The Young Fur Traders

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"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! a terre! a 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 suning
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, self-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 its 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.

CHAPTER XII.

The storm.

Two days after the events of the last chapter, the brigade was making
one of the traverses which have already been noticed as of frequent
occurrence in the great lakes. The morning was calm and sultry. A
deep stillness pervaded Nature, which tended to produce a
corresponding quiescence in the mind, and to fill it with those
indescribably solemn feelings that frequently arise before a
thunderstorm. Dark, lurid clouds hung overhead in gigantic masses,
piled above each other like the battlements of a dark fortress, from
whose ragged embrasures the artillery of heaven was about to play.

"Shall we get over in time, Louis?" asked Mr. Park, as he turned to
the guide, who sat holding the tiller with a firm grasp; while the
men, aware of the necessity of reaching shelter ere the storm burst
upon them, were bending to the oars with steady and sustained energy.

"Perhaps," replied Louis, laconically.--"Pull, lads, pull! else
you'll have to sleep in wet skins to-night."

A low growl of distant thunder followed the guide's words, and the
men pulled with additional energy; while the slow measured hiss of
the water, and clank of oars, as they cut swiftly through the lake's
clear surface, alone interrupted the dead silence that ensued.

Charley and his friend conversed in low whispers; for there is a
strange power in a thunder-storm, whether raging or about to break,
that overawes the heart of man,--as if Nature's God were nearer then
than at other times; as if He--whose voice, indeed, if listened to,
speaks even in the slightest evolution of natural phenomena--were
about to tread the visible earth with more than usual majesty, in the
vivid glare of the lightning flash, and in the awful crash of
thunder.

"I don't know how it is, but I feel more like a coward," said
Charley, "just before a thunderstorm than I think I should do in the
arms of a polar bear. Do you feel queer, Harry?"

"A little," replied Harry, in a low whisper. "and yet I'm not
frightened. I can scarcely tell what I feel, but I'm certain it's not
fear."

"Well, I don't know," said Charley. "When father's black bull chased
Kate and me in the prairies, and almost overtook us as we ran for the
fence of the big field, I felt my heart leap to my mouth, and the
blood rush to my cheeks, as I turned about and faced him, while Kate
climbed the fence; but after she was over, I felt a wild sort of
wickedness in me, as if I should like to tantalise and torment him,--
and I felt altogether different from what I feel now while I look up
at these black clouds. Isn't there something quite awful in them,
Harry?"

Ere Harry replied, a bright flash of lightning shot athwart the sky,
followed by a loud roll of thunder, and in a moment the wind rushed,
like a fiend set suddenly free, down upon the boats, tearing up the
smooth surface of the water as it flew, and cutting it into gleaming
white streaks. Fortunately the storm came down behind the boats, so
that, after the first wild burst was over, they hoisted a small
portion of their lug sails, and scudded rapidly before it.

There was still a considerable portion of the traverse to cross, and
the guide cast an anxious glance over his shoulder occasionally, as
the dark waves began to rise, and their crests were cut into white
foam by the increasing gale. Thunder roared in continued, successive
peals, as if the heavens were breaking up, while rain descended in
sheets. For a time the crews continued to ply their oars; but as the
wind increased, these were rendered superfluous. They were taken in,
therefore, and the men sought partial shelter under the tarpaulin;
while Mr. Park and the two boys were covered, excepting their heads,
by an oilcloth, which was always kept at hand in rainy weather.

"What think you now, Louis?" said Mr. Park, resuming the pipe which
the sudden outburst of the storm had caused him to forget. "Have we
seen the worst of it?"

Louis replied abruptly in the negative, and in a few seconds shouted
loudly, "Look out, lads! here comes a squall. Stand by to let go the
sheet there!"

Mike Brady, happening to be near the sheet, seized hold of the rope,
and prepared to let go, while the men rose, as if by instinct, and
gazed anxiously at the approaching squall, which could be seen in the
distance, extending along the horizon, like a bar of blackest ink,
spotted with flakes of white. The guide sat with compressed lips, and
motionless as a statue, guiding the boat as it bounded madly towards
the land, which was now not more than half-a-mile distant.

"Let go!" shouted the guide, in a voice that was heard loud and clear
above the roar of the elements.

"Ay, ay," replied the Irishman, untwisting the rope instantly, as
with a sharp hiss the squall descended on the boat.

At that moment the rope became entangled round one of the oars, and
the gale burst with all its fury on the distended sail, burying the
prow in the waves, which rushed inboard in a black volume, and in an
instant half filled the boat.

"Let go!" roared the guide again, in a voice of thunder; while Mike
struggled with awkward energy to disentangle the rope.

As he spoke, an Indian, who during the storm had been sitting beside
the mast, gazing at the boiling water with a grave, contemplative
aspect, sprang quickly forward, drew his knife, and with two blows
(so rapidly delivered that they seemed but one) cut asunder first the
sheet and then the halyards, which let the sail blow out and fall
flat upon the boat. He was just in time. Another moment and the
gushing water, which curled over the bow, would have filled them to
the gunwale. As it was, the little vessel was so full of water that
she lay like a log, while every toss of the waves sent an additional
torrent into her.

"Bail for your lives, lads!" cried Mr, Park, as he sprang forward,
and, seizing a tin dish, began energetically to bail out the water.
Following his example, the whole crew seized whatever came first to
hand in the shape of dish or kettle, and began to bail. Charley and
Harry Somerville acted a vigorous part on this occasion--the one with
a bark dish (which had been originally made by the natives for the
purpose of holding maple sugar), the other with his cap.

For a time it seemed doubtful whether the curling waves should send
most water _into_ the boat, or the crew should bail most _out_ of it.
But the latter soon prevailed, and in a few minutes it was so far got
under that three of the men were enabled to leave off bailing and
reset the sail, while Louis Pettier returned to his post at the helm.
At first the boat moved but slowly, owing to the weight of water in
her; but as this gradually grew less, she increased her speed and
neared the land.

"Well done, Redfeather," said Mr. Park, addressing the Indian as he
resumed his seat; "your knife did us good service that time, my fine
fellow."

Redfeather, who was the only pure native in the brigade, acknowledged
the compliment with a smile.

"_Ah, oui_," replied the guide, whose features had now lost their
stern expression. "These Injins are always ready enough with their
knives. It's not the first time my life has been saved by the knife
of a red-skin."

"Humph! bad luck to them," muttered Mike Brady; "it's not the first
time that my windpipe has been pretty near spiflicated by the knives
o' the redskins, the murtherin' varmints."

As Mike gave vent to this malediction, the boat ran swiftly past a
low rocky point, over which the surf was breaking wildly.

"Down with the sail, Mike," cried the guide, at the same time putting
the helm hard up. The boat flew round, obedient to the ruling power,
made one last plunge as it left the rolling surf behind, and slid
gently and smoothly into still water under the lee of the point.

Here, in the snug shelter of a little bay, two of the other boats
were found, with their prows already on the beach, and their crews
actively employed in landing their goods, opening bales that had
received damage from the water, and preparing the encampment; while
ever and anon they paused a moment to watch the various boats as they
flew before the gale, and one by one doubled the friendly promontory.

If there is one thing that provokes a voyageur more than another, it
is being wind-bound on the shores of a large lake. Rain or sleet,
heat or cold, icicles forming on the oars, or a broiling sun glaring
in a cloudless sky, the stings of sand-flies, or the sharp probes of
a million musquitoes, he will bear with comparative indifference; but
being detained by high wind for two, three, or four days together--
lying inactively on shore, when everything else, it may be, is
favourable: the sun bright, the sky blue, the air invigorating, and
all but the wind propitious--is more than his philosophy can carry
him through with equanimity. He grumbles at it; sometimes makes
believe to laugh at it; very often, we are sorry to say, swears at
it; does his best to sleep through it; but whatever he does, he does
with a bad grace, because he's in a bad humour, and can't stand it.

For the next three days this was the fate of our friends. Part of the
time it rained, when the whole party slept as much as was possible,
and then _endeavoured_ to sleep _more_ than was possible, under the
shelter afforded by the spreading branches of the trees. Part of the
time was fair, with occasional gleams of sunshine, when the men
turned out to eat and smoke and gamble round the fires; and the two
friends sauntered down to a sheltered place on the shore, sunned
themselves in a warm nook among the rocks, while they gazed ruefully
at the foaming billows, told endless stories of what they had done in
time past, and equally endless _prospective_ adventures that they
earnestly hoped should befall them in time to come.

While they were thus engaged, Redfeather, the Indian who had cut the
ropes so opportunely during the storm, walked down to the shore, and
sitting down on a rock not far distant, fell apparently into a
reverie.

"I like that fellow," said Harry, pointing to the Indian.

"So do I. He's a sharp, active man. Had it not been for him we should
have had to swim for it."

"Indeed, had it not been for him I should have had to sink for it,"
said Harry, with a smile, "for I can't swim."

"Ah, true, I forgot that. I wonder what the red-skin, as the guide
calls him, is thinking about," added Charley in a musing tone.

"Of home, perhaps, 'sweet home,'" said Harry, with a sigh. "Do you
think much of home, Charley, now that you have left it?"

Charley did not reply for a few seconds. He seemed to muse over the
question.

At last he said slowly--

"Think of home? I think of little else when I am not talking with
you, Harry. My dear mother is always in my thoughts, and my poor old
father. Home? ay; and darling Kate, too, is at my elbow night and
day, with the tears streaming from her eyes, and her ringlets
scattered over my shoulder, as I saw her the day we parted, beckoning
me back again, or reproaching me for having gone away--God bless her!
Yes, I often, very often, think of home, Harry."

Harry made no reply. His friend's words had directed his thoughts to
a very different and far-distant scene--to another Kate, and another
father and mother, who lived in a glen far away over the waters of
the broad Atlantic. He thought of them as they used to be when he was
one of the number, a unit in the beloved circle, whose absence would
have caused a blank there. He thought of the kind voice that used to
read the Word of God, and the tender kiss of his mother as they
parted for the night. He thought of the dreary day when he left them
all behind, and sailed away, in the midst of strangers, across the
wide ocean to a strange land. He thought of them now--_without_ him--
accustomed to his absence, and forgetful, perhaps, at times that he
had once been there. As he thought of all this a tear rolled down his
cheek, and when Charley looked up in his face, that tear-drop told
plainly that he too thought sometimes of home.

"Let us ask Redfeather to tell us something about the Indians," he
said at length, rousing himself. "I have no doubt he has had many
adventures in his life. Shall we, Charley?"

"By all means--Ho, Redfeather; are you trying to stop the wind by
looking it out of countenance?"

The Indian rose and walked towards the spot where the boys lay.

"What was Redfeather thinking about?" said Charley, adopting the
somewhat pompous style of speech occasionally used by Indians. "Was
he thinking of the white swan and his little ones in the prairie; or
did he dream of giving his enemies a good licking the next time he
meets them?"

"Redfeather has no enemies," replied the Indian. "He was thinking of
the great Manito, [Footnote: God.] who made the wild winds, and the
great lakes, and the forest."

"And pray, good Redfeather, what did your thoughts tell you?"

"They told me that men are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked;
and that Manito is very good and patient to let them live."

"That is to say," cried Harry, who was surprised and a little nettled
to hear what he called the heads of a sermon from a red-skin, "that
_you_, being a man, are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked, and
that Manito is very good and patient to let _you_ live?"

"Good," said the Indian calmly; "that is what I mean."

"Come, Redfeather," said Charley, laying his hand on the Indian's
arm, "sit down beside us, and tell us some of your adventures. I know
that you must have had plenty, and it's quite clear that we're not to
get away from this place all day, so you've nothing better to do."

The Indian readily assented, and began his story in English.

Redfeather was one of the very few Indians who had acquired the power
of speaking the English language. Having been, while a youth, brought
much into contact with the fur-traders, and having been induced by
them to enter their service for a time, he had picked up enough of
English to make himself easily understood. Being engaged at a later
period of life as a guide to one of the exploring parties sent out by
the British Government to discover the famous North West Passage, he
had learned to read and write, and had become so much accustomed to
the habits and occupations of the "pale faces," that he spent more of
his time, in one way or another, with them than in the society of his
tribe, which dwelt in the thick woods bordering on one of the great
prairies of the interior. He was about thirty years of age; had a
tall, thin, but wiry and powerful frame; and was of a mild, retiring
disposition. His face wore a habitually grave expression, verging
towards melancholy; induced, probably, by the vicissitudes of a wild
life (in which he had seen much of the rugged side of nature in men
and things) acting upon a sensitive heart, and a naturally warm
temperament. Redfeather, however, was by no means morose; and when
seated along with his Canadian comrades round the camp fire, he
listened with evidently genuine interest to their stories, and
entered into the spirit of their jests. But he was always an auditor,
and rarely took part in their conversations. He, was frequently
consulted by the guide in matters of difficulty, and it was observed
that the "red-skin's" opinion always carried much weight with it,
although it was seldom given unless asked for. The men respected him
much because he was a hard worker, obliging, and modest---three
qualities that insure respect, whether found under a red skin or a
white one.

"I shall tell you," he began, in a soft, musing tone, as if he were
wandering in memories of the past--"I shall tell you how it was that
I came by the name of Redfeather."

"Ah!" interrupted Charley, "I intended to ask you about that; you
don't wear one."

"I did once. My father was a great warrior in his tribe," continued
the Indian; "and I was but a youth when I got the name.

"My tribe was at war at the time with the Chipewyans, and one of our
scouts having come in with the intelligence that a party of our
enemies was in the neighbourhood, our warriors armed themselves to go
in pursuit of them. I had been out once before with a war-party, but
had not been successful, as the enemy's scouts gave notice of our
approach in time to enable them to escape. At the time the
information was brought to us, the young men of our village were
amusing themselves with athletic games, and loud challenges were
being given and accepted to wrestle, or race, or swim in the deep
water of the river, which flowed calmly past the green bank on which
our wigwams stood. On a bank near to us sat about a dozen of our
women--some employed in ornamenting moccasins with coloured porcupine
quills; others making rogans of bark for maple sugar, or nursing
their young infants; while a few, chiefly the old women, grouped
themselves together and kept up an incessant chattering, chiefly with
reference to the doings of the young men.

"Apart from these stood three or four of the principal men of our
tribe, smoking their pipes, and although apparently engrossed in
conversation, still evidently interested in what was going forward on
the bank of the river.

"Among the young men assembled there was one of about my own age, who
had taken a violent dislike to me because the most beautiful girl in
all the village preferred me before him. His name was Misconna. He
was a hot-tempered, cruel youth; and although I endeavoured as much
as possible to keep out of his way, he sought every opportunity of
picking a quarrel with me. I had just been running a race along with
several other youths, and although not the winner, I had kept ahead
of Misconna all the distance. He now stood leaning against a tree,
burning with rage and disappointment. I was sorry for this, because I
bore him no ill-will, and if it had occurred to me at the time, I
would have allowed him to pass me, since I was unable to gain the
race at any rate.

"'Dog!' he said at length, stepping forward and confronting me, 'will
you wrestle?'

"Just as he approached I had turned round to leave the place. Not
wishing to have more to do with him, I pretended not to hear, and
made a step or two towards the lodges. 'Dog,' he cried again, while
his eyes flashed fiercely, as he grasped me by the arm, 'will you
wrestle, or are you afraid? Has the brave boy's heart changed into
that of a girl?'

"'No, Misconna,' said I. 'You _know_ that I am not afraid; but I have
no desire to quarrel with you.'

"'You lie!' cried he, with a cold sneer,--'you are afraid; and see,'
he added, pointing towards the women with a triumphant smile, 'the
dark-eyed girl sees it and believes it too!'

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