Part 3 (1/2)
About the same time there came another break in the monotony of outpost life which had, if possible, a more powerful and exciting influence on us than the arrival of the winter packet.
Now at this point I must beg the reader's pardon for asking him to go with me to a still more desolate and remote outpost than our own.
Between one and two hundred miles nearer to the pole the little post of Muskrat House lay under a beetling cliff, near the banks of an affluent of the great Saskatchewan river. It was in charge of Peter Macnab, before mentioned, who, in command of his army of six men and two women, held the post against all comers--the chief comers there being the North Wind and Jack Frost.
Poor Macnab was a jovial and sociable Scottish Highlander, who had been condemned to worse than Siberian banishment because of being one of the most active, enterprising, and pus.h.i.+ng fellows in the service of the Fur-Traders. His ability to manage men and Indians, and to establish new trading-posts, excelled that of his fellows. He regarded it as a complimentary though trying circ.u.mstance when Mr Strang sent him to establish the post which was named by him Muskrat House, but he faced the duty--as he faced everything--like a man; did his best for his employers, and made the most of the situation.
But it is not easy for even the strongest mind and lightest heart to be jovial when buried for eight months in snow more than twelve hundred miles beyond the influences of civilised life; and it is hard to be sociable with six uneducated men and two Indian women for one's companions. Macnab tried it, however, and was in a measure successful.
He had his Bible with him--the one given him long ago by his mother--and a bound volume of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and three copies of the _Times_ newspaper nearly two years old, and a few numbers of an American paper called the _Picayune_.
With these materials he set to work--after each day's labour of water-drawing, firewood-cutting, and trapping was done--to educate his army in religion, politics, political economy, and the varied ramifications of social life. He had intelligent and grateful scholars.
If they had not been so, Macnab would at all events have made them obedient pupils, for he was a physically large and powerful man--and might was unavoidably right in those regions!
Still, with all his energy and resources, the genial Highlander began, towards the end of winter, to feel an intense longing for a little intercourse with his equals.
Returning one night to the solitude of his little room, as was his wont, after a couple of hours' intercourse with his men in their own house, he sat down before his stove and addressed it thus:--
”It won't last long, I fear. My brain is gradually turning into something like mashed potatoes, and my heart into a tinder-box, ready enough to catch fire, but with neither flint nor steel to light it! The Indians won't be here for many weeks, and when they do come what good can I get from or do to them? Wow! wow! it's terribly slow work. Oh!
Jessie, Jessie, my dear, what would I not give if I only had _you_ here!”
Lest the reader should suppose Macnab to be a love-sick swain, I may remark here that Jessie was a sister whom he had left on the sh.o.r.es of Loch Ness, and with whom he kept up a vigorous biennial correspondence.
As the stove made no reply, he continued his address.
”If I only had a few books now, it wouldn't be so hard to bear. To be sure, the Bible is a great resource--a blessed resource; but you see I want something light now and then. A laugh, you know, seems to be absolutely needful at times. Why, now I think of it, we wouldn't have been given the power to laugh if it hadn't been necessary, and the last hearty laugh I had was, let me see--that time three months ago, when my long-nosed interpreter mistook a dead mouse in the soup--ha! ha!--for a bit of pemmican, and only found out his mistake when the tail got between his teeth!”
The solitary man burst into peals of laughter at the reminiscence, and then, becoming suddenly grave, looked slowly round the room.
”If I could only have an echo of that,” he resumed, ”from somebody else!
Well, well, I'll just go and have another chat with Jessie.”
So saying, Macnab rose, drew a small table near to the stove, laid upon it a very large desk made by himself of pine-wood, and, placing a sheet of paper thereon, began to write.
The sheet of paper merits notice. Like the man who wrote, it was extremely large, being several sizes bigger than foolscap, and very loosely ruled. As I have said, communication with the outer world being possible only twice in the year, our Highlander resolved, as usual, to make the most of his opportunities. Hence he not only used the largest paper which the company provided, but filled up several such sheets with the smallest possible writing, so that Jessie might ultimately get something worth having. It is but justice to add that Macnab wrote not only a very small but a remarkably clear and legible hand--a virtue which I earnestly commend to correspondents in general, to those of them at least who wish their epistles to meet with thorough appreciation.
It was late when our solitaire completed that evening's addition to his already voluminous letter, and he was thinking about going to bed when a stamping in the porch outside announced that a visitor was clearing the snow from his moccasins.
”One o' the men forgot something, I fancy,” muttered Macnab to himself.
The latch was lifted, for locks were not deemed necessary in those regions, and the door opening slowly disclosed the copper-hued visage and tall bony figure of a very powerful and handsome native of the soil--perhaps I should rather say--of the snow!
”Hallo! hey! come in,” shouted Macnab, giving way to a gush of his pent-up social feelings; ”why it's good for sore eyes to see a new face, even a red one. What cheer? what cheer? Where d'ye hail from? Come in, come in, and welcome!”
The hearty Highlander spoke the Indian tongue fluently, but in the excitement of his feelings mingled it with a good deal of English and an occasional growl of expressive Gaelic.
The Indian, whose horned cap and person were well powdered with snow, stepped slowly over the threshold, extending his hand to the Highlander's grasp, and looking cautiously round with rolling black eyes, as if he half expected a dynamite explosion to follow his entrance. His garments bore evidence of rough usage. Holes in his moccasins permitted portions of the duffle socks underneath to wander out. Knots on his snow-shoe lines and netting told of a long rough journey, and the soiled, greasy condition of his leathern capote spoke of its having been much used not only as a garment by day but as a s.h.i.+rt by night.
Placing his gun and snow-shoes in a corner, after solemnly responding ”watchee, watchee,” to Macnab's ”what cheer,” the red-man seated himself on the floor beside the stove, with silent disregard of the chair that his host politely offered.