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Title: On trail and rapid by dog-sled & canoe
The story of Bishop Bompas's life amongst the red Indians and Eskimo
Author: H. A. Cody
Release date: May 27, 2026 [eBook #78770]
Language: English
Original publication: Toronto: The Musson Book Co., 1912
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78770
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON TRAIL AND RAPID BY DOG-SLED & CANOE ***
ON TRAIL AND RAPID BY DOG-SLED AND CANOE
[Illustration: A HAZARDOUS VOYAGE.
The river was full of floating ice, the water turbulent, and the craft a
crazy collection of logs and boards. For days the undaunted Bishop and
his one companion, an Indian, plied the poles, chilled to the bone but
never giving up, until at length an icy barrier formed across the river,
and they were compelled to abandon the raft.]
ON TRAIL AND RAPID
BY DOG-SLED & CANOE
THE STORY OF
BISHOP BOMPAS’S LIFE AMONGST
THE RED INDIANS AND ESKIMO
TOLD FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
BY THE
REV. H. A. CODY, M.A.
AUTHOR OF “AN APOSTLE OF THE NORTH”
WITH TWENTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS
_SECOND EDITION_
TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY
LIMITED
1912
PREFACE
I have been asked to write this narrative of the life of Bishop Bompas
for boys and girls. The scenes among which his strenuous course was
run—the lands of the Red Indians and Eskimo—have always appealed to
the imagination of the young; and the endurance which he showed in
his amazing journeys, and the dauntless courage with which he faced
innumerable perils for his Master’s sake, give to his labours a character
of heroism which they will be sure to recognize.
I have been able to add some new matter to that which appeared in “An
Apostle of the North.” Part of the chapter on “How the Bishop got his
Mail” has been taken from an article of mine which appeared in the
_Pacific Monthly Magazine_ in 1908, and which the publishers have kindly
given permission to use.
I am indebted to Miss Agnes C. Laut for extracts from her most
interesting book, “Pathfinders of the West.”
* * * * *
This work was begun at Whitehorse when the thermometer stood at 60° below
zero. It was continued a few weeks later among the roses and orange
groves of sunny California, and is now completed in far Eastern Canada,
at St. John, the grey old loyalist city by the sea.
I hope and trust that it may kindle in the hearts of some of those who
read it a longing to follow in the footsteps of Bishop Bompas, and to
volunteer, like him, for service in these distant outposts of Christ’s
Church militant here in earth.
H. A. C.
_Easter, 1910._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ROMANCE OF EXPLORATION 13
II. EARLY DAYS 23
III. FORWARD TO THE FRONT 31
IV. IN DANGER AMONG THE ESKIMO 39
V. ESKIMO LIFE 52
VI. OUT OF THE NORTH 62
VII. BACK TO THE WILDERNESS 70
VIII. A TERRIBLE JOURNEY IN WINTER 78
IX. THE LITTLE ONES OF THE FLOCK 89
X. A RACE WITH WINTER 97
XI. TIMES OF FAMINE 105
XII. MID DRIFTING ICE 114
XIII. INDIAN WAYS 121
XIV. STIRRING DAYS AT FORTY MILE 140
XV. FLOODED OUT 148
XVI. HOW THE BISHOP GOT HIS MAIL 153
XVII. THE GOLDEN KLONDYKE 163
XVIII. THE MOUNTED POLICE 174
XIX. “FAINT, YET PURSUING” 185
XX. LIGHT AT EVENTIDE 194
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE BISHOP AND AN INDIAN ON A RAFT _Frontispiece_
CANOE-TRAVELLING IN NORTH-WEST CANADA _page_ 20
A SNOW-HOUSE MADE ON THE MARCH ” 56
WINTER TRAVELLING. A MISSIONARY’S INDIAN HELPER ” 68
AN INDIAN ENCAMPMENT ” 74
DOG-SLED IN NORTH-WEST CANADA ” 80
FEEDING THE DOGS ” 84
THE MISSION SCHOOL AT CARCROSS ” 90
AN INDIAN BOY SLIDING DOWNHILL ” 94
THE DOGS RESTING AFTER A HARD DAY’S WORK ” 94
TROUT-SPEARERS BRINGING SUPPLIES FOR A MISSION STATION ” 108
AN INDIAN SUMMER CAMP AT PEEL RIVER ” 122
AN OLD INDIAN DESERTED BY HIS PEOPLE ” 126
TAKING THE MAIL INTO DAWSON IN SPRING ” 154
PACK-HORSE SUPPLIES IN 1898 ” 158
GOAT-TEAM WITH SLED ON THE TRAIL, 1896 ” 164
A MINER’S GOLD-PAN ” 168
PROSPECTORS AND MINERS ON THE TRAIL ” 170
THE RUSH TO THE KLONDYKE. ONE OF MANY STRANGE CRAFT ” 172
BREAKING TRAIL ” 174
THE ROYAL NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE ” 176
THE MOUNTED POLICE COOKING A MEAL ” 178
THE DAWSON—FORT MACPHERSON MAIL ROUTE ” 182
INDIAN BOYS AT WORK AND PLAY ” 190
ON THE TRAIL ” 194
THE BODY OF BISHOP BOMPAS TAKEN IN A BOAT FROM THE
CHURCH TO THE GRAVEYARD ” 198
AN APOSTLE OF THE NORTH
(_Written by the author of this book, when he first saw Bishop Bompas
arrive at Whitehorse, in June, 1904._)
We saw him come—there was no loud acclaim:
He stood among the crowd, so frail and spare;
His humble garb marked his still humbler mien,
Whilst gently waved his scanty, silvery hair.
He stood alone, as stands some ancient pine
Amidst a stirring land and busy mart,
And strove to grasp the new and unknown ways,
Which were so strange to his intrepid heart.
But as I gazed upon that trembling form,
And marked the lisping words which slowly fell,
A vision rose before me, grand and clear,
Which thrilled my soul like some sweet vesper bell.
I saw a lonely region, cold and drear,
I saw the sad wild natives of the North
Pass slow before me, Christless, base, forlorn.
And as I thus beheld there passed straightforth
A lonely man—ay, more than common man—
’Twas one of God’s great heroes, brave and strong,
Who gave up home and friends and comforts all,
And for Christ’s sake passed forth to conquer wrong;
In lonely wilds, in wigwams foul and drear,
Midst sickness, famine, plague, and sore distress,
He pressed straight on, true soldier of the Cross,
His only aim to comfort and to bless.
And so he stands as stood his Master, Christ;
Brave leader he, no matter what the cost;
True teacher he, whose every word was love;
Good Shepherd of God’s children strayed and lost.
And this we know, when broken lies the bowl,
The after-glow of his devoted life
Will lead men on to do and dare for Christ,
And win for Him through darkness, pain, and strife.
ON TRAIL AND RAPID BY DOG-SLED AND CANOE
CHAPTER I
ROMANCE OF EXPLORATION
The progress of civilization and Christianity in the Canadian North-West,
as in many other parts of the world, is due in a large measure to
great fur-trading companies. With a wonderful devotion to the cause
in hand, they pushed beyond the bounds of civilization and entered
regions never before trodden by white man. They built forts, gained the
respect of savage tribes, and ruled them with a firm hand. By their
boats missionaries travelled over the noble streams into the wilderness,
ministered to the natives who gathered round the forts, and received
supplies from the companies’ stores.
As friction between bodies produces heat, fire, and light, so, by the
rivalry of fur-trading companies, the northland of Canada was opened up,
and a new era ushered in. Eager to outstrip one another, they were ever
pushing farther and farther into the country, and, as has been well said,
“the great explorers of the period (1763-1812) were all connected with
the fur trade.”
Away to the north stretched a region, a land of wonder and strange
stories. Indians told of a “great river” in the far North-West,
and showed specimens of copper found along its banks. The Hudson’s
Bay Company, acting upon these reports, decided to make a thorough
investigation, with the object of solving the problem of the North-West
Passage by land, to ascertain what mines were near the mouth of the Great
River, “to smoke the calumet of peace with the Indians, and to take
accurate astronomical observations.”
The man chosen for this work, Samuel Hearne, the “Mungo Park of Canada,”
was a trustworthy servant of the Company, who, on November 6, 1769,
started on his voyage of exploration from Prince of Wales Fort, on the
shore of Hudson’s Bay. Owing to the desertion of over half his men, the
attempt proved a failure, and he was forced to turn back.
Two months later he started again, and followed a northwesterly course
over streams, lakes, and then inland across the “Barren Grounds.” Food
was very scarce, and they were reduced to great straits. “For a whole
week cranberries, scraps of leather, and burnt bones were their only
food.” To add to their troubles, when 500 miles had been made, their only
quadrant was blown over and broken. So again Hearne was forced to retrace
his weary steps to the Bay.
Nothing daunted by these failures, this noble-hearted explorer once more
started on his northward quest. This time he was more successful. With a
strong band of Indians who were waging war against the Eskimo, he floated
down-stream, and ere long gained the sea, the first white man to reach
the Arctic Ocean from the interior.
“The most unpleasant part of Mr. Hearne’s story,” wrote Bishop Bompas
in his book on the “Diocese of Mackenzie River,” “is that the party of
Indians with whom he travelled, entirely without his sanction, made an
unprovoked attack on a number of Eskimo encamped on the Coppermine River,
and in the night barbarously massacred the whole body of men, women, and
children, and spoiled their tents. The site of the massacre became known
afterwards as the ‘Bloody Falls.’”
Miss Agnes C. Laut, in her most interesting book, “Pathfinders of the
West,” speaking about this incident, says:
“The conduct of Hearne’s rascally companions could no longer be
misunderstood. Hunters came in with game; but when the hungry slaves
would have lighted a moss fire to cook the meat, the forbidding hand
of a chief went up. No fires were to be lighted. The Indians advanced
with whispers, dodging from stone to stone like raiders in ambush. Spies
went forward on tiptoe. Then far down-stream below the cataracts Hearne
descried the domed tent-tops of an Eskimo band sound asleep; for it was
midnight, though the sun was at high noon. When Hearne looked back to his
companions, he found himself deserted. The Indians were already wading
the river for the west bank, where the Eskimo had camped. Hearne overtook
his guides stripping themselves of everything that might impede flight or
give hand-hold to an enemy, and daubing their skin with war-paint. Hearne
begged Matonabbee to restrain the murderous warriors. The great chief
smiled with silent contempt. He was too true a disciple of a doctrine
which Indians practised hundreds of years before white men had avowed
it—the survival of the fit, the extermination of the weak—for any qualms
of pity towards a victim whose death would contribute profit. Wearing
only moccasins and bucklers of hardened hide, armed with muskets, lances,
and tomahawks, the Indians jostled Hearne out of their way, stole forward
from stone to stone to within a gun-length of the Eskimo, then, with a
wild war-shout, flung themselves on the unsuspecting sleepers.
“The Eskimo were taken unprepared. They staggered from their tents,
still dazed in sleep, to be mowed down by a crashing of fire-arms which
they had never before heard. The poor creatures fled in frantic terror,
to be met only by lance-point and gun-butt. A young girl fell coiling
at Hearne’s feet like a wounded snake. A well-aimed lance had pinioned
the living form to earth. She caught Hearne round the knees, imploring
him with dumb entreaty; but the white man was pushed back with jeers.
Sobbing with horror, Hearne begged the Indians to put their victim out of
pain. The rocks rang with the mockery of the torturers. She was speared
to death before Hearne’s eyes. On that scene of indescribable horror
the white man could no longer bear to look. He turned toward the river,
and there was a spectacle like a nightmare. Some of the Eskimo were
escaping by leaping to their hide boats, and with lightning strokes of
the double-bladed paddles dashing down the current to the far bank of the
river; but sitting motionless as stone was an old, old woman—probably a
witch of the tribe—red-eyed as if she were blind, deaf to all the noise
about her, unconscious of all her danger, fishing for salmon below the
falls. There was a shout from the raiders; the old woman did not even
look up to face her fate; and she, too, fell a victim to that thirst for
blood which is as insatiable in the redskin as in the wolf-pack.”
“It is remarkable,” says Bishop Bompas, “that there is a bird in those
parts which the Indians there call the ‘alarm bird,’ or ‘bird of
warning’—a sort of owl which hovers over the heads of strangers and
precedes them in the direction they go. If these birds see other moving
objects, they flit alternately from one party to the other with screaming
noise, so that the Indians place great confidence in the alarm bird to
apprise them of the approach of strangers, or to conduct them to herds of
deer or musk oxen.
“Mr. Hearne remarks that all the time the Indians lay in ambush,
preparatory to the above-mentioned horrid massacre, a large flock of
these birds were continually flying about and hovering alternately over
the Indian and Eskimo tents, making a noise to awake any man out of the
soundest sleep. The Eskimo, unhappily, have a great objection to being
disturbed from sleep, and will not be awakened—an obstinacy which seems
to have cost that band their lives.”
Hearne, like Columbus, was not to have the honour of giving his name to
the great river he discovered. This was reserved for another intrepid
explorer, Alexander Mackenzie, of the North-West Company. In 1789 he
started from Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca, in search of the “Western
Sea.” He, too, was confronted with great difficulties. Wild Indians told
“of demon-haunted caves and impassable falls.” Terrified by these tales,
his Indians refused to go farther. With infinite patience Mackenzie
induced them to continue seven days longer, and if in that time they did
not discover the sea, he promised to turn back. Before the end of the
week the mouth of the river was reached, and the explorer knew it was the
Arctic Ocean he had gained instead of the Western Sea.
“It is hard,” says Bishop Bompas, “to overpraise the intrepid courage,
cool prudence, and inquiring intelligence of that noble traveller....
Sir Alexander Mackenzie took the greatest pains to conciliate all
Indians whom he met by presents and promises of peaceful trade, and he
energetically restrained all attempts at murder or rapine made by the
Indians who accompanied him. He did not meet with Eskimo, and it is
little wonder that these and the Mackenzie River Indians were shy of him,
as it was then customary for the Athabasca Indians to make annual war
expeditions down the Mackenzie for purposes of plunder, massacre, and
rapine, as well as for the kidnapping of women and slaves.”
In after-years many eminent explorers, such as Franklin, Richardson,
Simpson, and Rae, entered the country, the accounts of whose journeys and
thrilling adventures may be read elsewhere.
Several years after the discovery of the Mackenzie River trading-posts
were established at various places along this stream and its tributaries.
To these the Indians brought their furs, and a thriving business was
carried on. For a time there was a keen rivalry between the Hudson’s Bay
Company and the North-West Company, but at length a union was effected
under the name of the former.
Not satisfied with the great advance which had thus been made, these
“lords of the forest and lakes” turned their attention in another
direction. Ever before their vision rose the majestic peaks of the Rocky
Mountains; beyond these barriers were unknown regions. What possibilities
lay in that _terra incognita_ they could only conjecture. News reached
them of a great river flowing to the west, the estuary of which had been
explored by the Russians several years before, and named by them the
“Quickpak.” This stream they knew must drain a large territory, which
might prove valuable for fur-trading purposes.
There was a man in the Company’s service especially fitted for the task
of pathfinder into the new region. This was Robert Campbell, a Scotchman
by birth, over six feet of upstanding flesh, bone, muscle, and iron
nerve, as dauntless a pioneer as ever shot a swirling rapid or faced a
howling blizzard. To him, therefore, the task was consigned in the spring
of 1840 by Sir George Simpson, Governor of the Company.
At once he began the undertaking, and after a hard and dangerous voyage
up the Liard River, over lakes and portages, a stream was reached,
which Campbell named the Pelly, in honour of Sir H. Pelly. A raft was
hurriedly made, on which they floated several miles down the river to
view the country. Considering they had gone far enough from their base of
supplies, they abandoned the raft, but not before Campbell had cast into
the stream a sealed tin can with notice of his discovery, the date, and
other information.
The discovery of the Pelly River only served to increase the interest
of the Company, and it was resolved to push forward the investigation.
In 1842 birch-bark in sufficient quantity for the building of a canoe
was sent up to the Pelly River, and the same year the construction of a
fur-trading post was begun, and named Fort Pelly Banks. Early in June,
1843, Mr. Campbell started down the stream in the canoe which had been
built, accompanied by two French Canadians and an Indian interpreter.
Concerning this exciting journey Mr. Campbell has given us a vivid
description which should be of great interest to all.
“As we advanced,” he says, “the river increased in size, and the scenery
formed a succession of picturesque landscapes. About twenty-five miles
from Pelly Banks we encountered a bad rapid—‘Hooles’—where we were
forced to disembark everything, but elsewhere we had a nice flowing
current. Ranges of mountains flanked us on both sides. On the right
hand the mountains were generally covered with wood; the left range
was more open, with patches of poplar running up the valleys and
_barnsides_, reminding one of the green brae-face of the Highland glens.
We frequently saw moose-deer and bears as we passed along; and at
points where the precipice rose abrupt from the water’s edge, the wild
sheep—‘big-horn’—were often seen on the shelving rocks. They were very
keen-sighted, and when once alarmed they file swiftly and gracefully over
the mountains. When we chanced to get one we found it splendid eating,
delicate enough for an epicure.
“In this manner we travelled on for several days. We saw only one family
of Indians—‘Knife’ Indians—till we reached the junction of the Pelly
with a tributary, which I named the ‘Lewes.’ Here we found a large camp
of Indians—the ‘Wood’ Indians. We took them by no ordinary surprise, as
they had never seen a white man before, and they looked upon us with
some awe as well as curiosity. Two of their chiefs, father and son, were
very tall, stout, handsome men. We smoked the pipe of peace together,
and I distributed some presents. They spoke in loud tones, as do all the
Indians in their natural state, but they seemed kind and peaceable. When
we explained to them as best we could that we were going down-stream,
they all raised their voices against it. Among other dangers, they
indicated that inhabitating the lower river were many tribes of ‘bad’
Indians—‘numerous as the sand’—who would not only kill us, but eat us;
we should never get back alive, and friends coming to look after us
would unjustly blame them for our death. All this frightened our men to
such a degree that I had reluctantly to consent to our return, which,
under the circumstances, was the only alternative. I learned afterwards
that it would have been madness in us to have made any further advance,
unprepared as we were for such an enterprise.
“Much depressed, we that afternoon retraced our course up-stream; but
before doing so I launched on the river a sealed can containing memoranda
of our trip, etc. I was so dejected at the unexpected turn of affairs
that I was perfectly heedless of what was passing; but on the third day
of our upward progress I noticed, on both sides of the river, fires
burning on the hill-tops far and near. This awoke me to a sense of our
situation. I conjectured that, as in Scotland in the olden time, these
were _signal fires_, and that they summoned the Indians to surround
and intercept us. Thus aroused, we made the best use of paddles and
‘tracking-line’ to get up-stream and ahead of the Indian signals. On
the fourth morning we came to a party of Indians on the further bank
of the river. They made signs to us to cross over, which we did. They
were very hostile, watching us with bows bent and arrows in hand, and
would not come down from the top of the high bank to the water’s edge
to meet us. I sent up a man with some tobacco, the emblem of peace, to
reassure them, but at first they would hardly remove their hands from
their bows to receive it. We ascended the bank to them, and had a most
friendly interview, carried on by words and signs. It required, however,
some finesse and adroitness to get away from them. Once in the canoe,
we quickly pushed out and struck obliquely for the opposite bank, so as
to be out of range of their arrows, and I faced about, gun in hand, to
observe their actions. The river was there too broad either for ball
or arrow. We worked hard during the rest of the day, and until late;
the men were tired out, and I made them all sleep in my tent while I
kept watch. At that season the night is so clear that one can read or
write throughout. Our camp lay on the bank of the river, at the base of
a steep declivity, which had large trees here and there up its grassy
slope. In the branches of one of these trees I passed the greater part
of the anxious night, reading Hervey’s ‘Meditations’ and keeping a
vigilant lookout. Occasionally I descended and walked to the river-bank,
but all was still. Two years afterwards, when friendly relations had
been established with the Indians in the district, I learned, to my no
small astonishment, that the hostile tribe encountered down the river
had dogged us all day, and, when we halted for the night, had encamped
behind the crest of the hill, and from this retreat had watched my every
movement. With the exactitude of detail characteristic of Indians, they
described me sitting in the tree, holding ‘something white’ (the book) in
my hand, and often raising my eyes to make a survey of the neighbourhood;
then descending to the river-bank, taking my horn cup from my belt, and,
even while I drank, glancing up and down the river and towards the hill.
They confessed that, had I knelt down to drink, they would have rushed
upon me and drowned me in the swift current, and, after thus despatching
me, would have massacred the sleeping inmates of my tent. How often,
without knowing it, are we protected from danger by the merciful hand
of Providence! Next morning we were early in motion, and were glad to
observe that we had outwitted the Indians and outstripped their signal
fires.”
[Illustration: CANOE-TRAVELLING IN NORTH-WEST CANADA
The canoes are made of birch-bark over a light framework, and are
consequently very frail. They are, however, light and portable, a great
advantage when navigating rivers with falls or rapids. Those places where
the canoe must be carried from one navigable piece of water to another
are known as portages.]
In the spring of 1848 Campbell once more returned, and erected a post
for trading purposes at the confluence of the Lewes and Pelly Rivers.
This place was called Fort Selkirk, and occupied a dangerous position,
owing to the animosity of a tribe of Indians, known as the Chilcats,
along the Pacific Coast. From time immemorial they had kept the natives
of the interior in abject submission, having defeated them in a great
battle. They refused to allow them to cross the mountains to trade with
the white men on the coast, as they themselves did a thriving business
as “middlemen.” When they beheld the hated white race establishing a
post in what they considered their rightful domain, and drawing away the
principal part of the trade, their anger knew no bounds. Crossing the
mountains, they floated down the river, and, without a word of warning,
attacked the fort and razed it to the ground. Campbell was not present at
the destruction of his trading-post, as, two years after its erection, he
had started down the river to see, at any cost, what lay beyond.
In the meantime another entry had been made into the Yukon region away
to the north. In 1842, Mr. J. Bell, in the employ of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, crossed the Rocky Mountains, and descended the Porcupine River
for three days’ journey. In 1846 he returned, and moved down the river to
its mouth till he reached a great stream, which the Indians told him was
the Yukon. Believing this to be in British territory, Mr. A. H. Murray
established a trading-post at this spot the following year, and called
it Fort Yukon. It was here that the first missionary work was carried
on by the Church Missionary Society, the scene of Archdeacon McDonald’s
wonderful labours for the Master.
In this brief outline of the discovery of the Mackenzie and the Yukon
Rivers we have seen the brave efforts of these noble pioneers. We shall
see now how they were followed by the great King’s messengers with the
glorious Gospel of salvation.
CHAPTER II
EARLY DAYS
We all like to read about heroes, whether on sea or land. How real they
become to us as we picture them in our minds, and eagerly follow their
adventures! We wonder what they did when boys, and if they performed
wonderful things then. Nothing is too small to be of importance when once
we have a real, noble hero.
William Carpenter Bompas was a hero in the true sense of the word—not one
who gained his laurels by fighting on the sea, or rushing forward, even
to the bayonet’s point, in some great charge. His glory was gained in a
far different manner, when he enlisted in the service of the great King
of kings, and carried the banner of the Cross over great Arctic regions
and grim, snow-capped mountains, to rescue wandering Indians and Eskimo,
and lead them to the Master’s feet.
There was very little in his early life to show that he contained the
stuff of which heroes are made. He was a shy boy, fond of retirement and
study. But there was good blood in his veins, and blood will tell. The
family, on his mother’s side, was partly Royalist and partly Puritan. One
member is known to have been private secretary to Henrietta Maria, and
was hung by the Parliamentarians for aiding Charles I.; while another at
one time was secretary to Hampden. We shall see how the characteristics
of these two great parties were in later years remarkably united in
William Bompas.
The Bompas family is of French extraction, and there is an interesting
tradition which tells how the name was first given.
It was on the field of Crecy that an ancestor performed a deed of great
valour in the fight, and was knighted by Edward the Black Prince. A
bystander remarked: “C’est un bon pas.” And the Knight replied that he
would take that for his motto.
How often young William Bompas must have listened with intense eagerness
to that story of his valiant ancestor, and longed to do some great deed
himself! Little did he then think that he would be called upon to do more
than all before him, and the step that he was destined to take would be
the best of all.
His father, Charles Carpenter Bompas, was a Serjeant-at-law, and one of
the most eminent advocates of his day. It is said that the famous Charles
Dickens had him in his mind when he wrote about Serjeant Buzfuz in the
“Pickwick Papers.” When William was only ten years old, his father died
very suddenly, leaving a widow and eight children—five sons and three
daughters.
William, in early youth, showed most plainly those characteristics which
marked his whole life. He was a quiet boy, owing partly, no doubt, to
private tuition at home, which deprived him to a large extent of the
society of other boys. Cricket, football, and such games, he did not
play, his chief pleasure being walking, and sketching churches and other
buildings that he encountered in his rambles. Gardening he was fond of,
and the knowledge thus gained stood him in good stead years later when
planning for the mission-farms in his northern diocese.
The influence of a religious home made a deep and lasting impression
upon him. His parents were earnest Christians, belonging to the Baptist
denomination. Sunday was strictly observed, the father making it a firm
rule never to read briefs or hold consultations on the Day of Rest.
Bible-reading, too, was carefully observed. Serjeant Bompas was a man of
liberal views, allowing his children to indulge in harmless amusements,
and occasionally permitting them to attend the theatre and to play cards,
if not for money.
William from childhood was of a deeply religious turn of mind, and at the
age of sixteen was baptized by immersion, on a profession of his faith,
by the Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel. This step caused his mother great joy,
and after her death the following was found among her many papers:
“_July 7, 1850._—This day I would record the mercy which has rendered
it one of peculiar blessing and happiness. The favour and presence of
God has been manifested to us again during the past week, and I have
enjoyed the best earthly happiness in seeing my dear and dutiful son
W. devote himself unreservedly to the service of his Saviour. Having
conscientiously decided on baptism by immersion, he was publicly baptized
on the 5th by Mr. Baptist Noel, at his chapel in John Street, and was at
the same time admitted as member of Mr. Stratten’s church, and to-day I
have had the privilege of partaking with him of that ordinance which I
trust will be most profitable to us both.”
At this time William was attending a small day-school, and the master,
Mr. Elliott, wrote of him:
“I never had a pupil who made such acquisitions of knowledge in so short
a time; his attainments in mathematics and classics are far beyond the
majority of youths at his age, and would warrant anyone conversant with
the state of education in the Universities in predicting a brilliant
career for him, should he ever have that path open to him. I think,
however, that the development of his mind is still more remarkable than
the amount of his knowledge.”
But a University career was not practicable, and William was therefore
articled in 1852 to the same firm of solicitors with whom his brother
George was working. At the expiration of his five years of service he
transferred himself to another city firm, Messrs. Ashurst, Morris and
Company, with whom he remained about two years. While here a catastrophe
occurred in the failure of a great company, involving ruin to unnumbered
families. The harrowing spectacle of the poorer shareholders who brought
their claims into court, having lost their all without remedy, was a
terrible strain upon the young man’s nervous system, which had been
weakened by a severe illness but a short time before. This, together with
strenuous labour, brought on a second breakdown, and early in 1858 he was
forced to give up work altogether. He declared that it took him three
months to learn to do nothing. During his year of inaction the Greek
Testament was his constant companion. Change of scene became necessary,
and he spent some time at his mother’s home, Broughton, Hants, and later
with his sister visited the Normandy coast.
“The summer after his illness,” writes his brother, Judge Bompas, “we
went on a walking tour to Scotland; and one evening it got dark before
we had reached our destination, and we had to sleep out in the mountains
with no shelter, and amidst frequent showers of rain. William, though in
his weak health, was perfectly fearless and in great spirits, repeating
part of Macaulay’s ‘Lays’ and other poems for much of the night.”
As his strength returned, his mind turned more and more to his early
desire of entering the ministry. Leaving the communion of his early
associations, he decided to seek ordination in the Church of England, and
in 1858 was confirmed by the Bishop of London at St. Mary’s, Bryanston
Square. His remarkable linguistic ability enabled him soon to add by
private study a good knowledge of Hebrew to that of Latin and Greek,
which he already possessed.
In 1859 he was accepted by Dr. Jackson, the Bishop of Lincoln, as a
literate candidate for Holy Orders, and was ordained deacon by him at
the Advent ordination the same year, and appointed curate to the Rev. H.
Owen, Rector of Trusthorpe and Sutton-in-the-Marsh.
The first charge was a trying experience. The parish of Sutton was a wild
district, with a rough and primitive population, and most of the men had
been smugglers in former times. No school was established, and there had
been no resident clergyman since the time of the Reformation. Mr. Bompas
at once began a great work among the children, gathering them into his
own house, and teaching them, at first by himself, and later with the
help of his sister and a girl from a neighbouring village. By his care
for the children, and by the unfailing sympathy shown in his visits to
his parishioners, he succeeded in winning their gratitude and confidence.
His plan for the erection of a school was at first strongly opposed by
some of the farmers, who were unwilling to give land for the purpose. But
Mr. Bompas, with that tact and gentleness which marked all his dealings,
at length overcame opposition, and when he left at the end of two years
the building was completed and opened.
“I can well remember,” writes one, in reference to the young curate’s
work at Sutton, “as quite a little child, how he won my heart by carrying
my poor pet-cat, that had been hurt by a heavy piece of wood falling on
it, into a place of safety, and doing all he could to ease its pain.
Also, about the same time, in a heavy gale of wind, he was going out to
dinner at Mablethorpe, and, passing through Trusthorpe, found a little
girl blown into the thick black mud at the side of a big drain, and
unable to free herself. He not only went to the rescue, but carried her
to her home at the far end of Sutton, regardless of dinner! The _once_,”
continues the same writer, “that he revisited Sutton and preached there,
the people lined the path from church to gate, and stood waiting for him
to leave the church, that they might get a word as he passed—a very
unusual demonstration from our true but undemonstrative Lincolnshire folk
of those days.”
While at Sutton, in the second year of his clerical life, a great sorrow
came to Mr. Bompas in the death of his mother, to whose bedside he was
summoned in January, 1861. He was devotedly attached to her, and was able
to take part, with the rest of his family, in ministering comfort to her
during her last days.
In the midst of early discouragements, Mr. Bompas found a valuable friend
and helper in Mrs. Loft, of Trusthorpe Hall. He was always sure of a
hearty welcome at her house, and in after-years she followed his course
with the wannest interest, and corresponded with him to the end of her
life.
In 1862 he accepted the curacy of New Radford, Nottingham, a poor and
crowded parish, populated largely by lace-workers. The number of souls,
about 10,000, within the small triangle of New Radford was about the same
as the population of the vast diocese of 900,000 square miles of which he
was later to have episcopal supervision. To this circumstance he referred
when preaching in the parish on his return to England for consecration in
1874.
From Nottingham, Mr. Bompas went for a short time as curate to
Holy Trinity, South Lincolnshire, returning in 1864 to his former
neighbourhood as curate to the Rev. H. Oldrid at Alford, Lincolnshire.
As the earnest curate passed from house to house in his daily work,
his parishioners little thought what a bright fire of enthusiasm was
burning in his heart. He had been much stirred by the stories told by
missionaries of heathen dying without the knowledge of Christ in far-away
lands, and he longed to go abroad and bear the message of salvation. His
mind turned to China and India, with their seething millions; but as he
was a little over thirty years of age at that time, the Church Missionary
Society thought him rather old to grapple with the difficulties of the
Eastern languages. But when one door closes, another opens, and at the
right moment Bishop Anderson arrived from Rupert’s Land, and made his
great appeal for a volunteer to relieve the Rev. Robert McDonald at Fort
Yukon.
It was on May 1, 1865, that this missionary Bishop was touching the
hearts of a large crowd at St. Bride’s, London, England. He had travelled
a long way to attend the anniversary of the Church Missionary Society,
and was preaching the sermon which was destined to bear so much fruit.
Bishop Anderson was the bearer of a great message to the Church in
England. He had much to tell of the vastness of Canada, and the great
regions where the children of the wild lived and died without the
knowledge of Christ. He told of a lonely mission-station on the mighty
Yukon River, where a soldier of the cross, the Rev. Robert McDonald,
with health fast failing, was standing bravely at his post of duty till
someone should relieve him. What thoughts must have surged through his
mind as he looked on the many upturned faces before him! Who was there
among those listeners willing to consecrate his life to the Master’s
work? Lifting up his voice, the Bishop uttered these words, which have
become so memorable:
“Shall no one come forward to take up the standard of the Lord as it
falls from his hands, and to occupy the ground?”
The service ended, the clergy retired, and the congregation began to
disperse. But there was one whose heart had been deeply touched by
the speaker’s words, and, walking at once into the vestry, William
Bompas, the Lincolnshire curate, offered to go to Canada to relieve the
missionary at Fort Yukon.
He was at once accepted by the Church Missionary Society, and ordained to
the priesthood by Bishop, afterwards Archbishop, Machray, who had just
been consecrated as successor to Bishop Anderson.
How little did those who attended that ordination service realize the
important part those two men would take in Christ’s great work, or that
among the heroes of the Church in Canada in years to come no names would
be held in greater reverence than those of Machray and Bompas!
Only three weeks did Mr. Bompas have in which to prepare for his long
journey; but they were sufficient, as he was anxious to be on his way. So
complete was his consecration to the work before him that “he decided,”
so his brother tells us, “to take nothing with him that might lead back
his thoughts to home, and he gave away all his books and other tokens of
remembrance, even the paragraph Bible which he had always used.”
CHAPTER III
FORWARD TO THE FRONT
Shortly after Mr. Bompas was accepted by the Church Missionary Society,
he went to Salisbury Square and inquired how far it was to his
mission-field, and the length of time required for the journey. When told
it was about 8,000 miles, and that he was hardly likely to reach it that
year, a smile passed over his face as he replied, “I see I must start
with a small bag.”
After he learned more about the country, a longing entered into his
heart to start as soon as possible, and reach Fort Simpson, on the
Mackenzie River, by Christmas Day. Was such a thing possible? No one
before had ever done it in winter, and was it likely that the young,
ardent missionary would be the first to accomplish the task? With this
determination, Mr. Bompas was not long in making preparations for his
journey, and on June 30, 1865, he left London for Liverpool, where he
boarded the steamer _Persia_, bound for New York.
Mr. Bompas was surprised that this steamer burnt 100 tons of coal daily;
but now the Cunard liner _Mauretania_ burns 1,000 tons each day in 192
furnaces.
He travelled in company with the Rev. J. P. and Mrs. Gardiner and family
and Miss M. M. Smith, who were going to the Red River. There were many
passengers, mostly Americans, and for these an effort was made to hold
service the first Sunday, but the captain refused to give his permission.
On the following Sunday, however, they were more successful, and service
was held in the saloon, attended by crew and passengers. Tracts were also
distributed among the sailors, “accompanied by religious conversation.”
Reaching New York on July 12, two days were spent at the Astor House
Hotel, where they had the exciting experience of viewing a disastrous
fire right across the street, when a large block of buildings, including
Barnum’s Museum, was destroyed. From New York they proceeded to Niagara
by the Hudson River and New York Central Railway. On the way Mr. Bompas
spent one night at Rochester to see Captain Palmer, of the American
Telegraph Company.
“He informed me,” wrote Mr. Bompas, “that a party of explorers were
already on their way to Fort Yukon from Sidkar,[1] on the Pacific coast,
with the view of carrying out the Company’s contract entered into with
the Russian Government for laying a telegraph-line through Siberia and
across Behring’s Strait, to join existing lines in America. Should
the Atlantic cable prove successful, the Yukon line would, I suppose,
complete the circuit of the globe.”
Mr. Bompas considered the American railways rather noisy and jostling,
and the large saloon carriages, holding about sixty people, less pleasant
than the English style. At the same time, he thought the general
arrangements were “good and expeditious,” and admired the system of
communication throughout the train and the “booking through luggage by
duplicate ‘cheques’ or metal badges.”
Leaving Niagara, they reached Chicago by way of Detroit. Here were seen
“many soldiers returning from the war, some of them wounded, and most
looking pale and sickly, reminding one too plainly of the many who never
returned.” From Chicago they went by rail to La Crosse, and thence
by steamer to St. Paul. Here Dr. Schultz, a Red River merchant, and
afterwards Sir John Schultz, Lieutenant-Governor of Manitoba, was met,
who conveyed their heavy luggage across the plains in his ox-train, and
proved in many ways of great assistance.
At St. Cloud the first difficulty presented itself. Since the fearful
Sioux massacre of 1862, people were in great dread all over the country,
and they found it impossible to get anyone to convey them on towards
Red River. After much trouble and delay, they were forced to procure
a conveyance for themselves. Before leaving St. Cloud, they were told
time and time again to beware of the Indians, who were always prowling
around. “But,” said one informant, “they will respect the English flag,
and I advise you to take one along.” Such a thing the party did not
possess. But Mr. Bompas was equal to the occasion; so, procuring some red
and white cotton, he soon formed quite a respectable banner, which was
fastened to a small flagstaff erected on the cart.
Dr. Schultz had been overtaken some distance out on the prairie, and
when they had gone some way farther mounted Indians appeared in sight,
and, like the wind, one warrior swept down to view the small cavalcade.
Beholding the flag of the clustered crosses, he gazed for a time upon the
little band, and, moving away, he left them unmolested.
“On the whole, however,” said Mr. Bompas, “we travelled without special
discomfort, Dr. Schultz acting as guide. The charge of the horses, making
fires, cooking, encamping, driving, etc., of course threw much work upon
us, being without a servant.”
Reaching the Red River in safety, Mr. Bompas was much pleased with the
whole general appearance of the place.
“The houses,” he wrote, “are cleanly and cheerful, and new ones are being
built. The settlement extends altogether about twenty-five miles down
the banks of the river. In this distance there are five churches. The
three which I saw are well built and spacious. The schoolrooms, also, and
parsonages are of good size. Mr. Cowley was just removing into a new
house of a very substantial character.”
Here Mr. Bompas had not long to wait, for the boats of the great Hudson’s
Bay Company were ready to start on their long northern journey, and he
was to go with them. There were four boats, called a “brigade,” each
rowed by seven or eight men, “mostly Salteaux Indians, heathen, and
unable to speak English—a tribe much averse to Christianity.”
Then northward fled that fleet of boats, across great inland lakes, over
hard portages where the freight had to be carried, past the company’s
posts, mission stations, and Indian encampments, where services were held
when possible.
But winter was rapidly closing in upon them and threatening the daring
voyagers. Sixty-three days had they been out from the Red River
Settlement when Portage la Roche was reached on October 12, and there
they found they were too late to meet any boat going farther north.
Here was a difficult situation, but Mr. Bompas was not to be defeated.
Engaging a canoe and two French half-breeds, he pushed bravely forward.
The journey was a hard one. In some places they had to battle with
drifting ice, and the water froze to their canoe and paddles. Still they
pressed on, all day long contending with running ice, and the bleak, cold
wind whistling around them and freezing the water upon their clothes. At
night there was the lonely shore, the camp-fire, the scanty meal, and
the cold ground covered with brush for a bed. The next day up and on
again—the same weary work, the same hard fight. Such was the struggle for
eight long days, till Fort Chipewyan, on Lake Athabasca, was reached.
Here Mr. Christie, the officer in charge of the post, gave him a hearty
welcome; here the warm stove sent out its cheerful glow, and here, too,
were to be found many comforts for the winter months, if he would only
stay and rest. But no; it was ever up and on. Never before had such a
man stood within the fort. Who could conquer that northern stream at such
a season? But the missionary only smiled, and asked for canoe and men. He
was given a large craft and three Indian lads.
And once more that dauntless herald of the Cross sped northward. For
several days the trim canoe cut the water, driven by determined arms.
Then winter swept down in all its fury; the river became full of floating
ice, jamming, tearing, and impeding their canoe. Axes were brought to
bear; they would cleave a passage. The missionary must not be stopped.
How they did work! The ice-chips flew; the spray dashed and drenched
them, and then encased their bodies with an icy armour. Colder and colder
it grew, and the river became a solid mass from bank to bank. The canoe
was dragged ashore, and placed _en cache_ on the bank with their baggage.
All around was the pitiless wild. It was a dreary sight to this intrepid
traveller, with winter upon him, the bleak wilderness surrounding him,
and very little food. The enthusiasm of a less ardent spirit would have
been completely damped; but Mr. Bompas was made of sterner stuff, and
without delay he and his companions pushed forward through the forest.
On and on they travelled by a circuitous route, through brushwood and
thickets, with clothes torn, hands and faces scratched and bleeding, and
uncertain where they were. Night shut down and wrapped them in its gloomy
mantle. All the next day they struggled forward, without food, and again
night overtook them. Still they staggered on, and just when they were
wearied to the point of exhaustion the lights of Fort Resolution, on
Great Slave Lake, gleamed their welcome through the darkness.
It was necessary for the traveller to remain here until the ice in the
lake became firm enough to cross with dogs and snow-shoes. Mr. Lockhart,
the Company’s officer, offered his hospitality, and during the delay
Mr. Bompas continued busy “in the preparation,” as he tells us, “of
letters for the winter express, which is despatched hence to the south in
December, and also in practising walking with snow-shoes, in preparation
for my journey forward.”
After he had remained at Fort Resolution about a month, “Mr. Lockhart
kindly despatched him across the lake on snow-shoes, with two men and a
sledge of dogs.” Ice was found drifting in the open lake, and they were
obliged to lengthen their course by following the shore very closely.
“However, by God’s help,” wrote Mr. Bompas, “we arrived safely at
the next post (Big Island) in five days, when I was again hospitably
entertained by the officer in charge, Mr. Bird.”
Here again he waited anxiously for the men from Fort Simpson with the
winter packet of mail. They arrived on December 13, and four days later
they started for Fort Simpson, and the missionary with them. Could they
make the fort by Christmas Day? that was the question. Only a short time
remained in which to do it. Day after day they sped forward. Saturday
came, and still they were on the trail, and the next would be Christmas
Day. One hundred and seventy-seven days had passed since leaving London,
and was he to lose after all, and so very near his destination? But still
the dogs raced forward, nearer and nearer, till, oh joy! on Christmas
morning the fort hove into sight. There was the flag floating from its
tall staff; there were the men crowding around to give their welcome,
and among them stood that dauntless pioneer, the Rev. W. W. Kirkby, with
great surprise on his face, as Mr. Bompas rushed forward and seized him
by the hand.
Great was Mr. Bompas’s delight in having accomplished the journey, and
reached the fort on that blessed day in time for the morning service, and
thankfully he wrote:
“As I had especially wished to arrive by Christmas, I could not but
acknowledge a remarkable token that our lives are indeed in God’s hand.
It is hardly needful to say how warm a welcome I received from Mr.
Kirkby. When I heard what a trying time he had passed through last fall
in consequence of the epidemic sickness among the Indians, I felt very
glad to have persevered in my efforts to reach him this winter.”
No less enthusiastically did Mr. Kirkby write to the Church Missionary
Society on June 3, 1886:
“You will imagine, better than I can tell, what a delight and surprise
the unexpected arrival of Mr. Bompas was to us. He reached us in health
and safety on Christmas morning, making the day too doubly happy by
his presence and glad tidings that he brought. He was a Christmas-box
indeed, and one for which we thank God with a full heart. The entire
unexpectedness of his coming caused us to see in it more of the
loving-kindness of our God. Such a thing as an arrival here in winter
is never thought of, nor had it ever before occurred. After the boats
leave here in the fall we have no visitors from without the district
until now, when the waters are open again. Our dear brother deserves the
greatest credit for the way in which he persevered in getting to us,
and the accomplishment of his journey speaks much for his energy and
determination. A more auspicious day, too, he could not have had for his
arrival. He was just in time for morning service, so that we had at once
the happiness of partaking of the Holy Communion together. Then followed
the Indian service, in which he expressed much delight; and in the
evening, like good Samuel Marsden of old, he began his work by preaching
from St. Luke xi. 10. He remained with us until Easter, and then went
on with the packet-men to Great Bear Lake, where I trust God is doubly
blessing him.
“Fancy, it is not yet a year since he left England, and in that short
time he has travelled so far, entered upon his work, and acquired enough
of the language to be able to tell to the Indians in their own tongue the
wonderful works of God. I admire that way of doing things exceedingly,
and would accord all honour to him who thus performs his Master’s work.”
CHAPTER IV
IN DANGER AMONG THE ESKIMO
People get very much excited over the North Pole explorations. They
praise, too, the few men of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, who in
these days patrol the Arctic coast at the mouth of the Mackenzie River.
But how few know about the missionary heroes who have advanced into those
desolate regions, facing hardships and even death to bear the Gospel
message to the Eskimo living in those places. It was Mr. Bompas who first
went as a missionary to the Arctic coast at the mouth of the Mackenzie
River, and the story of his experiences and narrow escape from death is
one of the most thrilling in missionary annals.
On a journey to Fort Yukon he had met a number of Eskimo at Fort
McPherson, who requested him to go with them down to the coast. He could
not get these poor creatures out of his mind, so in the spring he went
back over the mountains for the purpose of visiting them. These natives,
with their strange, uncouth manners, strongly appealed to his noble
nature, and he expressed his feelings for such in the following beautiful
words:
“At the funeral of the great Duke of Wellington, it was considered to be
a mark of solemn respect that the obsequies should be attended by one
soldier from every part and regiment of the British army; and it is a
part of the Saviour’s glory that one jewel be gathered to His crown from
every tribe of the lost human race. It is an honour to seek to secure
for our Lord one such jewel from even the remotest tribe.”
Leaving Fort McPherson on April 18, 1870, Mr. Bompas started down the
river in company with two Eskimo, hauling a small sled with blankets and
provisions. On the way he received a message from the Chief of the Eskimo
telling him to go back, as the natives “were starving and quarrelling,
and one had just been stabbed and killed in a dispute about some
tobacco.” But this message had no effect upon the missionary; he was busy
in his Master’s service, and he knew that same Master would take care of
His servant, and undaunted, he pressed bravely forward.
For three days they continued to travel without any difficulty, camping
at night on the river-bank, and making a small fire of broken boughs. But
the glare of the spring sun was very severe, and Mr. Bompas was stricken
with snow-blindness. This affliction is one common in the North, and only
those who have themselves suffered on the trail can fully realize what it
means.
“As the sun rises higher,” wrote Mr. Bompas, “and has more power in the
months of March and April, to walk long over the snow in the sunlight
becomes distressing to the eyes from the dazzling brightness. This is
especially the case in traversing a wide lake or in descending a broad
river, where there are no near forests of dark pines to relieve the gaze,
but an unbroken expanse of snow.
“The effect of this is to produce, after a time, acute inflammation of
the eyes. These, in the end, may be so entirely closed as to involve a
temporary blindness, accompanied by much smarting pain.... The voyager
feels very helpless during the acute stage of snow-blindness, and, like
Elymas the sorcerer, or St. Paul himself, he ‘seeks some one to lead him
by the hand.’”
For three days in awful darkness he was led by the hand of the native
boy, making about twenty-five miles a day, till the first Eskimo camp
was reached. It was only a snow-house, and to enter it with closed eyes,
stumbling at every step, was a most disagreeable introduction.
A description of what a snow-house is like is given by the Rev. Mr.
Whittaker, who years afterwards lived among the Eskimo at Herschel Island.
“I remained,” he says, “at the village [Kitligagzooit] just two weeks,
and a most uncomfortable time it was, principally on account of the cold.
They are all in snow-houses now, and the temperature required to preserve
a snow-house will not conduce to a white man’s comfort. I suffered
constantly and almost unremittingly with cold hands and feet, and no
amount of clothing would keep them warm. My blood appeared to stagnate
and afford me no heat. The intense cold made me ravenously hungry, and
although deer meat was plentiful, I craved fat, and at length was tempted
to try some of the white whale that had lain in the ground since summer.
It was strong, even burning my throat, but after a little I ate it with
relish. It is eaten about half-frozen—raw, of course.
“In the house where I stayed were two Huskie families, seven of them and
myself all in one room about the size of an ordinary bedroom. There we
ate, drank, slept, and lived the daily round. The houses are just such as
you may see in any pictures of Arctic scenes. There is no fire in them
except the big seal-oil lamp, over which they do much of their cooking.”
And yet such sufferings were little considered by Mr. Bompas. “They are
delights,” he once said. “The first footprint on earth made by our risen
Saviour was the nail-mark of suffering, and for the spread of the Gospel
I, too, am prepared to suffer.”
After one day of rest in the snow-house, he recovered his sight, and
then, moving forward, reached another camp. His appearance at each place,
so he tells us, “excited a great deal of observation and curiosity, as
they had never had a European among them in the same way before.”
In this camp he was disturbed “by yelling and dancing” on the very spot
where he was lying. This was caused by an old woman “making medicine—that
is, conjuring in order to cure a man who was, or was thought to be,
sick.” Mr. Bompas, unable to stand the terrible confusion, tried to stop
them by saying that medicine-making was all a wicked lie, whereupon the
old woman threw herself upon the missionary, and in no gentle manner
vented upon him her wrath. After this he left the place and betook
himself to another camp, where he lay down and “enjoyed a good night’s
rest.” Next morning, seeing the man who was the cause of all the trouble,
Mr. Bompas found he was suffering from a sore head, for which he gave him
a “small piece of soap and a few grains of alum to rub it with.” When
he saw the man some time later, he was told that his conjuring was very
strong.
What a forlorn hope lay before this missionary in trying to uplift and
save such wild, uncouth creatures, who were ever around him! Yet there
were many things which appealed to him. He looked deeper than the mere
surface, and, studying them very carefully, saw there was much cause for
encouragement. He noticed how ingenious the Eskimo was in the formation
of implements “out of any old iron which he is able to obtain, such as
files, saws, etc., from which he will forge variously shaped knives,
gimlets, and other tools, with which he constructs his boats and canoes,
as well as arrows, bows, spears, fishing-hooks, nets and tackle, sledges,
and all other implements for the chase, as well as furniture for his
tent.”
Then he watched his skill in building the snow-house, which he could
“compare to nothing but the skill of the bee in making its honeycomb....
The snowy material is so beautiful that the work proceeds as if by magic.
The blocks of frozen snow are cut out of the mass with large knives, and
built into solid masonry, which freezes together as the work proceeds,
without the aid of mortar. Being arched over, a dome-shaped house is
formed, with a piece of clear ice for a window, and a hole, through which
you creep on all-fours, for a door or entrance. One-half of the interior
is raised about two feet, and strewn with deer-skins as beds and sofas,
on which the long nights are passed in sleep, for which an Eskimo seems
to have an insatiable capability and relish.” People who were so clever
and artistic, he well knew, must have a love for the beautiful, and were
capable of higher things.
He studied their religious instincts, and found they were very low. They
were addicted to lying, stealing, and even stabbing. “They practised
heathen dances, songs, and conjuring, and placed much dependence upon
spells and charms.” And yet, sifting all this, he found they believed in
two spirits: one “an evil, named Atti, which seems to symbolize cold and
death, and which they seek to exorcise or appease by their charms and
spells; the other, a dim idea of a good spirit connected with the sun, as
the source of warmth and life.” Their faint idea of heaven was that of
a “perpetual spring, and the name they give to ministers who bring them
tidings of the world above is ‘Children of the Sun.’” He also learned
that they possessed a tradition of the Creation, and of the descent of
mankind from a single pair.
Though he found them at times very treacherous, yet there was a spirit
of true hospitality still existing, which he felt could be fanned into
a flame, and which would work a great change. His own difficulty was
the language, and he maintained that the best hope would be to bring a
Christian Eskimo from Labrador, as the Moravian missionaries there and
in Greenland had mastered the language in the course of many years’
labour.
Though the language was a great obstacle, still Mr. Bompas determined
to do the best he could. He collected many Eskimo words, and, with his
remarkable linguistic ability, made fair progress in a short time. He
found they expressed great willingness to be taught, and he says:
“They have received the little instruction I have been able to give
them with great thankfulness. At the same time, their ignorance and
carelessness are so great that they seem quite unable at present to
apprehend the solemnities of religion. The chief idea they have in seeing
my books is to wish that they could be metamorphosed into tobacco, and,
indeed, at present smoking seems to be the sole object of their lives.”
He accompanied them on their various hunting and fishing journeys, and
lost no opportunity of studying them and winning their affection. He
stood by their side as they fished for hours through holes in the ice,
and, observing their great patience, he himself became strengthened in
the greater task of fishing for souls, and expresses the thought in the
following words:
“We may admire the patience of an Eskimo fishing for hours over the
blow-hole for a seal; and such should be the perseverance of a watcher
for souls. ‘Lord, we have toiled all night, and have taken nothing;
nevertheless, at Thy word I will let down the net.’”
During the cold weather Mr. Bompas slept with the Eskimo in their small,
crowded houses, and the inconvenience he suffered must have been great,
as the following words will show:
“The Eskimo sleep in their tents between their deer-skins, all together
in a row extending the whole breadth of the tent; and if there are more
than enough for one row, they commence a second at the foot of the bed,
with the head turned the other way. For myself, I always took care to
commence the second row, keeping to the extremity of the tent, and thus
generally rested without inconvenience, except, perhaps, a foot thrust
occasionally into my side. At the same time, it must be confessed that
the Eskimo are rather noisy, often talking and singing a great part of
the night, especially the boys; and if any extra visitors arrive, so that
the tent is overfull, it is not exactly agreeable.”
When the warmer weather arrived, Mr. Bompas began to camp by himself
outside, and found it much better. The days became so long that he
found it difficult to tell what time of the day or night it was, as he
“thought it most prudent” not to carry his watch with him. Seldom did the
missionary speak of his hardships; but, reading between the lines of the
few words he utters, one can see they were of no ordinary nature.
In a letter to Mrs. Loft, in England, Mr. Bompas gave a vivid description
of these Eskimo.
“It would be easy for you to realize,” he wrote, “and even experience,
the whole thing if so minded. First go and sleep a night in the first
gipsy camp you can find along some road-side, and that is precisely like
life with the Indians. From thence go to the nearest well-to-do farmer
and spend a night in his pig-sty (with the pigs, of course), and this
is exactly life with the Eskimo. As this comprises the whole thing in a
nutshell, I think I need give you no further description. The difficulty
you would have in crawling or wriggling into the sty through a hole only
large enough for a pig was exactly my case with the Eskimo houses. As
to the habits of your companions, the advantage would be probably on
the side of the pigs, and the safety of the position decidedly so. As
you will not believe in the truth of this little simile, how much less
would you believe if I gave you all particulars! So I prefer silence to
exposing myself to your incredulity; but if I had to visit them again, I
should liken it rather to taking lodgings in the den of a polar bear. The
first time, in God’s good providence, he did not show his claws.
“Harness yourself to a wheelbarrow or a garden-roller, and then, having
blindfolded yourself, you will be able to fancy me arriving, snow-blind
and hauling my sledge, at the Eskimo camp, which is a white beehive
about six feet across, with the way a little larger than that for the
bees.... As to one’s costume, you cannot manage that, except that a
blanket is always a good cloak for us; but take a large butcher’s knife
in your hand, and that of itself will make you an Eskimo without further
additions.
“If you will swallow a chimneyful of smoke, or take a few whiffs of
the fumes of charcoal, you will know something of the Eskimo’s mode of
intoxicating themselves with tobacco, and a tanyard will give you some
idea of the sweetness of their camps. Fat, raw bacon, you will find,
tastes much like whale blubber, and lamp oil, sweetened somewhat, might
pass for seal fat. Rats you will doubtless find equally good to eat at
home as here, though without the musk flavour; but you must get some raw
fish, a little rotten, to enjoy a good Eskimo dinner.
“Fold a large black horse’s tail on the top of your head, and another
on each side of your face, and you will adopt exactly the Arctic lady’s
head-gear; then thrust a knife through the centre of each cheek, and
leave the end of the knife-handle permanently in the hole, and you will
experience the agreeable comfort of the Arctic cheek ornament. After
this, get a dozen railway trucks tackled together, and load them with
large and small tow-boats, scaffold-poles, a marquee, three or four dead
oxen, the contents of a fishmonger’s stall and of a small rag-shop, and
then harness all your family, and draw the trucks on the rails from
Alford to Boston, with a few dogs to help, and thus you will have a very
close resemblance to an Eskimo family travelling in winter with their
effects over the frozen ice. As I have formed one of the haulers on such
an expedition, I speak from personal experience.”
Writing to his brother George, he says:
“Do you know that the Eskimo took me for a son of Cain, probably
Mahujael, for they said on my visit that in the first family in the world
two brothers quarrelled, and the one killed the other, and the murderer
had to wander away, and they concluded that the white men who now came to
meet them were probably sons of the murderer.”
Several years later, referring to these Eskimo, he wrote:
“Both the Rev. Mr. Canham and myself often showed the Eskimo the
_Illustrated London News_, when, on meeting with an elephant, they
would recognize it, apparently by its trunk, exclaiming ‘Kaleh!’ as an
exclamation of surprise. The interpreter, an Eskimo, who speaks English
well, told me that they knew the animal, because, though not now alive in
their country, they thought it was not long since it was so from finding
its body or skeleton. As elephant bodies are known to have been found on
the Siberian coasts, it is still less strange that they should be found
near the Mackenzie, for the current sets eastward from Behring’s Strait.
The bodies might, however, lie embedded in the ice for thousands of years
without decomposition, and may have been floated hither at the time of
the flood.”
Mr. Bompas gives an amusing account of the food he ate, but from the
description, how disagreeable it must have been! Bishop Reeve made a
visit in 1892 to a tribe of Eskimo, known as Huskies, eastward along the
shore of the Mackenzie River.
“The men were all out hunting whales,” he wrote, “but the women and
children soon came around and gazed at the strange white man. In the
evening the men came in. They had had a successful day’s hunt, and
hauled home many whales. The whales they catch here are white whales,
averaging from eight to fifteen feet in length, and very stout. These
they cut up into about six pieces. Then they skin these pieces, and put
the fat or blubber into bags, and hang up the meat to dry, first cutting
it into slices. This is the work of the women. The fins and tails seem to
be considered delicacies, and are eaten raw. Some of the fat and meat is
stowed away in caches for winter use. These caches are small holes in the
ground, about five feet deep, sometimes lined with logs, but generally
without any lining except the frost. The whale meat becomes very strong
after being in these a while in the summer, and then it is ready to eat.
One day, sitting in one of the tents, while the Huskies were having one
of their many meals, I was given a delicious piece of fin—at least, by
the way the natives were devouring it, I thought it must be delicious.
I cut off a very small piece and put it into my mouth. The Huskies were
watching to see how I would like it. I slipped the rest into my pocket,
and after a while slyly got that piece out of my mouth. I suppose they
thought I had eaten some, but I had not, and I nearly lost my dinner in
the bargain. The thought of that delicious whale-fin haunted me for days;
but then it was raw, and had not been pickled in a cache for several
days.”
For a time things went very well with Mr. Bompas, and he was allowed
to move from place to place and teach the simple truths of the Gospel
as far as he was able. But the cruel conjurers, or medicine-men, were
watching him with suspicious eyes. They did not like the man to be in
their midst with the new teaching, and they therefore determined to get
rid of him. Now the Eskimo have a great dread of evil spirits. So one day
the conjurers made the startling announcement that evil spirits were in
the camp, and that the white man was the cause of them. They determined,
therefore, to drive them out, and also to drive out the missionary from
their midst. Mr. Bompas was trying to sleep in one of the houses when the
medicine-men began to dance and conjure about him. Finding it impossible
to get any rest, Mr. Bompas went outside, and there rolled himself up in
his blanket. The conjurers followed him, and continued their diabolical
noise. “Only those,” says Bishop Stringer, “who have seen the Eskimo
conjuring dance can realize how wild and savage it is, and how desolate a
feeling it brings to one not accustomed to it.”
For a while they continued the noise, and several times they jumped upon
the missionary in order to enforce their meaning, but the Heavenly Father
was watching, and delivered His faithful servant. After a while the
medicine-men said they had accomplished their purpose, and would let the
white man live.
But Mr. Bompas did not put much dependence on these words, and knew that
at any time they might turn upon him and tear him to pieces. This they
attempted to do not long after. It happened, when the ice had gone out of
the Mackenzie River, the Eskimo began to move up-stream to trade with the
Hudson’s Bay Company at Fort McPherson, taking the missionary with them.
It was a voyage of 250 miles, and much ice was encountered. For days they
made slow progress, and laboured hard. Then they became angry with one
another, and, stirred by the jealous medicine-men, also cast threatening
glances upon the white man in their midst. They imagined that in some way
he was the cause of all their trouble, and angry glances were followed
by threatening gestures, and Mr. Bompas realized the situation was most
critical. One night, after a day of unusually hard work—when little
progress had been made—the natives became so hostile that Mr. Bompas
feared they would take his life ere morning. But, notwithstanding the
impending danger, the faithful servant committed himself to the Father’s
keeping, and, wearied out, soon fell asleep.
His great friend among the Eskimo was the old chief, Shipataitook by
name, who had at the first invited him to visit them, offered the
missionary the use of his camp, and entertained and fed him with the
greatest kindness and cordiality. He had taken such a fancy to the brave
young white man that he could not see him murdered without making an
effort to save him. He had heard the threatening words, and when the
plotters were about to fall upon their victim, he told them to wait,
as he had something to tell them before they proceeded farther. Then
he began a strange story which, falling upon the ears of the naturally
superstitious natives, had a great effect. He told them he had a
remarkable dream the night before. They had moved up the river, and were
almost at Fort McPherson; and as they approached they saw the banks lined
with the Hudson’s Bay Company’s men and Indians, all armed ready to shoot
them down in the boats if they did not have the white man with them. When
this story was told, all plotting ceased; and in the morning, when Mr.
Bompas awoke, he found no longer angry glances cast upon him, but the
natives were attentive in their care.
On June 14 the ice left them, and the river became clear, and without
more detention they continued on their way, “and arrived safely, by God’s
help,” says Mr. Bompas, “at Peel’s River Fort on June 18, about midnight.”
Here a most hearty welcome was given him by Mr. Andrew Flett, the officer
in charge of the Fur Company’s post, and of him Mr. Bompas wrote in the
following words:
“His influence over the Eskimo, as well as the Indians, has been very
beneficial, for the whole time of his residence among them—now nearly
ten years—and by consistent and honourable conduct, as well as by his
attention to the duties of religion, he has done much to assist the work
of the missionary. Of his personal kindness to myself I have had much
experience during the past twelve months.”
In this beautiful heart-felt testimony to the work and kindness of one
man we see how the missionary was cheered in his great labour by earnest
words of sympathy and an ever-open door of hospitality, where he could
rest from his great journeys. To Mrs. Flett also Mr. Bompas was greatly
indebted, for in the study of the Louchieux language she gave him much
material aid. Upon the lay members of the Church of Christ devolves
a noble work in cheering the hearts and upholding the hands of their
leaders in their strenuous battle against the powers of darkness.
Never again was Mr. Bompas able to visit that band of Eskimo along the
Mackenzie River, but he ever held them in mind, and often his heart went
out to them, and he declared that “there was nothing warmer than the
grasp of a Husky’s hand.”
His visit had not been in vain. He had lived among them, shared their
humble camps, and, though they could not understand him, nor fully
comprehend his message, yet they could understand his love for them, and
long years after they spoke of him in the highest terms.
CHAPTER V
ESKIMO LIFE
“Squatted on a polar-bear skin, with a deer-skin for a desk,” was the
way in which Mr. Bompas wrote the following interesting description of
the Eskimo he visited. It was written by the camp-fire, under the open
sky, with the Eskimo all sitting around, working at their canoes, nets,
fishing-lines, bows and arrows. Often they would thrust their inquisitive
faces over his paper, asking over and over again what he was writing
about.
“This race of Eskimo inhabit the coast of the Arctic Sea at the north of
the great River Mackenzie. In spring and fall they ascend the river in
their skin boats for about 200 miles, and trade fox and bear skins for
tobacco and iron kettles, etc., at the nearest post of the Hudson’s Bay
Company on Peel’s River.
“In person and stature the race is a fine one. The men are, many of
them, tall and powerful, some more than six feet, the average stature
exceeding, I should say, that in England. The women are smaller, probably
of about the same average stature as English women. The complexion and
features are not unlike the English. Several of the Eskimo, both men and
women, had I met them at home in European costume, I should hardly have
taken for foreigners. Others, again, have a more distinguishing cast of
countenance. The men’s hair is cut short across the forehead. The face
is square, forehead prominent, eyebrows horizontal, nose straight, mouth
large. Some have a short beard, but most are without it. They have
a circular tonsure on the top of the head, similar to that of Romish
priests, and the men wear bones through their cheeks, intended for
ornament. A hole is bored through each cheek near the lower lip as soon
as a youth approaches manhood, and through this is thrust a large button
of ivory (walrus tusk), and the ambition of an Eskimo is to have fixed to
this white button half a blue bead of the size of a man’s finger-end. To
possess one of these glass beads, which I suppose could be had in England
for a penny, they are willing to give two black fox-skins, each of which
might sell in England for £50. To drive this advantageous bargain,
however, they are obliged to convey their furs many hundred miles along
the coast westward towards Behring’s Straits, where other tribes of
Eskimo are visited by American trading-vessels from the Pacific. This
cheek ornament (called _totuk_) is, of course, a great disfigurement.
It enlarges the mouth, and causes inconvenience to the wearer both in
speaking and eating. Such, however, are the demands of Eskimo fashion.
“The women have also a peculiar custom of wearing large bundles of hair
on the top and sides of their head. It perhaps can hardly be properly
called false hair, as it probably once had connection with the head which
carries it. But the present want of continuity is manifest, as the large
bundles are often laid aside for a time at night. I presume that all the
hair which ever grew on the head is carefully preserved and added to the
stock, as it seems to increase with the age of the wearer. This is also
an inconvenient and disfiguring custom, but probably the Eskimo women
would consider some of our home fashions more absurd.
“The dress of the Eskimo is handsome. It consists of shirt, coat, and
trousers, usually of deer-skin, and fringed with the long hair of
the wolf and wolverine. Their favourite head-dress is the skin of a
wolverine’s head, surrounded with blue beads, over which is worn the hood
of the coat, with a wide fringe of wolf or wolverine hair. Their boots
are of otter and seal skin. The sheep and musk-rat also occasionally
contribute their skins towards the clothing of an Eskimo. The clothes
are, of course, made by the women, and not without considerable taste,
ornamented with blue beads, of which they are very fond, and strips of
the white hair of the deer being sewn into the brown by way of braiding.
The coat is shaped like a shirt. Sometimes the hair is turned inside
towards the skin of the wearer, and this affords greater warmth. The
animal’s skin which is thus turned outside is then dressed so as to be
quite white, and, when well beaded, makes a showy appearance.
“The dress of the women is very similar to that of the men, the coat and
trousers of the same material, the chief difference being in the shape
of the hood, which, in the case of the women, is made larger, to enclose
their extra store of hair, and thus better protect their face. The women
also wear no boots, but the trousers and shoes are all in one.
“The Eskimo is seldom seen without a large butcher’s knife in his hand,
which, in case of a quarrel, he unhappily uses too often to stab his
neighbour. His weapon for hunting on land is the bow, as guns have not
yet come into much use among them. On the water fish-spears of various
construction are his constant companions.
“The Eskimo bow is very strong, and its elasticity is increased by
being backed with lines of twisted sinew. The arrows are well made and
feathered, headed with bone or iron according to the game intended to be
shot. The fish-hooks are generally of bone, and sometimes baited as at
home. But for some fish no bait at all is used. The shank of the hook of
white bone is carved into the shape of a small fish, and is thus mistaken
for a bait. It is armed with a small iron barb which secures the prey.
The fish-spears are pointed with iron, and lie on the outside of their
canoes. One spear with three prongs, like a hay-fork or trident, is used
for hunting musk-rats in the river, and is thrown from the canoe out
of a wooden handle or rest. The fishing-lines, and even nets, are made
often of whalebone, as also are partridge-snares, etc. In fact, whalebone
is used chiefly for tying and fastening the canoe frames, spear-heads,
etc.; the only other kind of line they have, made of twisted sinew,
being not well fitted for use in the water. Whalebone seems a strange
material to form into fishing-nets, but it is split thin and cleverly
netted to the length of several yards, and about one yard in width. The
other lines, made of sinew, are very neatly plaited to the length of 100
yards or more, forming a very strong fine cord, used for fishing-nets,
bow-springs, and various purposes.
“The construction of boats or canoes is part of an Eskimo’s employment in
spring. The boat or canoe frame is first made out of a log of drift-wood,
split up by means of bone wedges into the required lengths. Each is
carefully shaped, smoothed, and finished by what are called in this
country crooked knives—that is, a knife with a blade slightly bent, and
used for shaving wood instead of a smoothing-plane. The canoe is then
covered with otter-skin and the boat with seal-skin. The shape of an
Eskimo canoe is well known. It is about twelve feet long, and is entirely
covered with otter-skin, except the small hole in the centre in which the
Eskimo sits with his double and single paddles, and spears laid carefully
in ivory fittings on the outside of the canoe.
“The boat is from twenty to thirty feet long, and covered with seal-skin,
which is very strong, and forms a most serviceable vessel. The wooden
framework on which the skin is stretched appears slight, but is securely
fastened. This is an open boat propelled by two oars, and, when the wind
is favourable, by a sail. As the men travel generally in their canoes
for the sake of hunting, it is chiefly the women and children who remain
in the boat, which conveys the tents, furniture, utensils, etc. As the
women row but very leisurely, the progress made is rather slow; but the
men are employed in hunting, and time is not often of much importance to
an Eskimo.
“The dwellings of the Eskimo consist in winter of snow-houses built on
the ice, in summer of deer-skin tents, and in the autumn, or fall, of
wooden huts, partly underground, and covered with earth. The chief home
of the Eskimo is on the ice. Here he passes at least half the year,
and it is to this that his habits are chiefly adapted. In building his
snow-house he shows a wonderful readiness, which I can compare to nothing
but the skill of a bee in making its honeycomb. In the Eskimo country
the fallen snow on the wide river-mouths, after being driven by the
wind, becomes caked or frozen so as to have considerable tenacity, and
at the same time to be readily cut with the knife. The Eskimo then, with
his large butcher’s knife, cuts out square blocks of this frozen snow
as it lies on the face of the river, of the size of ordinary blocks of
stone masonry, and with these he builds the house perfectly circular, of
the shape of a beehive. With no tool but the knife, which is used as a
trowel, he works with surprising rapidity, and the whole is arched over
without any support from beneath, except perhaps a single pole during
the construction. Any architect or mason at home would, I suppose, be
astonished to witness the work, and might fail in imitating it, for
without line or plummet and square, or measurement, the circular span and
arch are exactly preserved, and the whole is finished in the space of a
single hour. The work proceeds as if by magic, the snow forming stone and
mortar both in one, for each block, when laid to its neighbour, adheres
and freezes to it so as to form one solid mass, while the least touch
of the knife shapes it and removes any superfluous juttings. The weight
of a single building block is just such as a man can readily lift. In
building the walls of the house the work is simple, but in arching over
the roof it would seem impossible to proceed without support or framework
below. In fact, however, a single staff only is placed under a block
added to the roof just until the next block is placed in juxtaposition.
The adherence of the two blocks is then sufficient to prevent any danger
of falling, the staff is removed, and the same thing repeated with the
ensuing block, until the whole is completed by working the tiers of snow
spirally.
[Illustration: A SNOW-HOUSE MADE ON THE MARCH
These houses have the advantage of costing nothing but time and labour
to make. The “bricks” are large slabs of frozen snow cut in such a shape
that they converge until they form a perfect dome. A hole large enough
for a man to crawl in on his stomach is left as a doorway. The dogs are
the draught animals of the frozen North; they are hard and untiring
workers, but of very irritable temper. Their usual fare is fish.]
“An Eskimo in winter travelling builds a small snow-house every night
for his lodging, but when encamped for any length of time he makes one
of considerable dimensions. One in which I lodged was about twelve or
fourteen feet in diameter, and about nine feet high in the centre from
the level of the ice. Half of the interior is occupied by the bed, which
is raised about three feet from the ice on snow covered with boards, on
which are laid ample deer-skin rugs for bedding; over these are again
deer-skin blankets for covering.
“Opposite the bed is the small, low entrance, shaped like that into a
dog-kennel, through which you have to creep on all-fours. This at night
is covered up with a block of snow. On each side of the entrance (inside)
is a shelf of snow, of the same height as the bed, on which is placed
a large black wooden dish or trough forming the lamp. A little moss
along the side of this dish forms the lamp-wick, fed by grease, which is
constantly replenished from small lumps of fat hung over the flame, and
which drop grease into the dish.
“It seems a strange anomaly, that the coldest inhabited country should
be that in which fires are considered superfluous. The heat given out
by the lamps is certainly considerable, but still, the camps are cold.
The temperature must of course be constantly below freezing-point, or
the snow would melt. The Eskimo, however, do not feel the cold as we do.
Their hands and faces are of a more plump and fleshy form than ours, and
the circulation of their blood is warmer, for their hands felt quite
hot to the touch while sitting without exercise in their freezing camps.
An Eskimo’s chief resource against the cold is the amount of fuel he
consumes internally in the form of whale and seal fat used as food; and
the provision of these large animals in the polar sea for the use of
these few scattered savages is a remarkable proof of God’s providential
care over the meanest of His creatures....
“The Eskimo generally cooks meat or fish twice a day—once about noon, and
again the last thing before sleeping at night. If hungry at other times,
he will eat a fish or piece of meat raw—that is, frozen; and this is not
so disgusting as you might suppose, for the effect of freezing meat or
fish is something the same as cooking it—that is, to harden the fibre and
dry up the superfluous moisture. Even Europeans in this country sometimes
eat a piece of frozen fish uncooked, and find it good and wholesome.
“When an Eskimo visits a neighbour’s house, before he has been sitting
long food is always offered him—generally a frozen fish, which he
evidently eats with much relish. Sometimes it is a small piece of frozen
deer’s meat, or, as a great delicacy, a lump of whale or seal fat. If he
happens to come in at the time of cooking, a portion of what is cooked is
set before him. This seems to be the rule of Eskimo hospitality.
“As soon as the spring thaw sets in, about the middle of May, the Eskimo
exchanges his snow-house for a deer-skin tent or lodge, with which he
soon after removes to the river-bank, where he lives by fishing or
hunting deer before proceeding to the sea for the seal and whale fishery.
In the autumn, or fall of the year, the cold sets in early, and the
deer-skin tent becomes uncomfortable before the ice and snow are thick
and hard enough for building snow-houses. At this time the Eskimo build,
or rather excavate, huts in the river-bank, which they ceil and cover
with logs and earth. They close up at night the small entrance with
skins, and rely for light and warmth chiefly on their lamps. A small
window of thin skin or parchment is made in the roof; but as the short
days of December approach the sun hardly shows itself, and daylight is
but scanty. In the snow-house a block of clear ice inserted in the front
forms a beautiful window, and as spring approaches, and the daylight is
perpetual, a cheerful contrast is presented to the constant gloom and
darkness of an Arctic winter.
“This is a country of contrast. In winter the gloom is such that daylight
seems a passing stranger. In spring the glare is so great that the eye is
sore and inflamed, if not blinded by it. In winter the thermometer will
stand about 100 degrees below freezing-point, and in summer, in the sun,
at least about 100 degrees above it.
“An Eskimo travelling with his family and effects in winter affords
quite an exciting display. About a dozen sledges or trucks are harnessed
together, and on these are laid a very miscellaneous assortment of
property and provision. Boat-frame, canoes, tents, tent-poles, and
boards, deer-skin bedding and blankets, several whole deers’ carcasses,
some hundreds of frozen fish pressed into a solid mass, tent furniture,
utensils, clothes, fishing-nets and implements, with many other seemingly
needless stores, are all laden promiscuously on the train, which is
propelled by men, women, and dogs, all hauling by lines along the sides
of the sledges, and assisted, when the wind is favourable, by a sail.
“The arrival of a large number of such sledge-trains at camp one after
another is like so many railway-trains coming in, for the runnels of the
sledges are covered first with bone, and this is again carefully coated
with ice, so that the sledges run on the frozen snows like trucks on a
railway. The sledge-train which I assisted in drawing myself consisted,
I believe, of fourteen trucks, hauled by four men and boys, three women,
and five dogs. More than a dozen such trains reached the camp at which I
was staying. In spring the sledges are all stowed away on the river-bank,
and the boat forms the means of conveying the Eskimo’s effects during the
summer months....
“Considering the smallness of the number of the Eskimo band we have been
describing, and that no others are to be found within about 100 miles,
a wonderful provision has indeed been made by God’s good providence for
their sustenance. This bounty seems intended on purpose to banish the
thought that these distant wanderers, condemned to such severity of
climate, are outcasts from the Divine care.
“In fact, both the power and goodness of God are in some respect shown in
this country more especially than in others; for while sometimes we are
constrained to say, in seeing the vast expanse of snow and the thickness
of the ice, ‘Who can stand before His cold?’ yet the greater is the
marvel when ‘He sendeth forth His word and melteth them; He causeth His
wind to blow, and the waters flow.’ The Eskimo know not to thank their
Heavenly Father who gives them their daily supply of food, and though
they have heard with gladness and thankfulness the short story of Gospel
truth which alone I have been able as yet to communicate to them, yet it
requires the same mighty Power which melts their Arctic snows and thaws
their frozen ocean to turn them from darkness to light, and from the
power of Satan unto God.
“With respect to the character and habits of the Eskimo, it is best to
speak reservedly. They are certainly kind and hospitable, civil and
obliging, skilful and clever in handicraft. I fear it must be added that
they are liable to fits of passion and sulkiness, that they are lazy and
sleepy, and addicted to lying, stealing, and even stabbing. Over their
other shortcomings it is best to draw a veil.
“They practise heathen dances, songs, and conjuring, and this seems
to be the greater part of their religion. Their dance, however, is a
mere shuffling of the feet, their song is but a monotonous yell, and
their conjuring consists only in yelling and beating the tambourine, and
throwing the body into various distortions and attitudes. They possess
also, most of them, in a bag, a collection of small, miscellaneous
articles, which are intended, I suppose, beneficially to influence their
hunting by way of spells and charms. Beyond this I cannot find that they
have much religion remaining among them. They know of an evil spirit,
named Atti, which seems to symbolize cold and death, and which they seek
to exorcise or appease by their charms and spells.
“Their only idea of a good spirit is connected with the sun, as the
source of warmth and life; and, considering the severity of their
climate, it is not wonderful that their natural religion should symbolize
the powers of good and evil by warmth and cold. If they have any idea of
heaven, it is that of a perpetual spring, and the name they give to the
ministers who bring them tidings of the world above is ‘Children of the
Sun.’ I have not found that they have knowledge of a future life. They
say the old Eskimo used to know these things, but the young ones have
forgotten them. They possess, however, a tradition of the Creation, and
of the descent of mankind from a single pair.”
CHAPTER VI
OUT OF THE NORTH
One day when Mr. Bompas was walking along the Yukon River, he returned to
Fort Yukon, and found there a letter awaiting him. It was from England
from the Church Missionary Society, asking him to go all the way to
London to be made Bishop of the vast northern Diocese of Athabasca, which
was to be formed. Mr. Bompas did not want to be a Bishop. He preferred to
live the life of a humble missionary among the Indians whom he so dearly
loved.
In July, 1873, he set his face homewards with the express purpose
of turning the Church Missionary Society from the idea. It was a
long journey that lay ahead of him, fraught with many dangers and
difficulties. The clerk at Fort Yukon, in charge of the American Fur
Company’s post, kindly supplied him with provisions and with two Indian
lads, who had volunteered for the trip. Soon all was ready, and then the
start was made up the Porcupine River; and after two weeks of hard and
persevering labour, he reached the Rocky Mountains. Here the Indians left
him to return to Fort Yukon, and alone and on foot the missionary began
his journey across the mountains. Three days was he in accomplishing the
task, and in a furious snowstorm, “which rendered the mountains almost as
white as in winter,” reached Fort McPherson, Peel River, on August 6.
* * * * *
What it means to cross these mountains may be learned from the terrible
experience of Bishop Stringer during the fall of 1909. It is best given
in the words of Rev. C. E. Whittaker, stationed at Fort McPherson:
“After the Bishop’s return from his Eskimo visitation, he outfitted
for crossing the mountains by the well-known Rat River and McDougall’s
Pass route with Mr. Johnson, who is on his way to Chicago, after eleven
years’ service in the north. They had a sufficient crew, leaving here
September 1, and a good Peterborough canoe; but on the fifth day one
of their Indian men was taken dangerously ill, and he had to be sent
home and more help procured. By this nearly a week was lost, and the
weather becoming colder, the water got very low in the mountain streams.
However, on September 20 they crossed the Divide. The two men attacked
an unknown proposition alone. The battle with ice began the first day,
but, hoping to find more and clearer water in Bell River, they kept
on. The upper reaches of the Bell were easily navigated, but once
through the mountains, the current became very slack, and the ice again
hindered them. They cut heavy birch clubs to smash the ice, hoping to
reach the Porcupine about forty-five miles from the summit. They were
stalled, and had to cache their canoe and baggage. What was to be done
now? La Pierre’s house was close by, but abandoned. There was not a
known Indian camp within 100 miles. Old Crow or Rampart House might be
reached in time if they had supplies, but with only three days’ rations
it was unthinkable. Their starting-point, Fort McPherson, lay beyond
the mountains, and the snow was already deep, and neither of them knew
the trail. This last only seemed not impossible, and they decided to
undertake it. Continuing down the Bell on foot, through the rough willows
and deep snow, they struck the mouth of the La Chute River and followed
it up-stream for several days, killing here and there a few ducks and
spruce grouse to eke out their scanty fare. At Fool’s River, coming in
from the north, they missed the trail, and spent a whole week wallowing
through deep snow and deeper fog in this river and on the mountains near
it. Returning to the mouth, they spent three days making snow-shoes and
cutting up moccasins for webbing. Again ascending the La Chute, they
climbed the Height of Land, and, working by compass, they crossed three
distinct Divides before reaching an east-flowing stream. They saw one
sheep, and once some caribou, but at too great a distance, and going
fast. They were now living on one meal a day, and that meal was less
than one quarter of an average meal. For instance, at one time four red
squirrels and a spoonful each of flour and rice fed them three days;
another day they had a leg of ptarmigan each. They tried eating moccasin
leather, and ended on _messinke_ boots or _muckalucks_, which are made
of raw seal-skin. These are found very nourishing. Food being so scarce,
their strength failed and their progress was slow. At times the fog
was so dense that they could scarcely see a step ahead, and more than
once they trod on the verge of a precipice. Then they had to make long
detours, and so they continued day after day, some nights sleeping on
the mountains without fire, but generally in some creek-bed with a few
willows, sleeping from very weariness and exhaustion. Once the Bishop
said to Mr. Johnson: ‘It is curious, but there is ever rising up in my
mind the words, “Go, labour on, ’tis not for naught.”’ And Mr. Johnson
replied: ‘It is curious indeed, for in my mind there constantly repeats
itself that other hymn, “To the work, to the work! ye are servants of
God.”’ And so, though famished, and worn, and fog-bound, and never
knowing how far they had yet to go to safety, they were ever buoyed up
with a strong hope of ultimate escape. When they finally descended an
eastern slope, and knew that they were at least past the maze of fog,
a thrill of assurance gave them renewed energy, and they followed the
bed of a small river until they came into the Peel, twenty miles above
this post. Here they saw snow-shoe tracks, the first signs of any human
habitation, an Indian having lately passed by that way trapping. Early
next morning they reached an encampment, and they afterwards declared it
was worth coming back to see the kindness and hospitality with which they
were received.”
* * * * *
Starting again by canoe, Mr. Bompas, with two other Indian lads, reached
Fort Simpson, a distance of 800 miles, on September 2, “after three weeks
of fatiguing towing.” Pushing on his way, after a difficult journey,
contending with the cold and swift stream, he reached Portage la Loche
on October 8, having travelled 2,600 miles since July, “and all, except
about 300 to 400 miles, against a strong current.”
Owing to the cold weather he was forced to remain at the Portage for
ten days, and when the swamps were sufficiently frozen, he “started on
foot through the woods to Buffalo Lake in company with two servants of
the Hudson’s Bay Company.” Reaching the lake, he travelled with some
difficulty on the fresh ice around the margin, and at the farther end
found a camp of Indians, who guided him to Isle à la Crosse. Here a
detention of ten days was made, and then he left with dogs and sledge for
Green Lake, with three employés of the Hudson’s Bay Company. The weather
becoming milder, they were forced “to cross one of the intervening rivers
on a raft.”
From Green Lake they entered “on the plain country of Saskatchewan,”
and after a walk of five days reached Fort Carlton. While here Mr.
Bompas visited the Prince Albert Settlement on the banks of the North
Saskatchewan, and says: “This settlement is the first that has been
formed by the immigrants in that neighbourhood, and it bears every sign
of increasing prosperity and success.”
From Carlton House, Touchwood Hills was reached with a horse and sledge.
Here, through the kindness of the postmaster, he was furnished with a
carriole and dogs, and, after a journey of 400 or 500 miles, reached the
Red River Settlement.
“I enjoyed the kind hospitality of the Bishop of Rupert’s Land and
Archdeacon Cowley,” wrote Mr. Bompas, “and was much interested in seeing
the progress of the mission work in the colony. I reached, by God’s good
providence, the first houses of the settlement on the last evening of the
old year, and after nearly six months’ travel in the wilds, I awoke on
New Year’s morning to a new life of civilization and society.”
It is said that when Mr. Bompas reached the episcopal residence and
inquired for Bishop Machray, the servant mistook him for a tramp (in
his rough travelling clothes), and told him his master was very busy,
and could not be disturbed. So insistent was the stranger that the
servant went to the Bishop’s study and told him a tramp was at the door
determined to see him.
“He is hungry, no doubt,” replied the Bishop; “take him into the kitchen
and give him something to eat.”
Accordingly Mr. Bompas was ushered in, and was soon calmly enjoying a
plateful of soup, at the same time urging that he might see the master
of the house. Hearing the talking, and wondering who the insistent
stranger could be, the Bishop appeared in the doorway, and great was his
astonishment to see before him the veteran missionary.
“Bompas!” he cried, as he rushed forward, “is it you?”
We can well realize how Mr. Bompas must have enjoyed this little scene,
and the surprise of the good and noble Bishop of Rupert’s Land.
We will let Mr. Bompas describe the rest of the journey:
“From Manitoba the dog-train was exchanged for the stage-coach for
Moorhead, the terminus of the American railway towards the north-west.
In this the cold was piercing and freezing, even though the travellers
were wrapped in buffalo-skins. The poor horses were utterly exhausted
in drawing the vehicle about fifteen miles through the snow, and though
they were changed thus often, yet at last the journey had to be suspended
during a storm, and in the end the horses, though changed every stage,
occupied a week in performing the same distance as that travelled by the
dogs in four days, more easily and pleasantly—that is, 160 miles.
“The journey was next continued by railway, but from the fires not being
lighted in the cars the cold was intense, and the train was shortly
brought to a standstill in a snow-drift. Though two locomotives were
tugging at it, no progress could be made till the guards with shovels
disengaged the carriage-wheels from the snow which entangled them.
“In Canada the journey by stage-coach was resumed. This was shortly after
overturned into a ditch by the wayside while scaling a snow-drift. The
outside passengers were deposited in an adjoining field, where, to be
sure, the snow provided them with a sufficiently soft bed to fall on. The
inside passengers had a more uncomfortable shaking.
“The journey was next proceeded with by train to Montreal, before
approaching which the cars left the rails, causing some apprehension and
delay, which might have been increased had not the guard been provided
with a powerful winch for the purpose of replacing the carriages on the
track.
“From Montreal, following the Grand Trunk Railway to Portland, I embarked
in the steamship _Scandinavian_, of the Allan line. At starting, the
masts, yards, and deck of the steamer presented a woeful appearance, from
being thickly coated and hung with ice, yet 200 miles were made the first
day. By the constantly increasing head-wind, however, the daily speed was
decreased down to 100 miles per day, at which rate the captain thought
it prudent to shut off half the steam, and diminish the speed to a
minimum, for fear that something should give way in the plunging vessel.
After thirteen days, under the careful seamanship of Captain Smith,
Liverpool was reached on February 13, in the safe-keeping of a protecting
Providence.”
This account is given to show some of the difficulties the traveller
experienced in the early days in his trips to and from England. Mr.
Bompas, after this journey, decided in favour of the dog-team.
“On the whole,” he said, “the dogs may be counted to hold their own in
competing with horse-flesh or steam, whether on land or water.”
At last the soldier was home from the front, the hero among his friends,
and after the years of hardships he might have enjoyed a well-earned
rest. But his thoughts were far away across the ocean in his vast field
of labour, and the voice of the children of the wild was ever urging
him to make haste. The restraints, conventionalities, and luxuries of
civilized life worried him; the narrowness of the streets was unbearable,
and he longed for the smell of the camp-fire, the free, fresh air of the
North, the great untamed streams, the snow-capped mountains, and his
dusky flock.
During his stay in England, Mr. Bompas had many commissions to fulfil,
which occupied much of his time. There were purchases to make for people
in North-West Canada, including six gold watches for as many female
residents, and a pair of corsets for another. Obtaining the latter caused
much worry to the missionary. But he was never known to back down, and
finally the purchase was made. Is it any wonder that he preferred the
life among the Indians, who worried so little concerning the wherewithal
they should be clothed?
[Illustration: WINTER TRAVELLING. A MISSIONARY’S INDIAN HELPER
This picture shows a sled loaded up, with the dogs harnessed, and the
Indian driver standing by them.]
Mr. Bompas was unsuccessful in dissuading the Church Missionary Society
from carrying out their plan, and on May 3 he and John McLean were
elevated to the Episcopate. The consecration took place in the parish
church of St. Mary’s, Lambeth, Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury, being
assisted by Bishop Jackson of London, Bishop Hughes of St. Asaph, and
Bishop Anderson, late of Rupert’s Land. The sermon was preached by the
last-named prelate, who referred to the two new dioceses of Saskatchewan
and Athabasca:
“To-day the noble plan will be consummated by the consecration of two
more Bishops. One will preside over the Church in the western portion
of the land, labouring among the Indians of the plains, and along the
valley of that river whose source is in the Rocky Mountains, the River
Saskatchewan. The other will have the northern diocese as his own, along
yet mightier lakes, and with rivers which roll down an immense volume and
discharge themselves into the Arctic Ocean.”
After some words addressed to Bishop McLean, the charge which was given
to Bishop Bompas concluded thus:
“You have been there for more than eight years, in labours abundant, and
your love has not lessened nor your zeal slackened. You have brought
home, as the fruit of your labour, portions of Scripture, prayers and
hymns, in seven different dialects or tongues. You are ready to take the
precious treasure out with you—the translations printed and prepared by
the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. You have also one complete
Gospel, that of St. Mark, which the British and Foreign Bible Society has
enabled you to carry through the press.
“But you left good treasure behind, in souls warmed with the love of
Christ and softened by the spirit of grace. You have the hearts of the
Indians and the Eskimo.”
CHAPTER VII
BACK TO THE WILDERNESS
Bishop Bompas was not to return alone to his great work, for a few
days after his consecration, May 7, he was united in marriage to Miss
Charlotte Selina Cox by Bishop Anderson, assisted by the Rev. John
Robins, Vicar of St. Peter’s, Netting Hill, and the Rev. Henry Gordon,
Rector of Harting.
Mrs. Bompas was a woman of much refinement and devotion to the mission
cause. Her father, Joseph Cox, M.D., of Montague Square, London, was
ordered to Naples for his health. During this trip, in which he was
accompanied by his family, his daughter, afterwards Mrs. Bompas, acquired
that love for the Italian language which ever after continued to be a
great source of pleasure to her. No matter where she went in the northern
wilds of Canada, she carried her Dante with her, which she studied, with
much delight, in the original.
During her stay at Naples she attended her first ball, given by the
British Ambassador, and met the King of Naples (the notorious King
“Bomba”), and always afterwards remembered his remark in Italian, “What
have you done to amuse yourself at the carnival?”
When quite young, Mrs. Bompas had little interest in missions, and says:
“My brother, who was Vicar of Bishop’s Tawton, Devonshire, used to hold
missionary meetings at the Vicarage, and I remember thinking them the
dullest affairs, and the clergymen who addressed us, and whom my brother,
perhaps, would introduce as the distinguished missionary from Japan
or Honolulu, I looked upon as the most dismal old slow coaches it was
anyone’s unhappy fate to attend to.”
Her interest at length became aroused, and later, when the martyrdom of
Bishop Patteson startled the Christian world, she became much excited,
and reached, as she tells us, “the enthusiastic stage when we resolve
to become missionaries ourselves, and are all impatient to be off
anywhere—to China, Japan, or to the Indians of the Mackenzie River.”
It was at this period she cast in her lot with the Bishop of Athabasca,
and became “consecrated to mission work.”
The Bishop and Mrs. Bompas, on May 12, 1874, set their faces towards
their great field of labour. Friends and loved ones came to bid them
farewell, among whom was Bishop Anderson, late of Rupert’s Land, who
presented the Bishop with a beautiful paten for his cathedral in the new
Diocese of Athabasca. The good steamship _China_, of the Cunard Line,
received them, and soon she was cutting her way through the water bound
for New York. Consecrated, married, and sailed all in one week! Such was
the record of the Bishop, who declared it was the hardest week he ever
experienced. Never again was he to look upon the shores of his native
land, or visit the scenes of childhood; the northern wilds of Canada
needed him, and there he remained till the last.
Ahead of them lay the long journey of two months by open boat to Fort
Simpson. At Winnipeg they missed the boats of the Hudson’s Bay Company,
and after some difficulty another was obtained, in the hope of overtaking
the former. It was a “brilliant, cloudless” June morning when they
crossed the prairie towards St. John’s Cathedral, and sighted the “river,
looking still and silvery in the morning light,” and found the boat,
their home for weeks to come, “moored just below St. John’s College.”
Farewells were said, the boat pushed off, and they moved on their way,
leaving the Bishop of Rupert’s Land waving his hand from the bank of the
stream.
It was a tedious journey, as day after day they glided forward. Not
only was the heat intense, but the swarms of mosquitoes proved a great
annoyance.
“I had come prepared for intense cold,” wrote Mrs. Bompas, “and we were
destined to endure tropical heat. All up the Saskatchewan, Stanley, and
English Rivers the banks slope down like a funnel, and the July and
August sun scorches with vertical rays the heads of the travellers. We
were seated in open boats, each with a crew of ten or twelve men, who
spread our sails when the wind was fair, and took them in when the wind
failed us. Eighty-six was, some of those days, our average temperature,
and I had come provided with the thickest of serge dresses, as none of
my friends had realized the possibility of anything but frost and cold
in these northern regions. Besides this, we had to encounter swarms
of mosquitoes, crowding thick around us, penetrating our boots and
stockings, and invading our Robabou soup and pemmican, etc. I remember
the bliss it was in those days in camping-time to escape from the rest
of the party, and, getting rid of boots and stockings, to sit with my
feet and legs in the cool water of the river, to soothe the intolerable
irritation of the mosquito-bites.”
But in the midst of all this there were times of refreshing, and at
various places hearty were the greetings that awaited them. One morning
they reached St. Andrews, on Red River, and there before them appeared a
pretty stone church, with wide, square tower, and a comfortable-looking
parsonage-house, with a nice veranda, and a few scattered cottages
around. It was a pleasant home scene, and there they found the Vicar, the
Rev. John Grisdale (afterwards Bishop of Qu’Appelle), and about sixty
others, who had been waiting all the morning to receive them. After
luncheon had been served a little service was held on the veranda, and
as they left, the bell of the church rang out a peal of farewell, and all
on shore gave a hearty cheer.
All along the way Indians were encountered camped on the bank, and at
times a halt was made while the Bishop spoke a few words to them. One
night they stopped near a number of natives, and service was held. Among
the party was a poor woman totally blind. The Bishop knelt by her side
and told her of the blind man in the Gospel story, and repeated to her
several passages of Scripture, to which the woman listened with much
eagerness, and seemed greatly pleased.
The many long, hard portages formed a great impediment to their progress,
and through the scorching heat, fighting myriads of mosquitoes, the
provisions had to be carried overland and the boat dragged up the rapids.
The Bishop willingly took his share of the labour, and though of great
strength, overtaxed himself in lifting a heavy box, and sprained his
back, or, rather, re-sprained it, as he had been injured some weeks
before in hauling at the boat. He suffered much agony from the sprain,
which troubled him somewhat during the rest of his life.
An incident happened on this trip which serves to show the Bishop’s
forgetfulness of self when others were to be considered. A young Indian
lost his hat overboard, and, being unable to obtain it, suffered much
from the heat as he toiled at the oar. The Bishop, seeing his discomfort,
at once placed his own hat upon the Indian’s head, and insisted that he
should wear it. The sight of the native with the flat, broad-brimmed
episcopal head-gear caused great amusement to the entire company.
There were times of excitement, too, as they moved on their way. We shall
let Mrs. Bompas tell of one in her own graphic style:
“It was about 6 o’clock p.m., the sun still high, but a fresh breeze had
set in, and was filling the sail of our boat, and giving us comfort and
refreshment after a sultry day. We were beginning to discuss our landing,
wondering where our steersman intended us to encamp that night, as all
the details are left to his control and management.
“Suddenly, as we were quietly sailing on, an exclamation was made by one
of our sailors, and as suddenly all eyes were directed towards a line of
thick wood which encircled a bay on our right. It would be impossible to
give any idea of the intense eagerness which marked the gaze of our ten
men. You must know something of the Indian’s intensity of character, and
his love of sport, to be able to understand and appreciate it.
“Our fore-oar man, ‘Charley,’ especially attracted my attention. Such a
strange, tawny, heavy face as his was when passive, with long black hair
hanging on each side his face, and a disordered attempt at whiskers and
moustache; one hand clutching nervously at his oar, and the other shading
his eyes; every sinew, almost every nerve, in a state of tension. We
longed to ask what object they saw, but scarcely ventured to do so, for
silence had overspread our crew, and though apparently much was being
discussed, and important matters decided upon, yet it was all done by
signs, or in low-whispered accents. At last some conclusion was evidently
arrived at. The sail was lowered, and our course altered in the direction
of the wood in question. At the same time the Bishop ascertained from one
of the men, and whispered to me, the cause of all this excitement—namely,
‘a black bear’!
[Illustration: AN INDIAN ENCAMPMENT
_From a photograph by Mr. J. M. Lowndes, Calgary_]
“It needed the quick eye and ear of a Red Indian to detect the bear, if
such it was, at the distance we then found ourselves from the wood, and
amid the countless shadows of those great Norway pines, or the grotesque
forms of aged stumps and stones which edged the wood. For some moments I
felt convinced that it was all a mistake, and that our bear would turn
out no more than a ‘bare idea’! However, the men had full faith in their
hero, though I had none, and so, still in dead silence, we moved steadily
on, making for the wood at the exact point where the dark object had at
first been visible.
“It was really very striking, the way in which we drew up to shore,
and lowered our sail, all with no more sound than would have awakened
a sleeping infant. And now two of the men slipped ashore, having first
possessed themselves of loaded guns. Others followed, with soft, stealthy
footsteps, and all soon disappeared in the mazes of the thick forest.
“One thing I could observe for myself, which laid to rest my doubts
as to the fact of the bear having actually been seen—great, spreading
paw-prints on the sand. Yes, he had an existence then, poor old Bruin!
and had been quietly disporting himself upon the sand that evening,
perhaps in pursuit of a little fish for his supper, little thinking, poor
beast, of the sumptuous repast for ten hungry men which he was destined
to form that very night.
“The part left for us to play at this time was certainly less exciting
and less interesting than that of our men. Close into the shore at that
time of the evening mosquitoes invariably abound. This evening they
positively swarmed, and in addition to them were a number of sand-flies,
so small that no veil could keep them out, and almost as vicious as their
great-aunts, the mosquitoes. So there we sat, poor, helpless beings!
tapping our foreheads and hands to get quit of our buzzing enemies, and
thinking longingly of our tents and supper.
“Suddenly there was the sound of a gun fired, which roused our interest,
and made us feel as if the game were in earnest. First one, then another
report was heard, and after a few moments’ interval there arose shouts of
triumph, and cries or screams, such as only those Indians can give.
“Our party in the meantime, being weary of the mosquitoes, and naturally
by this time somewhat excited by the matter in hand, had left the boat
and gone ashore. Sticks and faggots were collected, and in a few moments
a splendid fire was kindled. Around it we closely gathered, thankful for
the temporary relief from the buzzing enemies, for no mosquitoes dare
invade the region of smoke or fire.
“Soon was heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Tramp, tramp, tramp,
as of men marching under some heavy burden, accompanied by the sound
of many voices, and soon the party appeared in sight. The two foremost
carried a stout pole, to which, with his legs tied together, hung the
body of poor Bruin! The men brought up their trophy and laid him down
among the ferns, and bluebells, and pretty golden tansy for us to
examine. A splendid bear he was, about two years old, very fat, and with
hair as sleek and glossy as if—forgive me, Bruin!—he had been accustomed
to the use of ‘bear’s grease.’
“Our young French-Canadian, who had shot him, said he had tracked the
beast for some distance, and then stood still. In a few moments he heard
the rustle of leaves and breaking twigs, and the slow tread of the four
paws. Soon he came in sight, when one shot made him fall, and a second
bullet despatched him wholly.
“That night—that very night, over our camp-fire, a huge cauldron
was suspended, and joints of bear were cooked, eaten, and I presume
enjoyed, by our men. We ourselves were, I was thankful to feel, excused
from sharing in the repast that evening. But a dish of delicate bear
steaks was presented to us next morning for breakfast; and having with
difficulty conquered a certain feeling of great repugnance in tasting
them, we could not but pronounce them excellent.
“I do not think it is at all fair to name a person who is uncouth
and ill-mannered ‘bearish.’ My experience of Bruin shows that he is
remarkable for a sedate yet good-tempered expression, and his tastes
are certainly not ungentlemanly, as he seems to live entirely on fish
and the wild berries of these noble Canadian forests. I understand that
a bear once was heard to tell his cub, who ate voraciously, and showed
temper to his brothers and sisters, that he was most ‘mannish’ in his
behaviour. I thought the epithet not wholly inappropriate.”
Fort Simpson was reached on September 24, and much excitement took place.
The red flag of welcome was soon hoisted, and Mr. Hardisty, the chief
officer, and the whole settlement came to the shore to meet them. So
hearty was the reception that they did not perceive the shadow—the grim
shadow of starvation—that was hanging over the fort and land. There was
only one week’s provisions in the Company’s store, and game was very
scarce. At this point the new party arrived, bringing six extra mouths to
be fed, besides the boat’s crew, and yet the Company’s officers received
them with the utmost courtesy and good temper, and did their best to
look and speak cheerfully. Most of the men around the fort had to be
sent away, and there was difficulty in collecting dried scraps of meat
for the wives and children. At length there came a time when there was
not another meal left. The poor dogs hung around the houses, “day by day
growing thinner and thinner, their poor bones almost through their skins;
their sad, wistful look when anyone appeared. Even a dry biscuit could
not be thrown to them.” But just when matters reached the worst, two
Indians arrived, bringing fresh meat, and the great tension slackened.
“From that moment,” says Mrs. Bompas, “the supplies have never failed.
As surely as the provisions got low, so surely, too, would two or three
sledges appear unexpectedly, bringing fresh supplies.”
CHAPTER VIII
A TERRIBLE JOURNEY IN WINTER
The Bishop had to be ever on the move to cover even a small portion
of his huge diocese. He had no comfortable railway cars in which to
travel, and no horses to draw him speedily along; only dogs, faithful
little animals, to carry his food and camping outfit, while he and his
companions walked.
Fort Simpson was chosen by the Bishop as his abode at first. It is
situated at the confluence of the Mackenzie and Liard Rivers, and formed
the most central and convenient point for managing the vast diocese. This
position had been occupied years before by the Hudson’s Bay Company, and
here, in 1859, Mr. Kirkby built the church and mission-house.
All around stretched the huge diocese of one million square miles—and
such a diocese! It has been well described by the Bishop himself in the
following words:
“No shepherd there his flock to fold,
No harvest waves its tresses gold;
No city with its thronging crowd,
No market with its clamour loud;
No magistrates dispense the laws,
No advocate to plead the cause;
No sounding bugle calls to arms,
No bandits rouse to dread alarms;
No courser scours the grassy plain,
No lion shakes his tawny mane;
No carriages for weary feet,
No waggons jostle in the street;
No well-tilled farms, no fencèd field,
No orchard with its welcome yield;
No luscious fruit to engage the taste,
No dainties to prolong the feast;
No steaming car its weighty load
Drags with swift wheel o’er iron road;
No distant messages of fire
Flash, lightning-like, through endless wire;
No church with tower or tapering spire,
No organ note, no chanting choir.”
Writing of the extent of his diocese, the Bishop says:
“To represent the length and tediousness of travel in this diocese, it
may be compared to a voyage in a row-boat from the Gulf of St. Lawrence
to Fort William, on Lake Superior, or a European may compare it to a
voyage in a canal barge from England to Turkey. Both the length and
breadth of this diocese equal the distance from London to Constantinople.
“If all the populations between London and Constantinople were to
disappear, except a few bands of Indians or gipsies, and all the cities
and towns were obliterated, except a few log-huts on the sites of the
capital cities—such is the solitary desolation of this land. Again, if
all the diversity of landscape and variety of harvest-field and meadow
were exchanged for an unbroken line of willow and pine trees—such is this
country.”
In this region the Bishop and his devoted wife began their great work
together. At once an Indian school was started, carried on at first
principally by the Bishop himself. Mrs. Bompas says:
“My ears often grew weary of the perpetual ‘ba, be, bo, bu; cha, che,
cho, chu.’ These, with a few hymns translated into their own language,
and a little counting, were the first studies mastered by our Simpson
scholars.”
Three hundred miles from Fort Simpson was another post of the Hudson’s
Bay Company, Fort Rae. Here was a band of Indians who needed the
message of the Gospel, and the Bishop decided to go to them. Together
with several men from Fort Rae he set out, having with his sled Allen
Hardisty, an Indian who was being trained as a catechist.
“It was a clear, beautiful morning,” says Mrs. Bompas, “November 27,
1874. The great frozen river glittered in the sunshine. Not a smooth,
glassy surface, but all covered with huge boulders of ice, and these
again all thickly strewn with snow.... Here are our ‘trippers,’ as they
are called, and all ready to start, and my Bishop in his fur cap and warm
wraps which I have made for him. His large mittens, formed of deer-skin
and fur, are suspended from the neck, as is the custom here. Allen, the
catechist, packed the sledges last evening with their bags of clothing
and provisions for the way—blankets, cooking implements, etc. There are
three sledges, and the dogs ready harnessed. I am rather proud of my
‘tapis,’ which, amid sundry difficulties, I contrived to get finished,
with some help, in time. Now comes the word, ‘Off! all ready!’ Our
farewells are said, the drivers smack their whips, the dogs cry out and
start in full scamper, the trippers running by the side of their sledges
at such a pace that they are soon out of sight.”
It is certainly an interesting thing to watch a dog-team start on a long
journey. The harness is decorated in gay trappings with ribbons, beads,
coloured cloth, and many jingling bells. The dogs enter into the spirit
of the undertaking, and lift up their voices in wild yelps and barks.
A good dog-team in the North costs from $100 to $200, averaging about $25
a dog. Some of the best in the country are bred by the natives, nearly
every grown-up Indian having his own dog-team and sledge or toboggan.
The Indians make their own sledges and harness, the former being made of
birch-wood, and the latter of moose-skin.
[Illustration: DOG-SLED IN NORTH-WEST CANADA
A couple married at Whitehorse by Bishop Stringer started in November
with this team of dogs, and, after a journey of 1,200 miles, arrived at
Fairbanks in the spring.]
Though the Bishop and his companions started off bravely and in high
spirits, they little realized what difficulties were ahead. The snow was
deep and the cold intense. The dogs suffered much. The sharp crust and
ice cut their feet and blood-marked every foot of the trail. This is by
no means uncommon in Northern travel. The snow gathers in lumps between
the dogs’ toes, and often the poor brutes will stop and tear savagely at
the pieces with their teeth. Often the driver does this work of mercy,
and the dog will lie on his side or back, looking up piteously into
his master’s face. Sometimes little moose-skin moccasins are made, in
shape like a miner’s gold-poke, with a drawing-string at the top. These,
fastened securely upon the dogs’ feet, give them much relief, though it
is hard for them to draw heavy loads, as the moccasins prevent their toes
from gripping the trail. The lash, too, adds to the dogs’ suffering. To
a person who has never been on the trail, or in common parlance “mushed
dogs,” it may seem an unnecessary cruelty; but the truth is, they will
not work at all unless the whip is used to a certain extent. There is a
great difference, of course, between urging on the animals now and then
with a sharp cut of the whip and ill-treating them as some drivers do. It
is no uncommon thing for a brutal master to pound his dogs with a heavy
stick, beating them until they are almost insensible. The curses of some
men are terrible to listen to, and many contend that dogs will not travel
without a string of oaths being hurled at them.
A missionary some years ago in the Yukon held a service, at which only
miners and prospectors were present. His subject was swearing, and he
spoke about dog-driving. He appealed to them, and asked if it were not
possible to drive dogs without cursing at them. At this a hardy, husky
miner rose to his feet, and looking calmly at the missionary, replied:
“Your Reverence, it can’t be done.” Now this is all nonsense. It can be
done, and dogs which are properly trained will travel just as well to the
words, “Mush on,” and “Hike on, there,” as to all the choicest oaths in
the English language.
The Bishop would never allow the dogs to be ill-treated in his presence;
neither would he permit his men to swear at them. It was his usual custom
to go ahead, on his long, springing snow-shoes, which sometimes are
called “Northern slippers,” and break down the trail. He was a man of
great endurance, and day after day he kept the lead, sometimes till long
after dark. “The ground is generally rough, and to walk in some places
may be compared to what it would be to walk over the heads and shoulders
of a crowd.”
“Snow-shoe walking,” says the Bishop, “requires care to avoid trouble.
If the snow-shoe lashings, or any other bands, are too tight on the
limbs, or if the feet are held too stiffly, a very painful affliction of
the muscles supervenes, known as the snow-shoe sickness. This sickness
sometimes causes the legs to swell like those of an elephant, and renders
them so powerless that the feet may have to be lifted with the hand by
lines attached to the front of the snow-shoes.”
Day by day the dark forms moved on. All around was the pitiless waste.
The terrible cold chilled to the bone. No sound broke the silence but
the crunch, crunch of the snow-shoes, or the shouts of the drivers,
the cracks of the whips, and the yelps of the dogs. At times they had
to contend with driving storms, and only those who have been on the
Northern trails can fully realize what they mean. Bishop Stringer, who
spent many hard years within the Arctic Circle, vividly describes such an
experience. He was travelling over a desolate region, away to the east,
where the foot of white men had never before trod.
“It may appear,” he says, “quite novel to travel over lands where no
white man has ever been. The novelty wears off quickly, though, when one
has to face the storms and isolation of those desolate wilds. I had as a
guide a boy (the only one I could obtain from one of the villages) who
was both deaf and stupid, and somewhat lazy. We had, of course, to carry
our wood from the sea-coast, or do without any. We had a cotton tent
that had seen many winters’ rough usage, and a small stove made out of an
old stove-pipe. By means of this we were able to keep warm while the wood
lasted. When on the return trip our wood gave out, and we had to travel
in the face of a blinding snowstorm, or freeze in the tent, and for part
of the night we were hopelessly lost, and without any means of camping or
getting ourselves warm, except by running. The boy gave out early, and
while he sat on the sled, I had to run before the dogs, in the face of
the storm, without track or guide of any kind. By keeping right into the
wind I judged we were not far astray. I was quite glad, when the daybreak
came, to find ourselves not far from the village.”
It was always a great joy when Bishop Bompas and the men dragged their
weary bodies into camp. Sometimes they had to travel over a barren
stretch of country, and how eagerly they would watch ahead for a clump of
trees in which to spend the night! But when camping-time arrived, there
was no warm house or steaming supper awaiting them—nothing but the silent
trees, grim and desolate, surrounding them.
Having chosen a suitable spot with plenty of dry wood near, the snow was
scraped away with a snow-shoe for a shovel. This place was then thickly
covered with fir, spruce, or pine branches, and a fire started from the
shavings of dry wood or a piece of birch bark.
“If there are no pine,” wrote the Bishop, “a fire can be made with dry
willows. If these are lacking, evergreen willows are supposed to burn,
when once ignited. Should there be none of these, there may probably be
no fire, unless, as a last resort, a sledge can be chopped up for the
purpose. There may be inconvenience also in the lack of materials for
starting a fire. In the absence of sulphur matches, fire is commonly made
with flint and steel and a piece of country touch-wood, which consists
of a fungoid growth or excrescence on the bark of the birch or poplar.
A small particle of this touch-wood is kindled to a spark with flint and
steel, the touch-wood is then placed on a handful of shavings cut from
dry wood, and the whole is waved together in the air until it bursts into
a flame. When a steel is missing, a knife may be at hand, or fire may be
obtained by snapping a gun. An Indian chief has told of his life being
saved at a last emergency by obtaining fire from a piece of greenstone,
carried for a whetstone, and an iron buckle from his dog-harness.”
After the fire was started, snow was melted in the kettles, for it is
almost impossible to obtain water in any other way on the trail. The dogs
are not fed until the end of the day. This may seem cruel; but if fed
before, they are lazy, and will do very little work.
Once I was travelling in the Yukon, and in the morning, seeing the dogs
looking wistfully at us as we ate our breakfast, I urged my Indian guide
to feed them. He did so under strong protest. Then I found my mistake.
We made very little progress that day, and were forced to camp unusually
early. The dogs would go a short distance, stop, squat down upon the
trail, and look back at us. The whip had little or no effect. The food in
the morning had spoiled them, and they were not anxious to reach the camp
at night.
After supper was over, and the dogs fed, the moccasins and socks were
hung up to dry, for they are always wet after a day’s travel. Then the
Bishop, sitting there, would bring out his little Bible, read a word of
comfort, and offer up a few prayers to the great Father; then, rolling
themselves up in their blankets on the yielding boughs, close to the
fire, they would take their well-earned rest. Sometimes they would awake
to find the fire out and themselves covered with a soft white mantle of
snow. Shortly after midnight they would arise, and prepare for another
long day’s march. Such was their daily experience, and all the time the
trail was getting more difficult.
[Illustration: FEEDING THE DOGS
The usual fare of these useful animals is fish.]
The worst was yet to come. Much snow had fallen, and their progress was
slower, and food running low. They were still a long distance from Fort
Rae, and had therefore to place themselves on short allowance. Steadily
their small supply of provisions diminished, until only a little was
left; then a mouthful apiece for hungry men and ravenous dogs. The latter
did some hunting on their own account when the day’s work was over, and
fortunate were they to find a timid rabbit lurking near. Their keenness
of scent is marvellous, especially when starving. I remember once, when
our dog-food was all gone, that Yukon, my noble leader, dug through the
snow on the shore of Lake Laberge and found a sack containing several
dried fish, which had been left there the previous fall by some lone
fisherman.
At length the food was all gone, and the tired, starving men looked at
one another. What were they to do? The Bishop straightened himself up,
drew the girdle tighter about his waist, and pointed forward. He even
smiled, for he could ever do that, even when his face was drawn and
haggard. It was not the smile of scorn, but of trust. He well knew that,
as the Lord stood with the great veteran St. Paul, he would stand by him
there in the great northland. He must have experienced a certain joy that
he was suffering for the Master’s sake. Ah! he was being trained in a
stern school for the great work which still lay before him. It was but
one of the thousands of sufferings he endured, of which he would seldom
speak. It was the Venerable Archdeacon Canham who once found the Bishop
in a lonely place with nothing to eat but a few tallow candles. Upon
these he subsisted until he obtained proper food.
There was now nothing to do but drag on their weary steps. It was
necessary, too, to assist the dogs, for the poor creatures were so weak
that they could do but little. So on they pressed, and crunch, swish,
sounded the snow-shoes. What a pitiful little procession wound its way
through that white, cruel desolation! The keen frost whitened their
beards and eyebrows, singeing their faces, and chilling their hearts. And
then the desolate camp at night, with nothing to eat!
But there was hope, and what will not men endure when they have even
a spark of hope in their hearts? They were drawing near to Fort Rae.
At last the buildings hove into sight, and slowly and painfully they
struggled in, faint and weary to the point of collapse. The dogs must
have scented the settlement long before the men saw the place. They would
smell the smoke in the air and take courage.
I was travelling to Dalton Post during the spring of 1905 with three
dogs and an Indian. One day we had a terrible march, and were forced to
abandon tent and supplies owing to a flooded stream. From three o’clock
in the morning until eight at night we plodded on, in some places wading
to our knees in water, and again facing a furious snowstorm on a large
lake. On the little Klukshu Lake the dogs stopped. They were tired out,
and refused to advance. The shore was desolate, and we had very little to
camp with. What were we to do? Suddenly Yukon, the leader, pricked up his
ears and started on a run, and it was all we could do to keep pace with
him. Not for an instant did he stop until we swung into an Indian lodge
about a mile away. He had scented the camp the whole of that distance.
When I related this incident afterwards to one well accustomed to Indians
and their ways of living, astonishment was expressed that the dog had
not scented the camp long before. And it certainly was a wonder, for the
place was most foul. But how welcome for all that to weary travellers!
Great was the Bishop’s pleasure at reaching Fort Rae. It was joy after
the battle. He had suffered, but what did it matter? Sitting around the
camp-fire, all difficulties of the way were forgotten, as he explained to
the Indians the message he had come to bring of the loving Saviour.
Meanwhile, at the Fort, Mrs. Bompas was anxiously awaiting the Bishop’s
return. Mr. Reeve took charge of the settlement, while Mr. Hodgson
conducted the Indian school. It was a weary time—a time of darkness, for
grease had given out, and there were few candles, as the deer were very
thin. Never before had there been such a scarcity. Every particle was
saved with jealous care, and doled out with the greatest caution.
But, notwithstanding the darkness, a cheerful time was spent at
Christmas, when Mrs. Bompas brought in twelve old Indian wives and gave
them a Christmas dinner. They tried their best to use the knives and
forks, but at last gave up in despair, and had to “take to Nature’s
implements.”
Then a Christmas-tree—a grand affair—was given for the Indian and the
white children of the officers of the fort. The presents were made by
hand, and Mrs. Bompas wrote:
“Years ago, in my childhood, when my busy fingers accomplished things of
this kind, my dear mother used to tell me I should one day be the head of
a toy-shop. How little did she then dream in what way her words would be
fulfilled! I actually made a lamb—‘Mackenzie River breed’—all horned and
woolly, with sparkling black eyes.”
Many were the wonderful things made for that tree, and great was the
delight of those little dark-skinned Indians as they looked upon their
first Christmas-tree.
After the excitement had subsided dreary days of waiting followed,
when, one Sunday morning, bells were heard, and a dog-team swung into
the fort, and there, to the astonishment of all, appeared the Bishop
“with white, snowy beard fringed with icicles, in a deer-skin coat and
beaver hat and mittens—a present from Fort Rae.” What rejoicing there
was! and more rejoicing still when he poured into Mrs. Bompas’s lap the
long-looked-for home letters, which had been eight months reaching her.
“Dear, precious letters,” says the faithful recorder of these early days,
“for which I had so longed and prayed and wept for eight months past! The
long silence was broken, the electric chain laid down between England,
Darmstadt, and Fort Simpson.”
The Bishop’s experience on this trip by no means prevented him from
taking others. Shortly after his return from Fort Rae an incident
happened which almost deprived the Church of its heroic missionary. He
wished to visit Fort Norman, some 200 miles north of Fort Simpson, and
made ready to travel in the dead of winter with several of the Hudson’s
Bay Company’s men, who were going that way. On the morning of the
departure, Mrs. Bompas went to the Indian camp and asked the natives, who
were to accompany the travellers, to look after the Bishop. “Are we not
men?” said one of them, Natsatt by name. “Is he not our Bishop? Koka”
(_i.e._, That’s enough.)
And so they started. But on this occasion the Bishop did not go ahead,
as was his custom. He lagged behind the sled, travelling slower and
slower all the time. Natsatt kept looking back, and when at length the
Bishop disappeared from sight, he became alarmed. “Me no feel easy,” he
presently remarked; “me not comfortable.” Leaving the rest of the party,
who swung on their way, he went back to look for the Bishop. Soon he
found him, helpless, in the middle of the trail, bent double, with hands
on his knees, trying to walk. He had been seized with fearful cramps,
which were rendering him powerless. Natsatt made a fire as quickly as
possible, and rubbed the Bishop thoroughly, and after the suffering man
was well warmed, with a great effort succeeded in getting him back to the
fort. The day was extremely cold—40 degrees below zero. A few minutes
more, and the Bishop would have perished on the trail.
CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE ONES OF THE FLOCK
The Bishop loved the little ones of his dusky flock, and never was he so
happy as when they were gathered around him. For long years he was their
patient teacher, and gladly did he give up some of his time each day for
their sake. Indian children are full of fun and mischief, and many were
the pranks they would play upon their venerable teacher. Shrewd, too,
were they to watch the effect of their capers. They knew they could go so
far and no farther. When they saw the Bishop running his fingers through
his hair they knew a storm was brewing, and silence would ensue.
As he looked upon their little faces a deep love would come into his
heart, for he knew the life-history of each. That bright-faced little lad
had been rescued from a cruel father, or that little girl had been saved
from a life of degradation. During his long years in the North, over such
a vast sweep of country, he had relieved and saved many a little waif. He
could not bear to see them suffer, and sometimes his eyes were blinded
to their imperfections. Once, hearing the sobs of a child who was being
chastised, he marched to the schoolroom door and sought admittance. This
not being complied with immediately, with a mighty push he drove open the
door, seized the child from the teacher’s grasp, and, placing it upon his
knee, soothed it with parental affection.
The story of poor old Martha is a touching one. Her daughter’s child,
little Tommy, a miserable, misshapen creature, was very sick. They sent
for the Bishop, who did all in his power, but in vain. The child soon
passed away. Through his tender care he won their hearts, and not long
after the child’s death Martha came to him one cold, dark night, and
begged the Bishop “to give her some medicine to do her heart good; she
had pain there ever since Tommy died.” And there, in the quietness of
the mission-house, the noble teacher talked with her, telling her of the
great Physician of souls, and sending her away comforted.
The story of Jennie de Nord is one of much beauty and pathos, in which we
see the Bishop risking his own life to save a little child. Old De Nord
was a chief among the Fort Simpson Indians. He was a noted hunter and
trapper, strong and stalwart, and a loving father to his four motherless
children. Jennie was the only girl of the family, a regular little vixen,
with sparkling black eyes and a merry, roguish laugh. She was utterly
fearless, and her power of will and body were often the cause of wonder
even to her own people. She would face the wild, husky dogs of her
tribe, or launch a small canoe and paddle herself to visit her father’s
fish-nets. She admired her father’s gun very much, but it was too big for
her to handle. One day a white man came to the camp, and as he showed his
fine pistol, Jennie became much excited. She watched him closely, and
stood in breathless wonder when he fired it off for the entertainment of
the Indians. The next morning, when the white man awoke, his pistol was
gone. Somebody had stolen it! All became alert to find the thief. Then
Jennie, with her face all flushed, came forward with the weapon. She had
taken it from beneath the white man’s blanket while he slept, and hugged
it fondly throughout the night.
[Illustration: THE MISSION SCHOOL AT CARCROSS
At the Bishop’s left stands Miss Mary Ellis, who for years worked among
the Indians in the Yukon, and who was really the first teacher at
Carcross.]
For the first few years of her life Jennie was tended by an aunt, who
lavished much affection upon the child. Jennie was then given to the
care of another aunt, Takatse-mo by name, who was rather a stern woman,
and had several children of her own to care for. She did not act kindly
towards her new charge, and made her do very hard work, such as hauling
water from the river, chopping wood for the camp-fire, and many other
chores about the place. Besides this, Jennie was poorly fed. The little
round cheeks grew thin, and a forlorn look appeared upon her usually
merry face. While her relatives and neighbours were talking about this,
and wondering what to do, Jennie took the matter into her own hands,
and one day suddenly disappeared from the camp. Her aunt did not worry
herself at all about the girl’s departure. She said she would come back
when she felt hungry; but Jennie did not come back. She had taken no
food with her except a piece of hard, dried deer’s meat; neither did she
have any outer covering beyond her small blanket, which had served her
in early years, and was rather threadbare. The day after Jennie’s flight
the neighbours, and even the aunt, became much alarmed about her. The
snow was deep around Fort Simpson, and starving wolves prowled about the
woods. Their howls were often heard at night, and were responded to by
the camp dogs. At last it was resolved to consult the Bishop. “We must go
after the child at once,” was the reply, as soon as he heard the story;
and he immediately prepared to head the expedition. Snow-shoes and cloth
leggings were made ready; stout moccasins, and blankets, socks, fur cap,
and other things necessary for the journey. Just a little more than half
an hour after the news of Jennie’s departure reached the mission-house,
the Bishop and two Indians started off after the strayed waif. They
found it difficult to trace her, as the previous night had been windy,
and Jennie’s tiny footprints were covered up. They imagined she had gone
in search of her father, who was camped some distance away. Travelling
in this direction, they had much difficulty in making their way through
the tangled brushwood, and often they had to follow the river in order
to make any progress at all. Here they met the piercing north-east wind,
which cut their faces, and formed icicles on beard and eyelashes. For
ten miles they continued on their way without discovering any sign of
Jennie. The Bishop felt much discouraged, and was thinking of returning
to the Fort to try some other route. Suddenly one of the Indians uttered
an exclamation, and pointed upwards to a faint column of smoke slowly
rising among the dark fir-trees. New hope filled their hearts, and
quickly climbing the banks of the stream, they made straight for the
fire. Presently they caught sight of the clustered poles, which had been
a wigwam, and there they found a little huddled form lying in one corner,
clutching closely about her body the one poor frayed blanket. Opening her
eyes, and seeing the Bishop bending over her, she uttered the pitiful
word, “Ti-tin-tie” (I am hungry). Jennie had walked more than ten miles,
and reaching at last De Nord’s halting-place, her strength had given
out. Here she found her father’s gun, which had been left in a cache
loaded. This the girl had eagerly seized, and by firing it off obtained
a spark which started the fire. By this she had crouched, trying to keep
life in her body, when found by the rescuers. At once a roaring fire was
blazing up. Water was brought, a cup of tea made for Jennie, and after a
few hours’ rest the party set out on their return trip to Fort Simpson.
Jennie had to be carried most of the way, for she was not only much
exhausted, but her shoes were almost worn out. In his strong arms the
Bishop carried her part of the way, and how his heart must have rejoiced
at finding the lost lamb! But the trip cost him much. His clothes were
wet, for in places he had been forced to wade through overflowing water.
He could hardly reach Fort Simpson, so great were the cramps which seized
him, and for days he endured great suffering. But what did it matter?
Jennie was safe, and none the worse for her experience.
Four years later the Bishop was called upon to lay poor Jennie to rest.
Her father made her work harder than she was able to do. One day she
started with the dogs and sleds for the woods to bring in a deer her
father had killed. The journey was a long one, and when she returned to
the camp tired out, she complained of not feeling well, and lying down on
her bed of brushwood, died the next day.
Such a scene as this wrung the Bishop’s heart, and he did all in his
power to bring the little ones into the mission-schools, where they could
receive proper care. An interesting sight it was to see this shepherd
returning from some long trip, bringing with him several wild, dirty
little natives for his school.
Not only did the Bishop bring the children into the mission-school, but
time and time again he and Mrs. Bompas received some poor little waif
as their own. A few years after his consecration, little Jennie, a mere
babe, was thus taken to their hearts. She came to them, so Mrs. Bompas
tells us,
“At holy Christmas-tide,
When winter o’er our Northern home
Its lusty arms spread wide;
When snow-drifts gathered thick and deep,
Winds moaned in sad unrest,
My little Indian baby sought
A shelter at my breast.”
Upon this child they bestowed their affection; but alas! notwithstanding
the greatest care, it gradually wasted away, and passed to the great
Father above.
Some time later another was received into their home and hearts. This was
Owindia (The Weeping One), who was baptized Lucy May. A terrible tragedy
had been enacted at one of the Indian camps, from which the babe had
been marvellously rescued. Her mother had been cruelly murdered by an
angry husband, and as there was no one to care for her, the Bishop and
Mrs. Bompas took the motherless child. Great was the joy they received
from the little one, and with much pride she was taken to England several
years later, where, after some time, she died. Mrs. Bompas beautifully
tells the story of this waif in her little book, “Owindia.”
The Indian boys are great little hunters and trappers. The forest is
their home, and they read the world of Nature like an open book. They
have their numerous sports, too, paddling along the shore of some lake in
the summer-time, or coasting down a steep hill in the winter. The bank in
front of the Indian village, just across the river from Whitehorse, at
times is worn smooth from numerous little moccasined feet. Approaching
the place, one has to be careful not to be suddenly upset by a crouching
figure, sweeping down the hill, balancing himself with much skill upon
one foot. This little fellow in the picture was caught one bright day
enjoying his favourite sport.
Dogs are their constant companions, and they love them dearly. It is
interesting to watch Indian boys playing with these faithful animals.
Though savage and vicious to strangers, they obey the slightest command
of their little dusky masters. In the winter-time it is no uncommon
thing to see a lad speeding along the trail drawn by two or three lank
huskies. In the summer-time a rude waggon is often made, and seated upon
a soap-box, the boy will drive his patient dog with much pride.
These are the bright, active lads who are brought into the
mission-school, taught to read and write, and to receive the knowledge of
the loving Saviour. To see the little fellows in the wild, rude state in
the forest, and then behold them several months after they have entered
the school, you would hardly know they were the same children. They are
not naturally quick at learning from the printed page, and the Bishop at
times became much discouraged at their slowness, and said it was “like
writing in the sand instead of graving in the rock.”
[Illustration: AN INDIAN BOY SLIDING DOWNHILL AT WHITEHORSE]
[Illustration: THE DOGS RESTING AFTER A HARD DAY’S WORK
Brush of fir-trees is laid upon the snow, and upon this the dogs huddle
through the long cold nights.]
Several years ago I had a class of bright-eyed, dusky children at
Whitehorse. Day after day they were instructed in the mysteries of A, B,
and C. Then a list of simple words was carefully studied, such as “cat,”
“dog,” “pig,” “cow” and “boy.” At last, thinking they all knew the words
well, I asked the brightest boy in the room to repeat them once more for
the benefit of the whole class. Bravely and proudly he started, “C—a—t,
cat; d—o—g, dog.” Thus far he had no trouble. The next word was puzzling.
Slowly and carefully he spelled it out, “p—i—g.” He tried hard to
remember its meaning, and a breathless silence ensued. Suddenly his face
cleared, and proudly he spelt it again, “p—i—g, boy.” There was a roar of
laughter from his companions, and I do not think the young speller knows
to this day what they laughed at.
Indian children are fond of music, and they have very sweet voices. At
the Carcross Mission it is an interesting sight to see several rows of
well-dressed boys and girls, with books in their hands, singing lustily
some favourite hymn. Two of these little lads were recently brought to
the Whitehorse Hospital for a painful treatment. Visiting them the next
day, I saw a hymn-book lying by Johnny Black’s side. “Have you been
reading in this?” I inquired. “We have been singing, sir,” was the reply.
“And will you sing some to me?” I asked. Immediately the book was opened,
and in a quavering voice the little fellow sang the hymn beginning with
the following verse:
“Great God, and wilt Thou condescend
To be my Father and my Friend;
I a poor child, and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and sky!”
Occasionally Tony, in the adjoining bed, would join in; but he was rather
weak, so he could not sing much. Listening to these two little lads, I
thought what a good work was being done—a work started in this diocese by
Bishop Bompas—in bringing such as these to the Saviour’s feet in love and
faith. These were the two little boys who at the Carcross Church took up
the collection regularly every Sunday.
CHAPTER X
A RACE WITH WINTER
If you wish to cross the Rocky Mountains to-day westward to the Pacific
coast, there are the cars of the Canadian-Pacific Railway, in which you
can travel in luxurious comfort and ease. As the train winds its way up
to the summit, and crosses the Great Divide, and then creeps down, down
the western slope, wonders without number are presented to view. Majestic
snow-capped mountains surround you on every side; streams rush, leaping
and foaming, like white threads far below, as the train hangs from some
dizzy height, crawling around a jagged precipice. As you look down, and
then shrink back, at the wild scene below, you marvel at the skill of
the engineers who could build a railroad in such a place. Then your mind
turns to the men who first penetrated these wilds, and who were forced to
cross the mountains before the railroad was built. What hardships they
endured, what perils, and how many lives were lost in the undertaking!
Hundreds of miles farther north Bishop Bompas performed this task
years before the railroad was built, and at a season of the year when
travelling over the mountains was very difficult.
While Bishop Bompas was carrying on his steady work along the great
inland streams, a storm was brewing in an active mission centre on the
Pacific coast. Mr. Duncan, who had been sent out by the Church Missionary
Society, was working among the Indians at Metlakahtla with good results.
Bishop Hills, of Columbia Diocese, several times visited the settlement
and baptized a large number of converts. But Mr. Duncan objected to the
Indian Christians being prepared for Confirmation, thinking they would
make a fetish of it. Time and time again the Church Missionary Society
sent out ordained men to Metlakahtla, but Mr. Duncan would not listen to
them, and remained most headstrong in his views. Matters thus reached a
climax. Bishop Hills well knew if he visited Metlakahtla it would only
add fuel to the flames, as Mr. Duncan, for certain reasons, had taken
a dislike to him. He therefore acted a wise part, and wrote to Bishop
Bompas asking him to go to Metlakahtla as arbitrator.
It was late in the season ere the letter reached the Bishop, but without
delay he prepared for the trip. At any season it was a great undertaking,
but at that time of the year the difficulty was very much increased.
In a direct line the journey was a long one, but to reach the coast
the distance was lengthened by a circuitous route over rivers, lakes,
portages, and mountain summits.
Then winter was upon them.
“All the latter part of September,” wrote the Bishop, “the frost and snow
had been more severe than I had ever known it before at the same season,
so the winter had decidedly the first start in our race.”
It was a cold, frosty day, that 8th of October, 1877, when the Bishop
left Dunvegan in a stout canoe, with several Indians, on his long
race to the coast against stern Winter. For five days they moved up
the river, contending with drifting ice, which met them coming out of
“tributary streams,” and on the 13th Fort St. John’s was reached, where
they “were kindly entertained for the Sunday by the officer in charge”
of the Hudson’s Bay post. From this point they left winter “behind for
a fortnight, and were fairly ahead in the race.” But every day they
expected to be overtaken by their competitor, and arose from their
“couches anxiously every morning, foreboding signs of ice or snow.”
Rocky Mountain House was reached on the 17th, where a large band of
Indians was found assembled. The Bishop lost no opportunity of speaking
a word to the natives wherever he met them, and the seed thus sown bore
much fruit in after years. For the first time he found no sickness in the
camps, which fact he attributed “to their unusually liberal use of soap
and water, as compared with the tribes farther north.”
Ahead of them was the Peace River Canyon, and, after making a land
portage of twelve miles to overcome this dangerous spot, they again
proceeded by canoe. But the work was becoming harder all the time. The
current was very swift, and the canoe had to be poled all the way. In
trying to ascend the Parle Pas Rapids, the current was so “strong that
their canoe turned on them, and was swept down the stream, but, being a
large one, descended safely.”
“Most of the time that we were passing through the gorge of the Rocky
Mountains the weather was foggy, but when the mist cleared we saw the
bold crags and hilly heights closely overhanging the river in snowy
grandeur. The mountain terraces and picturesque scenery on this route
have been described by Canadian explorers.”
“On the very morning that we left Parsnip River,” wrote the Bishop, “the
ice began again to drift thickly to meet us, and had we been only a few
hours later, we might have been inconvenienced by it, showing us that
stern Winter was still on our track.”
For eleven days the Bishop and his men poled their craft against the
stream, and, with many dangers passed, reached McLeod’s Lake Fort on
October 29. Here they were hospitably received by Mr. McKenzie, the
officer in charge, and an opportunity was given to see the Indians who
were at the fort. A rest of two days was made here, and then they
started across the lake. This was a difficult task, as the ice was
beginning to stretch from shore to shore, and they had to force their way
as best they could around the corner of the solid mass.
From Lake McLeod a long portage of eighty miles was made over frozen
ground to the beautiful sheet of water known as Stuart Lake, on the
shore of which the officer at Fort St. James gave them a hearty welcome.
Here the Bishop was on historic ground. Seventy-one years before those
famous explorers, Simon Fraser and John Stuart, discovered the lake
which took the name of the latter. Fort St. James, which was erected
on its banks “long before Victoria and New Westminster had been called
into existence,” was the regular capital of British Columbia, “where a
representative of our own race ruled over reds and whites.”
A stay of four days was made at this place, during which time heavy
snowstorms raged over the land, and ice began to form in the lake,
which threatened to bar further progress. This body of water, which
is about fifty miles in length, had to be traversed, and the Indians
refused to make the long journey at that season and in such weather.
During the delay the Bishop was invited to hold Divine service at the
fort on Sunday. Never before had the place “been visited by a Protestant
missionary, the Roman Catholics only having laboured in the region, and
Mr. Hamilton, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s chief officer there, brought up
a family of ten children without having, for more than twenty years, any
opportunity of seeing a Protestant minister.”
After much difficulty the Indians were persuaded to go forward, and,
leaving Fort St. James on November 7, started out upon their perilous
journey. Safely crossing Lake Stuart, they made a portage of seven miles
and a half to Lake Babine. This is a body of water eighty-seven miles
long and from one-half to five or six miles wide. The canoes here were
poor affairs, owing to the lack of large cedar-trees, from which such
crafts are made on the Pacific coast. They were common dug-outs, formed
from the cotton-wood trees—small, narrow, slab-sided, and as a rule much
warped and out of shape.
This was all the Bishop could obtain to make the voyage, but he was used
to anything, even a raft, so, launching the frail craft, they again
started forward. When they had gone part of the way a furious snowstorm
swept down upon them, blotting out the landscape, while the white-capped
waves threatened every instant to engulf them. Creeping along the
lee-side of the lake, they pressed steadily on, for the Bishop must reach
the coast before the winter locked everything tight. After days of hard
paddling and battling with wind and waves, their hearts were gladdened by
the sight of Fort Babine. The Indians here, who, by the way, were Roman
Catholics, were naturally suspicious of a Church of England missionary.
“However,” remarked the Bishop, “they treated us well.”
These Indians were called “Babines” from the custom they had of wearing
a wooden lip-piece on the lower lip. In 1812, when Harmon, the explorer,
first pushed his way into this region, they were wild and war-like,
brandishing their weapons in a threatening manner as the explorer drew
near. Then they numbered about 2,000. Now they have dwindled to 250 since
the arrival of the whites—a sad comment upon the influence of so-called
civilized people. Their principal business was salmon-fishing in the fine
lake which stretched away to the south-east.
From Fort Babine they started on the land-trail over the mountains to
Skeena Forks. This was a difficult undertaking, and winter overtook them
once again. Beginning the portage, the snow was several inches deep, and
as they ascended the mountain it deepened continually, till they were
forced to dig out their camps, “to sleep in a foot and a half of snow,
and without snow-shoes the walking was heavy. We were invading Winter’s
own domain,” continued the Bishop, “and it was little wonder if he was
severe with us.”
As they descended the western slope the next morning, the snow diminished
rapidly, and they “camped at night in the grass without a vestige of
snow remaining, and only saw stern Winter frowning down from the heights
behind.”
On reaching the Skeena Forks they were given a hearty welcome by Mr.
Hankin, a trader who lived here, who informed the Bishop that, till the
previous year, the Skeena River had never been known to continue open
so late, being generally frozen the first week in November, and now it
was the 17th. The next day the descent of the Skeena was begun by canoe
in fear and trembling, lest the ice might “drift down from behind.” And
the race began in earnest, for a heavy snowstorm swept over the land,
and Winter once more made a last effort to block them. But through the
tempest sped the determined missionary, through rapids and canyons, over
bars, whirling eddies, and dangers without number. At last, to his joy,
he found that, on nearing the coast, the mild breezes of the Pacific were
too much for grim Winter, and he steadily retreated, leaving the little
party unscathed.
At Port Essington, the little town at the mouth of the Skeena, Mr.
Morrison, the missionary in charge, one day, November 23, saw a stranger
approaching in a canoe. His clothes were torn and ragged, his face
bronzed from wind and sun, while his long, uncombed beard swept his
breast. So travel-worn was the man that Mr. Morrison mistook him for
a miner as he disembarked. “Well,” said he, “what success have you
had?” The Bishop replied that he had been fairly successful, evidently
relishing the joke. Just then Mr. Morrison saw the remains of the
episcopal apron, and, remembering that he had heard that a Bishop was
expected at Metlakahtla from inland, exclaimed: “Perhaps you are the
Bishop who I heard was expected?” “Yes,” was the reply, “I am all that is
left of him.”
After spending one night with Mr. Morrison, the Bishop proceeded
twenty-five miles by canoe along the coast northward to Metlakahtla,
which he reached on the 24th, “this being the tenth canoe,” he remarks,
“that we sat in since leaving Dunvegan.”
The venerable Archdeacon Collison, of the Diocese of Caledonia, wrote
from Kincolith Naas Mission of the visit of Bishop Bompas to the Pacific
coast:
“He remained at Metlakahtla that winter, where he succeeded in confirming
a large number of candidates. By the first steamer in spring he came over
to me on Queen Charlotte’s Island, at Massett. I had a little bedroom
specially prepared for him in the new mission-house, but he preferred
lying down on the floor, as he said he was not accustomed to sleeping
in rooms. He was about to lie down just across the doorway, when I
begged him to take another position, as he might be disturbed by someone
entering late or early.
“I returned with him to the mainland on the steamer. We went together
to the Naas River by canoe—a voyage of some fifty miles—to Kincolith.
The owner of the canoe, who was a chief, was steering, and I was seated
near him towards the stern, whilst the Bishop was seated forward. As the
Bishop raised his arms in paddling, in which we were all engaged, it
revealed a long tear in the side of his shirt. Suddenly the chief asked
me in a low tone, in Tsimshean: ‘Why is the chief’s shirt so torn?’ I
replied: ‘He has been a long time travelling through the forest.’ He
was dressed very roughly, and wore a pair of moccasins. When we reached
Kincolith, he purchased a coarse pair of brogans in the little Indian
store there. He was in the habit of sitting, after the others had
finished their meal, eating a small piece of dry yeast-powder bread,
baked by Mrs. Tomlinson or one of her Indian girl boarders, and he would
exclaim: ‘How sweet this bread is to my taste after roughing it so long
on the trails!’ He informed us of the privations both missionaries and
Indians had endured owing to scarcity of food during certain seasons,
on more than one occasion having had to boil and eat the skins of the
animals that had been caught in the hunt for their furs. I ventured
to suggest to him that this might be avoided if they could only grow
potatoes and pit them securely. We had taught our Indians to do this.
The Bishop feared they would not mature in his diocese, but promised to
remember it. Afterwards I was informed he had introduced the potato with
success.
“The Rev. R. Tomlinson and I accompanied the Bishop when he started
to return to the head of canoe navigation on the Naas River, and some
distance on the trail. We had a prayer-meeting at the point where we
separated in the forest, in which we joined in prayer for needful
blessings—the Bishop for us and God’s work in our hands, and we for him
in his journey and labours for the Lord. He gave away his great-coat
and a pot to the Indians, and started on the second stage of his return
journey accompanied by one young Indian.”
While on the coast it was but natural that the Bishop’s thoughts should
wander to his native land.
“From the Pacific coast,” he wrote, “a few weeks would have taken me to
England or any part of the civilized world; but I preferred to return
north without even visiting the haunts of civilization (except so far as
the Indians are cultivated at our missions), on the ground that such a
visit renders the mind unsettled or disinclined for a life in the wilds.”
Brave soldier of the Cross, how willing he was to sacrifice anything for
the Master’s cause! Leaving the coast, he started in the spring up the
Skeena River, and once again plunged into the wilderness among his dusky
flock.
CHAPTER XI
TIMES OF FAMINE
Life in the northland is hard and lonely enough at the best; but when
food gives out, and starvation stares people in the face, it is too
horrible even to imagine. And yet it is a common thing during the long
winters, when game is scarce, when no fish are to be caught, and even the
little rabbits die, for famine to stalk through the land, bringing misery
and death to hundreds of men, women, and children.
“In India and elsewhere,” says Mrs. Bompas, “as soon as such a calamity
is made known, subscriptions are raised, and supplies are sent off as
soon as possible. But it must be months and months before the tidings
of the misery here could even reach our friends in England, and in the
meantime to what terrible straits might we not be reduced. One shudders
to think of what men are driven to by the pangs of hunger.”
Both whites and Indians suffer at such times. How hard it must be for
parents to see their little children crying out for food, and to be
unable to give them any! In 1878, the Bishop returned from his visit to
the Pacific coast. When he reached his diocese, sad stories were told him
of the fearful famine which had ravaged his flock the previous winter.
Food was scarce, owing to the extreme mildness of the season, interfering
with the chase, and the mission supplies having failed to reach them in
the fall. He gives a graphic picture of the sufferings endured in the
diocese:
“Horses were killed for food, and furs eaten at several of the posts.
The Indians had to eat a good many of their beaver-skins. Imagine an
English lady taking her supper off her muff! The gentleman now here with
me supported his family for a while on bear-skins—those you see at home
mostly in the form of Grenadier caps. Can you fancy giving a little girl,
a year or two old, a piece of Grenadier’s cap, carefully singed, boiled
and toasted, to eat? Mr. McAulay’s little girl has not yet recovered
from the almost fatal sickness that resulted. The scarcity brings out
the strange contrast between this country and others. Elsewhere money
‘answereth all things,’ and among India’s millions half a million
sterling will relieve a famine; but send it here, and though a great sum
among our scattered individuals, who can be counted by tens, yet it would
do us no good, as for digestion we must find it ‘hard cash’ indeed!”
It was not only at one place or one season that the famine came. It was
a common occurrence. Once, in 1886, the Bishop held his Synod at Fort
Simpson. There was a scarcity of food, the beginning of the great famine
which ensued, and all were placed on short allowance. One day the dinner
consisted of barley and a few potatoes, but it is said that the Bishop
was equal to the occasion, commending the scanty fare by repeating Prov.
xv. 17: “Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and
hatred therewith.”
The winter that followed the meeting of the clergy was a terrible one.
The famine increased. Game was scarce, few moose were to be obtained, the
rabbits all died, and the fish nearly all left the river. The Indians
asserted that the scarcity of the finny prey was caused by the propeller
of the new steamer _Wrigley_, which first churned the head-waters of the
great river the preceding fall, but was unable to reach the northern
posts owing to the ice; hence the lack of supplies. But any excuse would
serve the Indians, as, on a previous occasion when fish were scarce (so
Mrs. Bompas tells us), the natives said it was due to the white women
bathing in the river. Such a radical change as cleanliness was evidently
as much disliked by the fish as by the Indians.
Through the weary days of famine sad reports reached the Bishop of
Indians dying for lack of food.
“Forty starving Indians,” so he wrote, “are said to have been eating each
other on Peace River, and 200 dead there of measles, and a like number at
Isle à la Crosse.”
“We have been living for some days,” says Mrs. Bompas, “on barley soup
and potatoes twice a day. We are four in family, and William gives us
all the giant’s share, and takes so little himself. One hopes and prays
for help. One hears terrible accounts of the Indians, all about, all
starving; no rabbits or anything for them to fall back upon. Here many
of them hunt for rotten potatoes thrown away last fall. Oh, it is truly
heart-rending!”
Well has Longfellow in his “Hiawatha” described the desolation of such a
scene as is only too common in the North:
“O the long and dreary winter!
O the cold and cruel winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker
Froze the ice on lake and river.
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o’er all the landscape;
Fell the covering snow and drifted
Through the forest round the village....
“O the wasting of the famine!
O the wailing of the children!
O the anguish of the women!
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them;
Hungry was the sky above them;
And the hungry stars above them
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them.”
The mission party were placed on half rations, and earnest prayers were
offered up to the great Father above for deliverance. Starving wolves
were seen prowling around, ready to snatch up anything, carrying off
little children if they ventured near. “We are just hanging on by our
eyelashes,” quaintly wrote Mrs. Bompas.
The Bishop starved himself to feed his household, and daily he became
thinner and more haggard. At last the provisions were so reduced that
the Bishop, to lessen the number at the Fort, left for another place. He
seldom thought of himself, but only of those dependent upon him. He could
live anywhere, even in a snow-bank, with a few scraps for food. Truly his
wants were few.
“An iron cup, plate, or knife,” writes Mr. Spendlove, “with one or two
kettles, form his culinary equipment. A hole in the snow, a corner of
a boat, wigwam, or log-hut, provided space, six feet by two feet, for
sleeping accommodation. Imagine him seated on a box in a twelve-foot
room, without furniture, and there cooking, teaching, studying, early and
late, always at work, never at ease, never known to take a holiday.”
Mrs. Bompas tells us that the Bishop was a very self-contained man.
During the years when he was itinerating among the Indians and Eskimo
he had lived so much alone in tent or cabin that he had learnt to be
wholly independent of external aid. Moreover, he had trained himself to
endure hardness as a good soldier of the Cross. His diet was at all times
abstemious, almost severely so. To the last he never allowed himself milk
or cream in tea or coffee. He was a fairly good cook and bread-maker,
and loved to produce a good and savoury dish for his friends, although
eschewing all such dainties himself.
[Illustration: TROUT-SPEARERS BRINGING SUPPLIES FOR A MISSION STATION
From a photograph taken during a heavy fall of snow.]
One day, when they knew not where to-morrow’s food would come from, Mr.
Spendlove and several Indians came, bringing moose-meat. They told a
terrible story of suffering below. All at Fort Wrigley were starving,
absolutely no food was to be obtained, and a number of Indians died. Mr.
Spendlove and his fellow-travellers were pitifully thin. Several of the
poor dogs had died off, and those which survived were too weak to draw
the sled, and had to be hauled themselves. By a special mercy they came
upon two moose, which had just been killed by wolves. This meat helped
them out, and probably saved their lives.
“All the Indians were just on the verge of starvation,” wrote Mr. Garten
of Fort Rae. “All kinds of shifts were made to preserve life; they were
obliged to eat some of the parchment of the fur which they caught; and
even old leather dresses which had been worn by the Indian women were
eaten up. The children fared very badly, not being able to eat the
leather. Of course, there were the usual miseries accompanying such a
state of things: such as men falling down from exhaustion, stealing what
little they could from each other, etc., but happily no crimes were
committed, as far as I know; only two Indians died from starvation.
Things would not have been so bad had there been rabbits and partridges,
but unhappily these also were wanting.”
At such times terrible stories were related of what happened away from
the Fort. Husbands driven mad from the pangs of hunger were said to have
eaten their wives and little ones.
“There is an old Indian,” says Mrs. Bompas, “even now pointed out here,
who is said to have eaten his wife and children.”
“Such a dreadful thing occurred on Friday,” she wrote at another time,
“which has saddened us all. The poor Indian Cachie was seen crossing the
river, wading through the water and over the ice at the peril of his
life. He got to the shore at last in a most distressing state. His wife
and three children all died from starvation. There are rumours more ugly
still concerning him, though we hope they are but rumours. Even at the
best it is a sad, ghastly story. The poor man has been living on berries
and squirrels.”
Not only did the wives and little children suffer most at such seasons,
but the aged, especially the old women. Bishop Stringer, much farther
north, several years later, gives an instance of what it means to these
people in times of want:
“In March a man came staggering in, and it required only a glance to tell
that he was starving—he looked more like a skeleton than a man of flesh
and blood. We gave him some food, little by little at first, and then he
told his story. He and his aged mother spent the winter about fifty miles
to the westward. Game became scarce, and their supply of food became
exhausted. Being camped beside an old decayed whale carcass, they lived
on this for a time; but they soon became so weak, and the snow so deep,
that they were not able to procure it any longer. The man caught some
foxes, and they ate them; then even foxes failed. Their only two dogs
were sacrificed to appease their appetites. When almost on the point of
starvation, they started for here without blanket or tent. The mother was
nearly blind, and when about thirty miles from this place the son had
to leave her in a snow-house. He himself was so weak that it took three
days to come a distance that is considered one day’s fair travelling. He
told us he thought his mother would be dead, and all the other natives
seemed to think the same, and so they did not think it important to start
out at once to bury her. After some little trouble, I got one native to
go with me, and, taking my dog-team, reached there early the next day.
My companion expected to find her a corpse, but when we reached her
snow-house she called from within: ‘Inooaloon kaivet?’ (My son, have you
come back?). We found her crouched in the middle of a snow-house about
three feet high, the door of which was partly open, with snow drifting
in. Here she had been for three days without blanket or any covering but
her clothing, and without fire, drink, or food. She was very thirsty, and
we soon made a fire, melted snow, and gave her some water. I asked her
if she were hungry, and she said only a little, but someone had come to
her each night and had given her some fresh deer-meat. (This, no doubt,
was a dream or a vision; but it had the effect of keeping her courage up,
which is a great deal with an Eskimo.) I asked her if she had slept, and
she said she had slept every night. She was not the least bit frozen,
although the temperature was down below zero. She said also that she had
asked the Good Spirit to help her, and that He had heard her, and she
had not been afraid. Poor body! she had very little knowledge of higher
things, but her faith seemed to be great. We put her on the sled, and
came back to Herschel Island without camping—a continuous trip of about
fifty or sixty miles. My dogs were good, or we could not have done it.
The old woman’s eyesight was after a time restored, and of course they
were both very thankful for the help they received. The man was in our
house to-day, and he says that his mother is quite hearty and strong.”
Though many of these people, in the midst of such trouble, sank lower
than brutes, yet it is pleasing to know that the knowledge of Christ
filled some hearts, lifted them to a higher level, and kept them from
doing horrible things. Listen to the words of two Indian Christians,
which were told to the Rev. W. Spendlove:
“I have had a hard life,” said one; “seen many deaths from
starvation—thirty one winter. I have seen much wickedness, too: have
known men to eat human flesh; kill the old folks by a blow with an axe;
pitch the new-born child in the snow to die. Yes, greedy men go to other
men’s wives; blows to women instead of words; children beaten like
pounding the drum. I heard the Good News; I took it in my heart, and kept
it there. I kept from all this evil, but I am an old sinner. My heart
has been black as your ink; God has made it feel like raw flesh. He took
away lots of my children. I rebelled; I called the Great Spirit hard
names. I said: ‘God is not wise; He must be unpitiful to want my children
when I need them so badly.’ Stop! I am a foolish Indian; my black heart
makes me talk that way. Those evil things are not done now. Who stopped
them? What shamed us Redmen of our black, dirty ways? I see it clear now.
God’s Spirit pricked holes in our hearts and minds. His Word has entered
and stopped the fire of sin. It cannot burn now.
“I have drunk animals’ blood, eaten raw flesh, and the bad, dirty insides
of all wild animals. Nothing can change that heart. But I tell you there
is another heart grown out of the old one; now I have two. The new one is
made by faith in the blood of Jesus. I take the holy bread and wine. I am
happy; my soul is free and clean. Now I cook my food, keep myself clean,
wear white men’s clothes, and pray daily to my Saviour. With these words
I shake hands with you big praying-men.”
And another is:
“I am a poor Red Indian wife, not supposed to speak first to white
people. I speak with my back turned, my head down, and a shawl over my
face. Why do this now? My heart is full—running over. I know who is my
Master; His name is sweet and strong in my ears. He now keeps my heart
steady with His words. I travel about the woods, and over mountains; I
carry heavy burdens, but my step is light, my heart is strong, the light
is white in my eyes now, because my sin-burden is laid on Jesus.”
To add to the misery of famine, there was always the horror of darkness;
for candles became very scarce, owing to lack or thinness of deer, from
which grease is obtained. Over and over again Mrs. Bompas laments the
want. And what a joy it was even to obtain a “bladder of grease”!
“How you would smile,” she once wrote, “to see my jealous care of every
particle of grease; how I save every small piece from my own candlestick
and keep it in a little box, so at the end of several days I have just
enough to place in a saucer, and with a piece of wick form my ‘wax
candle’ for dressing!”
These, then, are some of the hardships the missionaries have to undergo
in that far-off land, in order to carry the Gospel message to the natives
of the North. Much do they need our prayers and sympathy in their great
loneliness, that they may not faint, but carry forward the banner of the
Master.
CHAPTER XII
MID DRIFTING ICE
We have seen the Bishop travelling over the great Northern waterways in
trim canoes in the summer, and on snow-shoes over the white trails in the
winter. We will now watch him battling and struggling forward on a rude
raft mid surging, drifting ice.
In May, 1881, he began those marvellous trips which only a giant
constitution could have endured. From the Peace River district he made a
voyage far north to visit the Tukudh Indians. Here he was given a hearty
welcome, and rejoiced to find that the natives had begun to teach one
another to read from the books which had been printed for their benefit.
An Indian from the far-off Yukon came all the way to see him at this
place, and urged him to go again and visit his tribe. The Bishop was
standing by a smouldering camp-fire listening to the native pleading for
his people. Suddenly the Indian pointed downwards to the dying coals at
their feet. “That,” he said, “is how you have left us. You kindled the
fire of the Gospel among us, and left it untended to die out again. Why
have you done this?”
The Bishop was much moved. He longed to go to them, or to send someone
in his place, but his men were very few, and he himself was needed
farther south. So, after spending the summer among these noble Tukudhs,
travelling from May to August 2,500 miles, he returned to Great Slave
Lake to meet an incoming mission party from England. After that he
went up the turbulent Liard River from Fort Simpson to visit two forts
there—Liard and Nelson.
Winter was close upon him when he once again got back to Fort Simpson.
Mrs. Bompas was at Fort Norman, 200 miles away, and he must reach that
place as soon as possible, to relieve her of the responsibility of the
mission-work.
Arriving at Fort Simpson, he found the river full of floating ice, and
no canoe could navigate that cruel stream in such a condition. He was
urged to remain there where it was comfortable; it would be madness to go
forward. But no, that was not the Bishop’s way; he would go, no matter
how great the difficulties.
A raft was therefore hurriedly built. This was a poor affair—only a few
logs placed side by side, and several poles or boards across the top to
hold them together. Even the sturdy Vikings of olden days would have
shrunk from venturing forth on such a craft; but the Bishop was greater
than they. He had not only the courage of the Vikings, but the holy
enthusiasm of St. Paul, and these two virtues formed a combination which
could accomplish almost any undertaking.
With one Indian he started from Fort Simpson upon his shaky craft. With
long poles in their hands they steered their way down the stream. The
floating ice jammed around them, threatening to crush their tiny craft
and engulf them in a watery grave. At times they were standing in water
half-way to the knees, owing to the pressure of some heavy blocks of ice.
Then, as they handled their long poles, the water ran down their sleeves
and drenched their bodies. The cold wind whistled about them, and froze
the water upon their clothes till they were covered with an icy armour.
The mittens on their hands became wet, then stiff and frozen, while ice
formed on the poles, making them heavy and slippery. At night there was
the camp-fire upon the shore, the brief rest, and then up and on again,
for they must rush through before the river became solid from bank to
bank.
Thus every day they battled on, chilled to the bone, and ever in danger,
yet never giving up. But stern Winter knew no mercy. Colder and colder
it grew, until at last the icy bridge was formed, to remain during long,
dreary months. Then they were forced to abandon the raft, and fortunate
were they to find shelter at a place on the side of the stream, known as
La Violdete’s House. Here the Bishop remained for ten days, until the ice
in the river was strong enough to travel upon. At the end of that time
he and four Indians started on foot for Fort Norman. They hoped to reach
it in six days, and took just enough food to last them for that period.
One of the Indians, seeing the tracks of a bear, went off in pursuit, and
lost sight of the others entirely.
The Bishop and his three remaining companions pushed steadily forward.
But, alas! they missed the right trail, and by the time they should have
reached Fort Norman it was still six days’ journey off. When they at
length found out their mistake their food was very low, and they were
forced to place themselves on short allowance. Wearily they plodded
onward, beating their way through tangled bushes and tramping through the
snow. Their feet, too, became sore, for the rough ground, covered with
sharp stones and snags, tore their moccasins, and caused them to stumble
and sometimes to fall.
At length they ate their last scrap of food—a fish and one small
barley-cake between four starving men. Fort Norman was still two days’
hard travelling ahead, and they must make it, or perish there in the
wilderness. The Bishop was becoming very weak and footsore. His continual
travelling and hardships since May were telling upon him. How he longed
to stop, to just lie down under some tree, and rest, rest! But no, that
would be fatal! His flock needed him, and he must not give up. So with
firmly-compressed lips, and face drawn and haggard, he stumbled on,
trying to keep pace with his more sturdy companions.
But even the Bishop’s splendid will could not conquer his worn body. His
feet refused to move, and he sank exhausted upon the snow. “Leave me
here,” he said to the Indians; “I can go no farther. You push on and send
me back some food.” There was nothing else to do, for men in desperate
circumstances cannot stand upon ceremony. So, building a fire under one
of the trees, and spreading some fir boughs on the ground, the Indians
once again started forward.
And there in the lone wilderness the faithful Bishop was left, perhaps to
die. Suppose the Indians, too, should give out ere they reached the Fort!
What then? Or suppose prowling, hungry wolves should find him. Then, in
either case, another name would be added to the long list of noble men
and women who had given their lives for the Master’s sake.
Meanwhile, at Fort Norman, Mrs. Bompas was enduring an agony of suspense.
Where was the Bishop? Why was he so delayed? Had something terrible
happened to him? Besides this, there was the responsibility of the
mission-work, with the many demands of the ever imperative Indians. A
white woman of high culture, away in the great North, living in a rude
log-house, shut off from all communication with the outside world, and
her husband lost somewhere in the wilds!
The loneliness and dreariness of this place has been vividly described by
that earnest missionary, the Rev. W. Spendlove.
“We reside,” he said, “in the northern confines of British territory, on
the Arctic slopes of this continent, not far from the Arctic Circle and
Great Bear Lake, amid wild, mountainous scenery. Either the wild fury of
the storm rages or dead calm with intense cold prevails, interchanged
with bright sun, and cheerless ice and snow landscape for eight months
of the year. Ice-blocked and snow-bound, dark forest covers the banks
of the Mackenzie River, and beyond, a trackless desert of beautiful,
perfectly dry snow. Distance, 8,000 miles from England, upwards of 1,500
miles beyond the out-limit of Canadian frontier border of civilization,
and our nearest missionary brother fifteen days’ journey. Cut off from
white people, shut up among Red Indian savages! Oh, what vast solitudes!
What extreme loneliness! The effort to obtain sufficient food and fuel
for these regions is no easy task. Other conditions of life are most
disadvantageous. Nothing in nature to smile upon us for eight months. No
sight or sound of civilization. No European Christian to mingle with, or
fellow-worker to shake the hand, join in mutual sympathetic intercourse,
and say, ‘Go on, brother, I believe in you and your work.’”
If such conditions were so trying and terrible to a man, what must they
have been to a woman with a body by no means of the strongest, accustomed
for years to a life of comfort and the refined atmosphere of London
drawing-rooms? To make matters worse, “these Indians,” so Mrs. Bompas
tells us, “like all savage tribes, despise women. They call them among
themselves ‘the creatures,’ and will not submit to a woman’s sway.”
One night towards the middle of November, Mrs. Bompas was aroused from
sleep and much startled by loud knockings upon the door. Trembling, and
fearing for the Bishop, she demanded who was there. “We bring you tidings
of the Bishop,” came the reply. “He is starving.”
It did not take Mrs. Bompas long to spring from her bed, and examine
the two Indians as to the truth of their report. When she heard of her
husband’s pitiable condition her heart sank very low. At the same time
there came the thought and firm belief that the Arms which had shielded
him through so many dangers would befriend him still.
She well knew there was no time to lose, and her first effort was to
induce one of the men, Whu-tale by name, to take relief to the Bishop.
Though this Indian was not one of the starving party, he had learned the
story from the three who had straggled, half-starved, into the Fort, and
had hurried off with another to carry the tale to the mission-house. Mrs.
Bompas knew he could be trusted to go in search of the Bishop, and with
Indian sagacity would find the place.
“Whu-tale,” she said, “Bishop is starving in the woods. I send him meat.
Chiddi, chiddi!” (Quick, quick!). “You take it to him, eh?” But Whu-tale
did not like the idea of starting out at that time of the night on such
a long errand, and doubtfully he shook his head. “Maybe to-morrow,” he
replied, with true Indian passiveness.
“No, Whu-tale,” urged the anxious woman. “To-morrow the Bishop must be
here. He cannot stand until he has eaten meat. I want you to take it now,
and go to him like the wind. If you go directly and bring Bishop safe, I
will give you a fine flannel shirt.”
At this Whu-tale grew interested. Though the Bishop’s sufferings did not
appeal to him, the offer of the flannel shirt moved him, and a little
more briskly he remarked: “Then, it would not be hard for me to go, and
perhaps like the wind.”
Having accomplished this much, Mrs. Bompas had still stern work ahead.
Wrapped in a deer-skin robe, she emerged from the house, and climbed the
hill to the Fort, and aroused the Hudson’s Bay Company’s officer from a
sound sleep to obtain a supply of moose-meat. The thermometer was nearly
80 degrees below zero, and starving wolves had been recently seen lurking
near the fort. She thought of neither one nor the other, but only of her
husband, out alone in the night.
At last Whu-tale was ready, and much rejoiced was she to see him start
off on his errand of mercy. All the next day Mrs. Bompas waited and
watched in great suspense. The hours dragged slowly by. Daylight came and
went. Whu-tale had not returned. Darkness came, and just when Mrs. Bompas
was about to give up in despair, the travellers returned, the Bishop
hardly able to stand, and his beard fringed with icicles. The Lord had
indeed preserved him from the many and great dangers, and thankful hearts
offered up fervent prayers to Him that night in the little mission-house.
Here the Bishop stayed all the winter, and, notwithstanding his last
fearful experience, left again in the spring, among the drift-ice, for
the purpose of visiting Archdeacon McDonald at Peel River, whose health
was not good. Of the risk the Bishop ran in this journey down-stream with
the drifting ice the following description in his own words will give
some idea:
“The breaking-up of the ice in spring in the large rivers, like the
Mackenzie, is sometimes a fine sight. The ice may pile in masses along
the banks to the height of forty feet, or be carried far into the woods.
When any check occurs to this drifting of the broken ice, so as to back
the stream, the ice may suddenly rise to the height of fifty feet or more
and flood the country.
“The rivers and lakes freeze in winter to a depth of from six to ten
feet, and the force and impetus of large masses of ice of this thickness,
when hurled along the rapid current of a mighty river, are enormous. Few
exhibitions of the power of the great Creator are more imposing than when
‘He causeth His wind to blow and the waters flow.’”
CHAPTER XIII
INDIAN WAYS
I tried once to take a snapshot of a group of friendly Indians gathered
around a camp-fire. It was a picturesque scene—the rude brush lodge, the
dusky-faced Indians squatted on boughs and robes, the lean dogs lying
around, and the bright fire blazing up in the centre. What a fine picture
it would make! But, alas! when the negative was developed, how great the
disappointment! Instead of the bright blaze, there was a hideous blur,
almost blotting out the figures grouped around. The beauty of the scene
was gone; it could not be captured.
This is something like an attempt to describe the Indians of the
North. To visit them in their camps, watch their quaint ways, and talk
with them, is one thing; to paint them in words which will be real,
picturesque, and living is quite another matter. There is as much
difference as between the bright, sparkling blaze and the blur upon the
negative.
A few men have succeeded in a wonderful manner in describing the life of
the Indians, such as Longfellow in his “Hiawatha,” and Fenimore Cooper
in his “Leatherstocking Tales.” If Bishop Bompas had so wished, what
marvellous stories he could have told of his forty-one years among this
interesting people! He did describe some of their manners and customs in
two little books, “Northern Lights on the Bible,” and a “History of the
Diocese of Mackenzie River.” But he has told us all too little. In this
chapter it is, of course, impossible to tell all about the ways of the
Indians in the vast field over which he travelled, for that field of
work comprised 1,000,000 square miles; but we will suppose ourselves in a
very fast and successful flying-machine, which will take us from place to
place, and give us brief glimpses of these dusky children, scattered away
up North over countless leagues of forest, mountain, and plain.
Indians are ever on the move, and well have they been called “People of
the Wandering Foot.” They do not stay long in one place, and for this
reason their houses are made of skins of the deer or moose, stretched
over slender poles in the shape of beehives or haystacks. When they
wish to break up camp, they take the skins and leave the poles. In some
places, especially in the Yukon, to-day they live in log-houses, and have
regular villages in the fashion of white people.
To see a band of Indians breaking up camp is an interesting sight.
Everything is bustle and confusion. The women do most of the work, and
great is the chattering and scolding which goes on. The dogs lie around,
and even the smallest dog has its pack to carry of the household effects,
according to its strength. They have no furniture to move, for the ground
is bed, chair, and table combined. The women do not have to trouble about
their dishes and silverware, as a few tin cups and kettles are all they
have, and fingers take the place of forks.
“When the Indians shift camp, which they often do every week or two,
the men-folk start first, unencumbered but with their guns; and after
making a track for ten or twelve miles, they mark out a spot for the next
encampment, and then proceed on the chase till evening. The women, with
their families and dog-sleds, loaded with tent, bedding, and utensils,
trudge slowly after, and on arriving at the intended camp, after clearing
the snow, they strew the space with pine-branches and erect the tent.
After arranging this by disburdening the sleds of their loads, they
proceed to collect fuel for firing, and have all ready for a repast by
evening, when the husbands return, bearing the produce of their hunt. If
a large animal has been killed, the wives walk to the spot the next day
to carry home the meat and hide. The men, however, now more than formerly
take a share in the camp duties.”
[Illustration: AN INDIAN SUMMER CAMP AT PEEL RIVER.
_From a photograph by the Rev. C. E. Whittaker_]
The writer once, seeing a strange band of Indians thus getting ready to
depart, brought his camera to bear upon the interesting scene, but so
great was the indignation displayed by the Indians that he was glad to
beat a hasty retreat. They have a superstitious dread of the little black
box with the mysterious click, which accounted for their anger.
As white men go among the Indians, the old-time dress gradually
disappears, and instead the men wear fine, factory-made clothes, and
the women are gaily adorned in gaudy dress material and many-coloured
ribbons, of which they are very proud. They are exceedingly fond,
too, of perfume, and some will spend almost their last cent upon the
sweet-scented stuff. But, get the Indian away in the wild, his real home,
and there you will find him the most picturesque of beings. Clothed in a
suit made of fur, deer-skin, or dressed leather, with a skin blanket, and
with moccasins on his feet, you have the typical Indian of whom we love
to read.
“The women’s dress,” so Bishop Bompas tells us, “mostly consists of a
long leather coat trimmed with cloth or beads, and sometimes a cloth
hood for the head. The women’s faces were, till recently, often slightly
tattooed with dark lines on the chin, formed by drawing a thread loaded
with gunpowder or colouring-matter under the skin. The men were formerly
much addicted to painting their faces with vermilion, but this has fallen
into disuse among the tribes in contact with Europeans. The Eskimo young
men stripe their faces with vermilion as a distinguishing mark when they
have killed an enemy.”
In olden days the Indians wove baskets of roots close enough together to
hold water. This water was heated for cooking purposes by plunging into
it several hot stones. Meat was baked by being buried in the earth and a
fire made over it. Now the boiling is done in iron or copper kettles, and
the roasting on wooden spits or skewers before the fire.
Their food generally consists of meat and fish, but they are coming more
and more to use the delicacies of the white man. Tea and tobacco they
love, and the effects are often none too good. In times of famine they
will drink a large amount of tea, and then complain of “sore heart.”
“An idle Indian,” says Bishop Bompas, “may be more inclined to allay
the pangs of hunger with his pipe than to brave the cold of winter in
hastening to the chase. Many of the Indians complain of pains in the
chest, which may arise from their incautiously imbibing the caustic ashes
with which they often load their empty pipes in lighting these at their
fire embers.”
Before the arrival of Christianity the lot of the Indian woman was very
hard. A man multiplied his wives as one would his cattle. They were only
useful for hauling and chopping wood; they were slaves in the hardest
sense of the term. Often mothers, knowing what their little girl-babies
would have to suffer when they were grown up, destroyed them. One
woman confessed to the first missionary among them that she had killed
thirteen. But since the Gospel has reached them changes have taken place.
Although women yet have much of the work to do, they are treated far
better, and regarded with more affection.
“In Indian marriages it seems to be a part of the etiquette that the
bride should show great reluctance to be wedded, till she has at times to
be forcibly dragged from her camp. Her friends also may exhibit great
opposition to the intended match; and yet this is, in fact, only a part
of the ceremony. Among some Indians it is understood to be absolutely
forbidden to a mother-in-law to look her son-in-law in the face at least
until the birth of his first child. This does not seem to be enforced
among the more northern Indians, but a son-in-law is looked upon as a
sort of hunter for his wife’s parents. Their daughter does not leave her
parents’ camp, and even after marriage appears to be more under their
control than that of her husband.
“As soon as a child is born, its parents usually drop their own name and
assume that of the child; and this is continued a good deal even in the
case of baptized Indians; so that you may hear John’s father or Jane’s
mother so spoken of in preference to their own name. A wife, instead
of speaking of her husband, will prefer to speak of her boy’s father.
Polygamy was practised among the non-Christian Indians chiefly by the
chiefs and leading men, and with the excuse that more than one wife was
required by them to dress their furs and skins, and carry their meat and
effects, and do other camp duties.
“The infant Indians are, as is well known, enveloped in bags of moss,
which, in this severe climate, are admirable preservatives against cold
and exposure. In these bags the infant is tightly laced up, confining the
limbs, and leaving only the head exposed. This process of mummification
does not seem to weaken the limbs, nor to give discomfort to the patient.
The swing is the usual accompaniment of the moss-bag, where the swaddled
infant is lulled to rest. Slung over her shoulder, this moss-bag is the
constant burden of the mother’s travels.
“In sickness the Indians are very pitiful. They soon lose heart, and
seem to die more from despondency than disease. Their need is often not
so much medicine as good nourishment and nursing; but this is hard to
obtain. Food is often scarce even for those in health to seek it, and
for a sick Indian it may be hard to find a friend in need. The constant
removals are trying to the weak and infirm, and in times of distress
those who cannot follow the band are left behind to perish. Indians have
been known to devour their own children in cases of absolute starvation;
but such instances are rare, and may, perhaps, be attributed to a
temporary mania. Those who are believed to have perpetrated such an act
are feared and shunned.
“The dying are often hastily wrapped up and laid aside, even before the
last sigh has escaped, for there is a reluctance to handle the dead.
There is no fear of the resuscitation of the corpse, which is, for
the most part, stiffly frozen as soon as removed from the camp-fire.
Chocolate is a favourite beverage with the sick where it can be obtained,
and it is looked upon as a medicine. The Indians universally give it the
name of ‘ox-blood,’ because it was mistaken by them for the blood of the
musk-ox when first they saw it used by the whites. Rice, which is called
‘white barley,’ is another luxury coveted by the sick. Flour is known by
the Tukudh Indians as ‘ashes from the end of heaven.’ Tobacco is ‘warmth’
or ‘comfort,’ and the pipe the ‘comforting stone.’”
The aged are at times left on the trail to die. When they are too feeble
to keep up with the others, they are given some food, and generally a
rifle and cartridges. For a while they struggle on, but after a time
they give up the attempt and are heard of no more, unless a prospecter,
missionary, or mounted policeman happens along.
[Illustration: AN OLD INDIAN DESERTED BY HIS PEOPLE
This native was brought into Whitehorse by the Mounted Police. He had
been left by his people alone on the trail. This is not uncommon among
some of the natives in certain places.]
This has long been the custom among these Northern Indians, but only now
prevails where the influence of the Gospel has not been felt. During the
fall of 1771, when Samuel Hearne, the great explorer, was retreating
from the Arctic coast with a band of Indians, one of the wives of the
native men, in the last stages of consumption, could go no farther.
“For a band short of food to halt on the march meant death to all. The
Northern wilderness has its grim, unwritten law, inexorable and merciless
as death. For those who fall by the way there is no pity. A whole tribe
may not be exposed to death for the sake of one person. Giving the squaw
food and a tent, the Indians left her to meet her last enemy, whether
death came by starvation, or cold, or the wolf-pack. Again and again the
abandoned squaw came up with the marchers, weeping and begging their
pity, only to fall from weakness. But the wilderness has no pity; and so
they left her.”[2]
“The Indians were formerly accustomed, instead of burying their dead, to
place them on high scaffolds above ground; but this habit was probably
owing to the ground being for many months in the year frozen too hard
to dig it. The raising on scaffolds was also a safer preservative than
burying under ground from the ravages of animals of prey. Since mingling
with the whites, however, the Indians conform to European habits of
burial. It was also formerly a superstitious custom to place with the
deceased his bow, arrows, and other necessaries; and even in later times
a gun, ammunition, tobacco, fire-bag, and other articles, have been
buried in the grave of a dead Indian. Such a superstition it is hard to
eradicate; and perhaps it needs some care not to quench too roughly the
idea of a life continued after death, until the knowledge of a spiritual
immortality and a final resurrection can be instilled to supplant the
instinctive notion of a continued mundane life.
“The Indians had formerly much superstitious dread of using any clothing
or other articles belonging to a person deceased. In case of a death, all
the clothing and effects of the departed were thrown away or destroyed;
and even the relatives would destroy their tents, guns, and other
property, either out of grief, or from dread of using again anything
that the deceased had come in contact with. These inconvenient customs
are being gradually relinquished.”
Little white tents are placed over graves on high hills. In some places
the spots are well tended, and adorned with neat palings and quaint
coverings. Often flags are erected on long poles. In olden days, in
Southern Yukon, the Indians burned their dead, and placed the ashes in
boxes, over which they built rude structures. During the Klondyke rush,
in some places, these boxes were disturbed by the gold-seekers, which
angered the Indians exceedingly.
The natives live by the chase, and for this reason, if for no other, they
must be ever on the move to obtain a living. When game is plentiful the
Indians live well, and, having enough for to-day, seldom take thought
for the morrow. All kinds of game abound, from the lordly moose and the
savage grizzly bear to the timid rabbit and the jaunty ptarmigan.
To visit a fur-trader’s store and watch the various skins brought in
for barter is an interesting sight. You will see the skin of the lynx,
beaver, wolverine, bear, martin, ermine, wolf, and the different kinds of
fox, from the common red fox to the costly cross or black fox. For this
latter the Indians are ever on the watch, as it is worth very much. One
black fox is a fortune. The animal is quite rare, and when one is sighted
weeks and months are often spent in obtaining the prize. A few years ago
an Indian started after one which he had seen the day before. It was
drawing towards spring, when the tops of the foothills were losing their
covering of snow, owing to the hot rays of the sun. Noticing Mr. Reynard
on one of these bare places anxiously searching for mice, the Indian
dressed himself in a suit of white cotton, made for the occasion, and
crept cautiously to the edge of a bunch of trees near by. Then he began
to squeak like a mouse. Soon the fox pricked up his ears and trotted off
towards the woods, hoping for a nice morsel. As he drew near the Indian
levelled his rifle, and shot the poor brute right through the head. This
fox-skin was an excellent one, and the fur-trader who purchased it valued
it at from 2,000 to 3,000 dollars.
Many are the risks the native runs in his various wanderings after the
daily food. At times an angry moose threatens to impale him with his
great antlers, or a wounded bear hurls himself upon the hunter. A few
years ago an Indian, standing by his lodge, saw a huge bear coming
towards him. Slipping back, he seized a small rifle and fired a shot at
the brute. It was enough to anger the monster, and with a terrific roar
he rushed upon the man. The Indian fought hard, but he was as a child in
the fearful grip. His clothes and flesh were ripped and torn in a most
frightful manner, and but for the timely arrival of several Indians the
man would have been torn to pieces. As it was his life was despaired of,
and it was all the police doctor from Whitehorse could do to cure him.
When the bear had been killed the Indians cut him all to pieces, and
threw the portions to the four winds of heaven. This is an old custom,
and unless this be done it is believed the injured man cannot get well.
As he did recover, however, the credit was given to their prompt action
in scattering the bear’s body, and not to the skilful attention of the
“white man’s doctor.”
A sad incident happened about 100 miles back of Whitehorse. An Indian was
out hunting with his little boy, about twelve years old. One day, seeing
the fresh tracks of a moose, which circled around the camp, he told the
lad to remain in the lodge while he started in pursuit. As the hunter
crept stealthily along on his noiseless snow-shoes, he saw the bushes
move in front of him. Thinking it was the moose quietly browsing, he
fired right at the spot, and then rushed forward. What were his feelings
to find, instead of the lordly animal, his own little son lying bleeding
on the snow, dead. The poor boy, disobeying his father’s command, had
started off to do some hunting on his own account, and was thus struck by
the fatal bullet.
In many places the power of the wily medicine-man is still strong among
the Indians. This is especially so where the Gospel message has not taken
firm root. The natives still believe that the conjurer has influence over
things in the heavens above and the earth beneath, and to gain his favour
various are the gifts which are slipped into his hands. One of the most
interesting superstitions is called “fox medicine.” The Indian, wishing
to have success with his season’s hunting, before he departs will give
the medicine-man money or furs; he then thinks the foxes will be urged
to come to his traps. At Little Salmon, on the Yukon River, a fur-trader
suggested to the Indians that they should pay the conjurer after the
season’s hunt, according to the animals they had caught. This they did,
though the medicine-man did not like it at all, for he received very few
gifts from some of his people.
The same trader was once travelling with an Indian on a long trail. When
pitching camp for the night, a branch fell and struck the native a heavy
blow on the head. He imagined he was seriously injured, and sat for some
time over the fire in a most despondent attitude. At length he looked
intently into the trader’s face.
“You got ’um paper?” he remarked.
“Yes,” was the reply; and a leaf torn from a small note-book was handed
to him.
“You got ’um pencil?” was the next request. This, too, was given; and
then the Indian slowly and laboriously traced the figure of a cross upon
the leaf. When this had been accomplished to his satisfaction, he threw
it into the fire, at the same time blowing vigorously with his breath.
Watching the flames catch the paper and carry it aloft, he gave a sigh of
contentment, while a new expression came into his face.
“What did you do that for?” asked the trader, much interested in the
proceeding.
“Oh, medicine-man say when me leave on dis trip, if anything matter, me
make all same cross on paper, and put ’um in fire; him get word dat way,
and make me all same well Injun. Me better now;” and, suiting the action
to the word, he leaped to his feet as if nothing had happened. What
the cross had to do with it is hard to say. Perhaps it was some faint
glimmering of the power of the Cross of Christ which had come to the
medicine-man, and this he used to further his own plans.
In some places the conjurer is of a very jealous nature, and it is
dangerous for anyone to interfere with him. Mrs. Bompas, years ago, at
Fort Simpson, on the Mackenzie River, had a thrilling experience, which
might have proved quite fatal.
“On going down to the camp one evening,” so she tells us, “we were
attracted to one of the leather tents or lodges, where a low, droning
sound announced the medicine-man’s presence. ‘Do let us go and see it!’
exclaimed Maggie; and I, hardly reflecting on the prudence of the step,
turned toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded. It was in Mineha’s
tent, and here I discovered my little pet widow. Her hand had been
poisoned in some way, and she was suffering great pain. She was lying
down, with her hand extended, and beside her crouched a young Trout Lake
Indian, lately come in, a deserter from one of the portage boats. Fancy
the scene! The woman moaning, with closed eyes; the Indian bending over
her and singing a low, monotonous song, which is a kind of conjuring the
Indians call ‘making medicine.’ Beside her lay a small bark vessel with a
few spoonfuls of blood, which the young man drank from time to time, and
then proceeded with his operations. There was a deep silence in the camp,
except for these two sounds, when suddenly I appeared before them, and
exclaimed, partly in Indian, at the absurdity of their doings. I knelt
down by Mineha, and, taking her hand out of that of the man’s, began to
examine it. Then I pushed back my conjurer, which made his hat fall off,
and evidently distressed his sense of dignity.
“By this time all the women of the other camps came gathering round the
door. My hero persisted in his droning song, and I in my remonstrances
and assurance that it was all rubbish, and displeasing to God. When
at last the man gave over, he retired to the back of the tent, where
I suddenly became aware of his gun, which the Indians usually kept
loaded. For a moment I thought it was all up with me, and Maggie says
I exclaimed: ‘Do it, then!’ However, he contented himself with bending
towards me three times, with eyes almost on fire with passion, and
uttering each time a word which was anything but a blessing! Well, the
game was stopped, and so he quitted the tent. The man seemed fallen
back in a state of exhaustion, and was trembling all over. The fact is,
this medicine-making seems to be a kind of possession, which they give
themselves up to. His condition then was pitiable to behold. However,
there was nothing more to be done, as the feeling was so strong against
me that Mineha would not let me prescribe for her poor hand; so we came
away, rather thankful to escape safe and sound. I hear the poor woman
is still suffering agonies from her hand, in spite of her having had
medicine made over it again, during the whole of one night, by another
man!”
Several years ago Bishop Holmes gave an interesting description of the
medicine-man in the Diocese of Athabasca.
“Their faith in,” he says, “and fear of medicine-men was unshaken; their
love for heathen feasts and practices was as strong as ever. Nearly all
sickness, accidents, and misfortunes were attributed to the use of _muche
muskeke_ (bad medicine), directly or indirectly, by the medicine-men.
They supposed that the medicine-man obtained himself, or employed some
other to obtain, a hair from the head of his intended victim, and that
the hair was put into the bad medicine, and the effect was according
to the medicine-man’s intention. They believed that the antidote could
be obtained from the Indian doctor, but it meant a good round sum in
blankets, horses, tobacco, etc. They believed that their medicine-men had
direct intercourse with the _muche manito_ (evil spirit), through whose
assistance they were able to perform most wonderful feats. Insanity was
attributed to the direct possession of an evil spirit. An insane person
was called a _wetigo_ (cannibal). When any person—man or woman—manifested
symptoms of ‘wetigoism,’ the old Indian doctors were called in to
practise all their incantations and exorcise the evil spirit, which in
very few cases was successful. The first symptoms of cannibalism manifest
themselves in dreams and insomnia. The evil spirit is said to appear
in a vision with a plate of human flesh, about which there is an awful
and irresistible fascination. The _wetigo_ is strictly guarded by the
medicine-men, who, with the noise of their drums and rattles in order to
frighten the evil spirit away, would drive any sane man out of his mind.
The last and most dangerous stage is when the _wetigo_ has accepted from
the evil spirit the meal of human flesh, after which he is securely tied
with cords. He refuses any kind of food, and has an intense craving for
human flesh. In this stage they suppose that ice forms in the breast of
the _wetigo_, and they firmly believe that they have seen the _wetigo_
vomit ice. The last remedy applied is the axe. Within the nineteen years
I have been at Lesser Slave Lake three _wetigos_ have been killed with
axes, like animals, by their own friends.
“Another heathen custom was the cruel neglect of the aged and infirm.
Starvation was the means employed among the Indians of getting rid of
them.
“Such a description of the ‘noble red man,’ without a reference to his
good points, might lead people to think that there is a good deal of
truth in the saying that ‘the only good Indian is a dead Indian.’ But in
the character of all Indians there are three redeeming features. First,
their belief in the _Kesa Manito_ (the Great Spirit), and, I might add,
their strong belief in the personality of the Devil. Secondly, their
generous hospitality. They have all things in common, and would give any
traveller, be he Indian or white man, their last morsel, even if they had
no prospect of another meal themselves for the next week. Thirdly, their
passionate love for children. I could trust my children with them under
any circumstances, for I should know that so long as there was a meal
left the children would get the best of it.”
Indians, as a rule, are shrewder and more intelligent than many people
suppose. Someone has said that they are “instincts on legs,” but this is
wrong. They make splendid guides, and can find their way through a mazy
forest or a desolate wilderness when white men fail entirely. The early
explorers owed much to the Indians in guiding them on their long journeys.
They read the whites and understand their ways far better than many
suppose. As they sit about the camp-fires, the pale-faces are all
carefully discussed. Each man is known by some peculiarity. One is a fox,
wolf, or bear, according to some characteristic which the Indians have
noted.
They are humorists, too, and at times quick at repartee. A trader, Taylor
by name, made a visit some time ago to a band of Indians at Big Salmon.
He carried with him a dress which had been ordered for “Mrs. Charlie.”
Reaching the place, he inquired for the latter. Then the question was
which Charlie’s wife was meant. Was it Big Salmon Charlie, Little Salmon
Charlie, or some other Charlie? Much puzzled, the trader exclaimed, “Too
much Charlie!” Quick as a flash an Indian turned to him and replied:
“Taylor, heem keep road-house; Taylor, heem cut wood down trail; you
Taylor; too moche Taylor!”
Not long ago, when on a visit to England, Bishop Stringer spoke in a most
interesting way about these Indians.
“A few years ago,” he said, “those Indians were degraded, superstitious,
and ignorant, without any written language at all; but God’s Word was
given to them through Archdeacon McDonald, and the complete Bible was
translated, and there was found a people zealous to learn to read that
Word. It was the ABC of a written language to them, and it is the only
book, outside one or two others connected with our Church, and it remains
to-day the classic of all those Northern tribes on the Yukon side, as
well as the Mackenzie River. Archdeacon McDonald tells of men who in
those early days in three days learned sufficient to go off to their
Indian camps and acquire enough knowledge themselves unaided to read
God’s Word. We thank God that that was the case. He tells of men who came
long distances, some of them fifty years of age, and who learned to read
in those early days. There was one man he speaks of who came 600 miles in
order to learn to read God’s Word.
“I want to tell you of one man, a good friend of mine who has passed
away, an Indian who was ordained a deacon a few years ago, a blot out
of the superstitious darkness of that Northern land. I had the pleasure
of going with him from one camp to another across those barren forests,
sometimes on barren grounds and sometimes in the shelter of the forest.
From God’s Word he would teach his people, gathering them together, night
after night, holding little services, reading God’s Word, and explaining
it to them. After years of work amongst his people he passed away. As he
was crossing the Divide to the Yukon side to reach a distant tribe of
Indians, one man accompanied him—a young man named Amos—who had hitherto
been quite careless about religious matters. The name of the deacon
was the Rev. John Ttssietla. Ttssietla means, by the way, ‘He laughs at
a mosquito.’ There are mosquitoes in that country, and I suppose that
when he was a child he did not mind the mosquitoes, and he was called
‘He laughs at a mosquito.’ John was his Christian name. This time he was
starving. There was no food in the land; game was scarce; and he felt
that the last days were come for him unless he could get food. As he lay
dying out on the top of one of the mountains, he said to Amos, ‘Amos, I
am about to leave you, but I want to give you this Book—God’s Word—and I
want you to read it. I want you to teach it to my people.’ A few hours
afterwards he passed away, and Amos, who had been hitherto careless,
began to read that Word alone on the mountains as he lay to rest his
friend, John Ttssietla. Then he began to teach the children to read, and
then he began to teach others, and last year, when I saw him down in the
Yukon Valley, I found that he was so much advanced that I hope in a year
or two, after passing a few examinations, he will be able to take the
place of his friend, John Ttssietla, in the work.
“I have not time to tell you very much about that Northern land, but I
want to tell you this. As you go down the Mackenzie River from Edmonton
the two thousand odd miles to reach the Arctic Ocean, every two or three
hundred miles you find a place called a Hudson’s Bay Company’s post.
There is usually a mission in connection with it. You will find around
the old Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, if you watch closely, things like
stumps which have been cut off level with the ground almost. What does
that mean? They extend right round the fort. It means that forty-five
years ago the Hudson’s Bay Company people had to have a stockade all
round those posts to protect their lives and their property. Now they
have been cut down and used for firewood. What has caused that? The
light of the Gospel truth which has gone into that land. We thank God
for what has been done in connection with that, and for the influence of
God’s Word in that Northern region.
“The Bible is, as I have said, the standard book; and the language
into which the Bible has been translated—it had to be translated into
one particular dialect—is becoming the classic of many of the tribes
in that Northern land, the central language, used by the people more
and more. Other tribes learned to use it, and learned the meanings of
words which they do not use in their own dialect. There is a great
deal of difficulty, of course, in getting words when translating the
Bible into those Northern languages. The name for God even is not
known; and Archdeacon McDonald, I think very wisely, adopted one word,
‘Vittekwichanchyo,’ which means ‘I am.’ That word is now known all
through that land in connection with the great Creator of the universe.
“The last speaker has told you that there are numerous snakes in South
America. If we had a few snakes in that Northern land we should not be
forced to translate some passages that refer to snakes in a roundabout
way, calling a snake ‘a creeping thing,’ or something else of that kind.
The sentence, ‘Wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove,’ is translated
in one of the Eskimo languages—I think, in Greenland—by ‘Wise as an
ermine, a weasel’ (because that is the wisest in the country), ‘and as
harmless as a seal-pup.’ It seems amusing, but it is quite as expressive.
“As God’s Word is sent out to that country, the Bibles are sold to the
Indians. Nobody ever gets a Bible for nothing. The Indians are quite
willing to pay for them. They pay for them, not in money, as you do here,
but in kind. They sometimes bring in dried meat or fish, or something
else of that kind. I have a little piece of dried meat here, and I think
I had better show it to you as a part of the coin of that country. This
is a very small piece, but I may tell you that this is the kind of meat
which we like to use on our long trips. You can throw it around, and you
can do anything you like with it. That piece is five or six years old
now, and it has not changed at all, and it is quite as palatable as it
was five or six years ago. It is very convenient for travelling in that
country. An Indian will bring in a piece of that about a foot wide and
about two feet long, and he will trade it for an Indian New Testament,
and about four times as much as that for a Bible. That means a great
deal for this people. Sometimes they bring in a piece of deer-skin, or
something of that kind, and sometimes they bring in about ten big fish,
and the missionary is able to turn them into money and send it to the
Bible Society. In that way these people are taught to pay for the Word
of God, and, of course, they appreciate it all the more. The price of a
New Testament in the country is one skin. You cannot understand what that
means. Its market value corresponds to about 2_s._ A whole Bible is worth
three or four skins. These Indians sometimes receive a Bible in debt, and
go off to their hunting-grounds; but the very first thing they always do,
when they come in on the next trip, if they have anything, is to pay for
the Bible which they have received. And how reverently they will use the
Bible! They wrap it in deer-skin or something like that; and they bring
back all the old Bibles again. I have had piles of old dirty Bibles. They
revere them so much that they do not want to destroy them, and I have
had to destroy them quietly after the piles became too large. It shows
the reverence that they have for God’s Word. These Bibles are carried
with them, although they are heavy. Here is one. This is not one with
the thin kind of paper, and it is very heavy; and one can realize what
it means for an Indian having one of these books on a long journey where
every pound counts so much. But you will understand how he appreciates it
when I tell you that every family in that land which I have ever seen has
had some part of God’s Word in its camp, no matter where it went on its
journeys.”
* * * * *
We have seen in a previous chapter how when Mr. Bompas was consecrated
Bishop of the Diocese of Athabasca, he had charge of a vast region of
one million square miles. In 1883, finding the field too large, he had
it divided, the northern portion being called Mackenzie River, which the
Bishop took as his own. Here he carried on the work east and west of the
Rocky Mountains for several years. But finding the task too great for
one man—owing partly to the influx of miners along the Yukon River—he
again had a division made in 1890, the region west of the mountains thus
becoming the Diocese of Selkirk (now Yukon). Archdeacon Reeve became
Bishop of the Mackenzie River Diocese, while Bishop Bompas decided to go
into the regions beyond across the mountains.
CHAPTER XIV
STIRRING DAYS AT FORTY MILE
A grand picture rises before the mind as we think of Bishop Bompas far
away in the Northland, worn by years of toil, and yet pressing on to new
work. If I were an artist, I would sketch him standing at Fort Norman in
front of the rude mission-house. He is looking away to the west, towards
the Rocky Mountains, with his left hand to his ear, as if listening to
voices from the great Yukon River. In his right hand he clutches two
letters, one urging him to come to Manitoba to rest, the other pleading
with him to return to England to spend the rest of his life in peace.
Which call will he heed? That is the question, as we see him standing
there in the “Valley of Decision.” His own terse words give the answer,
which might well be placed below the picture. “I find,” he wrote, “the
needle points west rather than east, and north rather than south.”
Yes, that was always his idea, to be going farther to reclaim the sheep
of the wilderness. He shrank from the thought of going back to England.
He had been now twenty-five years in the North, and loved the wild.
“To life in England,” he wrote, “and to my relatives there, I feel so
long dead and buried that I cannot think a short visit home, as if from
the grave, would be of much use. If over fifteen years ago, when I was at
home, I felt like Samuel’s ghost, how should I feel now?”
Leaving Fort Norman, he went again across the Rocky Mountains, and spent
the winter of 1891-92 at the lonely rampart-house. He did not mind the
loneliness, for he spent the time at his beloved studies. In the spring,
when the snow had disappeared from the land, he would walk through the
woods drinking in the beautiful things of Nature.
“I find,” he said, “a few flowers even in this Arctic clime, such as
the pretty wild-rose, the lupin and bluebell. There are also berry
blossoms, and plenty of the white blossoms of what we call ‘marsh tea.’
These blossoms really make rather pleasant and aromatic tea. The leaves,
when used for the same purpose, are rather bitter. Raspberry-shoots,
birch-buds, and some other berry-trees are also at times used to make tea
in the absence of the genuine article, but they are rather medicinal. The
west side of the mountains is, on the whole, more flowery than the east
side.”
In the spring, after the ice had gone out, he went down the Porcupine
River to the Yukon. It was here he met Mrs. Bompas, who was returning
from England. They had not met since 1887, and Mrs. Bompas vividly
describes this meeting. After speaking about the trip up the river from
St. Michael’s, she mentions the great excitement which ensued on July 26,
when “two Indians came on board, bringing news of the Bishop, who is at
the next village, ‘Showman.’ But a delay took place owing to the boiler
being cleaned, and it was not until midnight that ‘two bells’ sounded, a
signal for the boat to stop. I pricked up my ears, and then another bell,
which meant, ‘Stop her.’ It must be for wood, of course; but I sprang
from my berth, and looked out of my small window to see a pretty Indian
camp, and—my husband on the beach, grey and weather-beaten, but in health
better than I had expected!”
From here they went up the river to Forty Mile, where there was a large
camp of miners and Indians. In the log-house, which had been built by
poor Ellington, the Bishop and his faithful wife took up their new burden
among complete strangers. Their special work was among the Indians, and
for the children a school was at once started. There was much to do about
the place—repairs of all kinds to be made, and the Bishop was kept very
busy.
From time to time we catch brief glimpses of the life in the
mission-house. Occasionally Mrs. Bompas lets in a little light, which is
most interesting. We see the Bishop turning from the cares of the diocese
to provide for some Indian child, or do necessary work around the house.
She tells how the Bishop “has been busy carpentering and devising a
number of things for our comfort—a beautiful cupboard to hold the girls’
clothes, shelves and brackets, new bench for dining-room, bedsteads
mended, a new door for our little dining-room, frames for double windows,
new dining-table, and old one repaired. This, with his self-imposed duty
of waiting upon everyone, superintending the kitchen, and doctoring any
sick members, has filled up his time the last few weeks. I feel thankful
when for a short time in the evening he retires to his study and takes up
his beloved Syriac.”
But, alas for “the beautiful cupboard and shelves” which the Bishop
had so carefully made! Boards were very scarce—not enough even to make
coffins in which to bury the dead, and the shelves had to be taken down
to make a coffin for an Indian who had been brought in from the distant
hunting-grounds. Mrs. Bompas, who relates this incident, tells most
pathetically of the trials they had in connection with burying the dead
on the Mackenzie River. The Indians would beg packing-boxes from the
Hudson’s Bay Company’s officers, and as these were generally too small,
arms and legs would often be seen hanging out of the box as it was
lowered into the grave.
Whenever the Indians arrived from their hunting-grounds, the Bishop was
kept busy almost night and day attending to their wants, and instructing
them in the faith, if only for a few days. This teaching was by no means
lost, for out on the hills and mountains the Indians had their daily
services, when appointed leaders would instruct the others.
Many were the wants the good Bishop relieved. He always kept a store of
medicine in the house, and became quite expert in his knowledge of Indian
troubles. To them he was doctor as well as teacher, and they always
turned to him in time of trouble. He was tireless even to the last in
his attendance upon sick persons. Sometimes he even performed surgical
operations. With nothing but a pocket-knife he has been known to sever a
diseased toe or thumb of some member of his dusky flock. Once he cut off
a man’s leg with a common hand-saw, and the man is living and able to
work to-day.
One spring, east of the mountains, he was public vaccinator. Smallpox
was raging, and the previous summer over two thousand Indians are said
to have died. The Bishop found at times much trouble in persuading the
natives to submit to the operation, but, in spite of difficulties, he
vaccinated about five hundred.
He had himself suffered from snow-blindness, and knew how painful it
was. When he saw many of his flock thus afflicted, his heart was moved,
and he did his best to relieve them. He had never studied at a medical
college, but his keen powers of observation and the study of some of
the standard medical books that he had always at hand stood him in good
stead on many an occasion. He had witnessed so often the sufferings
endured by his flock owing to snow-blindness in the spring that, when he
returned home for consecration, he took advantage of the visit to attend
several lectures at an eye hospital, and was henceforth able to treat
the patients who came to him with splendid success. Great was the faith
the Indians had in the Bishop’s healing powers. Only a few years ago an
Indian along the Yukon River, who had been treated by the police doctor
for some time, was heard to say, “P’lice doctor no good;” and then with
animation continued, “Ah! Beeshop heem moche good!”
So now at Forty Mile the Indians came to him with all kinds of troubles.
One day a young woman arrived with her hand in a pitiable condition,
and asked the Bishop to give medicine to make it well. She had had a
quarrel with one of her neighbours, words led to blows, and then a
rough-and-tumble fight ensued, and even hair-pulling. During the affair
the woman’s hand was badly bitten and lacerated by the sharp teeth of her
opponent.
On another occasion a woman was brought prostrate and disfigured from a
fight with her “man.” (They never say husband here.) She was bleeding
from mouth and ears, and must have received hard usage. We are not
permitted to know the cause of their troubles, but no doubt they happened
quite often, and the good missionary was quite accustomed to them.
But his patients were not all like these. There were other cases which
touched his heart most deeply. A little boy, named Andrew, was one day
brought into the mission-house with a broken leg. Carefully the Bishop
set it, and this gave the child much relief. He became quite contented
with his new home, and “sang and whistled in his bed so prettily,” Mrs.
Bompas tells us. It was difficult to keep the little fellow still, so the
Bishop slept in his room every night so as to be near. Then, when the boy
was well enough, the Bishop lifted him in his strong arms and carried
him out on the platform. Andrew’s face was radiant with joy, and how
beautiful a sight it was to see his noble protector gazing fondly down
upon him!
Not only did the women and children need his attention, but the men of
the flock as well. Though many were quiet, and gave little or no trouble,
there were always others of a turbulent nature. Of these the Bishop had
no fear. He never hesitated to speak the word of rebuke, or to interfere
in order to stop a fight.
One day two Indians became engaged in a serious fight close by the
mission. One, Roderick by name, was determined to kill the other, and was
making desperate thrusts with a long, sharp knife. The Bishop, observing
the encounter, made for the contestants, and taking Roderick by the
collar, quietly said, “Come.” But the Indian still fought and slashed
with his knife, the Bishop all the time retaining his hold, and saying,
“Come, come with me.” After much effort he succeeded in separating them,
and half leading, half dragging, drew Roderick to the mission-house. Then
the Indian, completely exhausted, sank upon a large stone near by. Ere
long he began to realize how he had been saved from committing murder,
and reaching out his hand, seized that of the Bishop to thank him for
what he had done.
As the miners continued to arrive, the Bishop became much worried over
the change that took place among his Indians, and sadly he wrote:
“Nothing could be of greater contrast than the squalid poverty and want
of all things in which the Indians here lived thirty years ago and the
lavish luxury and extravagance with which they now squander hundreds of
dollars on needless food and dress, if not in a still more questionable
manner. The Indians now place such high price on any meat or fuel, or
other things which they supply to the whites, such as leather or shoes,
that it is hard for your missionaries to live with economy among them,
and the worst of all is that the younger Indians are only too apt to
imitate the careless whites in irreligion and debauchery.”
Then the white men exerted a baneful influence upon his Indians,
demoralizing them through drink and in many other unlawful ways. He had
to contend with the same difficulties as other missionaries in like
circumstances. It was Hans Egede, the great apostle to Greenland, who,
in 1730, said that while able in perfect security to sleep in the tents
of the natives, he had to keep a watch and fire-arms by his bed as a
protection against his fellow-Christians. Bishop Bompas remarked, after
several years’ sad experience with the whites among his little flock,
that “the advent of white population strengthens the call for missions to
the natives. While they are in the minority in population, they are not
so in Church attendance. At Dawson, with a population of 4,000 or 5,000,
no weekday services can be maintained, while at Moosehide, Klondyke, with
only 500 inhabitants, frequently 50 attend daily evening prayers.”
In January, 1895, the Bishop gave a description of this Northern
settlement: “A town is laid down at Forty Mile, and they have two
doctors, library, reading-room, debating society, theatre, eating-houses,
and plenty of ‘saloons,’ as public-houses are called in the West, besides
two stores or shops, and a few tradesmen. One debate was as to which has
caused the most misery in the past century, war or whisky. It was decided
to give the enviable preference to whisky. This was truly appropriate in
a mining camp.”
Though the miners, for the most part, were a hard-working, well-meaning
class of men, there were a few who were bent on mischief and playing
practical jokes. Some of these latter, at times, proved more serious
than they anticipated, as it was in Ellington’s case. Observing the
venerable Bishop moving steadily about his daily work, with his thoughts
on higher things, they imagined it would be a fine idea to spring upon
him a practical joke. So one day a man with a very serious face came to
the mission-house and asked the Bishop to bury a certain miner who had
recently died. This the Bishop agreed to do at the appointed hour. When
the man had departed, Mr. Totty, who was at Forty Mile, remarked that it
was strange that they had not heard of the man’s illness. At this the
Bishop became suspicious, so, going to the white settlement, he asked
a store-keeper there when the man had died. “He is not dead,” was the
reply. “Some of the boys wanted to have a little fun and watch you read
the Burial Service over an empty box.”
Though, fortunately, the attempt upon the Bishop failed, this trick had
imposed upon Mr. Ellington some years before. He, in all sincerity, stood
by the open grave, and read most feelingly the beautiful Burial Service
from beginning to end, only to find out at last it was all a farce.
Notwithstanding certain jokes of this kind, the miners had the
profoundest respect for the Bishop and his devoted wife. Though many of
them were indifferent to all things spiritual, still, they could admire
nobleness when they beheld it, as they did every day in the two faithful
soldiers of the Cross in their midst. As a token of their esteem, on
Christmas Day, 1892, a splendid nugget of gold was presented to Mrs.
Bompas, with the following address, signed by fifty-three miners:
“It is proposed to make a Christmas present to Mrs. Bompas, the wife of
the Rev. Bishop Bompas (for which purpose a collection will be taken
up amongst those who are willing to contribute), and that the present
shall be in the form of a Forty Mile nugget, as most appropriate to the
occasion, as a mark of respect and esteem from the miners of Forty Mile,
irrespective of creeds or religions; and, further, that it be distinctly
understood to be a personal present to the first white lady who has
wintered amongst us.”
CHAPTER XV
FLOODED OUT
Several years ago it was my privilege to take service for Bishop Bompas
at Carcross during his absence at various stations down the river. I
slept in the mission-house, and that evening spent some very pleasant
hours looking over the Bishop’s library. As book after book was
examined, I noticed how many bore marks of hard usage—not only worn from
constant packing and repacking, but they were soiled by water. How had
it happened? I wondered. Had they been spilled from a canoe in one of
his long voyages, or had they been exposed to a drenching rain? These
thoughts came to my mind, but not the right one. Not until years later
did I learn the story of how these books became soiled.
It was at Forty Mile, in the lonely days before the words “Klondyke” and
“Yukon” thrilled the whole world, when the noble Bishop was caring for
his little flock at this far northern mission station. The winter had
been a long, trying one, and eagerly all were awaiting the coming of
spring, when the snow would melt from the land, the birds fill the air
with their music, and the ice in the great river would rush roaring down
to the sea.
Day after day they watched and waited. When would the ice go? The eager
little dusky faces of the mission children were often pressed against the
panes, waiting to catch the first glimpse of the movement. Occasionally
the Bishop rose from his rude desk, strode to the door, and stood looking
anxiously up-stream. He knew better than the little ones what the
going out of the ice might mean to them. They were on an island cut off
from the mainland by a small creek, or what is called in this country a
“slough.” He had heard stories from the Indians of bygone days when the
ice had jammed below and flooded the whole island, while huge blocks of
ice rushed along, sweeping down everything before them. At times they
became stranded, and remained there long after the waters had subsided,
grim witnesses of the terrible time.
Thus all day long they watched and waited. Towards evening a shout was
raised: “The ice is going! The ice is going!” and all rushed to see a
wonder which, once beheld, can never fade from the memory.
“It was,” to use Mrs. Bompas’s own words, “as if a commanding officer had
issued orders to march, and the whole regiment obeyed. The great mass
swept by in a frantic rush, completely beyond the power of the pen to
describe. Huge blocks of every shape and size, carried along at a rapid
speed, ground and tore one another, while many monsters were forced upon
the bank by the fearful pressure. Seven hundred miles of ice, five or six
feet thick, were crowded down that stream, at this place about 650 yards
wide.”
“Huge blocks,” says an eye-witness, “would get squeezed up by the
pressure of still larger ones coming down behind them. Then the block
in front would dart swiftly forward, like a greyhound slipped from the
leash, and the great, tearing mass behind would sink and disappear, to
come rolling up again half a mile farther down. On they went, tumbling
over one another in their haste and gladness to be free: down to the
bottom; up again into the air, grinding the sponge-ice to powder; blocked
up for a moment, then whirled on again, until they were themselves
pulverized, or hurled on to the bank, or reached a clear space where they
might for a few hundred yards float onward more peacefully.”
Having watched the grand sight for some time, and feeling the danger of a
flood was now over, the Bishop and his household retired to rest, after
commending themselves to the great Father’s keeping. But little were they
aware that down where the Forty Mile River flows into the Yukon a jam
was being formed; and the ice and water thus impeded began to rise and
overflow the banks. Unconscious of the danger, those in the mission-house
slept on. Presently they were awakened by the terrible sound of water
sweeping around them, and rushing through the house. The Bishop sprang
from his bed, lighted a candle, and moved downstairs. Here he found the
floor covered with water, which was steadily rising. Thinking not of
himself, nor of his books, but only of the helpless little ones upstairs,
he waded through the icy water, and seizing what provisions he could lay
his hands upon, carried them upstairs. He did not know how long they
might be kept there, and the children must not starve.
Rapidly the water rose, flooding all the furniture downstairs, the little
organ, and the books which were on the lower shelves.
There was now nothing else to do but to remain upstairs and see what
would happen. The children huddled around, trembling with fear, and
listening to the roaring outside, and the water rushing through the
house. The Bishop, strong and calm, tried to soothe their fears, speaking
words of kindness and comfort. He could trust when the little ones
feared, for had he not often been in the midst of so many great dangers?
and the Master had delivered him out of them all. No doubt he thought of
his peril upon the raft on the Mackenzie River amid drifting ice, his
danger among the Eskimo, and his many other wonderful escapes, of which
he seldom spoke. He would think, too, of the time his canoe was wrecked,
and he and his companions were saved as by a miracle, the details of
which he never told. Yes, after all these mercies in the past, he could
feel sure that the same One who had stilled the stormy winds and waves of
the far-off Galilean lake was able still to save.
Higher and higher rose the water. It crept up the stairs, inch by inch,
step by step. Oh, what a cold, cruel monster it was, reaching up its icy
fingers to clutch the little band above! How much higher would it come?
Would it reach the upper floor? If so, what then? Besides the water,
there was the danger of the floating ice. At any instant a huge block
might surge against the building and sweep it away like a toy house of
cards.
While the little band huddled there, anxious eyes were peering through
the darkness. A few members of the mounted police were pacing up and
down the shore, listening to the roaring flood, and thinking of those
in danger on the island. As the water steadily rose, they hesitated no
longer, but, launching their two stout canoes, started to the rescue.
Moving up the narrow creek or slough, which was somewhat protected from
the ice, they reached a position directly opposite the back of the
mission-house, several hundred yards away. But now their work began in
real earnest, for across that rushing flood, mid blocks of ice, and
through the darkness, it was necessary to guide their craft. It needed
courage and muscles of steel to accomplish the task, but when once these
sturdy guardians make up their mind to do a thing, there is no turning
back; whether it be fire, frost, or flood, they press straight forward.
So now, in the face of these difficulties, they moved on foot by foot,
sometimes feeling the keels grinding on a piece of floating ice, or again
being swept back by a whirling eddy. But advance they did, and at length
reached the house. It was impossible to gain admittance by the door; the
water was too high for that. They shouted, and from a window upstairs
came the Bishop’s glad response. Swinging the canoes to this side of the
house, they held them close; the children were all lowered one by one
out of the window, to be received by the strong arms below. Then came the
Bishop, the last to leave.
Swept onward with the current, they were all borne safely across the
waters and landed upon the mainland. Full of joy and gratitude was the
Bishop’s heart at the rescue which had been made.
When morning broke over the land the waters had subsided, and the river
was clear of ice. The mission-house was still standing, but all around
huge blocks of ice lay stranded, where they remained for many days. The
mission-house was in a lamentable condition. Everything was soaked, but
what did it signify so long as all were saved?
This was not the only time when a flood arose and drove out the
missionaries. In the spring of 1901, when the Rev. John Hawksley and
family were stationed here, a flood swept upon them, and they were
compelled to flee to the hills.
“For a time,” says Mr. Hawksley, “we were in some danger from large floes
of ice floating round the buildings, threatening us with destruction.
Owing to the pluck of one Mr. Royal, a white man, and Angus, a native
member of our Church, we were taken over the broken ice and landed safely
on the hills after five hours’ suspense, most of which time was spent in
an open boat, exposed to the biting wind blowing at the time. We had to
pass the night on the hills. We had neither food nor blankets, but the
Indians at once set about making us comfortable, two of them actually
venturing back to fetch a tent to shelter us, and the others willingly
sharing their blankets and food with us. You will be pleased to learn
that none of us were any the worse for our adventure. The church had four
feet of water in it, and the house somewhat less. Our losses were rather
heavy.”
CHAPTER XVI
HOW THE BISHOP GOT HIS MAIL
A number of years ago Rudyard Kipling wrote in a most interesting way
about the foot-service mail to the hills in India. He drew a picture of
the land where the robber lurks, the tiger stalks unseen, and lonely
“exiles are waiting for letters from home.” The hero in this story is a
humble carrier of the overland mail, with bags tucked in his waist-belt,
fording swollen rivers, climbing steep cliffs, facing tempests, stopping
at nothing, ever moving on:
“From level to upland—from upland to crest,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny chest.”
But had Kipling turned his attention from India to the cold, desolate
region of North America, along the great Mackenzie and Yukon Rivers, what
subjects he might have had for his facile pen and vivid imagination!
Here are regions, portions of which lie girdled by the Arctic Circle,
ice-locked from seven to eight long dreary months. More than this, huge,
almost impassable, mountains lift their hoary heads as great barriers.
These peaks, snow-capped and majestic, glow with unrivalled splendour
when touched by the rising or setting sun, as if bidding defiance to any
bold enough to intrude into their domain.
Cooped up in this desolate place were a few exiles, thousands of miles
from home or any town; their companions the wild beasts of the forests,
straggling bands of uncouth Indians, and the faithful dogs.
During the brief summer months the mail and supplies were taken into
the country by open boats or small steamers, which plied on those great
Northern waterways; but in winter all these routes were closed, and for
eight months nothing happened to break the monotony or the silence which
reigned supreme. No stranger appeared with tidings of the world beyond;
no newspaper or magazine beguiled the weary hours, and no letters from
loved ones cheered the loneliness of the great darkness. They were like
men buried alive.
Bishop Bompas faced all this for thirty-five years, and only at the close
of his life did he have a railroad at his door and mails two or three
times a week.
When he first entered the country in 1865 he found it somewhat hard to
wait for things to reach him from England. Seldom did he speak about this
hardship, and then only because he was thinking of his dusky flock.
“You can have little idea,” he once wrote, “of the way in which we count
here by years what you would count by days. You would say, ‘I will get
it to-morrow.’ We say, ‘It has not come this year; perhaps it will come
next.’ Or, ‘I must order such a book from home. If no mishap occur, in
three or four years I may hope to see it.’ A bit of white chalk would,
I think, have been of more use to me the last twelve months than fifty
sovereigns; and I have often thought I would barter everything I brought
out, except the Bible, for one or two Sunday-school primers.... But I
hope I can say I am learning, in whatever state I am, therewith to be
content, and to rely on the promise that ‘my God shall supply all your
needs according to His riches in glory by Jesus Christ.’”
When Mrs. Bompas first went to the Mackenzie River as a bride, she had
to wait eight long, dreary months without receiving one letter from her
friends at home. Great was her joy when one day the Bishop came from a
trip and poured the long-looked-for letters into her lap.
[Illustration: TAKING THE MAIL INTO DAWSON IN SPRING WHEN THE STAGE
CANNOT RUN
Weeks after the ice in the Yukon River has gone out, Lake Le Berge,
about twenty-five miles below Whitehorse, holds firm. It is, therefore,
necessary to transport freight and mail over the ice to the steamers
which are waiting at the foot of the lake.]
People in a settled country, even though they live miles from towns or
cities, can usually get many little things they need by mail for a few
cents, but up here in the North it is different.
“There is no use,” says Mrs. Bompas, “in fretting and exclaiming that
you cannot possibly go without soap or candles, or pins and needles;
that your stationery department is at its lowest; that your knives
and forks are reduced to one blunt scalping-knife and two or three
one-pronged forks. To nearly such predicaments as these we have ourselves
been reduced. One year our mission-house at Slave Lake lacked putty to
fasten in our small window-panes. We tried flour-paste and several other
experiments, but the flour froze, and we had to resort to pins, which
my Indian babies used to delight in pulling out. One year I had hardly
any soap. To confess the honest truth, I believe _that_ was the only
privation I ever wept over like a child. We might have made some soap
without difficulty, but, alas! one of the necessary ingredients in soap
is salt, and salt had not come among that fall’s supplies. One year,
again, I lacked hair-pins. The Bishop, who is endless in his resources,
undertook to manufacture me a few out of some wire for netting which was
in our mission-store. The articles turned out capital to all intents and
purposes, albeit somewhat blunt at the point, lacking a file to sharpen
them.”
The bringing in of the mails in the winter-time was a Herculean task.
Bishop Stringer, who spent so many years in the North, relates some
thrilling stories of the difficulty of the undertaking.
“Our mails,” he says, “used to come to us twice a year. The winter post
had to be brought from Edmonton, 2,200 miles to the south, by sledge and
dogs. The year before we came away there was deep snow on the road, and
the mail was so delayed that the mail-men’s provisions gave out, and
all their dogs died except one. The two Indians who were in charge of
the mail unfastened the bundles, and discarded all the small packets,
thinking the larger ones must be of more value. With this lighter load
they struggled on. They found a moose-skin frozen, and kept life together
by boiling pieces of it and eating them. They took two or three weeks
to travel the last 250 miles. They came in completely worn out. One
man harnessed himself to the sledge in front of the solitary remaining
dog, and the other pushed behind. They travelled three days like that.
One of them had taken his baby boy with him, but, in spite of their own
privations, the men contrived to keep the child plump and well.”
Much delighted were the missionaries to see the couriers, and eagerly
they seized the precious mail, but, alas! nearly all the letters had been
left far behind in the smaller packages, and all they brought were a
few advertisements. Sadly disappointed, they had to wait several months
longer until the next mail-man arrived.
As a rule, the letters were much soiled and worn from frequent handling
at the various posts, and at times Bishop Bompas complained of the
thinness of the envelopes, which was not conducive to secrecy.
An amusing incident happened on one occasion, when the courier was
hurrying forward with the mail. In some manner he broke through the
ice, and dogs, man, and letters were thoroughly soaked. It was a cold
day, so, heading for the shore, the Indian made a good fire, dried his
clothes, and then gazed sadly upon the wet letters. At length a thought
occurred to him, and taking the soiled epistles out of the envelopes, he
stacked them around the fire, near enough to dry, but not to burn. When
this was completed to his satisfaction, he began to replace them. But,
alas! though well-versed in woodland lore, he had never acquired the
gentle art of reading, so that the letters went back helter-skelter.
Into envelopes addressed to the Bishop went important missives meant only
for the Company’s officers, or the tender sighings of some fair maiden
for a Northern lover, while the Bishop’s letters were disposed of in a
similar manner. Thinking he had accomplished a very clever feat, the
courier pushed on his way, and, reaching the Fort, was much astonished at
the exclamations and excitement of all. Not until the whole matter was
explained by the puzzled courier was its humorous side seen, and then a
good laugh ensued.
When Bishop Bompas crossed the mountains and lived along the Yukon River,
for a number of years, in winter he was more than ever cut off from the
outside world. There were no regular mail-carriers, and from the time
the river closed early in the fall until it opened late in the spring he
could not expect to receive one letter. So intolerable did such a life
become, that at last efforts were made to obtain one mail at least during
the winter.
The man who made this trip was an Indian of the great Thlinkit tribe, of
more than ordinary grit, endurance, and muscle. He was well known as a
famous traveller and courier, having made several wonderful trips through
the Cassiar country carrying mail and gold-dust. To him, therefore, was
entrusted the responsibility of conveying the mail to the waiting exiles
along the Yukon River. For the trip he was to receive $700, and a tax of
$1 on each letter, to be collected when delivered to the owner, these
missives being from five hundred to seven hundred in number.
Starting from Juneau (now the capital of Alaska) by canoe, with two
Indian youths, a dog-team, and supplies, Jackson reached the mouth of
the Stickeen River. Up this stream he paddled to the head of canoe
navigation, then through a dense forest for seventy-five miles to Atlin
Lake. Out upon this lake they moved, and were making good time, when a
storm, swift and sudden as the rush of doom, swept down upon them, snow
and hail, mingled with the on-rushing wind, blotting out everything from
view. The cold was intense, unbearable. The dogs added their pitiful
cries to the howling storm. The leader—noble animal that he was—bravely
faced the tempest, but the wheel-dog refused to move; he held back,
crouched, and then dropped in the snow. The keen, stinging lash had no
effect upon the fallen brute. Whipping out his knife, Jackson severed the
traces, pushed him aside, and pressed on with the remaining dogs. Not far
had they gone before another refused to work, and dropped in his tracks.
He too was abandoned to share the fate of his companion. With the team
thus reduced it was impossible to take forward the load of provisions,
which were therefore stacked on the ice, and a stick erected to mark the
spot. With little left to hinder their progress they sped on, and after
a terrible struggle reached some friendly trees. Without the storm raged
with fierce violence, covering the land and their scanty provisions upon
the lake deep with snow. The next day the tempest abated, and once more
Jackson and his companions continued their long journey.
Only one who has travelled in the winter along the Yukon River can
realize what it means. The ice does not form smooth and level, as in many
streams. It freezes at the bottom, and this, rising to the surface, fills
the river with a floating mass of crushing, surging blocks of ice. As
the current is swift and strong, this body moves along for miles, until
a sharp bend on one side and a projecting point on the other combine to
form a narrow channel, where the ice jams. The on-rushing mass, driven
against this, piles up in wild confusion, huge cakes at times being
lifted ten to fifteen feet, and held as in a mighty vice. For miles in
places the river is thus packed, and as far as the eye can view nothing
is to be seen but a grim, icy field wedged between steep banks, lined
with dense, scrubby trees.
[Illustration: PACK-HORSE SUPPLIES IN 1898
As the only way of travelling over the mountains was a trail, horses were
loaded with provisions, etc. These are called “packs,” and it is only a
skilled hand which can bind the load on the animal’s back, and tie what
is known as the “diamond hitch.” Pack-horses are still used in the Yukon,
where the trails are unfit for carts or waggons.]
Over this the traveller has to make his devious way. There is no other
course, and as the dogs creep on, many are the yells of agony which split
the stinging air. The sled becomes wedged, and the poor brutes strain in
vain to free the load. Or at times it topples upon them, burying their
bruised bodies in the snow. To add to the misery of cold and the cruel
lash, their feet become raw from the sharp ice, and drops of blood mark
every foot of the trail.
Such was the ordeal that Jackson and his dogs had to undergo at frequent
intervals in their long 800 miles from Atlin to Circle City. Day after
day they pressed on, down through the Golden Horn, across Marsh Lake,
by the dreaded Whitehorse Canyon and rapids, over the desolate and
wind-swept Lake La Berge, and along the Thirty Mile River, avoiding with
extreme caution the river’s fearful breathing-places, the watery grave of
many a poor musher.
To add to their difficulties, food at length ran low, and when thirty
miles from Fort Selkirk, only a handful of flour remained. With nothing
for the dogs, and only a mouthful for the Indians, and wearied to the
point of exhaustion, they reached the settlement. Here provisions were
obtained, and when a rest had been made, they pushed forward. After a
further hard struggle, with the thermometer from 50 to 60 degrees below
zero, their destination was reached and the mail delivered. Precious were
these letters to the lonely exiles, but how great had been the suffering
of Jackson and his little party in their long, terrible journey!
After a time, when thousands of people were flocking into the country,
a better winter mail service was established. This was by means of the
famous Mounted Police, of whom we shall hear more in another chapter.
From the White Pass Summit to Dawson, a distance of over five hundred
miles, men were stationed at twenty different posts. To them, therefore,
the post-offices and the carrying of the mail were entrusted. From point
to point the bags were carried by teams of strong, well-fed dogs, drawing
500 to 700 pounds of precious letters. They travelled almost with the
speed of fleet horses, at times day and night, accompanied generally by
two men.
Such trips, however, were not made without the spice of excitement. Many
are the stories told of those stirring days: the rivalry of dog-teams,
the betting, and the more serious incidents from the dangers of the
ever-uncertain river, which was always a menace to the traveller. No one
could tell when the ice beneath his feet would give way and engulf him in
a watery grave below.
A corporal and a dog-driver were hurrying the mail forward on the last
day of November, 1898. Splendid progress was made until eight miles from
the mouth of the Hootalinqua River. Suddenly the ice began to move,
breaking up at the same time into large and small blocks. Unable to gain
the shore, men and dogs were swept down the river. It was a serious
situation, with the vast field of ice heaving and grinding, bearing them
on to apparent destruction. Fortunately the block which was bearing them
surged for an instant near the shore, and passed beneath an overhanging
tree. With cat-like agility they sprang and caught a large limb, and thus
drew themselves up to a place of safety. Though every effort was made,
it was impossible to save the mail, and it was swept down the stream,
carrying, no doubt, the Bishop’s long-looked-for letters.
But steadily the mail service improved. This was due to the building
of the White Pass Railroad from Skagway to Whitehorse, a distance of
110 miles. From this latter place the mail was taken down-river by
steamers. But when the Yukon was locked in its winter sleep, much of
the old difficulty remained. To overcome this the famous stage-road
was constructed—320 miles—from Whitehorse to Dawson. For the service
splendidly equipped sleighs were provided, capable of holding passengers
as well. These, drawn by six, and at times eight, fleet horses, made the
journey in a few days in all kinds of weather.
Though this road winds its long way through a dreary wilderness, the
natural abode of highwaymen and robbers, yet never once has there been
a hold-up, or the mails intercepted. This is due in a large measure to
the magnificent service of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, who are
stationed at regular intervals along the trail during the winter months.
Ever alert, they strike terror into the hearts of desperadoes, who turn
to other fields.
The principal trouble with this service is in the opening and closing of
the river during spring and fall. When the stage cannot travel, and the
ice is floating in the river, the mail is run down by canoes, which are
hauled over any solid ice by dog-sleds.
The outbound couriers have the hardest time of all at such seasons.
During November, 1901, three men, with three teams of dogs each, left
Dawson for Whitehorse with about two thousand pounds of first-class mail.
The ice was running in the river, though solid in places along the shore.
At times they were wading to their waists in the ice-cold water, with the
thermometer degrees below zero, or creeping on hands and knees along some
slippery, shelving edge, when at any instant there was danger of being
hurled into the surging mass in the dark water below. In places even this
precarious trail was denied them, and they were compelled to force their
way through dense thickets of bushes and over tangled masses of dead
timber. The cold was intense, and fearful were their sufferings. Thus
for days these picked men of the Royal Mail Service fought their way up
that crooked river against almost insurmountable difficulties, but win
out they did, and at length reached Whitehorse, and delivered the mail in
perfect condition.
Little did people in city, town, or country realize, when they received
letters from friends in the far North, what a sacrifice had been made for
their sake by these stout-hearted heroes in the simple path of duty.
During the time the police carried the mail, there was always the period
in the spring, when the ice was bad, that the people at Dawson and other
places received no letters. Then, when the river did open, and the first
steamer arrived, with tons of all kinds of mail, great was the rush and
excitement. The police at Dawson had charge of the post-office, and they
had only a small building in which to serve those thousands of people
who were anxious to receive their letters. They did the best they could,
however, under the circumstances. People stood in a long black line
waiting their turn. Some of these would stand there all day and all
night, waiting for the precious letters. Men have even been known to
take their blankets, roll themselves up in these, and sleep right by the
door to be ready when the office opened the next day. Women were always
served first, and some of these did a thriving business, as men would pay
them so much to obtain their letters for them. Since then a great change
has taken place, and now at Dawson there is a fine post-office, with a
competent staff of workers to serve the people.
Thus an outline has been given of the way Bishop Bompas received his mail
as he wore out thirty-five years of his noble life there in the vast
wilderness.
CHAPTER XVII
THE GOLDEN KLONDYKE
Seldom did any man have such an excited throng thrust upon him in so
short a time as did Bishop Bompas. While he was steadily and quietly
carrying on his Master’s work at Forty Mile, a stir which was to thrill
the whole world was taking place in a certain portion of his diocese.
Gold had been discovered by a white man, George Carmack, and his Indian
companions. It was on a little creek, a branch of the Klondyke, that the
precious metal was found. When word reached the outside world, months
later, a wild stampede took place. Merchants gave up their business,
clerks left their desks, farmers their ploughs, blacksmiths their anvils,
and rushed northwards to make their fortunes.
They knew nothing of the difficulties they would have to face, and many,
becoming discouraged, soon turned back; others of a more determined
character pushed forward. They climbed the rugged Chilcoot and White
Pass summits, facing terrible obstacles. Cities of tents sprang into
existence on the shores of Lake Bennett and other places, where men and
women watched for the Yukon River to open. Some moved down over the ice,
and many were the strange scenes to be noticed—a team of goats hauling a
sled, or a woman driving a young heifer, which pulled her load! In the
spring thousands of rude craft followed the ice down the river. All along
the Yukon to-day may be seen little mounds, some with rude crosses over
them, which tell their own sad tales of poor fellows who perished in the
waters far away from their homes. Boats were dashed to pieces, or, cut
in two, were left stranded in some desolate place. The full story of
the rush will never be told, but the little that is known fills us with
wonder at what these people endured for the golden treasure.
They poured into the Klondyke, and here, where this little stream joins
the Yukon, they built the city of Dawson. Some distance back were the
rich creeks, and here the surging, excited gold-seekers dug with feverish
haste into the yielding gravel. Many had more money than they knew what
to do with. Men staked their claims, and worked them with windlass and
buckets. Numerous are the marvellous stories told of those stirring days.
One man, who had been a bar-tender at Forty Mile, inquired how far it
was to the main creek, where he wished to stake a claim. When told the
distance, he was too lazy to go on, and staked in a little tributary
creek, known as a “pup.” As a result of his laziness, in the spring he
carried with him out of the country $132,000 in gold-dust, which he had
taken out of his “pup” stake. And this, remember, represented only a
fraction of what the claim was worth.
One man was in the habit of washing out some of his gravel every night,
and used to fill his gold-pan from his dump, and take it into his shack
for the purpose. He soon found that he was obtaining $70 to the pan,
and the amount was steadily increasing. This regular increase, and the
man’s excitement over his evening’s work, soon became so well known that
many of his neighbours met at his place every night, and watched the
proceedings with interest, and, at times, with envy. The fortunate digger
was always very jubilant, especially when the amount reached $120 to the
pan—and a panful is only a very small fraction of the day’s dump.
[Illustration: GOAT-TEAM WITH SLED ON THE TRAIL, 1898
All kinds of teams were used on the trail in the days of the great
rush to the Klondyke. Anything that would draw a pound was forced into
service, even goats and heifers.]
One night the neighbours trooped in as usual, but instead of seeing him
bright as of old, found him sitting down with a very long face. For a
time he would only shake his head when asked what was wrong, and look
wistfully at the pan. Finally he told his tale, and in a deep, melancholy
voice exclaimed: “I’m off the pay-streak, boys; I only got $57 (£11 4s.)
to the pan to-day.”
He was really still in the heart of a very rich pay-streak, but he was so
accustomed to large results that when a falling-off appeared, he became
discouraged, and imagined his claim was exhausted. And yet that same man,
a few months before, would have looked upon $57 to the pan as something
wonderful.
Amusing, too, are some of the stories told; and the following, if not
strictly true, may serve to show that, even in the midst of the wild
scramble, the humorous side was not forgotten.
One man, so it is related, possessed a very long pair of whiskers. He had
been working hard in his drift all the winter, and during that time had
neither washed nor shaved. In the spring he cut off his whiskers, washed
them out in his gold-pan, and obtained $27 as the result.
There was gold everywhere; it was little thought of. It was stored
away in anything that happened to be convenient. Gum boots, filled
with precious nuggets, were thrown carelessly aside. Cabins were never
locked, and there was strong feeling among the miners in reference to the
stealing of gold. A sneak thief or a sluice-box robber was considered the
most contemptible of beings, and was hounded out of the place.
But though gold was plentiful, it was not everything. Just think of men
staring at their millions and having little or nothing to eat! Prices
were very high, and on several occasions provisions ran short. Eggs sold
for $1 apiece, and common candles brought fabulous prices. A man who had
brought in some potatoes on a venture sold the 200 pounds for $150 out
on one of the creeks. At Bennett, where goods were packed on mules to be
carried over the summit, horseshoe nails one day ran out. One man had
a small supply. A rush accordingly took place for the coveted article,
and the fortunate owner easily sold his nails for $1 each (_i.e._, 4s.).
In fact, a volume could be written of the tales told—some true, some
untrue—of the prices paid for the most common things. We shall, however,
mention but one more, which has its humorous side as well.
A man who had recently arrived wished to do some mending. Making his way
to the nearest store, he asked for a needle. “It will be fifty cents,
please,” remarked the store-keeper, as he delivered the article. “Fifty
cents for a needle!” exclaimed the customer in astonishment. “Are you not
mistaken?” “Oh no!” blandly replied the dealer. “You see, the freight is
so high we have to charge big prices.”
Imagine freight being high on a needle, when a whole package could come
by mail for two cents! And yet this is the cry in the Yukon to-day.
Prices, though nothing compared to what they were in the early days,
in many cases are exorbitant, and the excuse is as of old—the cost of
bringing things into the country.
Formerly nearly everything was paid for in gold. Nuggets and gold-dust
were used instead of coins. It is said that a certain public-house was
torn down lately in Dawson, and when the floor was taken up the earth
beneath was panned out, and gold-dust and nuggets to the value of $3,000
were obtained. To-day it is different, and the ordinary money is used. In
Dawson twenty-five cents is the smallest coin in use, and in Whitehorse
the five-cent piece, though you have to put several of them together if
you wish to purchase anything.
It takes one some time to get accustomed to the various terms used in the
Yukon. A twenty-five-cent piece is called “two bits”; fifty-cent piece,
“four bits”; and seventy-five cents, “six bits.” They are so commonly
used that it is hard after a time to say anything else. A person who
first enters the country is called a “cheechacho.” After living in the
land for two or three years, or having seen the Yukon River close and
open, one is dubbed a “sourdough.” This name is taken from the lump of
sour dough a prospector or miner carries with him to start his bread.
Travelling with dogs, the ordinary words used are “Mush on!” and “Hike
on!” “Hit” is another common term. Instead of saying, “He started on the
trail,” it is always, “He hit the trail.” The word is used in another
way. Several years ago, when Whitehorse was in its infancy, a number of
gambling men came to church. When the plate was passed around, one of the
men gave the collector a ten-dollar bill.
“Take the change out of that,” he said.
“How much?” asked the collector.
“Oh, hit me for five,” was the reply.
He was accordingly handed back five dollars, for it was well understood
what he meant.
The guard-room is commonly known as the “skookum house.” “Skookum” is
an Indian coast word meaning “strong.” An insane asylum is known as
the “bug-house”; and a person who is crazy is said to be “bugs,” or
“bug-house.” How these terms came to be used is rather a mystery. “Up
against it” is applied to one who has had bad luck. “A wad of dough” is
simply the money a man has made, and has nothing to do with pastry. These
and many more are common expressions in the Yukon, and it is marvellous
how soon one gets accustomed to them.
Through all this excitement Bishop Bompas was living quietly at Forty
Mile. He watched the living stream of eager gold-seekers hurrying by
through the summer and winter. Many were the wants he supplied, and the
weary men he assisted with food and clothing. But the gold fever did not
possess him. Sometimes we hear about the greediness of missionaries, and
that it is money they are after. But here in the North, at a time when
millions were to be made, the missionaries stood aside. They joined in no
stampede, and they staked no claims. They were there to carry the Gospel
message, and not to dig for gold. It is most interesting to read the
Bishop’s letters to his brother George in England at this time, and a few
extracts will give a vivid picture of what was going on:
“BUXTON MISSION, UPPER YUKON RIVER,
“_April 15, 1897_.
“I think I will put on paper for you a few notes about the
sudden change that is taking place in the course of a striking
Providence in this region. From being a poor, desolate, and
neglected country, it is suddenly becoming a rich and populous
one. This is the effect of the new and very valuable gold-mines
discovered last year about fifty miles south of us, at a place
now called Klondyke and Dawson City. These new mines are said
to be as rich as any yet known for their size, which is at
present very limited. Only about 100 claims are yet found that
are very profitable....
“At the new mines last autumn any claim could be bought for a
few hundred dollars. Now we hear that some have already changed
hands for $50,000, and some are estimated to be worth $500,000.
The owners of the richest claims are said to be leaving the
country in spring, having already as much gold as they can
carry, and being as rich as they care to be; and they will sell
their claims at a high price to others.
“The miners of Circle City, about 300 miles below us, have been
coming up all winter, hauling their sleds of provisions, to the
number of about 500, till the Yukon has become like a thronged
thoroughfare. They have paid, I think, as much as $250 for an
Indian dog to help haul their sleds.
“Flour and meal have both been selling during the winter at
from $½ to $1 per pound; and the Indians here loan out their
dogs at $1 per day. The Indians, too, get somewhat rich, but,
of course, they squander their money.
“The temperature has been most singular. The winter set in very
early, being severe in October, and partly so in November.
Then three months, December, January, and February, were so
mild that it was not like winter at all. This seems quite a
providential favour to the numerous travellers.
“For myself, during the past winter I have enjoyed more ease
and leisure than usual, from having more helpers around me, and
I have devoted my days to digging the mines of God’s holy Word,
and have found, in my own estimation, richer prizes than the
nuggets of Klondyke.”
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN LURE: A SEVEN THOUSAND CLEAN-UP ON LIVINGSTONE
CREEK DURING THE SUMMER OF 1906. THE LARGE NUGGET IN THE PAN IS WORTH
$470, OR NEARLY £100
A miner’s gold-pan, containing $7,000 of the precious metal. The large
nugget is worth $470, or nearly £100. This amount of gold was obtained
from a “clean-up” on Livingstone Creek in the summer of 1906. The mining
had been done during winter and spring, and when the water came the whole
was washed out.
_Photograph by E. F. Harnacher._]
_May 28, 1897._—“I hear now that the creeks are so winding as
to make the gold streak extend 200 or 300 miles. I am told
£4,000 was washed from the earth of one claim in one day.
Another bought a claim for £10,000, and paid it all off out
of the ground in two or three months. The richest claims are
thought to be worth £100,000 or £200,000. (A claim is 600
feet of the creek, which each miner is allowed to pick for
himself at the start.) ... From $1 to $2 per pan is reported
to be a common rate there. This is something like taking your
washing-basin, filling it with earth from your garden, and
then, after washing away the earth with a little water, finding
a silver crown or half a sovereign at the bottom. I suppose,
in such a case, you might go again, and so do the miners. They
next proceed to work with sluice-boxes, which is only a similar
process on a larger scale. The earth is thrown into wooden
boxes or troughs with a corrugated or uneven bottom, so as to
retain the gold when the earth is washed out.
“An Irishman who was here yesterday is said to do his work
so badly that his wife used to make from $4 to $20 a day by
picking up his leavings. She is now gone on a visit home with
her earnings.”
During this mad rush the Bishop was not idle. He was planning how the
Church might be brought to these miners. He himself was not accustomed
to work among white people, and did not feel equal to the task. But
there was a man upon whom he could depend at this critical time. This
was the Rev. R. J. Bowen, who had recently arrived from England. To him,
therefore, the Bishop stated his plans, and as soon as possible Mr. Bowen
started up the river to plant the standard of Christ in that excited
camp of gold-seekers. It must have seemed a forlorn hope to the young
missionary as he drew near the new town. Almost two years before he had
visited that place, and on the very site where his camp had then been
pitched large buildings were now erected, and a hurrying crowd thronged
the streets. The great cry was gold; for that the people had come, and
not for religion. Yet among them Mr. Bowen began to work, and through his
earnestness won the hearts of the miners, and induced many of them to
attend service.
These men were not miners in the ordinary sense of the word. Many
had never handled a pick or shovel, but had been reared in ease in
comfortable homes, sons of noble families, who had joined the mad rush to
win a fortune in a short time. Such men were not slow to see the efforts
the mother-Church was making for their spiritual welfare in the great
Northland. They saw the earnest missionary valiantly standing in their
midst, pleading the Master’s cause. Their hearts were touched, and around
him they rallied.
A log church was at first built, and called “St. Paul’s.” When Dawson
grew to be a large city, this was replaced by a new frame church which
cost $14,000. It is now used by Bishop Stringer as the cathedral of his
diocese.
[Illustration: PROSPECTORS AND MINERS ON THE TRAIL
Horses and dogs are expensive in the North, so when prospectors wish to
take provisions over the trails they must do much of the work themselves.
It is no uncommon sight to see men harnessed up wearily drawing their
load day after day. At times a sail is hoisted to catch any favourable
breeze. This is of much service on crossing an inland lake, or a low,
flat region.]
When the Church work was well under way at Dawson, the Bishop for a
while relieved Mr. Bowen, who returned to Forty Mile, and was united in
marriage to Miss Mellet, who had been labouring in the diocese for some
time as schoolmistress. At Dawson the Bishop was out of his element. So
long had he laboured among the Indians that work among the whites was
very hard. In his letters of that time he draws a pathetic picture of the
condition of affairs—the dwindling of the congregations, and the frank
acknowledgment of his own inability to do much among the miners. “But
Christ reigns,” he wrote, “and the work is His, not mine, and let us
trust and hope.”
This worry, together with improper food, brought on a severe attack
of scurvy, and when he went back to Forty Mile in April, he was in a
very weak condition. Yet, notwithstanding his illness, he persisted in
conducting the Indian school and attending to his correspondence.
“I cannot move,” he wrote, “without losing my breath, nor walk a
few steps without great pain. If I can hold on till I obtain green
vegetables, they may benefit me.”
After a time “green vegetables” reached him from Dawson, and at once an
improvement took place. To these the Bishop declared his recovery was
almost entirely due.
Mrs. Bompas, during this trying season, was at Fort Yukon, unable to
reach the Bishop. She had been summoned to England, to the bedside of her
sister, who was dangerously ill. On her return to San Francisco, after a
few months’ absence, she found that wild excitement reigned, owing to the
Klondyke gold discovery.
“The whole of the great city,” so she writes, “was gathered on the wharf
to witness the departure of the first steamer for Klondyke. On the boat
itself the crowd was no less conspicuous. Men and women seemed locked
together in frantic excitement. Shouts and cries were heard on all sides.
Parting gifts were thrown on board, hats and handkerchiefs waved with
enthusiasm, and in a few instances with wild sobs of pain. Then the
anchor was raised, and the vessel started for St. Michael. Such a motley
crowd is not often seen gathered together in one vessel. The Company
did its best to accommodate all, but the attempt was but partially
successful. Seven men were often the occupiers of one state-room, and
the chief number of passengers were of the roughest kind of miners. On
reaching St. Michael, the same number of passengers were moved on to the
smaller steamer. Here our discomforts were considerably increased.”
After a tedious voyage up the river, Fort Yukon was reached. It was a
memorable day on which they arrived at this place.
“The miners,” continues Mrs. Bompas, “were looking eagerly forward to the
gold-mines of the Klondyke, when the whole load of passengers were set
ashore, and the captain announced that he was not going a step farther.
Prayers, entreaties, and remonstrances were unavailing. He gave no excuse
for his conduct but that he was going back immediately to St. Michael—it
was supposed, to lay in a cargo of whisky.”
And at Fort Yukon Mrs. Bompas was stranded for eight long months, thirty
miles within the Arctic Circle. Fortunately, the Rev. John Hawksley and
family were stationed here, who did what they could for her comfort. But
to the Bishop at Forty Mile, in feeble health, disturbing news arrived
of the riotous times among the miners at Fort Yukon, and their desperate
efforts to overpower the American soldiers. Such information caused him
much anxiety, and most thankful was he when at length the ice ran out of
the river, and Mrs. Bompas was able to continue her way after the long
delay.
[Illustration: THE RUSH TO THE KLONDYKE. ONE OF MANY STRANGE CRAFT
“From one point on Lake Bennett,” wrote Colonel Steele, Superintendent
of the North-West Mounted Police, “I counted on an eight-mile stretch
of water over eight hundred boats under full sail; and, for forty-five
miles, at no point were the boats more than two hundred yards apart.”]
The following summer the Bishop turned his attention to the southern part
of his diocese. Word had reached him of stirring towns on Lake Bennett
and Lake Atlin. Thinking them to be in his jurisdiction, he made the
long and difficult journey up-stream to view the land. Reaching Bennett
during the summer of 1899, he was astonished to see a flourishing city
containing thousands of people. But greater still was his surprise
to find that Bennett and Atlin were in British Columbia, and that he
had gone several miles beyond his diocese. His stay was very brief at
Bennett, and on his return trip down the river he spent two days among
the Indians at Tagish, gaining much information concerning these natives
and their language. One week later Bishop Ridley arrived at Bennett, and,
writing of the visit of his brother-Bishop, he says:
“Dr. Bompas has the full tide of civilization forced upon him to his
sorrow.... A week before my arrival he stood where I now write. Would
that he had waited the few days, that I might have had the honour of
welcoming him to my diocese. He thought Bennett and Atlin were within
his, and therefore ventured so far. Arriving here, he found that he had
trespassed beyond his jurisdiction no less than fourteen miles. The
newspaper-man who reported an interview with him states that he hurried
northwards and buried himself once more in the frozen north, that no
other man loves but for the sake of its gold. This report, copied into
an American paper, added striking glosses to the account. What would
the dear Bishop think if he saw himself described as the most devoted
of Catholic (meaning Roman Catholic) Bishops in the wide world? This
gloss was evidently by a Roman newsman, who covertly hit at the snug and
comfortable lives of Protestants who assumed episcopal authority. Bishop
Bompas, says the paper, was so modest that he would not talk of the
countless hairbreadth escapes from awful peril and death, treating them
as phases of everyday life, not to be counted worthy of notice.”
The following winter Bishop Bompas remained at the Indian village of
Moosehide, and, amidst school labours and diocesan cares, formed plans
for important extension of the mission-work.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MOUNTED POLICE
Who has not heard of the Royal North-West Mounted Police, that devoted
little band of men, about one thousand strong, who guard an empire? What
magic lies in the title! What visions rise before the mind of lonely
detachments, long, bleak trails, deeds of heroism, constant watchfulness,
unswerving devotion and loyalty to the Sovereign of the Realm!
We have seen in former chapters how helpful they were to the Bishop in
bringing in mails in the early days, and of their rescue of him and his
household from the flood at Forty Mile. It therefore seems right that
some account should be given here of these noble men, who patrol these
great Northern regions, and how they have aided not only the miners and
frontiersmen, but the missionaries as well.
There was a time in the history of Canada when the great North-West
Territory belonged to the Hudson’s Bay Company. At length the British
Government purchased the land from them for a large sum of money.
Settlers began to pour into the country. All kinds came, bad as well as
good, took up land, brought their families, and built homes, many of them
out in lonely places. Liquor-dealers, horse-thieves, and desperadoes
began to flock into the new country, thinking it a good place to carry on
their illegal business. The Indians, inflamed by whisky or hatred of the
new-comers, were always a source of trouble. It was never known at what
instant an uprising would take place, when thousands of dusky warriors
would sweep over the land, carrying destruction and death in their train.
[Illustration: BREAKING TRAIL: THE MOUNTED POLICE TAKING THE MAIL FROM
DAWSON TO FORT MCPHERSON
It is a most trying task breaking down the trail for the dogs to bring
along the sleds, loaded with provisions and camping outfit. The snow is
generally light, and even after the snow-shoes have crushed it down the
sleds draw hard, and the poor dogs make slow progress.]
It was at this critical time, 1873, that a little body of men, known
as the North-West Mounted Police, entered the country to preserve law
and order. What could a mere handful of men do in such a vast country,
against such a host of redskins and evil white men? It was like the
stripling David going forth to meet the giant Goliath. But as David
had right on his side, and a mighty Power behind him, so had these few
dauntless men who took up their gigantic task. Every man, as he went
forth to make an arrest or settle some dispute, knew that he had the
power of a great Empire behind his back. The renegade white men knew it,
and the Indians soon knew it, too. They were well aware that if they shot
down one of these prairie riders, thrust a sword through his breast, or
injured him in any way, they would have to face the wrath of the whole
British Empire.
Going, therefore, to his work clad with such an authority, one man, even
a stripling, was a match for a horde. The lifting of his gauntleted hand
was sufficient to quell a mob; the appearance of a red coat in a drinking
and gambling house, where six-shooters were lying all around, was as if
an army had appeared at the door; and a mere speck on the prairie caused
the lone frontiersman and his wife to breathe more freely, for they knew
a rider of the plains was on his long patrol of watchfulness.
They became the sleuth-hounds of the trails, and the watch-dogs of life
and property. Woe to the man who had committed any crime! there was no
region or country which could free him from the grip of the alert Reds.
There was only one door of escape, and that was death. On snow-shoes and
with dog-teams, through vast forests, over sweeping prairies, across
barren grounds, they would track their man until they found him, either
dead or alive.
No more thrilling instance is given of their coolness and courage than
during the building of the Canadian-Pacific Railway right across Canada
from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It was in 1883 that out on the prairies
the work of construction was being rushed ahead. At one place a wily
Indian chief, Pie-a-pot by name, and his numerous tribe had pitched their
tents, and refused to allow the work to go on. Pie-a-pot had hundreds
of well-armed braves, anxious for a fight, and only waiting for an
opportunity to begin their deadly work. Here at last was the time, and
their hearts beat high at the thought of sweeping away the pale-faces who
had invaded their country.
The Mounted Police never considered numbers. When word reached them of
what the Indians were doing, two smart members of the force, a sergeant
and a constable, rode into Pie-a-pot’s camp. Just think of it—two against
so many! It seemed like the sheerest piece of madness. The sergeant at
once ordered the Indians to leave. This command was received with shouts
of laughter. The braves gave vent to savage threats, and the women
made the air resound with their shouts of derision. Then the sergeant
calmly pulled out his watch, and told Pie-a-pot he would give him just
one-quarter of an hour to obey his order and strike camp. At this the
excitement became more intense. The braves jeered, discharged their
rifles under the horses’ noses, and jostled the riders; but the two
policemen remained as calm as if nothing unusual was going on.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE
When a strike is made in a new region, and the prospectors and miners
rush to the place, the Mounted Police at once pitch their tents there. If
the strike prove of importance, and the camp is likely to be permanent,
the Police erect good log-houses for themselves.
_From a photograph by Muirhead._]
At the end of the fifteen minutes the sergeant placed the watch in his
pocket, threw the reins to his companion, and walked deliberately over
to Pie-a-pot’s tent. The coverings of the tent are spread over a number
of poles, tied together near the top. These poles are so arranged that
the removal of a particular one, called the “key-pole,” brings the whole
structure down.
The sergeant did not say a word, but very quietly, so as to impress the
Indians, kicked out the key-pole of Pie-a-pot’s tent, and brought the
whole affair down upon the old man’s head. Howls of rage went up at this
insult to the chief, and all rushed for their arms.
It was a critical moment. The least sign of weakness on the policemen’s
part, or a motion from Pie-a-pot, would have been fatal to the two brave
men; but they were as cool as ever. The sergeant then walked around, and
kicked out all the key-poles of the other tents.
“Pie-a-pot,” says W. A. Fraser, the Canadian author, writing about this,
“had either got to kill the sergeant—stick his knife into the whole
British nation by the murder of this unruffled soldier—or give up and
move away. He chose the latter course, for Pie-a-pot had brains.”
At this time the Mounted Police had not advanced into the Yukon
territory; but as the miners began to arrive, Bishop Bompas longed for
some authority to protect his dusky flock, and to quell the disturbances
which sometimes took place. It was partly due to him that at last a body
of these men were sent to Forty Mile. Just across the little Forty Mile
River they built their post, at a place known as Cudahy. From here they
patrolled the creeks, and settled any turbulent spirits who were bent on
making trouble.
One night a man and a woman came to the Bishop’s house and asked him to
marry them. This he at once did, never suspecting anything wrong. Just
at the conclusion of the service a knock sounded upon the outer door.
There the Bishop found a policeman, who at once asked to see the man he
believed to be in the house.
“But he is engaged,” remarked the Bishop, “and cannot very well see you
just now.” When, however, he heard that he was needed for some mischief
he had been doing, the good missionary became very uneasy. He took the
policeman into his study, where the newly-married man was standing with
his back to the door. The policeman noticed that a revolver was sticking
out of the man’s hip-pocket, and knew he would have to act without delay.
Quickly crossing the room to where the man was standing, he seized the
murderous weapon in one hand, and clapping the other on his shoulder,
told him that he was a prisoner.
This sudden arrest surprised him, and he turned angrily upon the Bishop,
thinking he had informed upon him. But the policeman soon explained
everything, and that the woman standing there was the wife of another man
living at Forty Mile. “In that case,” said the Bishop, sternly looking
toward the prisoner, “the marriage I have just celebrated is null and
void.” Then the humour of the situation seemed to strike him, and he
added, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “And I have got the fees!”
The policeman then took the prisoner away, and driving a log into the
ground in the centre of the largest of the shacks, handcuffed the man,
and fastened him to the log with a trace-chain. They gave him several
blankets, in which he rolled himself up and went to sleep. Finally,
the man was expelled from Forty Mile. He was packed into a boat in the
middle of the next night, given a piece of bacon, and pushed out into
the current, with strict orders never to return. He was never heard of
again—or the woman he had married—or the fees!
[Illustration: THE MOUNTED POLICE COOKING A MEAL
On the trail the mid-day meal is eaten in the open, in some sheltered
place if possible, where there is sufficient fuel for a fire. The dogs
remain in harness, and are not fed until their day’s work is done. It is
a very trying experience to light a fire and prepare a meal on a cold
day.]
When, several years later, so much gold was found on the Klondyke River,
and thousands of men poured into the country, many more men of the
Mounted Police were sent to the Yukon. If you were to go to-day to a
little place called Tagish, on the head-waters of this great Northern
river, you would see a number of tumble-down log-buildings; and going
farther still down that stream, other deserted houses in lonely places
would be seen. These ruins once throbbed with life and energy. The Yukon
River was the great highway of traffic, and as the living stream moved
by, summer and winter, ever-watchful eyes from some detachment noted the
procession; willing hands were ready to uphold some weary wayfarer, and
chafe his poor, numb body; active feet were always in readiness to track
the miscreant to earth and bring him to justice. Only on the final day
of account will it be known how many lives were saved, how many bands of
lawless men held in check, and how much good done by that little body of
men.
That was several years ago, and since then changes have taken place.
Now there are two great nerve-centres, Dawson and Whitehorse. As the
telegraph operator feels the beat of a city’s pulse many miles away, so
the commanding officer knows what is taking place in the most remote
portion of his huge district. Now, all along the trail which leads from
Whitehorse to Dawson, a distance of 320 miles, policemen are stationed
at regular intervals. A hold-up is an unknown event, and one travels as
safely as along some quiet village in Eastern Canada.
If you go to the barracks at Whitehorse, you will see a pile of old
registers, with thousands of names recorded there. Every man who goes
down the river in an open boat must give his name, and have his boat
registered. Sometimes three or four men go together. Then, upon reaching
Dawson, if any are missing, the police at once begin to inquire. They
know who were in the boat, and they at once ask what has happened to the
others. In this way criminals have been found out and punished. Many are
the stories those old registers could tell of the early, stirring days.
The writer has travelled 1,000 miles by dog-team in the Yukon, and
everywhere he went he met members of the force, no matter how desolate
the region. One Saturday night he and his Indian arrived, cold and tired,
at a police post. Here they were kindly sheltered and fed. The next day
being Sunday, the police-team was harnessed to a sled, and a drive made
to a road house some distance away. Here service was held. No one could
sing, but a big gramophone served instead, and rolled off several old,
familiar tunes.
Everywhere the missionary goes he is sure to find a hearty welcome and
assistance from these men. Living in the shadow of the big log barracks
for about five years, the writer has seen much of these men. Many of
them are from England, Ireland, and Scotland. They are, as a rule, a
gentlemanly class of fellows, some having been bred in homes of comfort
and luxury. Here they are all equal, unless they obtain the much-coveted
stripes on the sleeves which lift them to the rank of corporal or
staff-sergeant. Their scarlet uniforms, with the well-polished buttons,
are often seen on the streets. They have their own skating-rink, near
the barracks, toboggan-slide, and a fine library and recreation room. It
is certainly pleasant to hear all through the day the sweet bugle-calls,
summoning the men to their various duties. The present bugler, who is the
son of an English clergyman, has kindly supplied the notes and words of
some of the bugle-calls.
[Music: MEN’S MEAL: SECOND CALL.
Pick, pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes,
hot po-ta-toes; pick ’em up, pick ’em up, hot po-ta-toes, oh!]
[Music: STABLES CALL.
Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and give them some corn;
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.
Oh, come to the sta-ble, all ye that are a-ble, and
Wa-ter your hor-ses, and feed them some corn.]
[Music: LIGHTS OUT.
Lights out! lights out!]
[Music: REGIMENTAL CALL (R.N.-W.M.P.).]
It was mentioned in another chapter how the police carried the mails
along the river with dog-teams before the stage-road was built from
Dawson to Whitehorse. They still do much work in this line, carrying
mails to lonely outlying creeks. But the great task is that of carrying
the mail over the Rocky Mountains to Fort McPherson, 475 miles from
Dawson. Away up there in that desolate region, at Herschel Island and
other places, are Hudson’s Bay Company’s men, as well as missionaries,
hunters, and trappers, eagerly longing for news from the outside world.
About Christmas-time a patrol starts from Dawson to carry the mail to
these people afar off.
[Illustration: THE DAWSON—FORT MCPHERSON MAIL ROUTE
The dogs used by the Mounted Police, in harness and on the trail, are the
best that can be obtained, and even then some of them give out beneath
the fearful hardships of the trail.]
It is a Herculean task to break trail through a desolate wilderness and
over the wind-swept Rocky Mountains. Only the hardiest men and dogs are
chosen for this task. Usually there are about four policemen and two
Indian guides, with five dog-teams and toboggans. If you look into a
police report, you will read there the events which happen day after
day, for it takes about three months to make the round trip of 950 miles
in all. How careful is the man in charge not to tell too much about
what that march means! But anyone who has been on the trail can easily
read between the lines, and he sees hardships endured and difficulties
overcome of which Arctic explorers might well be proud.
Suppose we pick out a few of these matter-of-fact entries of the trip of
1905:
“_January 1, 1906._—Roads very heavy. Distance travelled, twenty miles.
Snowing all day. Thirty-five degrees below zero.”
“_January 8._—Followed McQuesten Lake to the end, and then followed the
edge of the hills for about seven miles. Weather, 48 below. Strong wind
all day.”
“_January 9._—Four men went ahead to break trail.”
“_January 10._—Weather very windy, and 61 below.”
“_January 16._—Snow very deep, with water on ice. Weather 18 below in
a.m., and 38 below in p.m.”
“_January 18._—Had a very hard day on the dogs, and they just played out.
Braine Creek is nearly all glacier. Nearly all of the party got wet, and
we had a narrow escape from freezing. Distance travelled, eighteen miles.
Weather, 54 below.”
“_January 26._—Left camp at 8 a.m., with a blizzard blowing.”
“_January 27._—Dog John had to be turned loose on account of frozen feet.”
“_February 1._—Had to turn dog Ping loose, and neither he nor John turned
up at night.”
“_February 2._—Dogs did not turn up, and I reckon their feet are too bad
for them to travel.”
“_February 8._—The mountain we crossed is a very bald one, and we could
not see much of it on account of storm.”
“_February 14._—Left camp at 7.30 a.m., and followed the portage two
miles to Peel River, and then seventeen miles down the Peel to a native
cabin, and camped there at 8 p.m. We had eaten the last bite of food for
breakfast, but fortunately came to an Indian camp, where we obtained
twenty-four rabbits, and gave the dogs each half a rabbit. Distance
travelled, nineteen miles. Weather, 52 below.”
“_February 15._—Followed the Peel River down to Fort McPherson, where
we arrived at 4.30 p.m. On our arrival all of our dogs were just about
played out; in fact, one of them, Sandy, dropped about a mile above the
fort.”
And so His Majesty’s mail was carried over that desolate waste. The
bare words, “dog’s feet frozen,” “broke trail,” “52 below zero,” “wind
blowing,” “snow very deep,” and such-like—what pictures rise before the
mind as we read these laconic words! They are typical of the North, where
men shrink from enlarging on their hardships, lest they should seem like
boasters. It was the same with Bishop Bompas. Read the accounts of his
journeys, and you will find them, as a rule, long, dry statements of his
many journeys.
These pictures of the carrying of the mail from Dawson to Fort McPherson
will prove interesting. They were given to the writer last summer by one
of the men who made the long journey. As far as is known, they have never
yet been given to the public.
And so far up in this Northern region these noble men carry on their
great work. Well it was that King Edward lately bestowed upon them the
additional regal name, and now they are known as the Royal North-West
Mounted Police. Their motto is, _Maintien le droit_. And well do they
follow it out. One more closing incident is typical of them all:
A young man was sent to hunt up some horses that had strayed. It was
winter, and a blizzard struck him. He never returned, but the next
spring, in a cut-off _coulée_, an officer on patrol found a uniform by
the side of a skeleton. A piece of paper arrested his attention. Picking
it up, he read the pathetic words which had been scrawled there by the
young man, on a leaf torn from a pocket-diary, the winter before: “_Lost.
Horse dead. Am trying to push ahead. Have done my best._”
CHAPTER XIX
“FAINT, YET PURSUING”
When on a visit to one of his mission-stations during his later years,
the Bishop was asked to write a few lines in an autograph album. He
at once complied with the request, and wrote the words, which he felt
applied to him as they did to Gideon and his 300, “Faint, yet pursuing.”
Years of strenuous work were telling upon his gigantic constitution, and
he began to realize that ere long he must lay down the staff of office.
For some time he had his attention turned towards the southern portion
of the diocese, to the Indians who were gathered at Caribou Crossing,
which had become quite an important railway centre. In August, 1901, he
and Mrs. Bompas bade farewell to all at Forty Mile, and started on their
journey up the river. Whitehorse was only in its infancy, and the Rev. R.
J. and Mrs. Bowen had just returned from England to take charge of the
Church work. In their little tent they received the venerable couple,
and did all in their power to minister to their comfort. The welcome at
Caribou Crossing was most meagre. A tent which belonged to Bishop Ridley
gave them shelter for a few hours, when, hearing of a bunk-house across
the river, they at once rented it, and afterwards purchased it for $150.
It was dirty and uncomfortable, but the Bishop placed a rug and blanket
on the big table for Mrs. Bompas to rest while he went to explore. The
house was infested with gophers, which ran along the rafters, causing
great annoyance. But, notwithstanding the toil of the day, evening
prayer was held in Bishop Ridley’s tent. Here services were conducted
till the fall, when the weather grew so cold that Mrs. Bompas’s fingers
became numb as she played at the little harmonium which she brought
with her. After that, services, morning and evening, were held at the
mission-house, “which,” as Mrs. Bompas tells us, “had been used as a
road-house and post-office, and possessed one good-sized room, over the
door of which there still exists the ominous word ‘Bar-room’ (now hidden
behind a picture); and in this room we had to gather—Indians and white
people—for Sunday and weekday services, for baptisms, marriages, and
funerals, for school-children and adult classes, etc.”
In 1903, Bishop Ridley, of Caledonia, paid a visit to Caribou Crossing on
his way to Atlin. The description he gives of the episcopal residence and
the life of the venerable occupants is most interesting, a few extracts
of which must be given here:
“There on the platform stands the straight and venerable hero of the
North, Dr. Bompas, the Bishop of Selkirk. I jumped from the train and,
though I had never met him before, I grasped his hand and exclaimed, ‘At
last! at last!’ We knew each other well by letter only. He was as placid
as the mountains and the lakes they embosom.”
Then a glimpse is given of the “Bishop’s house, built of logs, on the
sand. The flooring-boards were half an inch apart; so shrunken were they
that it would be easy to rip them up and lay them down close together.
Then the roof: it was papered, with battens across the paper. I was
anxious to see inside less of the light of heaven through the rents.
Ventilation is carried to excess. Everything around is as simple as
indifference to creature comforts can make it, excepting the books, which
are numerous, up-to-date, and as choice as any two excellent scholars
could wish.
“The question that has often sprung from my heart has been this: if
this poor thirty-pound affair is by comparison delightful, what of the
contrivances that have sheltered them in the past forty years?
“Never in my life did I value hospitality so much, or feel so
honoured, as here, under the roof of these grand apostles of God. Two
septuagenarians of grace and broad culture, whose years have been spent
nobly in God’s eyes, have deliberately chosen an austere type of service,
not for austerity’s sake, but for Christ’s sake, under circumstances the
average citizen of the Empire would feel to be past endurance. They are
as happy as heroic. She, accomplished far beyond the standard one meets
with in London drawing-rooms, unless among the most cultured circles;
he, a fine scholar, steeped in Hebrew and Syriac lore, as well as in the
commoner studies of the clergy, live on, love on, labour on in this vast
expanse, little trodden but by the Indians for whom they live and will
die.
“If such lives fail in Christ’s cause, that cause is doomed. Let those
who criticize cease their cackling, and try to imitate by self-sacrifice
such lives as those I have just touched on; and they, too, may have some
share in the betterment of mankind—the expansion of Christ’s kingdom and
the eternal welfare of humanity.”
Anxious days followed the Bishop’s removal to this place. The diocese was
scarce of clergy, and when Mr. Bowen left Whitehorse earnest appeals were
sent “outside” for men. Then it was, upon the Bishop’s earnest request,
that the Rev. I. O. Stringer arrived in November, 1903, to take up the
work laid down by Mr. Bowen. Much pleased was the Bishop to have Mr.
Stringer so near, and at once marked him as his successor.
Then followed the death of his old friend Archbishop Machray, and as
senior Bishop of the province of Rupert’s Land, he was summoned to
Winnipeg. A message reached him from Mr. John Machray, nephew of the
late Primate, telling him of the Archbishop’s death, with the addition:
“As senior Bishop, it is important that you should attend a conference of
Bishops in Winnipeg to select a successor.”
Though the Bishop shrank much from leaving the North to mingle with the
bustling world, yet, after a few minutes’ thought, he sent back the
following answer:
“I will try to be with you by Easter.”
And on Easter Eve, April, 1904, with Mrs. Bompas and Susie, a little deaf
and dumb girl,[3] he was met by several of the clergy at Winnipeg, and
was present at St. John’s Cathedral on Easter Day, though only as one
of the congregation, being too much overcome by the crowd and bustle of
the city to take any active part in the service. What thoughts must have
surged through his mind as he looked upon the great prairie city, which
had changed so much since last he saw it thirty long years before!
On the following Sunday he was able to preach in St. John’s Cathedral.
“His sermon,” so Mrs. Bompas tells us, “was in his usual earnest and
unembellished style, referring to the last time he had officiated in that
church, nearly thirty years before, alluding with pathos to the many who
had left the busy whirl of life during that period, and expressing his
great pleasure that, among the many changes that were taking place in the
Church, the services of St. John’s Cathedral still retained something of
their old, almost austere, simplicity.”
The Bishop’s time was fully occupied during his stay in Winnipeg. There
were old friends calling upon him, reporters seeking interviews, meetings
to attend, and addresses to deliver, which wearied him very much. His
voice was feeble, and could not be distinctly heard at the gatherings
where he told of his Northern diocese. But what did that matter? The
people thought more of the man—the man of whom they had heard such
wonderful things—and cheered him heartily.
The Archbishop of Rupert’s Land, in an address at the 107th Anniversary
of the Church Missionary Society, at Exeter Hall, London, April, 1907,
thus referred to the visit of Bishop Bompas to Winnipeg:
“Dr. Bompas, that splendid veteran missionary, who came down at the
time of my election—he was as humble as a little child—when he stood
on the platform at a great missionary meeting, and when I, introducing
him, spoke of the hardships he had gone through, corrected me thus when
he started to speak. He said: ‘It is you men at the centre, with your
telephones and your telegrams, who have the hardships. We have a soft
time in the North. Nobody ever worries us.’ That is all that he said
about his hardships. Then he told the story of his work in a simple,
childlike way.”
The city life did not agree with him. He longed for his Northern flock
and the quietness of his little log-house at Caribou Crossing. A doctor
was consulted, who strongly advised him not to return to his diocese for
some time. Before this the Bishop was uncertain when he would return; but
after the doctor’s verdict had been given, he hesitated no longer, but
fixed a date for his departure. Only three weeks did he stay in Winnipeg,
and then started northward. Acts of kindness were showered upon him on
every hand. All delighted to honour the noble missionary in their midst.
As he stood on the platform before leaving Winnipeg, an unknown friend,
knowing that the Bishop would not afford himself the luxury of a good
berth, slipped into his hand a ticket for one in the Pullman car.
When once again in his own diocese, the longing grew stronger for
rest, and he became impatient for the time when his successor would be
appointed. Then, the delay in the election of the new Archbishop gave
him much concern. He felt it was his duty to go once more to Winnipeg to
hasten matters, and many were the letters written and received before
everything was finally arranged. His annual trip down the river to visit
the various mission stations became more and more of a burden, and he
wished to stay quietly in one place to carry on his desired work.
And that desired work filled him with gladness. “The daily round, the
common task” was all that he asked for. Praise might go to others; he
wished for none for himself. The Indian school occupied much of his
time, and part of each morning was given up to it. The building over the
river, which at first had been used for the school, was exchanged for
the log police-barracks, quite close to the mission-house. It was an
interesting sight to observe the venerable, grey-haired teacher among a
number of stirring young Indian pupils. Gladly did he leave his beloved
translations to be awhile the teacher.
“Freely the sage, though wrapped in musings high,
Assumed the teacher’s part.”
Though the Bishop used to say that to teach Indians was a very difficult
task, “like writing in the sand, instead of graving in the rock,” yet he
never gave up, but went bravely on till the last.
A portion of his time was devoted to letter-writing and translation work.
He was always an early riser, and his letters were written in the early
morning in the quietness of his study. Letter-writing he seemed to love,
and seldom did he pen less than six or seven missives a day. It was in
this manner he could express himself most freely, and sometimes, when
wishing to convey a message to a member of his household, he would do so
by letter, at times leaving it at the post-office to be delivered later
in the day.
[Illustration: AN INDIAN BOY AT PLAY
When the Indians come into town the dusky lads are fond of imitating the
ways of the white people. Too often they copy the worse side. But this
little fellow is certainly engaged in innocent sport.]
[Illustration: AN INDIAN BOY AT WORK
Indians on the Yukon dislike work. Around the towns they will beg for
food and clothing. At the Whitehorse Rectory a pile of unsplit wood was
kept ready, and the able-bodied natives were made to earn their food and
clothing.]
Rarely did he miss meeting the train on its arrival at the settlement,
that he might be at hand to receive his mail as soon as possible. His
tall, erect figure, with the leather travelling-bag[4] slung across his
shoulder, walking up and down the platform, was a most familiar sight.
Strangers would gaze with curiosity upon the veteran of the North, of
whom they had heard so much, and often snapshots were taken, to be
reproduced in books, magazines, or newspaper articles. This latter the
Bishop bore with good-natured tolerance, considering it a necessary
evil, and one of the discomforts of modern civilization. He told one of
his clergy—him who now wields the episcopal staff—who was busy taking a
number of pictures of the Bishop and his Indian school, that he did not
wish to see _him_ go, but he would like to see the _camera_ make a hasty
departure.
For some time the Bishop wished to change the name of Caribou Crossing,
as his letters often went to other places of a similar name, and thus
caused much delay and confusion. After careful consideration, he chose
the name of “Carcross.” Many objected to the change, and strongly-worded
articles were written in the local paper condemning the “mongrel name of
Carcross.” The Bishop remained silent, replying to none of these attacks.
At length a letter appeared, addressed to the Bishop, from the Secretary
of the Geographic Board of Canada, stating that at a meeting of the
Board “the name ‘Carcross’ was approved instead of ‘Caribou’ or ‘Caribou
Crossing.’” The Bishop smiled, but said nothing. Since then the new name
has steadily won its way.
Notwithstanding the school-work and study, ample time was found for
other duties which devolved upon him. There were Indians calling at most
unseasonable hours for advice over some perplexing question. The advice
thus freely given was often interpreted in most unexpected ways. On one
occasion he had a long talk with an Indian who had taken a young woman
as his second wife, having wearied of the first. The Bishop told him it
was wrong to have two wives, and that he should only have one. The Indian
seemed much surprised with these words, and promised to obey; but, to
the astonishment of all, he put away his old, faithful wife and kept the
younger.
Once, at a wedding of two Indians, the Bishop repeated very carefully
the words, “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness
and in health,” etc., and told the groom to repeat them after him. The
Indian was much puzzled. He could not repeat the words, neither could
he understand their meaning, and looked vacantly around. After a time a
light illumined his face, and, turning to his passive, dusky bride, he
said: “Me sick, you take care me; you sick, me take care you—eh?”
The building of the new church at Carcross was a great comfort to the
Bishop. Services had been held in the mission-house, which was too small
to accommodate all who attended. The cost of the building was met almost
entirely by kind friends outside the diocese. In 1904 Mrs. Bompas visited
Eastern Canada, and addressed the Women’s Association at Montreal,
Toronto, Ottawa, and Quebec on mission-work in the North. Great was her
surprise when, at the annual meeting of this noble handmaid of the Church
at the Cathedral in Toronto, she was presented with the generous gift of
$800 towards the church building fund for St. Saviour’s, Carcross. Other
gifts came steadily in, and the success of the church was complete.
In the erection of this little building the Bishop was most active, not
only superintending the work, but doing much manual labour himself. With
his own hands he made a little gate for the church-door, to keep out the
numerous Indian dogs which were always prowling around during service.
This specimen of the Bishop’s handiwork remained for some time after his
death, a curiosity to all who looked upon it, especially to tourists.
It was a happy day when at last the church was opened for service. It was
consecrated on August 8, 1904, after Mrs. Bompas’s return to the diocese.
The services were of a very simple nature, for the Bishop seemed to have
an almost complete disregard for external things. Seldom did he wear his
episcopal robes—not even when visiting the different mission stations in
his diocese—being content to use the long white surplice with the black
stole, minus his Doctor’s hood. This was a cause of worry to Mrs. Bompas,
who rejoiced to see all things done “decently and in order.” Once,
on the Mackenzie River, when starting to hold a Confirmation service
some distance away, he was urged by Mrs. Bompas to take his episcopal
robes. He refused to do so, saying that the surplice was sufficient. On
that trip his boat was swamped, and everything was lost, and only with
difficulty were he and his companions saved.
Anxiously the Bishop awaited Bishop Stringer’s return from Winnipeg
to take charge of the diocese. No jealousy came into his heart at the
thought of handing over the work to another. It was his own wish, for
he knew a younger and stronger man was needed. For himself, he did not
wish to leave the Yukon or to retire. He resolved to still carry on his
Master’s work as a humble missionary much farther down the river. He was
eager to be away among his dusky flock, free from all the cares of the
huge diocese, which were becoming a great burden.
At length Bishop Stringer arrived, and at once he handed over the affairs
to him, and discussed his own plans with the enthusiasm of youth, little
thinking that the Master of Life was about to call him to a higher
service.
CHAPTER XX
LIGHT AT EVENTIDE
In a famous picture an old warrior, scarred in many a fierce battle, is
seen hanging up his sword; his work ended, he could afford to rest. But
not so with Bishop Bompas, the faithful soldier of the Cross. No thought
of ease entered his mind, but only more work for the Master. As St. Paul
of old handed on his commission to his son Timothy, so did this veteran
apostle of a later day pass on the torch to a younger son in the faith,
that he might be free for other work. Then came the end, the last scene
in the life of this noble man, for “God’s finger touched him, and he
slept.”
Far away in dear old England, 7,000 miles from a quiet grave in the great
Canadian northland, the following account of those last days has been
beautifully written as a loving tribute by her, the faithful wife, who
for long years bore with the devoted Bishop the burden and heat of the
day:
“The storms on Lake Bennett, on the shores of which Carcross is situated,
are at times pretty severe. The winds blow in gusts down the steep
mountain gullies, and toss into fury the waters of the lake. The depth
of that lake between Carcross and Bennett is very great. It has often
been sounded, and no bottom reached. Many a hastily run-up scow, full of
brave, enterprising miners, has been wrecked on these waters, and many
a nameless grave in the white man’s territory marks the resting-place
of some poor fellow who was strong to venture, but had not learnt to
realize the many dangers and vicissitudes of a miner’s life. But the lake
has its periods of calm no less than those of turmoil and unrest. Mark it
on some evening of summer, when scarcely a ripple stirs its surface. The
reflection of the mountains on the water is so clear and vivid that one
is tempted to doubt which is the reality and which is the shadow.
[Illustration: ON THE TRAIL
The writer’s last trip into Livingstone Creek, seventy miles from
Whitehorse. The scene is on a large mountain lake, with towering rocks on
every side. The Indian, Jimmy Jackson, is at the rear of the sled.]
“Such a calm, such a change from turmoil into peace, marked the evening
of the life we have been considering. We believe that God’s servants have
been given a premonition of the approach of death. The Bishop had laid
his plans some months ahead, and made necessary preparations for a winter
down the river. He had always been remarkable for physical strength and
energy. For his winter travelling he was always seen running, with the
jaunty pace of the Northern tripper, ahead of his sledge. He was ever
ready to help the men hauling up a boat at some of the portages, or in
pushing it down the bank into the river. Among our party it was always
the Bishop who insisted on charging himself with the heaviest articles,
and it was only within the last two years that he abstained from hauling
water from the lake for the whole of our household. But symptoms of some
diminution of strength and vigour in this strong man were beginning to
show themselves. The eyes that had pored so long with imperfect light
over the pages of Hebrew and Syriac, in which he so delighted, were
failing, and had to be strengthened by glasses stronger and yet stronger
still. Since his last attack of scurvy he had lost all sense of smell or
taste. No one could be with the Bishop many hours without observing an
expression of weariness and dejection in his countenance, which was as
intense as pathetic. He was often heard whispering, ‘Courage, courage!’
To more than one of his friends he had given his impression that he had
not long to live. To his brother he wrote just a year before his death:
‘For myself, I am most thankful to be in this happy retirement. When
the time comes, I hope for as tranquil an earthly ending as that of our
brother George, though perhaps mine may be more sudden, and possibly not
even in my bed.’
“The Bishop’s burden of responsibility had of late years been greatly
increased by the advent of the white men. The population of the diocese
had increased sevenfold and at rapid strides. The problem of providing
for the spiritual needs of these people, and especially of keeping the
Indians from the allurements of the whisky traffic and the snares of the
gambling-table, was weighing heavily upon him. But the darkest hour is
the hour before the dawn; the labourer’s task was nearly accomplished.
The Rev. I. O. Stringer had been nominated by the Bishop and approved
by the Church Missionary Society and the Canadian Board of Missions as
successor to Bishop Bompas in the See of Selkirk (now called the See of
Yukon). He was a good man and an earnest Churchman, and had had some
years’ experience of mission-work among the Indians of Peel River and the
Eskimo of Herschel Island, at the mouth of the Mackenzie. Mr. Stringer
was consecrated Bishop in St. John’s Cathedral, Winnipeg, December
17, 1905, and his arrival in Selkirk Diocese was ardently looked for.
With him was expected the Rev. A. E. O’Meara, of Toronto, to be placed
in charge of the newly-started mission at Conrad, twelve miles from
Carcross, the centre of a new mining camp.
“And so, with the mission staff a little better equipped, with the work
of the diocese passing into younger and less toil-worn hands, our Bishop
could now turn his thoughts to his own plans for the coming months.
The Church Missionary Society had suggested to him a retiring pension,
but this he declined to accept, unless he continued in some department
of the work of the mission. His great desire now, and one which had
for a long time past occupied his thoughts, was to start a new mission
on Little Salmon River, where there are often congregated together 200
Indians who have seldom come within sound of the Gospel. But Bishop
Stringer and others dissuaded him from the new venture, thinking that
the work of starting a new mission, with the prospect of having to
build a house and get in supplies for the coming winter, was one for
which neither the Bishop himself nor his wife, at their advanced age,
were fitted. Accepting this disappointment as God’s will, Bishop Bompas
prepared to go down the river to Forty Mile, below Dawson. Now was there
bustle and unrest on the mission premises at Carcross preparatory to the
departure.
“A passage for the Bishop and Mrs. Bompas and two Indian girls had
been secured on one of the river steamers to sail on Monday. This was
Saturday, June 9, a day calm and bright, as our summer days in the far
North mostly are. The Bishop was as active as ever on that day. Twice he
had walked across the long railway bridge, and his quick elastic step
had been commented on as that of a young man. Later on he had been up to
the school, and on to the Indian camp to visit some sick Indians. Then
he went home, and remained for some time in conversation with Bishop
Stringer, into whose hands he had already committed all the affairs of
the diocese. Then the mission party dined together, and at eight o’clock
they all reassembled for prayers. After prayers the Bishop retired to his
study and shut the door.
“Was there, we wonder, any intimation of the coming rest in the breast
of that stalwart warrior, whose end of life was now so near as to be
reckoned, not by hours, but by minutes only? Was there any consciousness
of having fought a good fight, and finished his course? We know not.
Sitting on a box, as was his custom, he began the sermon which proved to
be his last. Presently the pen stopped; the hand that so often had guided
it was to do so no more. Near him was one of his flock, an Indian girl,
who needed some attention, and as he arose he leaned his elbow on a pile
of boxes. And while standing there the great call came: the hand of God
touched him, and the body which had endured so much fell forward. When
Bishop Stringer reached his side a few minutes later, the Indian girl
was holding his head in her lap. Nothing could be done, and without a
struggle, without one word of farewell, the brave soul passed forth to a
higher life.
“And so the tale is told, the chapter ended, of that life begun
seventy-two years since. A suffering, uneventful life, and yet, we hope,
not all unfruitful of God’s glory, and of souls won for the fold of the
Good Shepherd. Most aptly do the words of the poet apply to him:
“O good grey head which all men knew,
O voice from which their omens all men drew,
O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fallen at length that tower of strength,
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
Such was he whom we deplore.
The long self-sacrifice of life is o’er.”
“The awe and silence which overspread the camp, and school, and mission
that night and the following day were very striking. By the morning
of Sunday tidings of the Bishop’s death had been flashed to Ottawa,
and London, and all down the river. On Tuesday morning notices of the
Bishop’s life and work were in many American and Canadian newspapers,
with his portrait.
[Illustration: THE BODY OF BISHOP BOMPAS TAKEN IN A BOAT FROM THE CHURCH
TO THE GRAVEYARD
Mrs. Bompas and Mrs. Cody are sitting in the back part of the boat. As
there was no team available on the Mission side of the river, the boat
was the only means of conveyance.]
“The funeral had to be on Monday, June 11, Festival of St. Barnabas (the
Son of Consolation). Messages came from the Indians down the river, as
well as from friends elsewhere, expressing deepest sympathy with Mrs.
Bompas in the terrible shock she had sustained. The Indians heard with
extreme satisfaction that their friend and Bishop had once expressed
a wish to be buried among them. Two of them came and offered to dig
his grave, adding, ‘You no pay me.’ In the Indian cemetery, therefore,
beautifully situated less than a mile from Carcross, was the grave made
ready. The mountains, clad with their dark pine-woods, looked down grave
and solemn on the Indians’ burial-ground. There were not many graves, but
they were well and carefully kept and tended, for they were all friends
who lay there, and we knew the life and history of each one. Below the
cemetery were the waters of the lake, in summer ever studded with swift
canoes, or white man’s row-boats, or the steamer _Gleamer_ and smaller
vessels. But on this day there was no movement on the lake. All vessels
had their flags half-mast high, and deferred their sailing that their
captains and men might attend the funeral. It took place at five o’clock.
On account of the distance, only two of the Bishop’s clergy were able to
take part in the solemn service, Mr. O’Meara, of Conrad, and Mr. Cody, of
Whitehorse.
“The little church of St. Saviour’s was now filled with all the white
population of Carcross and all the Indians who had come to do honour to
the great man who had fallen in their midst. The two hymns chosen from
the Hymnal Companion were most appropriate. One, ‘For all the Saints,’
telling of the triumph of the saints of God after earth’s hard fight;
the other, ‘Jesus lives,’ breathing forth the blessed hope of victory
over the grave and a glorious resurrection. The service was conducted
by Bishop Stringer, assisted by the two clergymen; and then the dear
Bishop’s body was lifted into a boat waiting at the foot of the bank,
and rowed by two natives over water as smooth as glass to the cemetery.
Three white men and three Indians carried the body from the shore to
the grave; and after the beautiful service had been read, the children
of the Indian mission-school came one by one and dropped into the grave
their little offerings of wild flowers, which had been gathered for the
occasion.
“There is a humble grave in one of the loveliest and most secluded spots
in the Yukon territory. Dark pine-forests guard that grave. During the
winter months pure, untrodden snow covers it. It is enclosed by a rough
fence made of fir-wood, which an Indian woodman cut down and trimmed,
leaving the bark on, and then fixed strong and stable around the grave.
But none will disturb that spot: no foot of man or beast will dishonour
it; the sweet notes of the Canadian robin and the merry chirp of the
snow-bird are almost the only sounds which break the silence of that
sacred place. The Indians love that grave; the mission children visit
it at times with soft steps and hushed voices to lay some cross of wild
flowers or evergreens upon it. There is a grey granite headstone with the
words, ‘In the peace of Christ,’ and the name and age of him who rests
beneath. It is the grave of Bishop Bompas.”
“On the night of the Bishop’s death,” says Bishop Stringer, “one group
of Indians after another came to the Bishop’s house with sorrow depicted
on each face as they asked at first if the sad news were true, and then
other questions, showing their deep concern. In the morning they came
one by one to look for the last time on the face of him who was always
their friend. Never more could he listen patiently to all their troubles;
never again would he get up from the midst of his work and tramp off
half a mile to their camps to see a sick person, and give all the relief
possible in medicine, food, and clothing, and, above all, advice in their
many adversities and, oftentimes, complicated troubles.
“The day after the funeral an Indian and his wife arrived on foot from
Skagway. As Mrs. Bompas went out to shake hands with them as old
friends, she said, ‘Bishop has gone.’ The woman looked interested,
thinking she meant he had gone to visit some of the other missions. Mrs.
Bompas tried to explain. ‘Bishop dead three days,’ she said. Then the
truth seemed to dawn on the Indian woman, and she repeated, with rising
inflection, ‘Bishop dead? Bishop dead? Bishop dead?’ at the same time
giving vent to such a wail as I scarcely ever heard from a human being. I
then realized more than ever how much the loss of our dear Bishop meant
to his own people, the Indians.”
All men had a profound respect for Bishop Bompas, especially the hardy
prospectors. They had endured so much on the lonely trails that they
looked upon the Bishop as one of themselves, who had not spent his life
in ease and luxury, but struggling with Nature at her sternest. In
speaking of the late Bishop, a prospector at Carcross said:
“I feel as if I had lost my best friend. Sometimes some of us were hard
up—no funds and no food; but we always felt we could turn to the Bishop
for help. We knew that to knock at his door and ask him if there was any
odd job we could do meant always, and especially if the Bishop knew we
were hard up, that he would find something for us to do—now some wood to
get, or, again, some stove-pipe to fix, or a few nails to drive for Mrs.
Bompas, or some other work that would give him the opportunity to pay us
sufficient to keep body and soul together.”
Bishop Stringer, who records this conversation, also mentions that on the
Mackenzie River he once met a miner who had been in Dawson in the early
days. “When asked if he knew Bishop Bompas, he said he thought he had
seen him. When he was described as a pioneer in the land, he suddenly
exclaimed: ‘Oh yes; that’s the man who wrote the book. I have often seen
him and spoken to him. Many of us have read his book. The miners know
him as “the man who wrote the book.”’ He referred to the ‘History of the
Mackenzie River Diocese,’ which contains much matter of interest to the
miner about the North.”
The letters received by Mrs. Bompas were full of the sincerest sympathy.
Some were from the men of the “Old Brigade,” who had stood shoulder
to shoulder with the Bishop in his great fight against the powers of
darkness. Beautiful as well as pathetic are the words of the Venerable
Archdeacon McDonald, from Winnipeg:
“He was a man dear to me, and I thank God for the abundant grace that
was bestowed upon him, enabling him to labour patiently and persistently
among the natives, for whose sake he became a missionary. I cannot
forget that it was to replace me he first came to the North, when, as it
was thought, my earthly course was nearly run, and I would have to lay
down the Banner of the Cross. Nobly has he borne the standard; he has
fought the fight of faith, he has finished his course, and has gone to
receive, with the Apostle Paul, and all who love the appearing of our
sweet Saviour Christ, the crown of righteousness which shall be bestowed
upon them.... Thus another landmark has gone. Bishop Bompas achieved a
great reputation for devotedness and saintliness and the most heroic
courage. Like our great pattern, he constantly went about doing good.
He counted not his life dear unto him, but exposed it many times in his
great Master’s cause. He has left a splendid record and example for all
Bishops and clergy. You and the Bishop have done a magnificent work in
that Northern region—a work that has blessed not only the Indians, but,
in an indirect way, the entire Church of God.”
Thus lived and died this noble missionary in the great Northland, among
his dusky flock. Though he is dead, the results of his noble life cannot
perish. With him will always be associated thoughts of mighty rivers and
great inland lakes, snow-capped mountains and sweeping plains; thoughts
of heroism and devotion to duty; but, above all, thoughts of gratitude
for countless unknown natives of the North, on river, mountain, and
plain, who have been lifted out of darkness and brought close to the
Great Shepherd’s side, through the light of the Gospel carried by a
faithful herald of salvation—this noble Apostle of the North.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Sitka, until recently the capital of Alaska.
[2] “Pathfinders of the West,” by A. C. Laut.
[3] This girl was placed in the Deaf and Dumb Institution at Winnipeg.
She died on February 26, 1897, of tuberculosis, aged ten years.
[4] This travelling-bag was exhibited in 1909 at the Missionary Loan
Exhibition held in Montreal, and attracted much attention.
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD
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