The bishop was speedily immersed in work. Only a few days after his return he confirmed forty-five young Indians, men and women who had been carefully prepared by Mr. Vincent. Later on he confirmed all the English-speaking young people, both half-caste and Indian. His heart was cheered by the progress made in the mission during his absence. The church was not large enough to contain the congregation. The winter came and passed.
The spring-tide of 1883 was not a cheerful one, and the bishop felt the contrast between the scene in his out-of-the-world home and the surroundings in which he had passed the preceding year. ‘Mispoor, mispoor, mispoor’—‘Snow, snow, snow,’ he wrote on May 2, ‘everything white, the ground all covered, the river all dead and still—the ice-covering four feet thick.... I turned to my table and found comfort from reading a portion of the Book of books, God’s great gift to mankind, until I was called to prayers. Family prayers they were, and yet no member of my family knelt with me; the nearest is a hundred miles distant, the rest thousands.’
Not until May 21 did the ice begin to break. ‘On Trinity Sunday I looked out at three o’clock—all was still, and I lay down again. At five I once more looked out—the operation of breaking-up had commenced. In the evening the river, which for so many months had shown no signs of life, was rolling on in a vast flood.’
In the summer of this year whooping-cough once more broke out at Moose and Albany. At the latter place forty-four died of it; amongst the number the bishop’s infant grandson. At Moose, the illness raged almost as fiercely. Day after day funerals are recorded by the bishop, who was much depressed by the mourning and sadness around him. ‘Could I,’ he says, ‘when the service is over, come back to a cheerful home, it would be different, but I come back to the once joyous, but now solitary house, to hear my own footsteps, and to feed upon my own thoughts.’
On August 22 a terrible storm broke over Moose. The morning dawned brightly, and everything betokened a beautiful summer day. The sun shone out, the air was warm, and the wind blew from the south-east. After breakfast the wind grew stronger and yet stronger, until it became a perfect hurricane. Forest trees bent like wands, some were torn up by the roots, others snapped in two. The river was like a tempest-tossed sea. The great flagstaff of the Hudson’s Bay Company came down with a mighty crash. The mission flagstaff swayed to and fro, threatening every instant to fall. The houses suffered little, being built of solid logs, strongly bolted together with iron bolts. That Wednesday night was a fearful one, the next day not quite so bad. The weather continued dull and raining. The ship was expected, and a load of anxiety would be removed by its arrival. But September dawned, and there was no ship!
‘It is now September 5, and one of the gloomiest days I have known for a very long time. The haycocks are lying in the fields, thoroughly drenched, and turning black from their long exposure to the daily downpour. The potatoes are cut down by the heavy frost of last Saturday, and the barley lies prostrate. All this we could bear, but this year there is a fear that we may have to depend more on what our fields may give than is generally the case, for as yet there is no ship. We have had a vessel lying at the river’s mouth for nearly a month waiting for her, and every face begins to look serious. There is good cause, for there are not sufficient supplies here for another year. Of wine there is none. Of medicine, scarcely any. A restriction has been put on the sale of food and clothing; the supply is scanty, and the look-out is really very dark indeed. What adds so much to our gloom is the saddening fact that death is still amongst us, carrying off our little ones amid great suffering.’
The 7th of September passed, but the joyful cry of ‘The ship is come!’ had not been raised. The hearts of the watchers began to grow sick with hope deferred, and all sorts of conjectures were formed as to the cause of the delay. On September 10 the bishop wrote, ‘Our gloom deepens as day succeeds day, and we get no tidings of our ship. There are parties here from distant stations all waiting, but in a couple of days all must leave, so as to burden us no longer for the provisions they require. September 15. Our ship has not come, and I am afraid now it will not come. You can have no idea of our state of anxiety. She may come yet, and I trust she may; but it is now so late that we are beginning to give up hope. And here we are, with no medicine or wine for the sick, scarcely any candles, a very limited supply of tea and sugar, a very scanty supply of clothing, only half a crop of potatoes, and no hope of improvement for nearly twelve months. I feel that we must not run these risks in future. It is absolutely necessary that we should have at Moose a full year’s supply for all our missions in this quarter. It must be done,[2] and I shall require 500l., which will be expended in the purchase of flour, tea, sugar, salt pork, bacon, preserved Australian beef, &c. We shall then always have a year’s stock of necessaries on hand, and so be independent for one year of the ship’s arrival.’
At last, when all hope had fled from the breasts of those who so long had watched, and watched in vain, on the morning of September 21 the cry was raised, ‘The ship’s come!’ ‘Magic words,’ the bishop wrote, ‘which entirely changed the current of our thoughts.’
The flag was hoisted to announce the event, and everyone was full of grateful joy, everyone busy with a helping hand, for the weather was already winterly, with snow falling every day, and the ship must start quickly on her return voyage. The danger was that she might not reach home again in safety so late in the season. She had been delayed for weeks in the ice in coming out, and the return voyage was indeed a terrible one. The water in the ship’s tanks froze some inches thick, and heavy gales and blinding snow-storms accompanied her until she reached England late in November.
Moosonee has two ports, Moose Factory and York Factory, and the York ship that year could not return to England at all. She had arrived at York when the people were almost in despair, and had then set out for Churchill, where she was weather-bound. This place is so small and out of the world, that as soon as possible the crew was transferred to York Factory, where there was better accommodation for them, the men having to walk thither two hundred miles on snow-shoes.