“Good-bye, Charley, my lad!” said old Mr Kennedy, in an excessively loud voice, as if by such means he intended to crush back some unusual but very powerful feelings that had a peculiar influence on a certain lump in his throat. “Goodbye, my lad; don’t forget to write to your old— Hang it!” said the old man, brushing his coat-sleeve somewhat violently across his eyes, and turning abruptly round as Charley left him and sprang into the boat.—“I say, Grant, I—I—What are you staring at, eh?” The latter part of his speech was addressed, in an angry tone, to an innocent voyageur, who happened accidentally to confront him at the moment.
“Come along, Kennedy,” said Mr Grant, interposing, and grasping his excited friend by the arm—“come with me.”
“Ah, to be sure!—yes,” said he, looking over his shoulder and waving a last adieu to Charley. “Good-bye, God bless you, my dear boy!—I say, Grant, come along; quick, man, and let’s have a pipe—yes, let’s have a pipe.” Mr Kennedy, essaying once more to crush back his rebellious feelings, strode rapidly up the bank, and entering the house, sought to overwhelm his sorrow in smoke: in which attempt he failed.
Chapter Nine.
The voyage—The encampment—A surprise.
It was a fine sight to see the boats depart for the north. It was a thrilling, heart-stirring sight to behold these picturesque, athletic men, on receiving the word of command from their guides, spring lightly into the long, heavy boats; to see them let the oars fall into the water with a loud splash, and then, taking their seats, give way with a will, knowing that the eyes of friends and sweethearts and rivals were bent earnestly upon them. It was a splendid sight to see boat after boat shoot out from the landing-place, and cut through the calm bosom of the river, as the men bent their sturdy backs, until the thick oars creaked and groaned on the gunwales and flashed in the stream, more and more vigorously at each successive stroke, until their friends on the bank, who were anxious to see the last of them, had to run faster and faster in order to keep up with them, as the rowers warmed at their work, and made the water gurgle at the bows—their bright blue and scarlet and white trappings reflected in the dark waters in broken masses of colour, streaked with long lines of shining ripples, as if they floated on a lake of liquid rainbows. And it was a glorious thing to hear the wild, plaintive song, led by one clear, sonorous voice, that rang out full and strong in the still air, while at the close of every two lines the whole brigade burst into a loud, enthusiastic chorus, that rolled far and wide over the smooth waters—telling of their approach to settlers beyond the reach of vision in advance, and floating faintly back, a last farewell, to the listening ears of fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters left behind. And it was interesting to observe how, as the rushing boats sped onwards past the cottages on shore, groups of men and women and children stood before the open doors and waved adieu, while ever and anon a solitary voice rang louder than the others in the chorus, and a pair of dark eyes grew brighter as a voyageur swept past his home, and recognised his little ones screaming farewell, and seeking to attract their sire’s attention by tossing their chubby arms or flourishing round their heads the bright vermilion blades of canoe paddles. It was interesting, too, to hear the men shout as they ran a small rapid which occurs about the lower part of the settlement, and dashed in full career up to the Lower Fort—which stands about twenty miles down the river from Fort Garry—and then sped onward again with unabated energy, until they passed the Indian settlement, with its scattered wooden buildings and its small church; passed the last cottage on the bank; passed the low swampy land at the river’s mouth; and emerged at last, as evening closed, upon the wide, calm, sea-like bosom of Lake Winnipeg.
Charley saw and heard all this during the whole of that long, exciting afternoon, and as he heard and saw it his heart swelled as if it would burst its prison-bars, his voice rang out wildly in the choruses, regardless alike of tune and time, and his spirit boiled within him as he quaffed the first sweet draught of a rover’s life—a life in the woods, the wild, free, enchanting woods, where all appeared in his eyes bright, and sunny, and green, and beautiful!
As the sun’s last rays sank in the west, and the clouds, losing their crimson hue, began gradually to fade into grey, the boats’ heads were turned landward. In a few seconds they grounded on a low point covered with small trees and bushes which stretched out into the lake. Here Louis Peltier had resolved to bivouac for the night. “Now then, mes garçons,” he exclaimed, leaping ashore, and helping to drag the boat a little way on to the beach, “vite, vite! à terre, à terre!—Take the kettle, Pierre, and let’s have supper.”