Ungava

“By the way,” said Frank, as they walked along the beach, “it seems that many years ago the Moravian missionaries came to the mouth of this river, and talked of setting up a trading-fort here; but, from some cause unknown, they gave up their design and went away. Maximus has been telling me all he knows about the matter; but his reports are vague, and the event must have occurred, if it occurred at all, when he was a child.”

“Very possibly, Frank. You know the Moravians have settlements along the coasts of Labrador, to the eastward of this. They may have made an attempt long ago to push as far as this. I have always had a high opinion of the energy and perseverance of these missionaries, but I cannot get over the incongruity of their strange way of mingling trade with religion. It seems to me an unnatural sort of thing for missionaries to be fur-traders. I do not mean by this to object to their system, however; I daresay it works well, but I’ve had no means of judging.”

“It is strange,” replied Frank; “yet it seems a good plan. The missionaries trade there in order that they may live and preach. ’Twould be a good thing for the Indian country if the same principles and practice actuated the traders; with this difference, that instead of missionaries becoming fur-traders, the fur-traders would become missionaries. It does seem a species of infatuation,” continued Frank, energetically, as he warmed with the subject, “that men, calling themselves Christians, should live for years and years among the poor Indians of America and never once name to them the great and saving name of Christ. Of course I do not wonder at those who make little or no profession of Christianity; but there are men in the fur-trade who seem to be deeply impressed with the truths of God’s Word—who are alive to the fact that there is no name under heaven given among men whereby we can be saved except the name of Christ—who know and feel that the Indians around them are living without God, and therefore without hope in the world—who feel that Christ is all in all, and that the Christian religion, however perfect and beautiful as a code of morals, is utterly worthless as to salvation unless there be in the heart the special love of Jesus Christ;—men who admit and profess to believe all this, yet never speak of Christ to the natives—never mention the name that can alone save them from eternal destruction.”

“Be not hasty, Frank,” replied Stanley. “I agree with you, that it is strange indeed we do not see and hear more of this missionary spirit among the traders, and I, for one, take your words as a deserved rebuke to myself; but if there are, as you say, many among us who are deeply impressed with the truths of God’s Word, how know you that we never mention our Saviour’s name to the Indians? Although fur-traders do not mount the pulpit, they may, in private, make mention of that name, and do an amount of good that will only be fully known when the trader, the trapper, and the Indian shall stand side by side before the judgment-seat of Christ. Observe, I do not say that this is actually the case; I only suggest that it is possible—may I not add, probable?”

“It may be so,” returned Frank, “it may be so, and God forgive me if I have judged the men of the fur-trade unjustly; but I certainly know one who has made somewhat of a profession of Christianity in his day, and yet has done next to nothing, and that one is Frank Morton.”

“I’ll not gainsay that, Frank,” said Stanley, with a quiet smile; “and I think we are not likely to err much when we apply censure to ourselves. It is curious that you and I should have been thinking of the very same subject. A few days ago, while my wife and I were conversing together about the Esquimaux, we agreed to devote a good deal of our leisure time next winter to reading and explaining the Bible to our Esquimau interpreters, in the hope that they may afterwards be the means of much good among their poor countrymen.”

Whether or not the good resolutions made at this time were ever put in practice we cannot say. Let us hope that they were.

Not long after the sudden flight of the Esquimaux, the Indians struck their tents and took their departure for the interior, with the intention, as they said, of hunting for furs, but more probably, as Ma-istequan suggested, to hunt the deer. During all the time of their residence at the fort, Maximus had kept out of their way as much as possible. He seldom met them without a frown of hatred, for he regarded them as the representatives of a race which had robbed him of his bride; and there were times when the giant’s spirit chafed so fearfully at the sight of the red men, that nothing but the remembrance of his promise to Stanley, to offer them no injury, prevented him from stirring up his tribe to overwhelm and destroy them. It was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that Maximus beheld them march single file over the rocky platform, and disappear in the ravine that led into the mountains.

The traders of Ungava were once more left in solitude, and from this time forward, until the winter set in, they devoted all their energies to laying up a stock of provisions sufficient to last till spring.

Dick Prince and Massan were sent after the deer in company. Augustus and Bryan were dispatched to a small lake to establish a fishery; in which they were very successful, and soon caught a large supply of excellent white-fish, trout, and carp, which they gutted and hung up by their tails to dry and freeze. Frank and Moses went to another small lake, about ten miles down the river, and built a hut of willows, in which they dwelt while engaged at the fishery. As there was still much to be done in the way of completing the fort, and making furniture, Stanley retained La Roche, Oolibuck, and the two Indians to assist him in this, as well as in the performance of the miscellaneous minor duties about the station, such as cutting up firewood, covering the roofs of the stores with tarpaulin, shooting such birds and animals as came near the fort, constructing rude chairs and tables, cooking, etcetera, etcetera; while François and Gaspard were sent up the river to fell trees, for the purposes both of building and firewood. Edith and her mother found ample occupation—the latter in the use of her needle and the cares of the household; the former in learning her lessons, visiting her berry-ravine, dressing her doll (for she had a doll, as a matter of course), and in holding long and frequent converse with Chimo.

Thus they spent their time; too busily occupied to take much note of its rapid flight, and scarce noticing the lengthening nights and shortening days, until needles of ice began with slow and silent progress to shoot across and solidify the waters of the bay.

Chapter Twenty Four.
Effect of snow on the feelings, not to mention the landscape—A wonderful dome of ice

There are times and seasons, in this peculiar world of ours, when the heart of man rejoices. The rejoicing to which we refer is not of the ordinary kind. It is peculiar; and, whether its duration be long or short, its effect powerful or slight, it is quite distinct and emphatic. We do not intend to enter into a detail of the occasions that call forth this feeling of exultation. Far be it from us to venture into such perilous depths of philosophy. Our sole reason for making these preliminary observations is, that we may, with proper emphasis, introduce the statement, that one of these occasions of rejoicing is, when man arises from his couch, on a brilliant, sunny, sparkling morning, gazes forth from his window, and beholds the landscape—which yesterday was green, and red, and brown, and blue—clad in a soft mantle of whitest snow!

What! you don’t agree with us? You shudder at the preposterous idea of such a sight being fitted to rejoice the heart of man in any degree whatever? Well, well; do not sneer at our weakness. If we cannot sympathise with each other on this subject, perchance there are other things in which we can. But whatever be our opinion in regard to this, the point that we have to deal with at present is, the opinion of Edith Stanley, who, on rising hastily one morning, and looking forth from her little window, evinced the rejoicing of her heart most emphatically, by her loud exclamation of delight and the sparkling of her bright blue eyes.

Independently of the cheerful lightness and the virgin purity of the mantle, which in itself tended to awaken emotions of gladness in Edith’s heart, there was something in its sudden appearance that carried her back violently and vividly to bygone days. The winter garb had no associations, yet, with Ungava; but it had with Moose Fort, and the dear companions she used to play with there. It recalled the time when she and her little friends sallied forth, each with her small wooden sledge drawn after her by a line, to slide thereon down the banks of the frozen river with headlong speed, and upset at the bottom amid shouts of laughter. It recalled the time when she made the first attempt to walk in snow-shoes, upon which occasion she tripped and fell into the snow, as a matter of course, and was advised to wait till she was older. It recalled the memory of her father’s team of dogs, and the delightful drives she used to have over the frozen river; which drives often resulted in an upset, perhaps several, and always resulted in fun. It recalled the house in the old fort that used to be her home; the row of houses belonging to the men, to which she often went, and was always welcomed as a great favourite; the water-hole on the river from which the old Canadian drew his daily supply; and the snow-house in the yard which she built in company with Frank Morton, and which stood the whole winter through, but gave way at last before the blazing sun of spring, and fell—as ill luck would have it—when she and Chimo were sitting there, so that she and the dog together had a hard struggle ere they got free. All these, and many more thick-coming memories of other days, were aroused by the vision of snow that met Edith’s gaze that morning, and caused her heart with peculiar fervour to rejoice.

Winter had now descended with iron grasp upon Ungava. For some weeks the frost had been so intense that every lake and pool was frozen many inches thick, and the salt bay itself was fringed with a thick and ever-accumulating mass of ice. The snow which now fell was but the ceremonial coronation of a king whose reign had commenced in reality long before.

But the sunshine did not last long. The rolling fogs and vapours of the open and ice-laden sea beyond ascended over the wild mountains, obscured the bright sky, and revealed the winter of the north in all its stern, cold reality. Every cliff and crag and jagged peak had its crown of snow, and every corrie, glen, and gorge its drifted shroud. In places where the precipices were perpendicular, the grey rocks of the mountains formed dark blotches in the picture; but, dark although they were, they did not equal in blackness the river, on which floated hundreds of masses of ice and several ponderous icebergs, which had been carried up from the sea by the flood-tide. Over this inky expanse the frost-smoke hung like a leaden pall—an evil spirit, as it were, which never left the spot till protracted and intense frost closed the waters of the river altogether, and banished it farther out to sea. But this entire closing of the river very seldom happened, and never lasted long.

Fort Chimo itself, at least as much of it as remained unburied, was a mere speck on the edge of the white plain at the mountain’s foot, scarce distinguishable, at a short distance, from the straggling black pines and willow bushes that seemed thrust out into the waste from the ravines above and below the fort. But on a nearer approach, the fort assumed an air of greater importance; the influences, too, of the cold, cheerless scene we have described, were broken and dissipated by the sights of comfort and sounds of cheerfulness within. The shout of the water-drawer, as he roused the dogs and went forth with his empty cask, hauled on a little sledge, to draw from the bubbling spring behind the fort; the sounds of the hammer, the chisel, and the axe, in the carpenter’s shop; the merry clank of Bryan’s hammer, and the bright flame that gleamed from the window of the forge,—all bore evidence of the fact, that however powerful the influence of winter might be without, it had little power within the wooden walls of Fort Chimo, and could not check the life, or heart, or industry of man.

The only other human being visible in the open air, besides the water-drawer, was La Roche, who, with a fur cap covering his head and ears, and leathern mittens on his hands, hewed and hacked the billets with which he purposed to replenish the fire for cooking the mid-day meal.

Pausing in his labour, and dusting off the hoar-frost that covered his eyebrows and whiskers, he looked at the edge of his hatchet for a few seconds with an expression of contempt. Then, throwing the implement on his shoulder, he crossed the yard and entered the blacksmith’s shop.

“Bryan,” said he, seating himself on the edge of the forge and filling his pipe, while Vulcan’s votary scattered a shower of gems from a white-hot bar of iron at every blow of his hammer—“Bryan, you no fit for not’ing. Dat axe is blont encore. Oui, c’est vrai. Now dat is très mal. How you not can temper him edge better?”

“Timper it better, is it?” answered Bryan, putting the iron bar in the fire, and regarding his companion earnestly while he blew the bellows. “Faix, ’tis mysilf I’d need to timper better, in order to put up wi’ the likes o’ you, ye wretched crature. How can ye expict it to kape its idge when ye lave it for iver lyin’ among yer pots and kittles?”

“Dat is not it,” replied La Roche, applying a glowing coal to his pipe. “’Tis de mauvais steel. But I not com for to fight wid you. Your tongue trop long pour dat. I com for ax you to give me turn ov de grindstone, s’il vous plait.”

“Ye don’t desarve it, Losh; but wait till I’ve finished this job and I’ll lind ye a hand.”

“Be-the-bye,” resumed Bryan, when the metal was cooled, “has François finished that sled for Miss Edith?”

“Oui,” replied La Roche, seating himself at the grindstone. ”(Ah! pas si vite, a leet more slow, Bryan.) Oui, him make it all ready; only want de ring-bolts.”

“Thin it won’t want thim long. Ye can take thim over to the shop when ye go across. There they are on the binch.”

Bryan continued to turn the handle of the stone for some time in silence.

“D’ye know, Losh,” he resumed, “whin Mister Frank is goin’ to the fishery?”

“He go demain, I b’lieve, and Mademoiselle Edith go too.”

“None o’ the min goin’?” inquired the blacksmith.

“Non. Monsieur Frank just go for to try if dere be any fish to be cotch by de hook; and I t’ink he go more for to give Edith one drive dan dat.”

“Very likely, Losh. The poor purty little crature. She’s very fond o’ sledgin’ and walkin’ in snow-shoes. ’Tis well for her, bekase there’s a want o’ companions for her here intirely.”

“Ah! mercy, dat is superb, magnifique!” said the Frenchman, feeling the edge of the axe with his thumb. “It sharp ’nuff to shave de hair off your ogly face, Bryan.”

“Thin be off wid ye, an’ don’t kape me longer from my work. An’ shut the door quick behind ye; there’s cowld enough in the place already.”

So saying, Bryan resumed his hammer, and La Roche, following the snow-track across the yard, recommenced his labour of chopping firewood.

Next day, Frank and Edith made preparations for the excursion alluded to in the foregoing conversation.

The object for which this excursion was undertaken was twofold—first, to ascertain if there were any fish in a large lake about ten miles distant from the fort; and, secondly, to give little Edith a drive for the good of her health. Not that her health was bad, but several weeks of bad weather had confined her much to the house, and her mother thought the change would be beneficial and agreeable; and tenderly did that mother’s heart yearn over her little child, for she felt that, although she was all to Edith that a mother could be, nature had implanted in her daughter’s mind a longing desire for the companionship of little ones of her own age, which could not be satisfied by any substitute—not even that of a tender mother, who sought, by all the means in her power, to become a child again for Edith’s sake.

Immediately after breakfast that day Frank took Edith by the hand, and led her round by the back of the fort, towards the kennel where the dogs were kept, intending to release Chimo, who was to have the honour of hauling the sledge of his young mistress. In passing the spring, Edith paused, as she had often done before during the winter, to gaze with wonder on the transformation that had taken place in the appearance of the once green and fertile spot. Not only was it covered with deep snow, but over the spring there was formed a singular dome of ice. This dome was a subject of continual astonishment to every one at Ungava. It had commenced to rise soon after the first hard frosts had sealed up the little fountain from the open air. As time passed by, the covering became thick ice, and was bulged gradually up above the surrounding waste, until it reached an elevation of not much less than twelve or thirteen feet. Inside of this the spring bubbled up as of yore.

“What think you, Edith?” said Frank, as a sudden thought occurred to him; “shall I cut a doorway into that crystal house, and see if the spirit of the spring dwells there?”

Edith clapped her hands with delight at the idea, and urged her companion to begin at once. Then, checking him as he was about to commence the work with his hatchet, she said earnestly—

“Do spirits really dwell in the springs, Frank?”

“Why, Eda, we must send to England for a lot of fairy tales to teach you what I mean. I do but jest when I speak of spirits living there. But many books, have been written about pretended spirits and fairies, which tell us of their wonderful adventures, and what they said and did long ago. I shall tell you some of these stories one of these days. But I daresay there are no spirits in this spring.”

“Faix, an’ it would be a rale misfortune if there was, sir,” remarked Bryan, who came up at this moment, and touched his cap; “for it would be only sperits and wather, which wouldn’t kape in this cowld climate. I’ve finished the ring-bolts for the sled, sir, an’ came to see when ye would have them fixed.”

“Put them in your pocket, Bryan, for a few minutes, and lend a hand here to cut a hole through this dome.”

As Frank spoke, he drew a small axe from his belt, and began to lay about him so vigorously that the icy splinters flew in all directions like a shower of broken crystal. Bryan seconded his efforts, and in less than half an hour a block of solid ice, about four feet high and two broad, was cut out and detached from the side of the dome.

“That’ll do, Bryan,” said Frank, when their work was nearly completed; “I’ll finish it myself now. Go to the carpenter’s house, and François will show you what to do with the sled.”

As Bryan walked away, Frank dealt the mass of ice a blow that split it into several pieces, which he quickly removed, revealing to the astonished and eager gaze of his young companion a cavern of a most beautiful light blue colour. Taking Edith by the hand, he led her into this icy cave. Its walls were quite luminous and delicately blue, except in places where the green moss and earth around the spring had been torn from the ground and lifted up along with the dome. Icicles hung in various places from the roof, and the floor was hard and dry, except in the centre, where the spring bubbled up through it, and cut a channel across towards one side of the icy wall, where it disappeared under the snow.

“Oh, what a beautiful palace!” cried Edith, with delight, after she had gazed around her for a few minutes in silent wonder and admiration. “I shall come and live here, Frank. Oh! do come, and let us get chairs and a small table, and make it our sitting-room. We can come every day when the sun shines and read, or you can tell me the tales about spirits and fairies you spoke of!”

“A good idea, Eda; but I fear we would need a stove to keep us warm. It strikes me it will make a capital ice-house in spring to keep our fresh meat in. It will last long after the snow is melted.”

“Then we shall make a palace of it in winter and a meat-store in spring,” cried Edith, laughing, as she walked round this newly-discovered house, examining its blue walls and peeping into the cold black spring. Meanwhile Frank examined it with a view to the utilitarian purpose, and, after both of them had gone round it several times, they continued on their way towards the dog-kennel.

The sledge which François had constructed for Edith was made after the model of those used by the Esquimaux. There were two stout runners, or skates, made of wood, for sliding over the snow. These were slightly turned up, or rather rounded up, in front, and attached to each other by means of cross bars and thin planks of wood; all of which were fastened, not by nails (for iron-work snaps like glass in such a cold climate as that of Ungava), but by thongs of undressed sealskin, which, although they held the fabric very loosely together in appearance, were, nevertheless, remarkably strong, and served their purpose very well. Two short upright bars behind served as a back to lean against. But the most curious part of the machine was the substance with which the runners were shod, in order to preserve them. This was a preparation of mud and water, which was plastered smoothly on in a soft condition, and then allowed to freeze. This it did in a few minutes after being exposed to the open air, and thus became a smooth, hard sheathing, which was much more durable and less liable to break than iron, or indeed any other sheathing that could be devised. This substance is, of course, easily repaired, and is always used by the Esquimaux in winter.

Esquimau sledges being heavy, and meant for carrying a number of people, require large teams of dogs. But Edith’s sledge—or sled, as the men called it—was little. Moreover, Edith herself was little and light, therefore Chimo was deemed sufficiently powerful to draw it. So thoroughly correct were they in this supposition, that when Edith was seated in her sledge for a trial trip, and Chimo harnessed, he ran away with her and gave Frank a chase of half a mile over the river ere he condescended to stop in his wild career.

But the intended excursion was suddenly interrupted and postponed, by an event which we shall relate in the next chapter.