The Young Fur Traders

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"What a deal of trouble you do take to make yourself comfortable!"
said he to the skipper, who sat with his chair tilted on its hind
legs, and a pillow at his back.

"No harm in that, doctor," replied the skipper, with a smile.

"No harm, certainly, but it looks uncommonly lazy-like."

"What does?"

"Why, putting a pillow at your back, to be sure."

The doctor was a full-fleshed, muscular man, and owing to this fact
it mattered little to him whether his chair happened to be an easy
one or not. As the skipper sometimes remarked, he carried padding
always about with him; he was, therefore, a little apt to sneer at
the attempts of his brethren to render the ill-shaped, wooden-
bottomed chairs, with which the hall was ornamented, bearable.

"Well, doctor," said the skipper, "I cannot see how you make me out
lazy. Surely it is not an evidence of laziness, my endeavouring to
render these instruments of torture less tormenting? Seeking to be
comfortable, if it does not inconvenience anyone else, is not
laziness. Why, what _is_ comfort?" The skipper began to wax
philosophical at this point, and took the pipe from his mouth as he
gravely propounded the momentous question. "What _is_ comfort? If I
go out to camp in the woods, and after turning in find a sharp stump
sticking into my ribs on one side, and a pine root driving in the
small of my back on the other side, is _that_ comfort? Certainly not.
And if I get up, seize a hatchet, level the stump, cut away the root,
and spread pine brush over the place, am I to be called lazy for
doing so? Or if I sit down on a chair, and on trying to lean back to
rest myself find that the stupid lubber who made it has so
constructed it that four small hard points alone touch my person--two
being at the hip-joints and two at the shoulder-blades; and if to
relieve such physical agony I jump up and clap a pillow at my back,
am I to be called lazy for doing _that_?"

"What a glorious entry that would make in the log!" said the doctor,
in a low tone, soliloquizingly, as if he made the remark merely for
his own satisfaction, while he tapped the ashes out of his pipe.

The skipper looked as if he meditated a sharp reply; but his
intentions, whatever they might have been, were interrupted by the
opening of the door, and the entrance of the accountant, bearing
under his arm a packet of letters.

A general rush was made upon him, and in a few minutes a dead silence
reigned in the hall, broken only at intervals by an exclamation of
surprise or pathos, as the inmates, in the retirement of their
separate apartments, perused letters from friends in the interior of
the country and friends at home: letters that were old--some of them
bearing dates many months back--and travel-stained, but new and fresh
and cheering, nevertheless, to their owners, as the clear bright sun
in winter or the verdant leaves in spring.

Harry Somerville's letters were numerous and long. He had several
from friends in Red River, besides one or two from other parts of the
Indian country, and one--it was very thick and heavy--that bore the
post-marks of Britain. It was late that night ere the last candle was
extinguished in the hall, and it was late too before Harry Somerville
ceased to peruse and re-peruse the long letter from home, and found
time or inclination to devote to his other correspondents. Among the
rest was a letter from his old friend and companion, Charley Kennedy,
which ran as follows:--

MY DEAR HARRY,--It really seems more than an age since I saw you.
Your last epistle, written in the perturbation of mind consequent
upon being doomed to spend another winter at York Fort, reached me
only a few days ago, and filled me with pleasant recollections of
other days. Oh! man, how much I wish that you were with me in this
beautiful country! You are aware that I have been what they call
"roughing it" since you and I parted on the shores of Lake Winnipeg;
but, my dear fellow, the idea that most people have of what that
phrase means is a very erroneous one indeed. "Roughing it," I
certainly have been, inasmuch as I have been living on rough fare,
associating with rough men, and sleeping on rough beds under the
starry sky; but I assure you that all this is not half so rough upon
the constitution as what they call leading an _easy life_, which is
simply a life that makes a poor fellow stagnate, body and spirit,
till the one comes to be unable to digest its food, and the other
incompetent to jump at so much as half an idea. Anything but an easy
life, to my mind. Ah! there's nothing like roughing it, Harry, my
boy. Why, I am thriving on it--growing like a young walrus, eating
like a Canadian voyageur, and sleeping like a top! This is a splendid
country for sport, and as our _bourgeois_ [Footnote: The gentleman in
charge of an establishment is always designated the bourgeois.] has
taken it into his head that I am a good hand at making friends with
the Indians, he has sent me out on several expeditions, and afforded
me some famous opportunities of seeing life among the red-skins.
There is a talk just now of establishing a new outpost in this
district, so if I succeed in persuading the governor to let me
accompany the party, I shall have something interesting to write
about in my next letter. By the way, I wrote to you a month ago, by
two Indians who said they were going to the missionary station at
Norway House. Did you ever get it? There is a hunter here just now
who goes by the name of Jacques Caradoc. He is a first-rater--can do
anything, in a wild way, that lies within the power of mortal man,
and is an inexhaustible anecdote-teller, in a quiet way. He and I
have been out buffalo-hunting two or three times, and it would have
done your heart good, Harry, my dear boy, to have seen us scouring
over the prairie together on two big-boned Indian horses--regular
trained buffalo-runners, that didn't need the spur to urge, nor the
rein to guide them, when once they caught sight of the black cattle,
and kept a sharp look-out for badger-holes, just as if they had been
reasonable creatures. The first time I went out I had several rather
ugly falls, owing to my inexperience. The fact is, that if a man has
never run buffaloes before, he's sure to get one or two upsets, no
matter how good a horseman he may be. And that monster Jacques,
although he's the best fellow I ever met with for a hunting
companion, always took occasion to grin at my mishaps, and gravely to
read me a lecture to the effect that they were all owing to my own
clumsiness or stupidity; which, you will acknowledge, was not
calculated to restore my equanimity.

The very first run we had cost me the entire skin of my nose, and
converted that feature into a superb Roman for the next three weeks.
It happened thus. Jacques and I were riding over the prairies in
search of buffaloes. The place was interspersed with sundry knolls
covered with trees, slips and belts of woodland, with ponds scattered
among them, and open sweeps of the plain here and there; altogether a
delightful country to ride through. It was a clear early morning, so
that our horses were fresh and full of spirit. They knew, as well as
we ourselves did, what we were out for, and it was no easy matter to
restrain them. The one I rode was a great long-legged beast, as like
as possible to that abominable kangaroo that nearly killed me at Red
River; as for Jacques, he was mounted on a first-rate charger. I
don't know how it is, but somehow or other everything about Jacques,
or belonging to him, or in the remotest degree connected with him, is
always first-rate! He generally owns a first-rate horse, and if he
happens by any unlucky chance to be compelled to mount a bad one, it
immediately becomes another animal. He seems to infuse some of his
own wonderful spirit into it! Well, as Jacques and I curvetted along,
skirting the low bushes at the edge of a wood, out burst a whole herd
of buffaloes. Bang went Jacques's gun, almost before I had winked to
make sure that I saw rightly, and down fell the fattest of them all,
while the rest tossed up their tails, heels, and heads in one grand
whirl of indignant amazement, and scoured away like the wind. In a
moment our horses were at full stretch after them, on their _own_
account entirely, and without any reference to _us_. When I recovered
my self-possession a little, I threw forward my gun and fired; but
owing to my endeavouring to hold the reins at the same time, I nearly
blew off one of my horse's ears, and only knocked up the dust about
six yards ahead of us! Of course Jacques could not let this pass
unnoticed. He was sitting quietly loading his gun, as cool as a
cucumber, while his horse was dashing forward at full stretch, with
the reins hanging loosely on his neck.

"Ah, Mister Charles," said he, with the least possible grin on his
leathern visage, "that was not well done. You should never hold the
reins when you fire, nor try to put the gun to your shoulder. It
a'n't needful. The beast'll look arter itself, if it's a riglar
buffalo-runner; any ways holdin' the reins is of no manner of use. I
once know'd a gentleman that came out here to see the buffalo-
huntin'. He was a good enough shot in his way, an' a first-rate
rider. But he was full o' queer notions: he _would_ load his gun with
the ramrod in the riglar way, instead o' doin' as we do, tumblin' in
a drop powder, spittin' a ball out your mouth down the muzzle, and
hittin' the stock on the pommel of the saddle to send it home. And he
had them miserable things--the _somethin'_ 'cussion-caps, and used to
fiddle away with them while we were knockin' over the cattle in all
directions. Moreover, he had a notion that it was altogether wrong to
let go his reins even for a moment, and so, what between the ramrod
and the 'cussion-caps and the reins, he was worse than the greenest
clerk that ever came to the country. He gave it up in despair at
last, after lamin' two horses, and finished off by runnin' after a
big bull, that turned on him all of a suddent, crammed its head and
horns into the side of his horse, and sent the poor fellow head over
heels on the green grass. He wasn't much the worse for it, but his
fine double-barrelled gun was twisted into a shape that would almost
have puzzled an Injin to tell what it was." Well, Harry, all the time
that Jacques was telling me this we were gaining on the buffaloes,
and at last we got quite close to them, and as luck would have it,
the very thing that happened to the amateur sportsman happened to me.
I went madly after a big bull in spite of Jacques's remonstrances,
and just as I got alongside of him up went his tail (a sure sign that
his anger was roused), and round he came, head to the front, stiff as
a rock; my poor charger's chest went right between his horns, and, as
a matter of course, I continued the race upon _nothing_, head first,
for a distance of about thirty yards, and brought up on the bridge of
my nose. My poor dear father used to say I was a bull-headed rascal,
and, upon my word, I believe he was more literally correct than he
imagined; for although I fell with a fearful crash, head first, on
the hard plain, I rose up immediately, and in a few minutes was able
to resume the chase again. My horse was equally fortunate, for
although thus brought to a sudden stand while at full gallop, he
wheeled about, gave a contemptuous flourish with his heels, and
cantered after Jacques, who soon caught him again. My head bothered
me a good deal for some time after this accident, and swelled up till
my eyes became almost undistinguishable; but a few weeks put me all
right again. And who do you think this man Jacques is? You'd never
guess. He's the trapper whom Redfeather told us of long ago, and
whose wife was killed by the Indians. He and Redfeather have met, and
are very fond of each other. How often in the midst of these wild
excursions have my thoughts wandered to you, Harry! The fellows I
meet with here are all kind-hearted, merry companions, but none like
yourself. I sometimes say to Jacques, when we become communicative to
each other beside the camp-fire, that my earthly felicity would be
perfect if I had Harry Somerville here; and then I think of Kate, my
sweet, loving sister Kate, and feel that, even although I had you
with me, there would still be something wanting to make things
perfect. Talking of Kate, by the way, I have received a letter from
her, the first sheet of which, as it speaks of mutual Red River
friends, I herewith enclose. Pray keep it safe, and return per first
opportunity. We've loads of furs here and plenty of deerstalking, not
to mention galloping on horseback on the plains in summer and dog-
sledging in the winter. Alas! my poor friend, I fear that it is
rather selfish in me to write so feelingly about my agreeable
circumstances, when I know you are slowly dragging out your existence
at that melancholy place York Fort; but believe me, I sympathize with
you, and I hope earnestly that you will soon be appointed to more
genial scenes. I have much, very much, to tell you yet, but am
compelled to reserve it for a future epistle, as the packet which is
to convey this is on the point of being closed.

Adieu, my dear Harry, and wherever you may happen to pitch your tent,
always bear in kindly remembrance your old friend, CHARLES
KENNEDY.

The letter was finished, but Harry did not cease to hold intercourse
with his friend. With his head resting on his two hands, and his
elbows on the table, he sat long, silently gazing on the signature,
while his mind revelled in the past, the present, and the future. He
bounded over the wilderness that lay between him and the beautiful
plains of the Saskatchewan. He seized Charley round the neck, and
hugged and wrestled with him as in days of yore. He mounted an
imaginary charger, and swept across the plains along with him;
listened to anecdotes innumerable from Jacques, attacked thousands of
buffaloes, singled out scores of wild bulls, pitched over horses'
heads and alighted precisely on the bridge of his nose, always in
close proximity to his old friend. Gradually his mind returned to its
prison-house, and his eye fell on Kate's letter, which he picked up
and began to read. It ran thus:--

MY DEAR, DEAR, DARLING CHARLEY,--I cannot tell you how much my heart
has yearned to see you, or hear from you, for many long, long months
past. Your last delightful letter, which I treasure up as the most
precious object I possess, has indeed explained to me how utterly
impossible it was to have written a day sooner than you did; but that
does not comfort me a bit, or make those weary packets more rapid and
frequent in their movements, or the time that passes between the
periods of hearing from you less dreary and anxious. God bless and
protect you, my darling, in the midst of all the dangers that
surround you. But I did not intend to begin this letter by murmuring,
so pray forgive me, and I shall try to atone for it by giving you a
minute account of everybody here about whom you are interested. Our
beloved father and mother, I am thankful to say, are quite well. Papa
has taken more than ever to smoking since you went away. He is seldom
out of the summer-house in the garden now, where I very frequently
go, and spend hours together in reading to and talking with him. He
very often speaks of you, and I am certain that he misses you far
more than we expected, although I think he cannot miss you nearly so
much as I do. For some weeks past, indeed ever since we got your last
letter, papa was engaged all the forenoon in some mysterious work,
for he used to lock himself up in the summer-house--a thing he never
did before. One day I went there at my usual time and instead of
having to wait till he should unlock the door, I found it already
open, and entered the room, which was so full of smoke that I could
hardly see. I found papa writing at a small table, and the moment he
heard my footstep he jumped up with a fierce frown, and shouted,
"Who's there?" in that terrible voice that he used to speak in long
ago when angry with his men, but which he has almost quite given up
for some time past. He never speaks to me, as you know very well, but
in the kindest tones, so you may imagine what a dreadful fright I got
for a moment; but it was only for a moment, because the instant he
saw that it was me his dear face changed, and he folded me in his
arms, saying, "Ah, Kate, forgive me, my darling! I did not know it
was you, and I thought I had locked the door, and was angry at being
so unceremoniously interrupted." He then told me he was just
finishing a letter of advice to you, and going up to the table,
pushed the papers hurriedly into a drawer. As he did so, I guessed
what had been his mysterious occupation, for he seemed to have
covered _quires_ of paper with the closest writing. Ah, Charley,
you're a lucky fellow to be able to extort such long letters from our
dear father. You know how difficult he finds it to write even the
shortest note, and you remember his old favourite expression, "I
would rather skin a wild buffalo bull alive than write a long
letter." He deserves long ones in return, Charley; but I need not
urge you on that score--you are an excellent correspondent. Mamma is
able to go out every day now for a drive in the prairie. She was
confined to the house for nearly three weeks last month, with some
sort of illness that the doctor did not seem to understand, and at
one time I was much frightened, and very, very anxious about her, she
became so weak. It would have made your heart glad to have seen the
tender way in which papa nursed her through the illness. I had
fancied that he was the very last man in the world to make a sick-
nurse, so bold and quick in his movements, and with such a loud,
gruff voice--for it _is_ gruff, although very sweet at the same time.
But the moment he began to tend mamma he spoke more softly even than
dear Mr. Addison does, and he began to walk about the house on
tiptoe, and persevered so long in this latter that all his moccasins
began to be worn out at the toes, while the heels remained quite
strong. I begged of him often not to take so much trouble, as _I_ was
naturally the proper nurse for mamma; but he wouldn't hear of it, and
insisted on carrying breakfast, dinner, and tea to her, besides
giving her all her medicine. He was for ever making mistakes,
however, much to his own sorrow, the darling man; and I had to watch
him pretty closely, for more than once he has been on the point of
giving mamma a glass of laudanum in mistake for a glass of port wine.
I was a good deal frightened for him at first, as, before he became
accustomed to the work, he tumbled over the chairs and tripped on the
carpets while carrying trays with dinners and breakfasts, till I
thought he would really injure himself at last, and then he was so
terribly angry with himself at making such a noise and breaking the
dishes--I think he has broken nearly an entire dinner and tea set of
crockery. Poor George, the cook, has suffered most from these
mishaps--for you know that dear papa cannot get angry without letting
a _little_ of it out upon somebody; and whenever he broke a dish or
let a tray fall, he used to rush into the kitchen, shake his fist in
George's face, and ask him, in a fierce voice, what he meant by it.
But he always got better in a few seconds, and finished off by
telling him never to mind, that he was a good servant on the whole,
and he wouldn't say any more about it just now, but he had better
look sharp out and not do it again. I must say, in praise of George,
that on such occasions he looked very sorry indeed, and said he hoped
that he would always do his best to give him satisfaction. This was
only proper in him, for he ought to be very thankful that our father
restrains his anger so much; for you know he was rather violent
_once_, and you've no idea, Charley, how great a restraint he now
lays on himself. He seems to me quite like a lamb, and I am beginning
to feel somehow as if we had been mistaken, and that he never was a
passionate man at all. I think it is partly owing to dear Mr.
Addison, who visits us very frequently now, and papa and he are often
shut up together for many hours in the smoking-house. I was sure that
papa would soon come to like him, for his religion is so free from
everything like severity or affected solemnity. The cook, and Rosa,
and my dog that you named Twist, are all quite well. The last has
grown into a very large and beautiful animal, something like the
stag-hound in the picture-book we used to study together long ago. He
is exceedingly fond of me, and I feel him to be quite a protector.
The cocks and hens, the cow and the old mare, are also in perfect
health; so now, having told you a good deal about ourselves, i will
give you a short account of the doings in the colony.

First of all, your old friend Mr. Kipples is still alive and well,
and so are all our old companions in the school. One or two of the
latter have left, and young Naysmith has joined the Company's
service. Betty Peters comes very often to see us, and she always asks
for you with great earnestness. I think you have stolen the old
woman's heart, Charley, for she speaks of you with great affection.
Old Mr. Seaforth is still as vigorous as ever, dashing about the
settlement on a high-mettled steed, just as if he were one of the
youngest men in the colony. He nearly poisoned himself, poor man, a
month ago, by taking a dose of some kind of medicine by mistake. I
did not hear what it was, but I am told that the treatment was rather
severe. Fortunately the doctor happened to be at home when he was
sent for, else our old friend would, I fear, have died. As it was,
the doctor cured him with great difficulty. He first gave him an
emetic, then put mustard blisters to the soles of his feet, and
afterwards lifted him into one of his own carts, without springs, in
which he drove him for a long time over all the ploughed fields in
the neighbourhood. If this is not an exaggerated account, Mr.
Seaforth is certainly made of sterner stuff than most men. I was told
a funny anecdote of him a few days ago, which I am sure you have
never heard, otherwise you would have told it to me, for there used
to be no secrets between us, Charley--alas! I have no one to confide
in or advise with now that you are gone. You have often heard of the
great flood; not Noah's one, but the flood that nearly swept away our
settlement and did so much damage before you and I were born. Well,
you recollect that people used to tell of the way in which the river
rose after the breaking up of the ice, and how it soon overflowed all
the low points, sweeping off everything in its course. Old Mr.
Seaforth's house stood at that time on the little point, just beyond
the curve of the river, at the foot of which our own house stands,
and as the river continued to rise, Mr. Seaforth went about actively
securing his property. At first he only thought of his boat and
canoes, which, with the help of his son Peter and a Canadian, who
happened at the time to be employed about the place, he dragged up
and secured to an iron staple in the side of his house. Soon,
however, he found that the danger was greater than at first he
imagined. The point became completely covered with water, which
brought down great numbers of _half_-drowned and _quite_-drowned
cattle, pigs, and poultry, and stranded them at the garden fence, so
that in a short time poor Mr. Seaforth could scarcely move about his
overcrowded domains. On seeing this, he drove his own cattle to the
highest land in his neighbourhood and hastened back to the house,
intending to carry as much of the furniture as possible to the same
place. But during his short absence the river had risen so rapidly
that he was obliged to give up all thoughts of this, and think only
of securing a few of his valuables. The bit of land round his
dwelling was so thickly covered with the poor cows, sheep, and other
animals, that he could scarcely make his way to the house, and you
may fancy his consternation on reaching it to find that the water was
more than knee-deep round the walls, while a few of the cows and a
whole herd of pigs had burst open the door (no doubt accidentally)
and coolly entered the dining-room, where they stood with drooping
heads, very wet, and apparently very miserable. The Canadian was busy
at the back of the house, loading the boat and canoe with everything
he could lay hands on, and was not aware of the foreign invasion in
front. Mr. Seaforth cared little for this, however, and began to
collect all the things he held most valuable, and threw them to the
man, who stowed them away in the boat. Peter had been left in charge
of the cattle, so they had to work hard. While thus employed the
water continued to rise with fearful rapidity, and rushed against the
house like a mill-race, so that it soon became evident that the whole
would ere long be swept away. Just as they finished loading the boat
and canoes, the staple which held them gave way; in a moment they
were swept into the middle of the river, and carried out of sight.
The Canadian was in the boat at the time the staple broke, so that
Mr. Seaforth was now left in a dwelling that bid fair to emulate
Noah's ark in an hour or two, without a chance of escape, and with no
better company than five black oxen, in the dining-room, besides
three sheep that were now scarcely able to keep their heads above
water, and three little pigs that were already drowned. The poor old
man did his best to push out the intruders, but only succeeded in
ejecting two sheep and an ox. All the others positively refused to
go, so he was fain to let them stay. By shutting the outer door he
succeeded in keeping out a great deal of water. Then he waded into
the parlour, where he found some more little pigs, floating about and
quite dead. Two, however, more adventurous than their comrades, had
saved their lives by mounting first on a chair and then upon the
table, where they were comfortably seated, gazing languidly at their
mother, a very heavy fat sow, which sat, with what seemed an
expression of settled despair, on the sofa. In a fit of wrath, Mr.
Seaforth seized the young pigs and tossed them out of the window;
whereupon the old one jumped down, and half-walking, half-swimming,
made her way to her companions in the dining-room. The old gentleman
now ascended to the garret, where from a small window he looked out
upon the scene of devastation. His chief anxiety was about the
foundation of the house, which, being made of a wooden framework,
like almost all the others in the colony, would certainly float if
the water rose much higher. His fears were better founded than the
house. As he looked up the river, which had by this time overflowed
all its banks, and was spreading over the plains, he saw a fresh
burst of water coming down, which, when it dashed against his
dwelling, forced it about two yards from its foundation. Suddenly he
remembered that there were a large anchor and chain in the kitchen,
both of which he had brought there one day, to serve as a sort of
anvil when he wanted to do some blacksmith work. Hastening down, he
fastened one end of the chain to the sofa, and cast the anchor out of
the window. A few minutes afterwards another rush of water struck the
building, which yielded to pressure, and swung slowly down until the
anchor arrested its further progress. This was only for a few
seconds, however. The chain was a slight one. It snapped, and the
house swept majestically down the stream, while its terrified owner
scrambled to the roof, which he found already in possession of his
favourite cat. Here he had a clear view of his situation. The plains
were converted into a lake, above whose surface rose trees and
houses, several of which, like his own, were floating on the stream
or stranded among shallows. Settlers were rowing about in boats and
canoes in all directions, but although some of them noticed the poor
man sitting beside his cat on the housetop, they were either too far
off or had no time to render him assistance.

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