Читать книгу Arctic Trader--the account of twenty years with the Hudson's Bay Company - Philip Henry Godsell - Страница 8

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It was the spirit of romance and desire for adventure which brought me to the low-lying swampy shores of Hudson Bay, causing me to forsake the comforts of civilization for the companionship of primitive Eskimo and Indian hunters.

I am not quite sure where I got hold of R. M. Ballantyne’s book called “Hudson Bay” but as I read it my boyish imagination conjured up a thousand possibilities of adventure on the forest trails beneath the northern lights. Here, indeed, was a career simply awaiting me! I would join the Hudson’s Bay Company; trade, trap, fight with Indians and Eskimos; travel unknown trails and perhaps, who knows, become an Arctic explorer like Richardson or Rae. So, boylike, I hit upon an expedient of my own and wrote for advice to the editor of “Chums.”

Over a year later I was overjoyed one morning to receive a personal letter from Lord Strathcona, Governor of the Company, saying that Sir Henry Fowler had spoken on my behalf and that a position would be found for me that spring.

At London, on the 28th of May, 1906, I was met by my uncle and conveyed to the offices of the Company. Here I met Mr. Ware, a very pleasant, gray-haired old gentleman, who presented an enormous contract for me to sign. For the princely sum of one hundred dollars the first year, increasing to two hundred and fifty the fifth year, I was to serve the Company “by day and by night” as an apprentice clerk, prepared at all times to defend “with courage and fidelity the property of the Company, their posts and settlements,” and so forth. A far more pleasing prospect than I could ever have anticipated in the dull and uninteresting town of Wolverhampton where I was brought up. So I signed the contract, and at the age of sixteen years became a Hudson’s Bay man. Next morning I bid a hasty farewell to my uncle at the West India Dock and stepped aboard the staunch ship “Pelican.”

All was bustle and excitement on board, the first and second mates, Smith and McGluchan, were shouting orders, while the nondescript crew of a dozen nationalities busied themselves stowing the last remnants of cargo in the hold.

The “Pelican,” I soon learned, was an auxiliary vessel of about seven hundred tons, an ex-gunboat and slave chaser, which depended far more upon her tapering spars and snowy canvas than upon her engines, which were only used in emergency or when encountering strong head winds.

She was one of the three vessels owned by the Company which made their way annually to the various depots on the dismal shores of Hudson Bay, conveying food, merchandise and mail to all the trading stations tributary to those shores, along Labrador and in Ungava Bay.

After delivering their cargoes they returned to London late in October loaded with bales of rich furs which had been bartered from the Indians and Eskimos by the Company’s factors during the preceding winter.

The “Discovery,” of Antarctic fame, and the “Stork,” the other ships of the fleet, were docked alongside the “Pelican,” but were not due to sail until some time later on.

I was, of course, quite enchanted by my surroundings, while even the pungent odor of tar which permeated everything seemed to give a further touch of romance to the scene.

Meanwhile sundry clanking sounds below, accompanied by billowing clouds of smoke from the yellow funnel, and the chansons of the sailors as they hauled upon the ropes, gave indications of an early departure. Then a tall, gray-haired man with a leonine head, a weatherbeaten countenance and an extremely gruff voice, walked down the gang-plank. It was Captain Grey, veteran of the polar seas, whose pet aversion I soon learned happened to be apprentice clerks. The lines were soon cast off and our little vessel commenced churning the muddy waters of the Thames towards the sea, passing a long line of shipping on either side of the river.

My unerring instinct led me to the cook’s galley where I quickly established friendly relations with Ben, the cook. He was a typical sea-faring man of huge girth who smoked everlastingly upon a stocky briar pipe, alternately singing snatches of ribald song or anathematizing “Chips,” the carpenter, in colorful and fluent language.

I retired early to my bunk. When I was awakened by the stamping of feet overhead, and the rattling of ropes and blocks, I found that we were well out in the open sea. The weather was fine but there was a brisk salty breeze and as the “Pelican” careened merrily over the deep blue rollers with all sails set I commenced to realize that all was not well within. Fortunately it proved to be a false alarm as there was too much of interest taking place aboard for me to succumb to the discomfort of sea-sickness and I quickly recovered.

Three more young apprentice clerks came aboard at Peterhead; Massie, Shepherd and another chap we called Jock, who, judging from his appearance, might have been leaving for a summer cruise in the Mediterranean. Clad faultlessly in creased flannels, form-fitting blue coat, white shoes, with a white nautical cap cocked jauntily over one eye, he swaggered aboard as though he owned the ship.

Captain Grey took one astonished look, heaved a deep sigh, and could be heard impolitely remarking to the first mate something about “live ballast” ere he retired to his cabin, presumably to have a drink.

Before coming aboard Jock had shown us his outfit which comprised an enormous number of white starched shirts and wing collars, a swallow-tailed coat, a couple of tuxedos and so forth. As I chuckled at this display of finery, for wear in the northern wilderness, Jock frowned severely and explained that in the wild places of the earth—he was sixteen—white men ruled by prestige alone, and that nothing impressed the natives more than to see their white boss immaculately attired. So, by virtue of this finery, Jock elected himself forthwith the leader of our party.

Next day we sailed in earnest, rounded the north of Scotland, and soon all that was to be seen of the homeland was a purple shadow upon the horizon. Then, at last, I realized the last bond had been severed between myself and those at home, and I must admit that I went down to dinner that evening with a lump in my throat and an unwillingness for conversation.

But my fit of melancholy did not last long. While I was cogitating upon deck Jock put in an appearance, resplendent in nautical cap and flannels. The deck was being cleaned and was very slippery indeed. Nothing daunted, Jock stepped out jauntily, entirely disregarding the heavy motion of the ship. Next moment his feet shot from under him and he careened, arms and legs thrashing the air, across the slippery deck into the scuppers, right beneath the bosun’s hose.

For the first few days it remained bright and fine. Then suddenly the picture changed. The sky became a dull leaden color, the wind rose until it shrieked through the rigging, the sea became black as ink, while the rolling of the boat was terrific, and she creaked and groaned as though in pain. Yet, hour after hour, the lookout for’ard answered the bells with the inevitable cry of “All’s Well.”

On the third day it calmed down and the voyage commenced to become monotonous when one morning we received a quite unlooked for thrill. Sailing majestically by, a couple of miles away, was the first iceberg we had ever seen; a huge green and white mountain of scintillating crystal against which the sea was continually breaking, showering it with spray.

By this time Ben, the cook, and I were on the best of terms and I had the free run of the galley where I voluntarily helped him with odd jobs and cut up plug tobacco for his pipe. Then one afternoon he made a huge pie and covered it with a rich crust. Having a small piece of pastry left over he converted this into a thick maple leaf which he placed in the center, and stood back, wrapped in silent admiration of his work. Then he put it in the oven and retired to have a chat with “Chips.”

I cannot say exactly what impelled me; I knew, of course, that the pie was for the for’ard crew and not for us. I carefully lifted the maple leaf, scooped out a hole, emptied in a small canisterful of cayenne pepper, replaced the piece of pastry and quietly made my way back aft. I thought no more about it until, as we were having our dinner, the noise of tramping feet could be heard on the deck outside. Then a loud altercation occurred between some of the seamen and the steward. Pale and angry Smith, the first mate, jumped to his feet just as the steward entered.

“Well! What the hell’s gone wrong?” inquired Smith, whose father was a clergyman in a country village in the north of England, a fact that I could never reconcile with his wide and colorful vocabulary.

“They say as ’ow the cook’s bin an’ tried to poison ’em, Sir!” replied the steward. “Seems ’e must of upset a lot’er pepper in the pie, an’ one feller ’as gorne an’ swallered it all.”

Cold shivers commenced to chase themselves up and down my spine, and I applied myself diligently to my knife and fork as Smith, with thin pressed lips, passed out of the saloon to interview the for’ard hands who had paraded to the bridge.

The interview proved long and stormy, and I finally contrived to peep around the doorway. Exhibit “A,” a wizened cockney, stood holding his stomach, continually calling for cold water and cursing the cook, while tears of pain coursed down his seamed and sunburned countenance. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor I retired to my bunk on the grounds of indisposition and declined the steward’s frequent offers of sulphur and molasses, and his suggestion that I go on deck, see Ben and get a cup of coffee. That steward was a wise old bird!

Eighteen days after leaving the north of Scotland a dark cloudlike line appeared upon the horizon which the bosun told me was the coast of Labrador. Next morning there was an entire lack of motion and upon looking through the porthole I observed that we were anchored in a deep pine-covered inlet, surrounded by rugged snow-capped mountains.

Upon a sandy beach were clustered a group of white painted buildings over which, from a tall flagpole, waved the ensign of the Hudson’s Bay Company, while scores of big pointed-eared dogs roamed along the shore. It was the trading post of Cartwright.

I looked in vain for Indians; they did not come that far east.

Two of us were to remain in the Labrador district and Jock had firmly made up his mind that I was to be one of them. After a disgusted examination of the resources of the post he became profuse in his expressions of sympathy for me. As we were seated at the table a few days later the Captain turned suddenly to Jock and expressed his regret that it would be the last meal he would be partaking of aboard the “Pelican.” Jock looked shocked and unbelieving, then bursting into tears he besought the skipper to take him back to Scotland.

We passed a small rocky island shortly afterwards and a rowboat came out to meet us, into which we dumped all our companion’s luggage. Then Jock tearfully made his way down the rope ladder, as though on his way to execution, and stepped into the boat. When I got my last glimpse of him his glory had all departed. He was standing in the stern of the rowboat mopping his eyes with a big bandanna handkerchief, the nautical cap fallen neglected at his feet; the very picture of hopeless misery and dejection.

Soon we encountered large fields of ice but, as it was rotten, the vessel plowed her way through without the slightest difficulty. The crow’s nest, a large barrel, had already been slung at the mast-head, and here a lookout was stationed with his telescope, morning, noon and night. Frequently we ran into large schools of porpoises who seemed to take a delight in playing about the vessel, and we never tired of watching the graceful movements of their white bodies as they dived and cavorted in the sun.

It was not until the first week in August that we approached Resolution Island at the entrance to Hudson Straits, the ice and fog having become more troublesome as we sailed northward. Finally an insurmountable barrier appeared ahead. As far as the eye could reach this stupendous ice formation extended. There were cliffs, mountains and domes of ice in every imaginable form; pillars, arches and deep caverns of greenish-white crystal, while gigantic spires and pinnacles cut the skyline sharply at varying angles. The scene was impressive in the extreme, and Massie and I gazed speechlessly upon it. Already the mist had condensed upon the rigging, from which long icicles depended.

Not a sound disturbed the tranquil, awe-inspiring scene save the ripple of water beneath the vessel’s prow, and the shrill cries and screams of the white gulls as they circled overhead. As the ship moved rapidly and silently along in what appeared to be a dead calm it was like a page from Alice in Wonderland, for there was something totally and utterly unreal about it all.

All evening we steamed slowly northward through this sea of enchantment, on the lookout for an opening in the ice barrier which barred our progress, always on the watch for polar bears or seals. From the crow’s nest the Captain scanned the serpentine channels through his telescope, shouting down gruff orders to the mate upon the bridge. At last the “Pelican” got her stout oak bows into the channel and commenced her struggle with the ice.

Hour after hour we followed the serpentine channel amongst the monster bergs. Often the vessel would come into sudden contact with a solid mass of ice, quivering from stem to stern with the violence of the impact, while the sailors would come spilling out of the fo’castle, white-faced and very scared.

Hourly we continued this slow progress, our coat collars pulled up about our ears, while Cotter, the factor from Fort Chimo, looked warm and snug in his hairy, hooded Eskimo coat, with beaded moccasins upon his feet. At last we brought up against a ledge of solid-looking ice so, as further progress was impossible, ice anchors were put out, an extra watch was set, and the skipper descended to enjoy his first warm meal for twenty-four hours.

I was glad that I had, in the meantime, made my peace with Ben for the cook’s galley was nice and warm, proving a fine place to retire to after getting chilled upon the deck.

Here we remained for three and a half days, which Massie and I spent in roaming around on the ice, examining the bergs from the crow’s nest with a telescope in the never ending search for polar bears, in which our patience was at last rewarded. Then we would amuse ourselves potting away at bullet-headed seals who would occasionally flop out on to the ice, look us over with their big round eyes, and slip back into the water again.

Then one morning I was suddenly precipitated out of my bunk upon the cabin floor. Hurrying on deck I found that the lead had opened and the ship was pounding her way through ice again.

“Look!” shouted Smith as he pointed to the northward. “See the ‘Discovery’; she’s also stuck in the ice.”

Sure enough, the vessel seemed to be riding in the sky. It was a mirage. It was three days ere we worked our way completely through the ice and emerged into open water near Digges Islands, to behold a sea of indigo tossed by a rapidly increasing gale. From the windows of the chart house I watched the surging waters as the pilot steered the vessel into the shelter of a natural harbor near Cape Wolstenholme, where it was decided to take on a supply of fresh water.

Immediately we landed three skin-clad Eskimos came running down to meet us with cries of “Chimo! Chimo!” They explained to Cotter and the mate that they were following the ahtook, or deer, so we took them back on board and gave them a feed of ship’s biscuit and molasses, with a present of tobacco, and were vastly amused at their childish glee.

When the gale abated we got under way once more, passing through fields of rotten ice which, however, did not delay our progress, and on August fourteenth we dropped anchor in the Five Fathom Hole at the mouth of the Hayes river, opposite York Factory, about two hundred miles south of the present port of Churchill.

I was anxious, of course, to get ashore at the earliest possible opportunity and explore the far-famed York Factory, scene in earlier days of stirring fights, twixt French and English, and was surprised when Captain Grey informed me that, owing to the shallowness of the Bay, we would have to remain anchored twenty miles from shore and await the arrival of Indian manned coast boats to take the goods up to the fort.

That night Captain Grey fired rocket after rocket from the deck into the purple sky above so that the anxious watchers at the wilderness fort would know that, at last, the long looked for annual ship had arrived with supplies and letters from the outside world.

Bright and early next morning a number of small dots appeared upon the shimmering horizon to the west. Coast boats, with all sails set, drifting lazily in our direction. Some hours later, with incredible shouting from the incompetent Indian crews, the boats brought up alongside and commenced to take on cargo. George Ray, the officer in charge at York Factory, scrambled up the rope ladder, while at his heels followed a number of hilarious young Scotsmen: Ogston, Purvis and Laing. These lads were apprentice clerks like myself, and had just arrived with their Indian crews from their distant trading posts where, during the past nine months, they had seen no white men and rarely spoken English. Now, during their brief stay at the erstwhile capital of fur land, they were making up in riotous fun for their enforced solitude of the winter ere returning to their lonely trading posts.

We were all shortly entertained in the saloon by Captain Grey and the ship’s officers. The new arrivals, in spite of their animated talk and exuberance, certainly did full justice to the excellent meal prepared by Ben, having been on rather slim rations for some months owing to the ship’s non-arrival the year before through getting damaged in the ice.

Preferring the known to the unknown, and the ample hospitality of the ship to the Spartan fare which, Laing told us, would be our lot once we stepped ashore, Massie and I remained aboard until the last boat was loaded and the urgent cries of the Indians notified us that the tide was on the turn. So, bidding a hurried farewell to Captain Grey, Smith, Ben and “Chips,” we piled into the coast boat and erelong the good old “Pelican” was but a dot upon the horizon.

Some hours later, hounded by millions of blood-thirsty mosquitoes, we stepped ashore and beheld the palisaded fort, established by the adventurer Radisson over two centuries before, situated upon a high bank. With boyish enthusiasm I examined the old cannon guarding the gateway, and the cluster of Cree wigwams nestling beneath the spruce woods. Above all waved the red ensign of the fur company in honor of the ship’s arrival, the one great event of the year.

I had little time to admire my surroundings for, with Massie and the boys we had met on board, I was immediately set to work in the trading store. From five in the morning, when the first bell rang, until nine or ten at night we were busy paying off Indian and half-breed voyageurs; giving out rations to the Cree boatmen and their squaws, and packing trading goods for shipment to the outposts in the interior.

At mealtimes we assembled in a large mess room in the officers’ quarters, the walls of which were adorned with large oil paintings of Lord Nelson and the Battle of the Nile, which, a century before, had graced the walls of the North West Company’s Council Chamber at Fort William.^[1]

Very dusky, but comely, Cree squaws gaudy in their bright tartan dresses and embroidered moccasins, waited upon us and moved silently about the room. There was something almost medieval in the surroundings, and it appeared to me as though the clock of Time had been turned back a couple of centuries. Hardly, however, was the meal over when we would be back in the trading shop, engaged in the prosaic occupation of chopping slabs of “sow-belly” with a tomahawk into one, and four, pound pieces, and rationing the hungry Crees.

Each night, after trading was over, we would gather together under the dim light of a coal-oil lamp in the garish, yellow-painted Bachelors’ Hall, the walls of which were hung with a picturesque assortment of beaded shot-pouches, powder horns, mooseskin capotes, guns, snowshoes, moccasins and brightly colored sashes. Here we would swap experiences, play the gramophone and eat fancy biscuits and canned fruit from the ship; a rare treat for the boys who had come in from the outposts.

Sometimes one or two of the more favored half-breed servants, or trippers, would edge in half apologetically, lean against the door, or squat upon the edge of a wooden bed; their mahogany faces, raven locks and colorful trappings fitting in with the backwoods atmosphere of the whole place. York Factory was primitive and proud of it, and thrived on past traditions.

One evening when we were again making merry in the Bachelors’ Hall, Sammy Grey rushed in crying excitedly that the “Fall packet” had just arrived from Norway House with letters from Winnipeg, and a few moments later a tall, fair-haired chap entered and was introduced as Harry Moir. He was to remain at York Factory for the winter, he told me.

He was reputed to be a good hunter, and as he was quartered with me I often remained awake until far into the night, thrilled by his stories of hunting and adventure.

One night, about a week later, we were thrown into a state of great excitement by the terrific barking of the sleigh dogs and the sound of piercing cries without. Then the door burst open and Sammy Grey was projected into the room as though shot from a catapult. He was pallid with fright, his normally large eyes almost popping out of his head.

“Okemasis! Okemasis! Dere’s a debbil in de ice house!” yelled the frightened half-breed as he ran aimlessly around the room.

Moir was quietly pulling on his moccasins. Throwing on his blanket capote, and seizing his rifle, he dashed out into the square, quickly followed by myself, and in a few moments we were in the vicinity of the blubber house. A mob of frightened, jabbering and gesticulating natives encircled the building, though at a very respectful distance, as Moir and I approached. Something gray seemed to move within, and I felt my heart jump with sudden excitement.

“Polar bear! Polar bear!” whispered Moir excitedly. “Look! He’s eating the seal meat inside. Come on! Quick!”

Next moment my companion was near the doorway. I saw the moonlight glint upon the rifle-barrel as he raised it. Two thunderous reports were followed by a terrific noise within the building as the wounded and infuriated animal thrashed about, then fell, a huge gray shape, with paws extended, upon the threshold; the massive head swaying wildly from side to side.

All this time the dogs had been barking excitedly, Indians had been yelling, and squaws and children crying in their fright. The bright moonlight shining on the darkened palisade, the ghostly whitewashed buildings, and the gloomy spruce forest nearby gave the entire scene a weird and almost fantastic appearance.

It was some time ere either of us felt disposed to approach very closely to the mighty beast. When we did we found an enormous polar bear, stone dead, his thick coat matted with heavy yellow grease. The huge animal furnished a plentiful supply of oil and dog-feed, while one paw, when we weighed it, tipped the scales at over twenty-five pounds.

I was sewing up some bales of trading goods a few days later when one of the Indians came running excitedly into the store saying that a canoe had rounded the upper bend of the river and was rapidly approaching the fort. From the speed with which it was traveling he was sure it contained the Gitche-Okemow—the Big Master. Immediately we all dropped our work and hastened to the bank of the Hayes river. Sure enough, a small red flag was flying from the bow of the swiftly moving craft, denoting it to be the conveyance of the Chief Factor, the mighty potentate who, in those days, still practically ruled the country and the Indians as the chief official of the Company.

Hurriedly the flag was raised to the top of the eighty foot flagpole in the center of the fort. The Indians were furnished with free gunpowder so that they might fittingly celebrate the august occasion by firing frequent volleys from their muzzle-loading guns. Then the cannons were loaded and roared out a stentorian welcome, belching out clouds of billowing white smoke; the loud reports reverberating far across the surface of the swift-flowing river.

Chief Factor McTavish, a small stout man with muttonchop whiskers, a vast opinion of his importance and that of the occasion, was helped ashore by one of his canoemen and proceeded to climb the bank. Here some two hundred and fifty Indian bucks, squaws and papooses were lined up to meet him, all gaudily attired for the occasion. Soon the staccato reports of a hundred muskets fired into the air at random echoed through the forest. Meanwhile, with great pomposity, the Chief Factor proceeded to shake each squaw and Indian by the hand, saying “Watcheer?” as he did so, then off he strutted with George Ray, the factor, to the officers’ quarters inside the palisade.

[1]	These paintings have since been removed, and may be seen upon the walls of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s store in Winnipeg.