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THE CAMERON “CLAIM,” WILLIAM’S CREEK, CARIBOO.

(See [page 373].)

Before the cloth was drawn—metaphorically—i.e., whilst we were still occupied with plum pudding, Dr. B——l, who had shown symptoms of restlessness for some time, could repress the flood of eloquence rising within him no longer, and having succeeded in catching the president’s eye, and received a permissive nod in return, rose cautiously on his legs. A vigorous rapping on the table procured silence, and Dr. B——l, steadying himself by the table with one tremulous hand, and waving the other gracefully towards ourselves, while the ever-beaming smile irradiated his countenance, proposed Milton’s health in most glowing terms, winding up his panegyric with a request for three-times-three, and “He’s a jolly good fellow.” These were given uproariously—the Hudson’s Bay man leading, and Janet bringing in an effective soprano.

The eloquent Dr. B——l again rose, and proposed the health of the other visitor in similar eulogistic terms, and that was drunk with all the honours. When thanks had been returned by the honoured guests in an appropriate manner, the irrepressible Dr. B——l rose for the third time, and with grave countenance reproached the host for his reprehensible neglect in omitting to propose the health of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen. Dr. B——k felt humiliated; and although urging in extenuation the precipitation with which his friend had proposed the other toasts, fully acknowledged the gross disloyalty of which he had been unintentionally guilty. He trusted the circumstance might never come to Her Majesty’s knowledge; and he could assure the company that the spark of loyalty never burnt brighter in any breast than his. From his childhood he had been ready—nay, he might say wishful—to die for his Queen and country. Animated by that desire, he had gone out with the British army to the Crimea, and now, marching in the van of civilisation in Cariboo, he was ready to die in the cause.

When Her Majesty’s health had been drunk amidst hearty applause, we adjourned to the kitchen. More healths were drunk. Janet made a very pretty speech, and presented Milton with a handsome nugget; Billy Ferren followed suit with a second. Then each gave one to Cheadle with similar ceremony. The irrepressible Dr. B——l rose every few minutes to propose anew the health of one or other of the “illustrious travellers,” and was remorselessly sung down by the equally indefatigable Hudson’s Bay man, who always had “Annie Laurie” ready for the emergency, and all joined in the chorus, and the obtrusive speaker was ultimately overpowered. At last his eyes became glassy, his smile disappeared, and he sat in his chair gloomily silent. All at once, however, he got up, and rushing across the room, made ineffectual attempts to force an exit through the mantelpiece, bobbing against it very much after the fashion of a bird trying to escape through a pane of glass; whereupon he was seized by the assistant, and led off into a bedroom. Cards were now introduced, and we were initiated into “High, Low, Jack and the Game,” and “Pitch seven up,” but were presently disturbed by a tremendous crash in the bedroom adjoining; the assistant ran out, and found Dr. B——l on the floor, having rolled off the bed into a miscellaneous collection of pots, pans, brushes, and etceteras which had been put there out of the way.

After this interruption conviviality reigned again. We played “Pitch seven up” till we were too sleepy to see the cards; the Hudson’s Bay man tuned up indiscriminately, Janet sang “Auld Robin Gray” five or six times, “Billy the Bladge” carried on a fierce argument with the manager of the bank on colonial politics, everybody talked at the same time, smoked and drank whisky until far on towards daylight, when we turned out into the cold night with the thermometer standing at five degrees, and made our way back to Cusheon’s.

On the 30th of October, having spent ten days in William’s Creek, we resumed our packs, and bade adieu to Cusheon’s, Cameron Town, and Judge Cox, and started for the Mouth of Quesnelle. The snow had fallen to the depth of six or seven inches, but this had been well beaten by previous passengers. We reached the banks of the Fraser in three days, with far greater ease than we had walked the same distance on our way in. To our dismay, we found that the steamer to Soda Creek had stopped running for the winter; but were relieved to learn that an open boat would start for that place on the following day, in which we took our passages. The owner of the boat, Mr. McBride, was one of a party which had ascended the Fraser, and crossed to Peace River by Stuart’s and McLeod’s Lakes, during the summer. They had followed the Peace River right through the Rocky Mountains, and as far as Fort Dunegan, on the eastern side. He described the country on the west of the mountains as resembling the ordinary Fraser River country; but that to the east of them a mixture of fine woods and fertile prairies, abounding in game. On the banks of Smoky River, one of the tributaries of Peace River, numerous craters were observed, emitting dense volumes of smoke and sulphurous gases from upwards of thirty funnel-shaped apertures, the size of ordinary stove-pipes. The banks were in many parts covered with a deposit of pure sulphur. On Tribe or Nation River, another tributary, they found slate-rock and quartz veins, and very good diggings on some of the bars.

The boat in which we embarked was a large, strongly-built one, constructed on purpose for the journey to Peace River. Forty passengers were crowded into it, packed close as negroes in a slaver. The day was very cold, and the snow fell heavily, wetting us through before long; and the pools of “slush,” which formed at the bottom of the boat, made our feet ache again with cold. A little below Quesnelle Mouth is a rather dangerous “riffle,” or rapid, of lumpy water, where the whirlpool is said to have sucked down canoes head foremost. We shot this safely, although we shipped some water, and continued to run down the stream at a great pace, until just after passing Alexandria, when we stuck fast on a shallow rapid. The boat could not be got off by any amount of pushing, and McBride called for volunteers to jump overboard, and lighten the boat. Five or six fellows at once responded, and as the boat was still immovable, each took another on his back, and proceeded towards the shore. One little fellow, carrying a huge six-feet Yankee, stumbled and fell, with his rider; both were soused overhead, and essayed several times in vain to gain their legs, for the current was so powerful that it swept them down at each attempt. The lookers-on roared with laughter, but it was no joke to the sufferers to be immersed in the icy waters of the Fraser on such a day. The boat was now lifted off the shallow, the waders re-embarked, and we continued our course until nearly dark, when McBride proposed to land and camp for the night, as we were still many miles from Soda Creek, and there were several awkward rapids before us. A few daredevils voted for going forward, but the majority decided against it, and we pulled in to the bank, at a place where there were some large stacks of wood, cut for the use of the steamer. Every one now tried to strike a light, but Milton was the first to succeed, and we were soon surrounded by a circle of roaring fires, at the expense of the owners of the Quesnelle steamboat. McBride produced some loaves and a flitch of bacon, which very soon disappeared before the fierce attacks of the hungry party, and we then turned in on couches of pine boughs. It snowed fast all night, and we woke up in the morning under a thick white counterpane. There was nothing for breakfast, and as soon as the morning mists cleared away from the river we took to the boat again, and reached Soda Creek safely in about a couple of hours. We had taken our places in the “express wagon,” running between this place and Yale with letters and gold; but, as the express-man had not yet returned from Cariboo, we walked on fourteen miles to Davidson’s, near William’s Lake. The farm here is, perhaps, the finest in British Columbia, comprising several hundred acres of low land on the borders of the lake, the delta of a small stream which enters at this point. Potatoes and other vegetables, barley and oats, flourish wonderfully. Wheat had been sown for the first time that year, and was already above ground, but looked rather starved and yellow. The scenery of William’s Lake is very beautiful; bold, rugged hills rising up grandly on the west.

The day after our arrival at Davidson’s a large party of miners came in with the intelligence that a boat which left the Mouth of Quesnelle the day after we did had been swamped in the rapids below. Seven or eight persons were drowned, and one of the lucky survivors was a man who carried several pounds’ weight of gold in a belt round his waist. The force of the current literally threw him ashore, and he managed to scramble out.