Forty-two years amongst the Indians and Eskimo

by Beatrice Batty

May was cold and damp this year; snow and ice abounded, and the ground was still almost bare of pasture. Flocks of snowbirds were about, which were pursued by the boys with bows and arrows, and a few American robins sang among the leafless trees; but the geese, like everything else, failed. Day after day the Indian went forth to his goose-stand in the marsh, arranged his decoys, loaded his guns, and sat and called, hoping that a flight of geese would be enticed by the friendly voice to come and visit his flock of dummies. But no geese came, and the hunter returned each evening disconsolate and supperless to his tent. When the kettle on the fire is well filled with mechim (food), there is joy in the camp, and the Indian does not heed the weather—storm rain, and snow are to him of no account; but with wife and children hungering around him things are sad indeed; and thus they were in the month of May.

The summer proved a sickly one in all the district. In June the bishop went to Rupert’s House, and whilst working there from morning till night amongst the great body of Indians congregated for the season, the influenza broke out, and he became at once doctor and nurse, until he was himself attacked. He was for some time very unwell, and his voice went. Mr. and Mrs. Nevitt had left to go home by the annual ship, Mr. Nevitt’s health having failed, and Mr. Richards was at Moose, so he could not, and would not, give in, except for a day or two. Happily, he was in the house of his dear daughter Chrissie, where every possible attention was given him. ‘The voice returned, but strength was slow in coming.’ Then his much loved little granddaughter was attacked very severely, and it was a sore trial to have to leave her, still hovering between life and death, when he was obliged to return to Moose. A long time elapsed before he could hear from Rupert’s House. Then at last came a little letter from the child herself to tell of her recovery.

In August, 1891, an event happened which was destined to be of very great importance to the diocese of Moosonee. This was the arrival at Fort Moose of the Rev. J. A. Newnham. The bishop had met and conversed with Mr. Newnham on his visit to Montreal in the previous year, and finding how his heart was yearning for the mission cause in Moosonee, he had invited him to join him there.

‘I was charmed,’ wrote Mr. Newnham, ‘with my first acquaintance with Moose. My room in the bishop’s house looks over a small encampment of about forty tents and sixty dogs. Just now is the busy season; the hay is being carried, and the ship unloaded, but quite a congregation gathers every evening at 6·30 for a short service. I attended it my first evening on shore, and was much struck with the hearty responses, and the clear and true singing of our well-known hymn tunes.’

After the service Mr. Newnham was introduced to the Indians, who greeted him with ‘What cheer?’ their form of ‘How do you do?’ As he sat in his study later, he could see them constantly coming to the house. The bishop never locked his door; even in the night it was left unfastened, and anyone might come to him at any hour for assistance or advice.

The bishop spent nearly the whole of this year at Moose, devoting all his leisure to the translation of the Cree Bible. He hoped to have the whole of the Old Testament ready for the press by midsummer 1892. The revision of the New Testament, which had been printed many years before, would occupy him, he said, during the following winter. Again he wrote, ‘and this will be the crowning work of my life, which will give spiritual food to my people for generations after my decease.’ In less than a year after these words were penned, the earnest worker and writer lay in his grave, his work on earth done.

Towards the close of the year 1891, Archdeacon Vincent lost his wife, who had long been in a declining state. He brought her to Moose for burial. On December 20 the bishop preached the funeral sermon from the words, ‘It is well.’ These had been almost her last words before her death. Returning with the archdeacon to Albany, Bishop Horden there spent Christmas and New Year’s Day. It was his last winter trip to Albany. ‘The last,’ he wrote, ‘that I shall in all probability ever undertake. My first winter trip to Albany took place long, long ago, forty years ago this very month! I was then young and active, and thought nothing a hardship; I could sleep in the open, bivouac with the cold bright sky overhead, with the thermometer 40° below zero. I had no back, nor legs, nor shoulders; at least I had them as well as now, and much better; I merely did not know of their existence from any pain or inconvenience they caused me. But forty years make a difference. I know now that I have several members of my body, and these tell me in the most unmistakable manner that there must be no more getting over the rough snow and ice, and that the discomforts of a cold smoky tent must be no longer endured, unless there be absolute necessity. They tell me that, for the future, winter travelling must not be indulged in. And we must bow to the inevitable; we cannot be always young; the halting step and the grey head will come, and why should we dread their approach, when we know that “if the earthly house of our tabernacle be dissolved, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens”?

‘I am not, however, writing a sermon. I was about to speak of my last winter journey to Albany. I wished to go there, because there was very little hope of my going next summer. At seven o’clock on the morning of December 21, I was sitting in my sledge, and ten beautiful dogs in excellent condition were being harnessed thereto, each having its own single trace, by which it was attached to the sledge. The archdeacon occupied a second sledge. When all were harnessed, there was a great howling, and jumping, and tugging, for the dogs were anxious to be off, but the sledge was too firmly moored for their united strength until all was ready; then the binding rope was cast off, howling ceased in a moment, each dog hauled with all his might, and we were away at the rate of ten miles an hour. The fine tails of the dogs were curled up over their backs, they were overjoyed to be once more on the road. The great pace was not long kept up, but settled into between five and six miles an hour, and so it continued throughout the day. To the music of our dog-bells we rushed down the river, soon losing sight of Moose, on past Middleborough Island, through Hay Creek, and then over a rough uncomfortable sort of plain at North Bluff, where stands the great beacon erected to attract the attention of our annual ship, and to tell her that she is nearing the place of her destination.

‘Near the beacon we brought up for awhile, to give the dogs a rest. We had accomplished half of our day’s work, and had come about eighteen miles. We are soon off again; the air is very comfortable, and all our sensations are pleasurable as we run across North Bay, past Jarvis Bluff and Little Piskwamisk on to Piskwamisk, where our first “hotel” is situated—a small circular erection, gradually getting smaller towards the top, where a number of poles meet together; the whole is covered with snow, the doorway is blocked up with snow—as comfortless looking a place as can well be imagined. This is our hotel, and we at once set about making it as habitable as we can. The snow is dug away from the entrance with our snow-shoes, as well as from the sides, that there may be no dripping from its melting as the evening advances. Wood is carried in and a fire lit, and when a good beef-steak has been fried and a strong cup of tea made and partaken of, we almost fall in love with our smoky hotel, and at any rate think it far preferable to the open bivouac in the heaven-covered forest.

‘On the second day the weather was very warm, and much rain fell in the early part, but we continued on our way, having but twenty-five miles to travel, which brought us to our second hotel at Keshepinakok.