfully promising for settlers; the mountains were seamed with coal, and sparkling with gold.”

Mr. Houghton’s face became even more radiant than usual, as he told of the wonderful riches of British Columbia.

“In 1881 the company contracted with the Government to finish the road within ten years – for which undertaking they received twenty-five million dollars, twenty-five million acres of agricultural land, and the railroad itself when complete.”

“Whew!” whistled Tom. “Say, Ran, let’s go to railroading.”

“The end of the third year,” continued the genial conductor, “found them at the summit of the Rocky Mountains; the fourth in the Selkirks, a thousand miles beyond Winnipeg. Sometimes they advanced five or six miles a day, armies of men attacking the mountains with thousands of tons of dynamite. On a certain wet morning – the seventh of November, 1885 – the last spike was driven on the main line of the Canadian Pacific Railway.”

Mr. Houghton’s eloquent peroration was followed by a round of applause, and all hands turned to the car windows once more, with new interest in this great triumph of mind over the forces of nature.

The boys were informed by Mr. Houghton in conclusion, that the country all around the lake was one of the greatest hunting districts on the continent. The forest abounded, he said, in moose, bear and caribou – all of which was extremely tantalizing to these young gentlemen, though the gentler members of the party took little interest in the conductor’s description of the sport.

We must pass rapidly over the next day or two. Soon after breakfast on Wednesday morning, our travelers found themselves on the shores of Lake Superior, and all day the train kept close beside it, the road curving, rising, descending, around great promontories of red rock, at the base of high cliffs, and across broad tributaries that came sweeping down from far Northern wastes. At times there was a heavy fog, through which the passengers could see the slow waves breaking on the rocks below. Then it would lift, showing new beauties close at hand, and bright, wooded islands in the misty distance. Beside the track grew strange flowers, and against the northern sky was outlined the notched edge of the boundless evergreen forest that stretched away to the Arctic solitudes.

At the little settlement of Peninsula, Selborne called the rest to see a fine, sturdy dog with the Esquimaux showing plainly in his pointed nose and ears, and thick soft fur.

“Doesn’t he look like the pictures in Dr. Kane?” whispered Pet, leaning over Kittie’s shoulder.

Jackfish proved to be a picturesque hamlet of log huts, clustering on a rocky point of land that jutted into the lake.

The train stopped at Schreiber long enough to allow the party to dash up into the town, and make a laughable variety of purchases at the principal store. Postal cards, buttons, candy and fancy pins disappeared in the pockets of the tourists, to the delight of the proprietor, who had not had such a run of custom for many a long day. Captain Bess bought several yards of the brightest scarlet ribbon she could find – for what purpose it will be seen hereafter.

Near the station at Nepigon was seen the first encampment of Indians – Chippewas they were; half-amused, half-indignant at the curious crowd they attracted.

Port Arthur was the terminus of the Eastern Division of the “C. P. R.,” a thousand miles from Montreal, and watches were all set back one hour to meet “Central Time.” Little girls crowded up to the passengers, selling milk in broken mugs, from small pails with which they darted hither and thither along the platform. I should hardly venture to say how many mugfuls the boys bought and drank, in the kindness of their hearts.

That evening a number of new friends from the “Missanabie” and “Calgary” came back to the “Kamloops,” by special invitation, and the united chorus sang over and over all the songs they did – and did not – know. “Little Annie Rooney,” then a reigning favorite in the East, was the most popular number in the programme.

I wish I could show the gay little party to you, as I see them now, photographed so clearly upon my memory: the older people in the rear, looking on with smiles, and occasionally joining in a familiar chorus; Kittie and Pet, their faces all aglow; Randolph, Fred and Mr. Selborne singing sturdily along, or pausing when they did not know the tune; Tom, singing at the top of his voice, whether he knew the tune or not, and beating time with a vigor that would have put Carl Zerrahn to shame – ah! how it all comes before me as I write; with one dear, kindly face that was merry and thoughtful by turns, but always tender and loving and good, as the songs rang out; the face I shall see no more until I reach the end of the longest journey of all – the journey of Life!

At breakfast on the following morning, Tom, who had taken upon himself to provide the girls with nosegays on the whole trip, marched into the dining-car with a neat little breast-knot of “squirrel-tail grass” which he had picked at Rat Portage, for each young lady. It was very pretty, but before long the objectionable feature of the grass asserted itself; that is, its clinging qualities, which made it impossible for the wearers to wholly rid themselves of the tiny barbed spires for two days afterward.

Winnipeg was reached at noon. Nearly all the passengers “went ashore,” and the empty cars were trundled away for a thorough cleaning, English fashion.

In twos and threes our friends wandered off through this strange young city, the capital of Manitoba. Twenty years ago its population numbered one hundred; now it passes thirty thousand!

In the midst of all the progress and modern ideas of bustling Winnipeg, it was curious to notice many rude carts drawn by oxen, which were harnessed like horses.

At the station the “newsboys” were little girls, who plied their trade modestly and successfully.

Mr. Percival took his daughters and Pet to drive for an hour through the city and its suburbs. The only drawback to their enjoyment was the intense heat, and the abundance of grasshoppers who would get tangled up in Bessie’s hair, much to that young lady’s displeasure.

“Clouds and clouds of them,” she commented indignantly; “and the Winnipeggers don’t seem to mind them a bit!”

Next morning Tom was the first “on deck,” as usual, and out of the cars at the first stop, which was made to water the engine. Prairie, prairie, prairie, as far as the eye could reach. Tom gathered handfuls of flowers and threw them into expectant laps, only to rush out again and gather more. The short grass was starred with blossoms of every color. Harebells, like those on Mt. Willard, grew in abundance beside the track. Then there were queer, scarlet “painted cups,” nodding yellow ox-eyes, asters, dandelions, and others.

What is that little creature, that looks something like a very large gray squirrel with no tail? Why, a “gopher,” to be sure; an animal resembling a prairie-dog, only smaller. They live in burrows all along these sandy embankments. See that little fellow! He sits up on his hind legs and hops along like a diminutive kangaroo, pulling down heads of grass with his tiny forepaws, and nibbling the seeds.

On and on, over the rolling prairie, rattled the hot, dusty train. They were in Indian country now, and at every station a dozen or more dark-faced Crees crouched on the platform, offering buffalo horns for sale.

And this reminds me that I have not mentioned one very important portion of Tom’s outfit. It was a fine No. 4 Kodak, of which he was very proud, and which he “snapped” mercilessly at all sorts of persons and things on the journey. There were other amateur photographers on the Excursion – a dozen or more in all – and great was the good-natured rivalry in securing good views. Indians were bribed, soldiers flattered and precipices scaled in this fascinating pursuit. As to the hundred travelers, the photographers snapped at them and one another with hardly an apology; and as the subject usually looked up and smiled broadly at the critical moment, the general result must have been a collection of portraits of the most marvelously and uniformly merry company that ever boarded a C. P. R. train, or kodaked a Siwash canoe.

Each wielder of this terrible weapon had a different way of holding the camera and doing the deed. Mr. Selborne focused from under his right arm, that embraced the instrument firmly. Pet, who had a little No. 1, always winked hard, and occasionally jumped when she “pressed the button”; thereby, as she afterward discovered, giving her characters a peculiar misty effect, which she declared was enchanting. One indefatigable lady from Kalamazoo invariably held her kodak out in front of her at arms-length, and took aim over the top of it before firing; a proceeding which never failed to disconcert and terrify the subject beyond description.

At a settlement called Swift Current, Tom undertook to photograph an old Cree squaw, who stalked away indignantly around the corner of the freight house. Away went crafty Thomas in the opposite direction, meeting the squaw just half-way around the building. Tom tried to purchase a sitting with a silver quarter, but the wrathful Indian woman poured out a torrent of Cree invective, and hooked at him with a pair of buffalo horns she held in her hands. Finally, he turned his back to her, and holding the camera backward under his arm, pressed the button and so obtained one of his best negatives on the trip.

It must be confessed that he felt rather shabby in thus procuring her portrait against her will; and to atone for his conduct, Bessie knelt beside two little Indian girls and tied bright red ribbons on their arms, to their intense delight.

At Moose-Jaw (which Mr. Houghton said was an abridgment of the Indian name meaning, “The-creek-where-the-white-man-mended-the-cart-with-a-moose’s-jaw-bone”), the travelers were shown a villainous-looking Sioux, who was one of Sitting Bull’s band that massacred General Custer and his troops a few years before. The Indians in that whole section of Canada are kept in order by mounted police – fine-looking fellows, sauntering about the station platforms with whip and spur, and by no means averse to having their pictures taken, Pet found.

All this is very pleasant, but as the day wears on, the green hills and flowery meadow-land give place to scorched, parching, alkali desert, stretching away in dry, tawny billows as far as the eye can reach. Here and there is a lake – no, a pool of dry salt, like the white ghost of a lake. The air in the cars becomes insufferably hot. Look at the thermometer, where the sun does not shine, and the air blows in through the open window. It marks full 105°. Mr. Selborne wins popularity by contracting for a large pitcher of iced lemonade, which he passes through the car. Dust and cinders pour in at doors and windows with the hot air. Waves of heat rise from the shriveled grass. Will night ever come?

Yes, it comes at last, as God’s good gifts always come, to refresh and sweeten our lives. The sky flushes with sunset light. Shadows creep up from the east; a cool breeze touches the fevered faces. Night, beautiful, restful, kindly night, spreads its wings over the weary travelers, and, still flying onward through the darkness, they sleep peacefully and dream of the dear New England hills and of home.