Читать книгу Arctic Trader--the account of twenty years with the Hudson's Bay Company - Philip Henry Godsell - Страница 12

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Next morning I was busy in the store putting up rations for the traders who were making last minute preparations to leave for their respective posts. Already many of the Indians had departed for their hunting grounds. Bitterly cold weather had been ushered in by old Keewatin, God of the North Wind, with the New Year. Outside one’s breath whistled queerly, a feathery white plume appearing each time it was expelled, while distant sounds were highly magnified in the greatly rarefied air.

Mr. McTavish came toddling with quick, short steps down the snow covered walk from the Big House towards the store. As the door closed behind him he turned to me with the remark: “Say, Flannagan, have you got lots of moccasins?”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied.

“Well, be ready to leave with the God’s Lake teams for Pepekwatooce in the morning.”

Although this entailed an arduous journey of some four hundred and fifty miles on snowshoes, and meant sleeping out each night in the intense cold with only the steel blue sky above, it was said as casually as one would tell the office boy to drop around to the post office and buy a few stamps. After all Donald Flett and Roddy had not been very far wrong when they had laughingly told me that I should probably do penance for the misbehavior of my dog!

There was little time for preparations but I hurriedly secured a few extra pairs of moccasins and blanket socks, and a pair of snowshoes; bundled up enough clothing to fill a flour sack, which was all the overloaded sleighs could take, and wrote some letters home. By ten o’clock next morning I had started on my way, waving a mooseskin mitten to Mrs. Sinclair and the boys as they shouted their farewells. Next minute I was striding along on my snowshoes trying to keep ahead of the dogs, which came barking at my heels.

There were six teams of five dogs each harnessed to toboggans sixteen inches wide and twelve feet long on which the four hundred pound loads were lashed. Behind each ran a fleet-footed Cree driver with a long dog-whip in his mittened hand. Two of the teams were for God’s Lake and the rest for Oxford House. Accompanying our party was the irrepressible little Ashton Alston who looked like a miniature Santa Claus in his white-fox trimmed moleskin parki and leggings, and Carl Parker who was to initiate me into the mysteries of the Indian trade at Pepekwatooce.

The trails were well beaten owing to the many teams which had passed over during the Christmas holidays, and the dogs hit a fast trot which made it necessary for us to run hard to keep ahead of them. Over small lakes and portages I followed Johnny Ocass, the guide. Panting from our exertions we stopped at mid-day at a small log Indian shack, thawed out the frozen bannock and beans, boiled the tea kettle, enjoyed a hasty meal, and continued on our way. Just as the sun was dipping below the purple shadowed spruce trees, painting the sky and tinging the fleecy clouds with fiery red and orange, we left the frozen river and floundered through the deep snow into the woods, eagerly followed by the tired dogs who had put on an extra spurt as they realized that camping time was near.

Using our snowshoes as shovels we soon scooped out a big hole in the snow and covered it thickly with fragrant spruce boughs lopped off the trees felled by the Indians with their axes. Then the trunks were piled above each other along three sides to form a barricade, and as a protection from the biting wind, while along the front a huge fire of eight and ten foot logs was soon roaring and shooting myriads of sparks far up amongst the ghostly branches of the trees. Before this the dogfish, bannock and other frozen eatables were placed to thaw while we carried our bedding and the grub-boxes from the toboggans and hung up the leather harness so that it could not be eaten by the dogs.

Without having experienced it one cannot realize the complete transformation that takes place in the winter woods at night the moment a big camp-fire is lighted. Before, all is cold, unutterably silent, desolate and gloomy, while the pale snow looks almost unearthly in the dark. Suddenly a bright ruddy glow paints the tree trunks and branches a deep, warm red, then as the flame shoots upwards, carrying with it a shower of sparks, the overhanging branches are tipped a mellow ruby tinge. The ghostly snow becomes a lovely pink, while the tree stems near at hand stand out bright and clear, beyond which the camp appears to be surrounded by an impenetrable wall of deepest purple.

While everything was being prepared the dogs, loosened from their harness, first shook themselves then rolled in the snow and roamed around snarling and fighting until the fish were thawed out and their one and only meal for the day ready. Feeding them in the daytime only makes them lazy. Then the drivers took up different stands around the camp with the thawed fish at their feet and summoned their huskies around them. Each hungry dog would down his fish in two or three great gulps, catch the next one on the fly, and when he realized that nothing more was coming would turn around two or three times until he had made himself comfortable in the snow, or upon his bed of spruce boughs, and quickly fall asleep.

At three o’clock in the morning the dog-drivers were up and about, renewing the fires and preparing breakfast, and by five, while still pitch dark and bitterly cold, we were again upon the trail feeling our way in the darkness with our feet. By daylight we were in the Musketaban where there were quite a number of deer. As the sun, large, red and devoid of heat, rose above the horizon Ocass took an axe and kettle from one of the sleighs and disappeared ahead of us at a good fast lope. Later on, as we rounded a bend in the river, we noticed a vast cloud of smoke rising slowly in billowing rolls above the tree-tops of a distant island and when we arrived there we found camp already made and the tea pail bubbling above a bright and crackling fire. Another breakfast was disposed of and we were on our way once more. This routine continued until we reached Oxford House upon the sixth day, our ears and noses blackened from frostbite.

The only change so far as I was concerned was the fact that I developed snowshoe trouble, mal-de-raquette as the old French bushrangers call it, and could barely lift, or move, my feet so intense was the pain occasioned by any movement of the inflamed joints and muscles of my badly swollen legs. There was no stopping, however, and at the suggestion of one of the Indians I attached the ends of my long L’Assumption belt to either snowshoe. As I took each step I pulled upon the belt with my hand, thus taking the weight off the foot, which I then moved painfully forward, and so managed to push awkwardly along, though frequently I would not arrive in camp until many hours after my companions had retired to rest.

It is, of course, dangerous to delay while upon the winter trail, but it is nevertheless a peculiar fact that the Indians seem to take a supreme delight in leaving an inexperienced clerk behind on occasions of this kind, and will often deliberately force the pace; a refined and exquisite form of torture. Possibly it is merely their way of testing out a young man’s mettle, but I am inclined to think that at the bottom of it lies the inherent and deep-seated hatred of the Indian for the encroaching race, and I know of two instances at least where tragedy was averted by a hair’s breadth from this practice.

Usually a piece of partly frozen bannock and bacon was left in the frying pan for me, and some cold tea in the kettle, which I heated over the fire. I would then take off my blood-soaked socks and moccasins, rub my legs with snow to ease the pain and limber them up, and after putting some ointment on my sore and lacerated feet I would retire for the remainder of the night. Around me the trees split and cracked asunder with reports like rifle-shots from the intense and bitter cold.

We stopped overnight at Oxford House, then after two days of heart-breaking toil over heavily snowed-in and drifted trails we reached the isolated trading post at God’s Lake, perched on the edge of a magnificent frozen inland sea. Here I met the trader, Alex Swain of Cree-Scots ancestry, whose lame squaw was forced to crawl on hands and knees. He was a huge knock-kneed man with a tremendous stomach, and an inclination towards black and white plaid clothing, white dress shirts and scarlet ties, which, while it might have impressed the Indians, furnished a startling and bizarre effect.

Much to my delight it was decided that we would rest here for a couple of days, and the small log building with its whip-sawed walls, gaudily painted, hand-made furniture and the red-hot Carron stoves, seemed like an oasis in the desert. The time passed all too quickly and on the third day, still somewhat lame from the novelty of snowshoe traveling, I was once more upon the trail. Our party had dwindled to two dog-teams, two Indian drivers—Ocass the guide, and Carl Parker, with whom I was to spend the rest of the winter at the outpost.

On the fifth day after leaving God’s Lake, leg-sore and weary, we debouched from the forest and beheld, almost buried under a mantle of drifted snow, the post of Pepekwatooce; three small bark-roofed log cabins, a couple of Indian wigwams, and about thirty birch-bark canoes imbedded in the frozen ice of the creek. Entering the dwelling house, which consisted of one room about eighteen feet long and fifteen feet wide, we found about twenty swarthy, long-haired Saulteaux hunters squatted around the floor smoking their kinni-kinnick, with all of whom we shook hands and said “Watcheer?”

The building lacked a ceiling, the pole roof being the usual mudded type, while the rough hewn planks of the floor were separated by a few inches from each other, permitting a current of biting cold air to come through from the unfilled pit below. A rickety table, a couple of broken boxes for seats, with a damaged iron stove, completed the list of furnishings. Next we examined the store; a smaller log shack with a bark roof and one or two packing cases nailed to the walls in lieu of shelves. The small amount of stock was scattered around upon the mud floor; one or two rusted kettles and some powder horns hung from nails driven in the rafters, while a few muzzle loaders were propped up in a corner. The third building was the fish house in which were a few sticks of frozen fish for dog-feed. The half-breed postmanager had died that fall and Nazie, a local Indian, had been in charge of the establishment since.

ROSS’S TRADING POST AT THE MOUTH OF THE CONROY.

“Well! What do you think of your new home?” inquired Carl disgustedly. Personally I did not think much of it, and my features must have betrayed my feelings for Carl added: “Never mind. Once we get these Indians off to their traps, and our dog-drivers away to God’s Lake, we will be able to make ourselves beds and furniture and fix the place up a bit.”

In the evening we took a small collapsible tin cook-stove off the sled and erected it, then, after giving the Indians and our drivers some rations, we rolled up in our rabbitskins upon the hard floor, placed our capotes under our heads for pillows and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

While Carl was engaged in the store next day outfitting the hunters I busied myself with hammer, saw and nails. Erelong I succeeded in constructing a couple of rough wooden beds, two chairs and other necessary articles, and in chinking up places between the logs through which daylight could be seen and which let in blasts of cold wintry air.

Our meals were far from sumptuous. Porridge for breakfast; bacon, bannock and tea for lunch, more bannock and, perhaps, whitefish for dinner, and once in a while some moosemeat. Of vegetables there were none. As a special treat we allowed ourselves about two tablespoons of desiccated potatoes on Wednesdays and Sundays, a small quantity of which we found room for on our sleighs and had brought along from Norway House.

The days passed slowly, the cold being intense both inside and out; and apart from an occasional hunter we received no visitors. Our isolation was complete.

Once in a while we sent out a tripper with a toboggan load of trading goods to one of the Indian camps but the weather was so cold that fur-bearing animals were staying in their holes, and even the Indians were keeping as close to their wigwam fires as possible.

A peculiar change seemed gradually to come over my companion. As the days went by he became more and more taciturn until at times he would not speak for forty-eight hours at a stretch. I did not at that time understand the peculiar psychological effect of the wilderness upon the mind of man. The intense isolation has its own queer effect upon a person’s outlook; even the best of friends, thrown for months into close association with each other, will often drift apart and sometimes become the bitterest of enemies. At first they are apt to be forbearing, but gradually some little trait will be magnified out of all proportion to its importance, and from mild irritation this feeling is apt to grow to one of open hatred and hostility. From such causes have arisen many Northland tragedies. Finally weeks went by during which we lived and ate together but seldom spoke a word.

At length March arrived and we commenced to look anxiously for the spring packet from Norway House; anything to break the dread monotony. Then one day dog-bells were heard ringing and echoing loudly in the woods across the river; whips cracked, dog-drivers shouted wrathfully while their sleigh dogs barked in anger or defiance; a dog-team emerged from the woods and pulled up in front of the post. The packet had arrived.

A SAULTEAUX FAMILY.

As quickly as possible the driver and fore-runner were fed, the toboggan unlashed, and we became deeply interested in our mail, much of it six months old. Next we questioned the Indian packet-men regarding the latest gossip and news from the different posts. Until far into the night, as we lay rolled upon the floor in our rabbit robes, we were entertained with all the latest gossip and scandal from each and every fort until, wearying, we fell asleep.

At five in the morning the Indians left on their return journey, taking our letters with them. For a long time the tinkle of bells and cries of the drivers were borne faintly upon the fresh morning air. Even these sounds seemed like a link with the outside world and distant friends, and as I strained my ears to catch them I was transplanted, temporarily, from my wilderness surroundings to more congenial climes.

One morning as I looked through the shimmering heat haze which arose from the melting snow upon the lake I beheld a long, writhing, snake-like line moving slowly across the rapidly rotting ice. Gradually it approached the post. It was a strange procession indeed! In front strode old Piskonas, the hunter, and behind him a number of Saulteaux braves carrying nothing but their muzzle loaders in their hands. Behind, bent almost double under the enormous bulky burdens, trudged the squaws; even little tots of six or eight carried quite large loads upon their backs while their small brothers played around with bows and arrows. In the rear came the youths, their dogs hitched to sleighs bearing the remainder of the camp equipment. It was moving day in the woods.

When they reached the shore each band, or family, made for some particular spot upon which, for ages, it had been their inevitable custom to pitch their wigwams. Bundles were thrown upon the ground, and with axes in their sinewy hands the squaws entered the nearby woods. Very soon the sound of falling trees and chopping axes echoed through the forest glades, while from all directions they returned hauling long tapering lodge-poles to the places selected for their lodges. In next to no time a village of some thirty conical wigwams arose around the fort to the accompaniment of a great deal of shouting and chattering amongst the squaws, and the incessant barking and fighting of the innumerable sleigh dogs they had brought along with them. Then the lodge fires were kindled and spirals of acrid smelling wood smoke arose into the air where it mingled and formed a blue canopy above the camp. The lordly red men, however, kept proudly aloof from such menial and degrading tasks and lounged around the trading post, smoking, talking and laughing.

As night fell the flickering fires within the wigwams cast ghostly shadows upon the surrounding trees, while the natives squatted within were silhouetted like ancient images against the lodge covers. Soon the throbbing of tom-toms made the damp air vibrant with their plaintive melody. The guttural age-old songs of the Saulteaux rose and fell in a soft cadence of sound as they called upon their Powargans and Manitous for protection against the evil spirits and the Much-innin-iwuk, the “bad Indians,” of whom they stood in constant fear.

It was easy to imagine that one was back in the days of long ago, ages before the white invaders set foot upon the ancient hunting grounds of the aborigines of the New World, so utterly primitive did things appear.

For the next few days Carl and I were kept extremely busy as the hunters brought in their packs of furs, paid their debts and did their trading. Soon the store was full of broad faced, grinning squaws and dusky maidens pawing over colored tartans and gaudy ginghams, and buying bright ribbons, shawls and tawdry jewelry with which to beautify themselves and excite the interest of the lordly swains amongst the wigwams.

Cupid was not idle during this time, and it was obvious that his feathered barbs had transfixed some of the inmates of the lodges. But the lordly hunter does not permit his accelerated heart-beats to disturb his equanimity or poise. For hours at a time the love-stricken swain would sit like a graven image near the lodge of his adored, neither of whom would give the slightest indication of any knowledge of the other’s presence. Not a word would pass between them for the silent communion of souls spoke a language which was stronger ever than speech.

The Okemasis, or Little Master, as the young clerk is known to the Indians, occupies a prominent and enviable position in the social strata of the woods. For it seems to be the desire of nearly every Indian and half-breed girl to capture and marry one of these boys. And this ambition was by no means without a certain amount of justification as many of the old traders had made a practice of marrying into the tribes, which meant that the lucky squaw thereafter led a life of languorous ease and luxury from the viewpoint of the Crees.^[1]

Never would the fortunate woman again feel the gnawing pangs of hunger and starvation she had experienced around the lodge fires, nor have to carry huge bundles upon the trail. Instead, she would hold an envied position of influence, and to the people of the surrounding wigwams would become the first and foremost lady of the land.

Frequently, and especially if Carl was not around, I would be besieged by bevies of dusky sloe-eyed belles, gay in their newest gingham dresses; their raven locks parted in the center and coiled neatly behind their sleek young heads. Inveterate beggars they were, eternally wanting candy, or coyly pointing to some trinket or gaudy handkerchief and wanting it in “debt.” One particularly pretty girl was continually coming around. Although she was probably about fifteen she had all the appearance of maturity so quickly do these natives develop. She was the daughter of Cun-na-buts, who fished for us, and soon I discovered that the wily old rascal was deliberately throwing his girl in my path. No doubt he had visions of my marrying her and of becoming an important personage around the post.

As soon as the Indians had all “pitched in” we packed the furs and pressed them into ninety-pound bales for convenience in transportation. Then I secured two good paddlers, Cunabie and Nazie, and prepared to leave for the post at God’s Lake.

[1]

Frequently during my life in the North I have known of these boys marrying native women, though not as a rule until they were through their apprenticeship. The outcome of such mixed marriages was rarely successful as the white man would usually degenerate, as it is much easier to drop to the elemental level of the native than to elevate the Indian woman to one’s own.