Читать книгу The Best Ballantyne Westerns - R. M. Ballantyne - Страница 15

Table of Contents

Charley and Harry begin their sporting career, without much success—Whisky-John catching.

The place in the boats usually allotted to gentlemen in the Company’s service while travelling is the stern. Here the lading is so arranged as to form a pretty level hollow, where the flat bundles containing their blankets are placed, and a couch is thus formed that rivals Eastern effeminacy in luxuriance. There are occasions, however, when this couch is converted into a bed, not of thorns exactly, but of corners; and really it would be hard to say which of the two is the more disagreeable. Should the men be careless in arranging the cargo, the inevitable consequence is that “monsieur” will find the leg of an iron stove, the sharp edge of a keg, or the corner of a wooden box occupying the place where his ribs should be. So common, however, is this occurrence that the clerks usually superintend the arrangements themselves, and so secure comfort.

On a couch, then, of this kind, Charley and Harry now found themselves constrained to sit all morning—sometimes asleep, occasionally awake, and always earnestly desiring that it was time to put ashore for breakfast, as they had now travelled for four hours without halt, except twice for about five minutes, to let the men light their pipes.

“Charley,” said Harry Somerville to his friend, who sat beside him, “it strikes me that we are to have no breakfast at all to-day. Here have I been holding my breath and tightening my belt, until I feel much more like a spider or a wasp than a—a—”

“Man, Harry; out with it at once, don’t be afraid,” said Charley.

“Well, no, I wasn’t going to have said that exactly, but I was going to have said a voyageur; only I recollected our doings this morning, and hesitated to take the name until I had won it.”

“It’s well that you entertain so modest an opinion of yourself,” said Mr Park, who still smoked his pipe as if he were impressed with the idea that to stop for a moment would produce instant death. “I may tell you for your comfort, youngsters, that we shan’t breakfast till we reach yonder point.”

The shores of Lake Winnipeg are flat and low, and the point indicated by Mr Park lay directly in the light of the sun, which now shone with such splendour in the cloudless sky, and flashed on the polished water, that it was with difficulty they could look towards the point of land.

“Where is it?” asked Charley, shading his eyes with his hand; “I cannot make out anything at all.”

“Try again, my boy; there’s nothing like practice.”

“Ah, yes! I make it out now; a faint shadow just under the sun. Is that it?”

“Ay, and we’ll break our fast there.”

“I would like very much to break your head here,” thought Charley, but he did not say it, as, besides being likely to produce unpleasant consequences, he felt that such a speech to an elderly gentleman would be highly improper; and Charley had some respect for grey hairs for their own sake, whether the owner of them was a good man or a goose.

“What shall we do, Harry? If I had only thought of keeping out a book.”

“I know what I shall do,” said Harry, with a resolute air:

“I’ll go and shoot!”

“Shoot!” cried Charley. “You don’t mean to say that you’re going to waste your powder and shot by firing at the clouds! for, unless you take them, I see nothing else here.”

“That’s because you don’t use your eyes,” retorted Harry. “Will you just look at yonder rock ahead of us, and tell me what you see.”

Charley looked earnestly at the rock, which to a cursory glance seemed as if composed of whiter stone on the top. “Gulls, I declare!” shouted Charley, at the same time jumping up in haste.

Just then one of the gulls, probably a scout sent out to watch the approaching enemy, wheeled in a circle overhead. The two youths dragged their guns from beneath the thwarts of the boat, and rummaged about in great anxiety for shot-belts and powder-horns. At last they were found; and having loaded, they sat on the edge of the boat, looking out for game with as much—ay, with more intense interest than a Blackfoot Indian would have watched for a fat buffalo cow.

“There he goes,” said Harry; “take the first shot, Charley.”

“Where? where is it?”

“Right ahead. Look out!”

As Harry spoke, a small white gull, with bright-red legs and beak, flew over the boat so close to them that, as the guide remarked, “he could see it wink!” Charley’s equanimity, already pretty well disturbed, was entirely upset at the suddenness of the bird’s appearance; for he had been gazing intently at the rock when his friend’s exclamation drew his attention in time to see the gull within about four feet of his head. With a sudden “Oh!” Charley threw forward his gun, took a short, wavering aim, and blew the cocktail feather out of Baptiste’s hat; while the gull sailed tranquilly away, as much as to say, “If that’s all you can do, there’s no need for me to hurry!”

“Confound the boy!” cried Mr Park. “You’ll be the death of some one yet; I’m convinced of that.”

“Parbleu! you may say that, c’est vrai,” remarked the voyageur, with a rueful gaze at his hat, which, besides having its ornamental feather shattered, was sadly cut up about the crown.

The poor lad’s face became much redder than the legs or beak of the gull as he sat down in confusion, which he sought to hide by busily reloading his gun; while the men indulged in a somewhat witty and sarcastic criticism of his powers of shooting, remarking, in flattering terms, on the precision of the shot that blew Baptiste’s feather into atoms, and declaring that if every shot he fired was as truly aimed he would certainly be the best in the country.

Baptiste also came in for a share of their repartee. “It serves you right,” said the guide, laughing, “for wearing such things on the voyage. You should put away such foppery till you return to the settlement, where there are girls to admire you.” (Baptiste had continued to wear the tall hat, ornamented with gold cords and tassels, with which he had left Red River.)

“Ah!” cried another, pulling vigorously at his oar, “I fear that Marie won’t look at you, now that all your beauty’s gone.”

“’Tis not quite gone,” said a third; “there’s all the brim and half a tassel left, besides the wreck of the remainder.”

“Oh, I can lend you a few fragments,” retorted Baptiste, endeavouring to parry some of the thrusts. “They would improve you vastly.”

“No, no, friend, gather them up and replace them; they will look more picturesque and becoming now. I believe if you had worn them much longer all the men in the boat would have fallen in love with you.”

“By St. Patrick,” said Mike Brady, an Irishman who sat at the oar immediately behind the unfortunate Canadian, “there’s more than enough o’ rubbish scattered over mysilf nor would do to stuff a fither-bed with.”

As Mike spoke, he collected the fragments of feathers and ribbons with which the unlucky shot had strewn him, and placed them slyly on the top of the dilapidated hat, which Baptiste, after clearing away the wreck, had replaced on his head.

“It’s very purty,” said Mike, as the action was received by the crew with a shout of merriment.

Baptiste was waxing wrathful under this fire, when the general attention was drawn again towards Charley and his friend, who, having now got close to the rock, had quite forgotten their mishap in the excitement of expectation.

This excitement in the shooting of such small game might perhaps surprise our readers, did we not acquaint them with the fact that neither of the boys had, up to that time, enjoyed much opportunity of shooting. It is true that Harry had once or twice borrowed the fowling-piece of the senior clerk, and had sallied forth with a beating heart to pursue the grouse which are found in the belt of woodland skirting the Assiniboine River near to Fort Garry. But these expeditions were of rare occurrence, and they had not sufficed to rub off much of the bounding excitement with which he loaded and fired at anything and everything that came within range of his gun. Charley, on the other hand, had never fired a shot before, except out of an old horse-pistol; having up to this period been busily engaged at school, except during the holidays, which he always spent in the society of his sister Kate, whose tastes were not such as were likely to induce him to take up the gun, even if he had possessed such a weapon. Just before leaving Red River, his father presented him with his own gun, remarking, as he did so, with a sigh, that his day was past now; and adding, that the gun was a good one for shot or ball, and if he (Charley) brought down half as much game with it as he (Mr Kennedy) had brought down in the course of his life, he might consider himself a crack shot undoubtedly.

It was not surprising, therefore, that the two friends went nearly mad with excitation when the whole flock of gulls rose into the air like a white cloud, and sailed in endless circles and gyrations above and around their heads—flying so close at times that they might almost have been caught by the hand. Neither was it surprising that innumerable shots were fired, by both sportsmen, without a single bird being a whit the worse for it, or themselves much the better; the energetic efforts made to hit being rendered abortive by the very eagerness which caused them to miss. And this was the less extraordinary, too, when it is remembered that Harry in his haste loaded several times without shot, and Charley rendered the right barrel of his gun hors de combat at last, by ramming down a charge of shot and omitting powder altogether, whereby he snapped and primed, and snapped and primed again, till he grew desperate, and then suspicious of the true cause, which he finally rectified with much difficulty.

Frequently the gulls flew straight over the heads of the youths,—which produced peculiar consequences, as in such cases they took aim while the birds were approaching; but being somewhat slow at taking aim, the gulls were almost perpendicularly above them ere they were ready to shoot, so that they were obliged to fire hastily in hope, feeling that they were losing their balance, or give up the chance altogether.

Mr Park sat grimly in his place all the while, enjoying the scene, and smoking.

“Now then, Charley,” said he, “take that fellow.”

“Which? where? Oh, if I could only get one!” said Charley, looking up eagerly at the screaming birds, at which he had been staring so long, in their varying and crossing flight, that his sight had become hopelessly unsteady.

“There! Look sharp: fire away!”

Bang went Charley’s piece, as he spoke, at a gull which flew straight towards him, but so rapidly that it was directly above his head; indeed, he was leaning a little backwards at the moment, which caused him to miss again, while the recoil of the gun brought matters to a climax, by toppling him over into Mr Park’s lap, thereby smashing that gentleman’s pipe to atoms. The fall accidentally exploded the second barrel, causing the butt to strike Charley in the pit of his stomach—as if to ram him well home into Mr Park’s open arms—and hitting with a stray shot a gull that was sailing high up in the sky in fancied security. It fell with a fluttering crash into the boat while the men were laughing at the accident.

“Didn’t I say so?” cried Mr Park, wrathfully, as he pitched Charley out of his lap, and spat out the remnants of his broken pipe.

Fortunately for all parties, at this moment the boat approached a spot on which the guide had resolved to land for breakfast; and seeing the unpleasant predicament into which poor Charley had fallen, he assumed the strong tones of command with which guides are frequently gifted, and called out,—“Ho, ho! à terre! à terre! to land! to land! Breakfast, my boys; breakfast!”—at the same time sweeping the boat’s head shoreward, and running into a rocky bay, whose margin was fringed by a growth of small trees. Here, in a few minutes, they were joined by the other boats of the brigade, which had kept within sight of each other nearly the whole morning.

While travelling through the wilds of North America in boats, voyageurs always make a point of landing to breakfast. Dinner is a meal with which they are unacquainted, at least on the voyage, and luncheon is likewise unknown. If a man feels hungry during the day, the pemmican-bag and its contents are there; he may pause in his work at any time, for a minute, to seize the axe and cut off a lump, which he may devour as he best can; but there is no going ashore—no resting for dinner. Two great meals are recognised, and the time allotted to their preparation and consumption held inviolable—breakfast and supper: the first varying between the hours of seven and nine in the morning; the second about sunset, at which time travellers usually encamp for the night. Of the two meals it would be difficult to say which is more agreeable. For our own part, we prefer the former. It is the meal to which a man addresses himself with peculiar gusto, especially if he has been astir three or four hours previously in the open air. It is the time of day, too, when the spirits are freshest and highest, animated by the prospect of the work, the difficulties, the pleasures, or the adventures of the day that has begun; and cheered by that cool, clear buoyancy of Nature which belongs exclusively to the happy morning hours, and has led poets in all ages to compare these hours to the first sweet months of spring or the early years of childhood.

Voyageurs, not less than poets, have felt the exhilarating influence of the young day, although they have lacked the power to tell it in sounding numbers; but where words were wanting, the sparkling eye, the beaming countenance, the light step, and hearty laugh, were more powerful exponents of the feelings within. Poet, and painter too, might have spent a profitable hour on the shores of that great sequestered lake, and as they watched the picturesque groups clustering round the blazing fires, preparing their morning meal, smoking their pipes, examining and repairing the boats, or sunning their stalwart limbs in wild, careless attitudes upon the greensward—might have found a subject worthy the most brilliant effusions of the pen or the most graphic touches of the pencil.

An hour sufficed for breakfast. While it was preparing, the two friends sauntered into the forest in search of game, in which they were unsuccessful; in fact, with the exception of the gulls before mentioned, there was not a feather to be seen—save, always, one or two whisky-johns.

Whisky-johns are the most impudent, puffy, conceited little birds that exist. Not much larger in reality than sparrows, they nevertheless manage to swell out their feathers to such an extent that they appear to be as large as magpies, which they further resemble in their plumage. Go where you will in the woods of Rupert’s Land, the instant that you light a fire two or three whisky-johns come down and sit beside you, on a branch, it may be, or on the ground, and generally so near that you cannot but wonder at their recklessness. There is a species of impudence which seems to be specially attached to little birds. In them it reaches the highest pitch of perfection. A bold, swelling, arrogant effrontery—a sort of stark, staring, sell-complacent, comfortable, and yet innocent impertinence—which is at once irritating and amusing, aggravating and attractive, and which is exhibited in the greatest intensity in the whisky-john. He will jump down almost under your nose, and seize a fragment of biscuit or pemmican. He will go right into the pemmican-bag, when you are but a few paces off, and pilfer, as it were, at the fountain-head. Or if these resources are closed against him, he will sit on a twig, within an inch of your head, and look at you as only a whisky-john can look.

“I’ll catch one of these rascals,” said Harry, as he saw them jump unceremoniously into and out of the pemmican bag.

Going down to the boat, Harry hid himself under the tarpaulin, leaving a hole open near to the mouth of the bag. He had not remained more than a few minutes in this concealment when one of the birds flew down, and alighted on the edge of the boat. After a glance round to see that all was right, it jumped into the bag. A moment after, Harry, darting his hand through the aperture, grasped him round the neck and secured him. Poor whisky-john screamed and pecked ferociously, while Harry brought him in triumph to his friend; but so unremittingly did the bird scream that his captor was fain at last to let him off, the more especially as the cook came up at the moment and announced that breakfast was ready.