Part 3 (1/2)
To pull a heavy boat up this incline and over the half mile to the launching place above, was no small undertaking.
Everything was unloaded, the craft brought ash.o.r.e, and ropes which were carried for the purpose attached to the bow. Then round sticks of wood, for rollers, were placed under it, and while d.i.c.k and Ed hauled, Bob and Bill pushed and lifted and kept the rollers straight. In this manner, with infinite labour, it was worked to the top of the hill and step by step hauled over the portage to the place where it was to enter the water again. It was nearly sunset when they completed their task and turned back to bring up their things from below.
They had retraced their steps but a few yards when d.i.c.k, who was ahead, darted off to the left of the trail with the exclamation:
”An' here's some fresh meat for supper.”
It was a porcupine lumbering awkwardly away. He easily killed it with a stick, and picking it up by its tail, was about to turn back into the trail when a fresh axe cutting caught his eye.
”Now who's been here, lads?” said he, looking at it closely. ”None o'
th' planters has been inside of th' Traverspine, an' no Mountaineers has left th' post yet.”
The others joined him and scrutinized the cutting, then looked for other human signs. Near by they found the charred wood of a recent fire and some spruce boughs that had served for a bed within a day or two, which was proved by their freshly broken ends. It had been the couch of a single man.
”Micmac John, sure!” said Ed.
”An' what's he doin' here?” asked Bill. ”He has no traps or huntin'
grounds handy t' this.”
”I'm thinkin' 'tis no good he's after,” said d.i.c.k. ”'Tis sure he, an'
he'll be givin' us trouble, stealin' our fur an' maybe worse. But if _I_ gets hold o' he, he'll be sorry for his meddlin', if meddlin' he's after, an' it's sure all he's here for.”
They hurried back to pitch camp, and when the fire was made the porcupine was thrown upon the blaze, and allowed to remain there until its quills and hair were scorched to a cinder. Then d.i.c.k, who superintended the cooking, pulled it out, sc.r.a.ped it and dressed it.
On either side of the fire he drove a stake and across the tops of these stakes tied a cross pole. From the centre of this pole the porcupine was suspended by a string, so that it hung low and near enough to the fire to roast nicely, while it was twirled around on the string. It was soon sending out a delicious odour, and in an hour was quite done, and ready to be served. A dainty morsel it was to the hungry voyageurs, resembling in some respects roast pig, and every sc.r.a.p of it they devoured.
The next morning all the goods were carried over the portage, and a wearisome fight began against the current of the river, which was so swift above this point as to preclude sailing or even rowing. A rope was tied to the bow of the boat and on this three of the men hauled, while the other stood in the craft and with a pole kept it clear of rocks and other obstructions. For several days this method of travel continued--tracking it is called. Sometimes the men were forced along the sides of almost perpendicular banks, often they waded in the water and frequently met obstacles like projecting cliffs, around which they pa.s.sed with the greatest difficulty.
At the Porcupine Rapids everything was lashed securely into the boat, as a precaution in case of accident, but they overcame the rapid without mishap, and finally they reached Gull Island Lake, a broadening of the river in safety, and were able to resume their oars again. It was a great relief after the long siege of tracking, and Ed voiced the feelings of all in the remark:
”Pullin' at th' oars is hard when ye has nothin' harder t' do, but trackin's so much harder, pullin' seems easy alongside un.”
”Aye,” said d.i.c.k, ”th' thing a man's doin's always the hardest work un ever done. 'Tis because ye forgets how hard th' things is that ye've done afore.”
”An' it's just the same in winter. When a frosty spell comes folks thinks 'tis th' frostiest time they ever knew. If '_twere_, th'
winters, I 'lows'd be gettin' so cold folks couldn't stand un. I recollects one frosty spell----”
”Now none o' yer yarns, Ed. Th' Lord'll be strikin' ye dead in His anger _some day_ when ye're tellin' what ain't so.”
”I tells no yarns as ain't so, an' I can prove un all--leastways I could a proved this un, only it so happens as I were alone. As I was sayin', 'twere so cold one night last winter that when I was boilin'
o' my kettle an' left th' door o' th' tilt open for a bit while I steps outside, th' wind blowin' in on th' kettle all th' time hits th'
steam at th' spout--an' what does ye think I sees when I comes in?”
”Ye sees steam, o' course, an' what else could ye see, now?”
”'Twere so cold--that wind--blowin' right on th' spout where th' steam comes out, when I comes in I looks an' I can't believe what I sees myself. Well, now, I sees th' steam froze solid, an' a string o' ice hangin' from th' spout right down t' th' floor o' th' tilt, an' th'
kettle boilin' merry all th' time. That's what I sees, an'----”