WHAT CANADIAN PILOTS DID IN THE CATARACTS OF THE NILE
AND now suppose we follow these Indians to their reservation at Caughnawaga, where the government has given them land and civic rights and encouragement to peaceful ways. The surest time of year to find the pilots at home is the winter season; for then, with navigation frozen up, they have weeks to spend drifting along in the sleepy village life, waiting for the spring. There, in many a hearth-fire circle,—only, alas! the hearth is a commonplace shiny stove more often than not,—we may listen to tales without end of rapids and river, while the men smoke solemnly, and the women do beadwork and moccasins for the next year's peddling. We may hear "Big Baptiste" tell for what exploits of the paddle his head came to be on the ten-dollar bills of Canada, set in dignity and feathers; and hear "Big John," famous for years as a steamboat pilot, describe his annual shooting of the Lachine Rapids at the opening of navigation, when, first of all the pilots, he goes down in his canoe,—this is a time-honored custom,—so that the others may be sure that it is safe to follow.
He will give us the story, too, amid nods of approval, of shooting these same rapids for a wager on a certain New Year's Day, and coming down safely, ice and all. There, sir, is the paddle he used, if you doubt the tale, and the canoe lies out in the snow.
And be sure we shall not have been long in Caughnawaga without hearing of the proud part these Indians took in the British expedition up the Nile in 1884 to relieve Khartum. Treasured in more than one household are these words of Lord Wolseley, written to the governor-general of Canada: "I desire to place on record not only my own opinion, but that of every officer connected with the management of the boat columns, that the services of these voyageurs has been of the greatest possible value.... They have on many occasions shown not only great skill but also great courage in navigating their boats through difficult and dangerous waters."
"How many men did Caughnawaga send on this expedition?" I inquired.
"Fifty-five men besides Louis Jackson," said one of the Indians.
"Oh," said I; "and—and who is Louis Jackson?"
The Indian's face showed plain disgust that there should be any one who did not know all about Louis Jackson.
"Louis Jackson was the leader. He is our chief man. He lives over there."
It resulted in my calling on Mr. Jackson, a big, powerful man, fully meriting, I should say, the high opinion in which he is held. If there is any Indian strain in him it must be very slight; he would pass, rather, for an uncommonly energetic Englishman, with such a fund of adventure to his credit, and so entertaining a way of drawing upon it, that one would listen for hours while he talks.