Hudson Bay by R. M. Ballantyne (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

piled bales of cloth of all colours, capotes, blankets, caps, etcetera; and in smaller divisions were placed files, scalping-knives, gun-screws, flints, balls of twine, fire-steels, canoe-awls, and glass beads of all colours, sizes, and descriptions. Drawers in the counter contained needles, pins, scissors, thimbles, fish-hooks, and vermilion for painting canoes and faces. The floor was strewn with a variety of copper and tin kettles, from half a pint to a gallon; and on a stand in the furthest corner of the room stood about a dozen trading guns, and beside them a keg of powder and a box of shot.

Upon our entrance into this room trade began. First of all, an old Indian laid a pack of furs upon the counter, which Mr Wilson counted and valued. Having done this, he marked the amount opposite the old man’s name in his “Indian book,” and then handed him a number of small pieces of wood. The use of these pieces of wood is explained in the third chapter. The Indian then began to look about him, opening his eyes gradually, as he endeavoured to find out which of the many things before him he would like to have. Sympathising with his eyes, his mouth slowly opened also; and having remained in this state for some time, the former looked at Mr Wilson, and the latter pronounced ahcoup (blanket). Having received the blanket, he paid the requisite number of bits of wood for it, and became abstracted again. In this way he bought a gun, several yards of cloth, a few beads, etcetera, till all his sticks were gone, and he made way for another. The Indians were uncommonly slow, however, and Mr Wilson and I returned to the house in a couple of hours, with very cold toes and fingers, and exceedingly blue noses.

During winter we breakfasted usually at nine o’clock; then sat down to the desk till one, when we dined. After dinner we resumed our pens till six, when we had tea; and then wrote again till eight; after which we either amused ourselves with books (of which we had a few), kicked up a row, or, putting on our snow-shoes, went off to pay a moonlight visit to our traps. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, however, we did no work, and generally spent these days in shooting.

It is only at the few principal establishments of the Company, where the accounts of the country are collected annually, to be forwarded to the Hudson Bay House in London, that so much writing is necessary.

As the Christmas holidays approached, we prepared for the amusements of that joyous season. On the morning before Christmas, a gentleman, who had spent the first part of the winter all alone at his outpost, arrived to pass the holidays at York Factory. We were greatly delighted to have a new face to look at, having seen no one but ourselves since the ship left for England, nearly four months before.

Our visitor had travelled in a dog cariole. This machine is very narrow, just broad enough to admit one person. It is a wooden frame covered with deer-skin parchment, painted gaudily, and is generally drawn by four Esquimaux dogs (see note 3). Dogs are invaluable in the Arctic regions, where horses are utterly useless, owing to the depth of snow which covers the earth for so large a portion of the year. The comparatively light weight of the dogs enables them to walk without sinking much; and even when the snow is so soft as to be incapable of supporting them, they are still able to sprawl along more easily than any other species of quadruped could do. Four are usually attached to a sledge, which they haul with great vigour; being followed by a driver on snow-shoes, whose severe lash is brought to bear so powerfully on the backs of the poor animals, should any of them be observed to slacken their pace, that they are continually regarding him with deprecatory glances as they run along. Should the lash give a flourish, there is generally a short yelp from the pack; and should it descend amongst them with a vigorous crack, the vociferous yelling that results is perfectly terrific. These drivers are sometimes very cruel; and when a pack of dogs have had a fight, and got their traces hopelessly ravelled (as is often the case), they have been known to fall on their knees in their passion, seize one of the poor dogs by the nose with their teeth, and almost bite it off. Dogs are also used for dragging carioles, which vehicles are used by gentlemen in the Company’s service who are either too old or too lazy to walk on snow-shoes. The cariole is in form not unlike a slipper bath, both in shape and size. It is lined with buffalo robes, in the midst of a bundle of which the occupant reclines luxuriously, while the dogs drag him slowly through the soft snow, and among the trees and bushes of the forest, or scamper with him over the hard-beaten surface of a lake or river; while the machine is prevented from capsizing by a voyageur who walks behind on snow-shoes, holding on to a line attached to the back part of the cariole. The weather during winter is so cold that it is often a matter of the greatest difficulty for the traveller to keep his toes from freezing, despite the buffalo robes; and sometimes, when the dogs start fresh in the morning, with a good breakfast, a bright, clear, frosty day, and a long expanse of comparatively open country before them, where the snow from exposure has become quite hard, away they go with a loud yelp, upsetting the driver in the bolt, who rises to heap undeserved and very improper epithets upon the poor brutes, who, careering over the ground at the rate of eleven miles an hour, swing the miserable cariole over the snow, tear it through the bushes, bang it first on one side, then on the other, against stumps and trees, yelling all the while, partly with frantic glee at the thought of having bolted, and partly with fearful anticipation of the tremendous welting that is to come; until at last the cariole gets jammed hard and fast among the trees of the forest, or plunges down the steep bank of a river head over heels till they reach the foot—a horrible and struggling compound of dogs, traveller, traces, parchment, buffalo robes, blankets, and snow!

Christmas morning dawned, and I opened my eyes to behold the sun flashing brightly on the window, in its endeavours to make a forcible entry into my room, through the thick hoar-frost which covered the panes. Presently I became aware of a gentle breathing near me, and, turning my eyes slowly round, I beheld my companion Crusty standing on tiptoe, with a tremendous grin on his countenance, and a huge pillow in his hands, which was in the very act of descending upon my devoted head. To collapse into the smallest possible compass, and present the most invulnerable part of my body to the blow, was the work of an instant, when down came the pillow, bang! “Hooroo! hurroo! hurroo! a merry Christmas to you, you rascal!” shouted Crusty. Bang! bang! went the pillow. “Turn out of that, you lazy lump of plethoric somnolescence,” whack!—and, twirling the ill-used pillow round his head, my facetious friend rushed from the room, to bestow upon the other occupants of the hall a similar salutation. Upon recovering from the effects of my pommelling, I sprang from bed and donned my clothes with all speed, and then went to pay my friend Mr Wilson the compliments of the season. In passing through the hall for this purpose, I discovered Crusty struggling in the arms of the skipper, who, having wrested the pillow from him, was now endeavouring to throttle him partially. I gently shut and fastened the door of their room, purposing to detain them there till very nearly too late for breakfast, and then sat down with Mr Wilson to discuss our intended proceedings during the day. These were—firstly, that we should go and pay a ceremonious visit to the men; secondly, that we should breakfast; thirdly, that we should go out to shoot partridges; fourthly, that we should return to dinner at five; and fifthly, that we should give a ball in Bachelors’ Hall in the evening, to which were to be invited all the men at the fort, and all the Indians, men, women, and children, inhabiting the country for thirty miles round. As the latter, however, did not amount to above twenty, we did not fear that more would come than our hall was calculated to accommodate. In pursuance, then, of these resolutions, I cleaned my gun, freed my prisoners just as the breakfast-bell was ringing, and shortly afterwards went out to shoot. I will not drag the reader after me, but merely say that we all returned about dusk, with game-bags full, and appetites ravenous.

Our Christmas dinner was a good one, in a substantial point of view; and a very pleasant one, in a social point of view. We ate it in the winter mess-room; and really (for Hudson Bay) this was quite a snug and highly decorated apartment. True, there was no carpet on the floor, and the chairs were home-made; but then the table was mahogany, and the walls were hung round with several large engravings in bird’s-eye maple frames. The stove, too, was brightly polished with black lead, and the painting of the room had been executed with a view to striking dumb those innocent individuals who had spent the greater part of their lives at outposts, and were, consequently, accustomed to domiciles and furniture of the simplest and most unornamental description. On the present grand occasion the mess-room was illuminated by an argand lamp, and the table covered with a snow-white cloth, whereon reposed a platter containing a beautiful, fat, plump wild-goose, which had a sort of come-eat-me-up-quick-else-I’ll-melt expression about it that was painfully delicious. Opposite to this smoked a huge roast of beef, to procure which one of our most useless draught oxen had been sacrificed. This, with a dozen of white partridges, and a large piece of salt pork, composed our dinner. But the greatest rarities on the board were two large decanters of port wine, and two smaller ones of Madeira. These were flanked by tumblers and glasses; and truly, upon the whole, our dinner made a goodly show.

“Come away, gentlemen,” said Mr Grave, as we entered the room and approached the stove where he stood, smiling with that benign expression of countenance peculiar to stout, good-natured gentlemen at this season, and at this particular hour. “Your walk must have sharpened your appetites; sit down, sit down. This way, doctor—sit near me; find a place, Mr Ballantyne, beside your friend Crusty there; take the foot, Mr Wilson;” and amid a shower of such phrases we seated ourselves and began.

At the top of the table sat Mr Grave, indistinctly visible through the steam that rose from the wild-goose before him. On his right and left sat the doctor and the accountant; and down from them sat the skipper, four clerks, and Mr Wilson, whose honest face beamed with philanthropic smiles at the foot of the table. Loud were the mirth and fun that reigned on this eventful day within the walls of the highly decorated room at York Factory. Bland was the expression of Mr Grave’s face when he asked each of the young clerks to drink wine with him in succession; and great was the confidence which thereby inspired the said clerks, prompting them to the perpetration of several rash and unparalleled pieces of presumption—such as drinking wine with each other (an act of free-will on their part almost unprecedented), and indulging in sundry sly pieces of covert humour, such as handing the vinegar to each other