SHOOTING A RAPID
‘Early on Monday morning we are once more in our canoe, and soon get into Matawakumma Lake, in which we paddle for five hours in very heavy rain. Soaked quite through, we feel not a little glad to step ashore on the friendly beach, and find ourselves once more with civilised man.’
And ere long the time came for the bishop’s sore trial of parting with wife and children. The two youngest must go to an English school. But ‘who was to take them?’ he writes. ‘There was no one but their dear mother, and although it was hard to part with her in this dreary and solitary land, it was absolutely necessary; and they were to be accompanied by my eldest son, Dr. Horden, who had spent the winter with us. Our annual ship came early, and the party was to start in her on her return voyage. I spent one night on board. Next morning, at an early hour, the ship’s guns told us that the voyage had commenced. I remained until after breakfast, and then, after a sorrowful farewell, I left in a boat, and in a few minutes found myself on the deck of the schooner bound for Fort George.
‘Now the way to Fort George is, in part, the way to England, and so the two vessels started in company. The day was beautiful, the wind was fair, and we made good progress; but the great ship, spreading more canvas, gradually got ahead—late in the evening she was about twelve miles distant, and I thought we had seen the last of her. That night and the next day the weather was very wild and disagreeable, but the day, after all, was once more prosperous, and soon after breakfast we espied our huge companion a few miles to the west of us. She drew towards us, and when we saw the last of her, as night came on, she was about ten miles ahead.
‘The following day we should easily have reached our destination had the weather been clear; as it was, we could not venture near the dangerous coast. On Sunday the weather cleared up, the high land of Wastekan Island came in sight, and by-and-by the low and dangerous lead islands. Then the wild and uninviting land all around showed we were at the mouth of Big River, the tortuous channel of which we carefully threaded, and at four o’clock we dropped anchor in front of the little village, consisting only of six or eight houses.
‘I was agreeably surprised to find a large number of my red friends assembled on the beach to greet me. I at once collected them together, and we had a most interesting service. Later in the evening we had the English-speaking people and the crew of our vessel, making altogether quite a respectable congregation. On Friday morning we had to say good-bye, and once more go on board. The next day was dark and dismal, the wind blowing a hurricane, while the sea ran mountains high. At noon we caught a momentary sight of land, but we were obliged to stand out, as we could not see our way through the tortuous course to Moose. No one on board slept a moment that night. The storm abated in the morning, and at daybreak we were once more sailing in the right direction; in the afternoon the wind was very light, and a little after six o’clock we landed at Moose. I made my way to my own house; the loved ones, who were accustomed to greet me with such joy on my return, were far away, battling with the great Atlantic waves.... They were gone, and it ill became me to sit down and mope; so I set to work to drive melancholy away. More work came upon me than I had calculated upon.
‘This was the only winter that Mr. Saunders, the Ojibbeway clergyman, could be at Moose for a long time, and I could not translate into the Ojibbeway tongue without his assistance. We first attacked the Moosonee hymn-book. This finished, we commenced the Prayer-book, and having finished the morning prayers we put it aside to get one of the Gospels done. The great diversity of languages in the diocese vastly increases our labour—Cree, Ojibbeway, Chipwyan, and Eskimo—and there must be separate translations for each. The English school, too, I manage myself, with over thirty scholars. They are a happy lot, very well behaved, with a great love for their school—as a proof of which I need only say that there has been scarcely an absentee for the winter. All this, with sermons, visiting my people, correspondence, which grows instead of diminishing, keeps me thoroughly employed every day from morning to night. The winter hitherto has been a very mild one. When it stands at or a little above zero, we consider it decidedly warm.