Читать книгу The Best Ballantyne Westerns - R. M. Ballantyne - Страница 14

Table of Contents

Varieties, vexations, and vicissitudes.

Life is checkered—there is no doubt about that; whatever doubts a man may entertain upon other subjects, he can have none upon this, we feel quite certain. In fact, so true is it that we would not for a moment have drawn the reader’s attention to it here, were it not that our experience of life in the backwoods corroborates the truth; and truth, however well corroborated, is none the worse of getting a little additional testimony now and then in this sceptical generation.

Life is checkered, then, undoubtedly. And life in the backwoods strengthens the proverb, for it is a peculiarly striking and remarkable specimen of life’s variegated character.

There is a difference between sailing smoothly along the shores of Lake Winnipeg with favouring breezes, and being tossed on its surging billows by the howling of a nor’-west wind, that threatens destruction to the boat, or forces it to seek shelter on the shore. This difference is one of the checkered scenes of which we write, and one that was experienced by the brigade more than once during its passage across the lake.

Since we are dealing in truisms, it may not, perhaps, be out of place here to say that going to bed at night is not by any means getting up in the morning; at least so several of our friends found to be the case when the deep, sonorous voice of Louis Peltier sounded through the camp on the following morning, just as a very faint, scarcely perceptible, light tinged the eastern sky.

“Lève, lève, lève!” he cried, “lève, lève, mes enfants!”

Some of Louis’s infants replied to the summons in a way that would have done credit to a harlequin. One or two active little Canadians, on hearing the cry of the awful word lève, rose to their feet with a quick bound, as if they had been keeping up an appearance of sleep as a sort of practical joke all night, on purpose to be ready to leap as the first sound fell from the guide’s lips. Others lay still, in the same attitude in which they had fallen asleep, having made up their minds, apparently, to lie there in spite of all the guides in the world. Not a few got slowly into the sitting position, their hair dishevelled, their caps awry, their eyes alternately winking very hard and staring awfully in the vain effort to keep open, and their whole physiognomy wearing an expression of blank stupidity that is peculiar to man when engaged in that struggle which occurs each morning as he endeavours to disconnect and shake off the entanglement of nightly dreams and the realities of the breaking day. Throughout the whole camp there was a low, muffled sound, as of men moving lazily, with broken whispers and disjointed sentences uttered in very deep, hoarse tones, mingled with confused, unearthly noises, which, upon consideration, sounded like prolonged yawns. Gradually these sounds increased, for the guide’s lève is inexorable, and the voyageur’s fate inevitable.

“Oh dear!—yei a—a — ow” (yawning); “hang your lève!”

“Oui, vraiment—yei a—a — ow—morbleu!”

“Eh, what’s that? Oh, misère.”

“Tare an’ ages!” (from an Irishman), “an’ I had only got to slaape yit! but—yei a—a — ow!”

French and Irish yawns are very similar, the only difference being, that whereas the Frenchman finishes the yawn resignedly, and springs to his legs, the Irishman finishes it with an energetic gasp, as if he were hurling it remonstratively into the face of Fate, turns round again and shuts his eyes doggedly—a piece of bravado which he knows is useless and of very short duration.

“Lève! lève!! lève!!!” There was no mistake this time in the tones of Louis’s voice. “Embark, embark! vite, vite!”

The subdued sounds of rousing broke into a loud buzz of active preparation, as the men busied themselves in bundling up blankets, carrying down camp-kettles to the lake, launching the boats, kicking up lazy comrades, stumbling over and swearing at fallen trees which were not visible in the cold, uncertain light of the early dawn, searching hopelessly, among a tangled conglomeration of leaves and broken branches and crushed herbage, for lost pipes and missing tobacco-pouches.

“Hollo!” exclaimed Harry Somerville, starting suddenly from his sleeping posture, and unintentionally cramming his elbow into Charley’s mouth, “I declare they’re all up and nearly ready to start.”

“That’s no reason,” replied Charley, “why you should knock out all my front teeth, is it?”

Just then Mr Park issued from his tent, dressed and ready to step into his boat. He first gave a glance round the camp, to see that all the men were moving; then he looked up through the trees, to ascertain the present state, and, if possible, the future prospects of the weather. Having come to a satisfactory conclusion on that head, he drew forth his pipe and began to fill it, when his eye fell on the two boys, who were still sitting up in their lairs, and staring idiotically at the place where the fire had been, as if the white ashes, half-burned logs, and bits of charcoal were a sight of the most novel and interesting character, that filled them with intense amazement.

Mr Park could scarce forbear smiling.

“Hello, youngsters, precious voyageurs you’ll make, to be sure, if this is the way you’re going to begin. Don’t you see that the things are all aboard, and we’ll be ready to start in five minutes, and you sitting there with your neckcloths off?”

Mr Park gave a slight sneer when he spoke of neckcloths, as if he thought, in the first place, that they were quite superfluous portions of attire, and, in the second place, that having once put them on, the taking of them off at night was a piece of effeminacy altogether unworthy of a Nor’-wester.

Charley and Harry needed no second rebuke. It flashed instantly upon them that sleeping comfortably under their blankets when the men were bustling about the camp was extremely inconsistent with the heroic resolves of the previous day. They sprang up, rolled their blankets in the oil-cloths, which they fastened tightly with ropes; tied the neckcloths, held in such contempt by Mr Park, in a twinkling; threw on their coats, and in less than five minutes were ready to embark. They then found that they might have done things more leisurely, as the crews had not yet got all their traps on board; so they began to look around them, and discovered that each had omitted to pack up a blanket.

Very much crestfallen at their stupidity, they proceeded to untie the bundles again, when it became apparent to the eyes of Charley that his friend had put on his capote inside out; which had a peculiarly ragged and grotesque effect. These mistakes were soon rectified, and shouldering their beds, they carried them down to the boat and tossed them in. Meanwhile Mr Park, who had been watching the movements of the boys with a peculiar smile, that filled them with confusion, went round the different camps to see that nothing was left behind. The men were all in their places with oars ready, and the boats floating on the calm water, a yard or two from shore, with the exception of the guide’s boat, the stern of which still rested on the sand awaiting Mr Park.

“Who does this belong to?” shouted that gentleman, holding up a cloth cap, part of which was of a mottled brown and part deep blue.

Harry instantly tore the covering from his head, and discovered that among his numerous mistakes he had put on the head-dress of one of the Indians who had brought him to the camp. To do him justice, the cap was not unlike his own, excepting that it was a little more mottled and dirty in colour, besides being decorated with a gaudy but very much crushed and broken feather.

“You had better change with our friend here, I think,” said Mr Park, grinning from ear to ear, as he tossed the cap to its owner, while Harry handed the other to the Indian, amid the laughter of the crew.

“Never mind, boy,” added Mr Park, in an encouraging tone; “you’ll make a voyageur yet.—Now then, lads, give way;” and with a nod to the Indians, who stood on the shore watching their departure, the trader sprang into the boat and took his place beside the two boys.

“Ho! sing, mes garçons,” cried the guide, seizing the massive sweep and directing the boat out to sea.

At this part of the lake there occurs a deep bay or inlet, to save rounding which travellers usually strike straight across from point to point, making what is called in voyageur parlance a traverse. These traverses are subjects of considerable anxiety and frequently of delay to travellers, being sometimes of considerable extent, varying from four to five, and in such immense seas as Lake Superior to fourteen miles. With boats, indeed, there is little to fear, as the inland craft of the fur-traders can stand a heavy sea, and often ride out a pretty severe storm; but it is far otherwise with the bark canoes that are often used in travelling. These frail craft can stand very little sea—their frames being made of thin, flat slips of wood and sheets of bark, not more than a quarter of an inch thick, which are sewed together with the fibrous roots of the pine (called by the natives wattape), and rendered water-tight by means of melted gum. Although light and buoyant, therefore, and extremely useful in a country where portages are numerous, they require very tender usage; and when a traverse has to be made, the guides have always a grave consultation, with some of the most sagacious among the men, as to the probability of the wind rising or falling—consultations which are more or less marked by anxiety and tediousness in proportion to the length of the traverse, the state of the weather, and the courage or timidity of the guides.

On the present occasion there was no consultation, as has been already seen. The traverse was a short one, the morning fine, and the boats good. A warm glow began to overspread the horizon, giving promise of a splendid day, as the numerous oars dipped with a plash and a loud hiss into the water, and sent the boats leaping forth upon the white wave.

“Sing, sing!” cried the guide again, and clearing his throat, he began the beautiful, quick-tuned canoe-song “Rose Blanche,” to which the men chorused with such power of lungs that a family of plovers, which up to that time had stood in mute astonishment on a sandy point, tumbled precipitately into the water, from which they rose with a shrill, inexpressibly wild, plaintive cry, and fled screaming away to a more secure refuge among the reeds and sedges of a swamp. A number of ducks, too, awakened by the unwonted sound, shot suddenly out from the concealment of their night’s bivouac with erect heads and startled looks, sputtered heavily over the surface of their liquid bed, and rising into the air, flew in a wide circuit, with whistling wings, away from the scene of so much uproar and confusion.

The rough voices of the men grew softer and softer as the two Indians listened to the song of their departing friends, mellowing down and becoming more harmonious and more plaintive as the distance increased, and the boats grew smaller and smaller, until they were lost in the blaze of light that now bathed both water and sky in the eastern horizon, and began rapidly to climb the zenith, while the sweet tones became less and less audible as they floated faintly across the still water, and melted at last into the deep silence of the wilderness.

The two Indians still stood with downcast heads and listening ears, as if they loved the last echo of the dying music, while their grave, statue-like forms added to, rather than detracted from, the solitude of the deserted scene.