So there they go through the ice-choked river, swinging their paddles lustily, every pilot of them, heads nodding under black astrakhan caps, shoulders heaving, off for home. Now they strike the first solid place, and the men forward climb out carefully and heave up the boat's nose a couple of feet to see if the ice will hold her. Then all climb out, and with dragging and pushing get ahead for a hundred feet or so. See, now they stop and swing their arms! Already the pitiless wind is biting through their furs. And think of that poor woman!
Presently they reach an open spot some dozen yards across, and all but one take places in the boat, the stern man standing behind on the ice to push off, and then, with nicely judged effort, spring aboard as he gives the last impulse that shoots her into the river.
From the open space they paddle into a jam of grinding ice-blocks that hold hard against them, but are scarce solid enough to bear the sledges. They must work through somehow, poling and fending, to yonder heaped-up ledge, where up they go again on a great rough raft of ice that will test their muscles and their skill before they get across, and drift them a quarter of a mile or so up-stream while they are doing it.
Up-stream, did I say? Yes, for there is this odd thing about the St. Lawrence, even at Quebec, that its current streams up and down, up and down, as the tide changes. For seven hours the river conquers the tide, and the water runs down to sea. Then for five hours the tide conquers the river, and the water runs up from the sea. So now, after all their toiling, they are actually further from home than when they started. They should have set out just before the turn of tide (that was their plan), but they waited until just after the turn, and will pay for the delay and their yarn spinning with an hour more of this ice-fighting than they need have had—and an hour out there is a long, long time.
Even here, on the bank, much less than an hour is enough of time. The cold grows piercing. The day is drawing to a close. The sky is dull. The river grinds on with its grayish burden. On the heights of Levis, opposite, some lights of early evening break out. There also pilots live, Indians come from an Indian village down the river, where they make the peerless birch canoes. All along this grand St. Lawrence live men whose business it is to face unusual perils, whose nerve fails them not, whether paddling some frail bark through furious rapids or guiding a steamboat down a raging torrent, with many lives in their keeping.
We must see more of these men, and watch them at their work. We must see the Iroquois pilots at their reservation near Montreal, the lads Lord Wolseley took with him up the Nile to brave its cataracts, when the English set out, in 1884, to bring relief to Gordon. We must see "Big John," famous now for years as wheelsman of the great excursion boats that shoot the rage of waters at Lachine. We must see the raftsmen, too, and—ah, but it is cold here!—let us climb the cliff again and find some shelter.