The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood by R. M. Ballantyne (the ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Rapidly and steadily did the waters of the Red River rise, until, overflowing all their banks, they spread out into the plains, and gradually settler after settler retired before the deluge, each forsaking his home at the last moment, and going off in quest of higher ground with his cattle and property.

These high places were not numerous, for the whole region was very level. Many settlers discovered at that time a number of features in the colony which had been unrecognised before, and found refuge on spots which had never been observed as lying above the dead level of the plains. Even these spots were not all safe. Many of them were speedily submerged, and those who had fled to them sought refuge on the still higher knolls, which soon became inconveniently crowded. Some miles from the river there was an elevation of ground named the “Little Mountain,” and to this many of the people repaired. It was about as deserving of its title as is a molehill; nevertheless it proved a safe asylum in the end.

Louis Lambert was driven from his home the day after that on which the house of his friend Winklemann was destroyed. His house was a stout one of two storeys, and, owing to its position, was less exposed to the current of the flood than many other dwellings. Confident of its strength and the security of its position, its owner had carried all his goods and furniture to the upper storey, but on returning, after assisting his friend, he found the water in it so high that he feared it might be set afloat—as some of the houses had already been—and finally made up his mind to remove. But where should he remove to? That was the question.

“To zee hause of old Liz,” observed his friend. “It is close to hand, an’ zere is yet room.”

This was true, but Lambert’s inclinations turned in the direction of Willow Creek; he therefore protested there was not room.

“No, no,” he said; “it’s not fair to crowd round old Liz as we are doing. I’ll ride down to Ravenshaw’s and see if there is room on his ground to place my property. There will be plenty of time. Even if the water should go on rising, which I hope it won’t, my house can’t float for many hours. Meanwhile, if you’ll fetch round the boat, and place some of the heavy goods in it, you’ll be doing me a good turn.”

“Vell, vell,” muttered the German, as he looked after his friend with a quiet smile and a shake of the head, “dere is no madness like lof! Ven a man falls in lof he becomes blind, qvite blind!”

The blind one, meanwhile, mounted his steed and galloped away on the wings of “lof.” Lambert was a reckless rider, and an impatient though good-natured fellow. He dashed at full speed through shallow places, where the floods were creeping with insidious, tide-like persistency over the farm-lands, and forded some of the creeks, which almost rendered swimming unavoidable; but in spite of his daring he was compelled to make many a vexatious détour in his headlong course down to Willow Creek. On the way his mind, pre-occupied though it was, could not escape being much affected by the scenes of devastation through which he passed. Everywhere near the river houses were to be seen standing several feet deep in water, while their owners were either engaged in conveying their contents in boats and canoes to the nearest eminences, or removing them from such eminences in carts to spots of greater security. Some of the owners of these deserted houses had become so reckless or so despairing under their misfortunes, that they offered to sell them for merely nominal sums. It is said that some of them changed hands for so small a sum as thirty shillings or two pounds.

Cantering round the corner of a fence, Lambert came within a hundred yards of a house round which the water was deep enough to float a large boat. Here he observed his friends, John Flett and David Mowat, embarking household goods into a large canoe out of the parlour window. Riding into the water, Lambert hailed them.

“Hallo, Flett, d’ee want help?”

“Thank ’ee, no; this is the last load. Got all the rest down to the church; the minister is lettin’ us stow things in the loft.”

“You’re in too great haste, Flett,” returned Lambert. “The water can’t rise much higher; your place is sure to stand.”

“Not so sure o’ that, Louis; there’s a report brought in by a redskin that all the country between the sources of the Assinaboine and Missouri is turned into a sea, and the waters o’ the Missouri itself are passing down to Lake Winnipeg. He says, too, that a whole village of redskins has been swept away.”

“Bah! it’s not true,” said Lambert.

“True or false,” rejoined Flett, resuming his work, “it’s time for me to clear out o’ this.”

Forsaking the road, which he had hitherto attempted to follow, Lambert now stretched out at full gallop into the plains. He came to a small creek and found that the simple wooden bridge had been washed away, and that the waters of the river were driving its tiny current in the wrong direction. In a fit of impatience he applied the whip to his steed, which, being a fiery one, rushed furiously at the creek. Fire does not necessarily give an untrained horse power to leap. The animal made an awkward attempt to stop, failed, made a still more awkward attempt to jump, failed again, and stumbled headlong into the creek, out of which he and his master scrambled on the opposite side.

Lambert shook himself, laughed, leaped into the saddle, and went off again at full speed. He came to the mission station, but did not stop there. It still stood high above the waters, and was crowded with settlers. Not far from it was a spot of rising ground, which was covered with more than a hundred tents and wigwams belonging to Canadian and half-breed families. Passing on, he came upon other scenes of destruction, and finally arrived at the abode of old Mr Ravenshaw. It, like the mission premises, still stood high above the rising flood. The family were assembled in the chief sitting-room, old Ravenshaw enjoying a pipe, while the ladies were variously occupied around him.

“You’ve heard the report brought by the Indian about the flood, I fancy?”

“Oh, yes; but I give no ear to reports,” said the old gentleman, emitting an indignant puff of smoke; “they often end like that.”

“True; nevertheless, it’s as well to be prepared,” said Lambert, with a glance at Elsie and Cora, who sat together near the window; “and I’ve come to beg for house-room for my goods and chattels, for the old house is not so safe as I had thought.”

“There’s plenty of room in the barn for people in distress,” said Elsie, with a glance at her sister.

“Or in the cow-house,” added Cora, with a laugh and a slight toss of her head; “we’ve had the cattle removed on purpose to make room for you.”

“How considerate! And the cow-house of Willow Creek, with its pleasant associations, is a palace compared to the hall of any other mansion,” said the gallant Louis.

A crash was heard outside just then. On looking from the windows, a great cake of ice about five feet thick, with a point like a church spire, was seen attempting, as it were, to leap the lower end of the garden-fence. It failed; but on making a second attempt was more successful. The fence went slowly down, and the spire laid its head among the vegetables, or rather on the spot where the vegetables would have been had the season been propitious. It was accompanied by a rush of water.

The sight was viewed with comparative composure by old Mr Ravenshaw, but his better half took it less quietly, and declared that they would all be drowned.

“I hope not!” exclaimed Miss Trim fervently, clasping her hands.

“We’re high and dry just now, Louis,” said Mr Ravenshaw gravely, “but Willow Creek won’t be a place of refuge long if the rise goes on at this rate. See, my neighbour is beginning to show signs of uneasiness, though the ground on which he stands is not much lower than my own.”

As he spoke, the old fur-trader pointed to the house of Angus Macdonald, where a large cart was being loaded with his property.

Angus himself entered at the moment to beg leave to remove some of his valuables to his friend’s barn.

“It iss not the danger, you see, Muster Ruvnshaw, that troubles me; it iss the watter. There are some things, as the leddies fery well know, will pe quite destroyed py watter, an’ it is puttin’ them out of harm’s way that I will pe after.”

“Put whatever you like in the barn, Macdonald,” said Mr Ravenshaw promptly; “Elsie and I have had it and the other outhouses prepared. You are heartily welcome. I hope, however, that the water won’t rise much higher.”

“The watter will rise higher, Muster Ruvnshaw,” returned Angus, with the decision of an oracle; “an’ it will pe goot for us if it will leave our houses standin’ where they are. Peegwish will be tellin’ me that; an’ Peegwish knows what he iss apout when he is not trunk, whatever.”

Peegwish did indeed know what he was about. At the very time that Angus was speaking about him, Peegwish, feeling convinced that Macdonald’s house was in danger, was on his way to the mission station, which he knew to be a place of greater safety, and where he felt sure of a welcome, for the Reverend Mr Cockran—in charge at the time—had a weakness for the old hypocrite, and entertained strong hopes of bringing about his reformation. For two days he stayed in the parsonage kitchen, smoking his pipe, revelling in the odds and ends, such as knuckle-bones, stray bits of fat and tripe, which fell to his lot, and proudly exhibiting himself in one of the minister’s cast-off black coats, which contrasted rather oddly with a pair of ornamented blue leggings and a scarlet sash. When not busy in the kitchen, he went about among the homeless settlers assembled round the mission, sometimes rendering a little help, oftener causing a good deal of obstruction, and vainly endeavouring to obtain beer, while he meditated sadly now and then on his failure in the brewing line.

At the end of these two days, however, a great change took place at the mission station, for the flood continued steadily to increase until it reached the church and parsonage, and drove the hundreds of people who had assembled there away to the more distant knolls on the plains. Mr Cockran, with his household and Sabbath scholars, besides a few of the people, resolved to stick to the church as long as it should stick to the ground, and Peegwish remained with them. He had unbounded confidence in the good missionary, and still more unbounded confidence in the resources of the parsonage kitchen. Wildcat was similarly impressed.

At last the water rose to the church itself and beat against the foundations of the parsonage, for the current was very strong and had carried away some of the fences. All the people were thus obliged to take refuge in the church itself, or in the parsonage.

On the 13th of May there were very few dry spots visible on or near the banks of the Red River. Dozens of houses had been carried away, and