The Big Otter Read online

  CHAPTER TWO.

  THE WINTER PACKET.

  On returning next morning towards the outpost from our encampment in thewoods, Lumley and I made a discovery which excited us greatly. It wasnothing more than a track in the snow, but there was a revelation in thetrack which sent the blood tingling through our veins.

  It was not the track of a Polar bear. We should have been somewhatsurprised, no doubt, but not greatly excited by that. Neither was itthe track of a deer or an Arctic fox. It was only the track of asledge!

  "Is that all?" exclaims the reader. No, that is not all. But, in orderthat you may understand it better, let me explain.

  Fort Dunregan, in which we dwelt, stood more than a thousand milesdistant from the utmost verge of civilised life in Canada. We wereburied, so to speak, in the heart of the great northern wilderness. Ournearest neighbour lived in an outpost between one and two hundred milesdistant, similar to our own in all respects but even more lonely, beingin charge of a certain Scotsman named Macnab, whose army of occupationconsisted of only six men and two Indian women! The forests around uswere not peopled. Those vast solitudes were indeed here and therebroken in upon, as it were, by a few families of wandering Red-Indians,who dwelt in movable tents--were here to-day and away to-morrow--butthey could not be said to be peopled, except by deer and bears and foxesand kindred spirits.

  Of course, therefore, we were far beyond the every day influences ofcivilised life. We had no newspapers, no mails; no communicationwhatever, in short, with the outer world except twice in the year. Theone occasion was in summer, when a brigade of boats arrived with ouroutfit of goods for the year's trade with the few scattered Indiansabove referred to; the other occasion was in the depth of our apparentlyinterminable winter, when a packet of letters was forwarded from outpostto outpost throughout the land by the agents of the Hudson's Bay Companywhich we served.

  This half-yearly interval between mails had a double effect on ourminds. In the first place, it induced a strange feeling that the greatworld and all its affairs were things of the past, with which we hadlittle or nothing to do--a sort of dream--and that the little world ofour outpost, with its eight or ten men and three or four Indian women,its hunting, and trapping, and firewood-cutting, and fishing, andtrading, and small domestic arrangements and dissensions, was the oneplace of vital importance and interest, before which empires anddynasties and the trifling matter of politics sank into mereinsignificance! In the second place, it created an intense longing--ahungering and thirsting--for news of our kindred "at home."

  Our chief, Mr Strang, and our two selves, with another fellow-clerk whowas named Spooner, as well as most of our men, were from "the oldcountry," where we had left fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters--in somecases sweethearts--behind us. It may be conceived then with whatanxiety and yearning we looked forward to the periodical break in theweary six months of total silence that had enveloped us. Men incivilised, or even semi-civilised communities, cannot understand this.Convicts on penal servitude for long periods may have some faint notionof it, but even these have periods of literary intercourse morefrequently than we had. The reader must just take the statement ontrust therefore, that our anxious yearnings were remarkably powerful.What might not have occurred in these six months of dark silence! Whomight not have been married, born, laid low by sickness, banished to theends of the earth like ourselves, or even removed by death!

  Is it surprising, then, that we caught our breath and flushed, and thatour hearts leaped when we came unexpectedly upon the track of the twomen who had dragged news from home for hundreds of miles over the snow?We knew the tracks well. Our intimate acquaintance with every speciesof track that was possible in that particular region, rendered a mistakeout of the question. There was the step of the leader, who wore asnow-shoe the shape of which, although not unknown, was somewhatunfamiliar to us. There was the print of the sled, or toboggan, whichwas different in pattern from those used at Dunregan, and there was thefootprint of the man in rear, whose snow-shoe also made an unfamiliarimpression.

  "The packet!" exclaimed Lumley, opening his solemn grey eyes to theirwidest as he looked up from the track to me.

  "At last!" I returned, unconsciously betraying the prolonged state ofsuspense with which my mind had been afflicted.

  "Come along!" said my companion, starting off homeward at a pace thatwas almost too much for me.

  We soon reached the outpost, and there stood the makers of the trackwhich had roused in us so much excitement.

  Two strong men, chosen expressly for a duty which required mentalendurance and perseverance as well as physical vigour. They stood atthe door of the entrance-hall, talking with Mr Strang, the one with hissnow-shoes slung over his shoulder on the butt of his gun, the otherusing the same implements as a rest for his hands, while Spooner, in astate of great excitement, was hastily undoing the lashings of the sled,to get at the precious box which contained "the packet."

  "Well, gentlemen, here it is at last," said our chief, with a genialsmile as we came up.

  "Yes, we followed the track immediately we struck it," said Lumley,stooping to assist Spooner in his work.

  We soon had the box carried to our chief's private room, while the twostrangers were had off by our men to their own house, there to befeasted on venison, ptarmigan, salt-pork, fish, and pease-pudding tosatiety, and afterwards "pumped" to a state of exhaustion.

  I followed our chief, who had a provokingly deliberate way of openingthe packet and examining its contents, while my feverish agitation andexpectancy increased. There was a humorous twinkle in his eye, Ithought, which told of mischievous purpose, while he kept up a murmuringcommentary.

  "Hm! as I expected--no news from Macnab. What's this?--ah! TheGovernor! A voluminous epistle, and--hallo! Lumley's friends must befond of him. His packet is the biggest in the box. And Spooner too,not so bad for him. Here, take these to them. Stay--here is a bundleof letters for the men. You'd better deliver these yourself."

  I hesitated, while a mist of great darkness began to descend on my soul.

  "Nothing for me, sir?" I asked faintly.

  "There seems to be--nothing--stay! what's this?--why, I thought it was abig book, but, yes, it _is_ a packet for you, Mr Maxby--there!"

  My heart leaped into my mouth--almost out of it--as I received a thickpacket wrapped in newspaper.

  Hastening to what was called the clerk's winter house with thesetreasures I distributed them, and handed the men's packet to one ofthemselves, who was eagerly awaiting it. Then I went to my room andbarricaded the door to prevent interruption.

  In Bachelors' Hall, as we styled our apartments, we had an inveteratehabit of practical joking, which, however interesting and agreeable itmight be at most times, was in some circumstances rather inconvenient.To guard against it at such times we were in the habit of retiring toour respective dens and barricading the doors, the locks being sometimesincapable of standing the strain brought to bear on them.

  On this particular occasion I made my barricade stronger than usual; satdown on my bed and opened the packet from home.

  But here I must let the curtain fall. I cannot suppose that the reader,however amiable, will sympathise with the joys and sorrows of an unknownfamily, interesting though they were to me. I may state, however, thatbefore I got through the budget it was so late that I turned into bedand read the remainder there. Then, as the fire in the hall-stove sanklow, the cold obliged me to put on above my voluminous blankets (wedared not sleep in sheets out there) a thick buffalo robe, which,besides having on the outside the shaggy hair of the animal, to which ithad belonged, was lined with flannel. Thus nestled into a warm hole, Iread on until a shout arrested me and brought me suddenly back from thehills of bonny Scotland to the frozen wilderness.

  "I say," shouted Lumley at the back of the door, which he saluted with akick, "my sister is married!"

  "Poor thing!" said I. "Who to?"

  "Open the door."

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p; "I can't. I'm in bed."

  "You must."

  "I won't."

  "No! then here goes."

  He retired as he spoke, and, making a rush, launched himself against mydoor, which, however, withstood the shock.

  "Here, Spooner," I then heard him say, "lend a hand; let us go at ittogether."

  They went at it together. The lock gave way; the chest of drawers wentspinning to the other side of the room, and Lumley tumbled over Spooneras both fell headlong to the floor.

  As this was by no means an unfamiliar mode of entering each other'srooms, I took no notice of it, but proceeded to inquire about themarried sister; and Lumley, sitting down on my bed with Spooner, forneither of them had yet undressed, began to tell me of home and friendswith as much eagerness as if I had been a member of both families.Young Spooner interrupted Lumley now and then when a touch ofcoincidence struck him with reference to his own family affairs, and Icould not resist the pleasure of occasionally making some such remarkas, "How odd! that's very like what happened to my little brother Bob,"etcetera, whereupon Spooner would immediately become excited and draw aparallel more or less striking in regard to his own kindred and so wewent on far into the night, until we got our several families mixed upto such an extent that it became almost impossible to disentangle them;for, being three families, you know, we became inextricably confused asto which was which, though each was perfectly clear in regard to hisown! Thus, to me, Jane Lumley became confused with Janet Spooner, sothat Janet Lumley and Jane Spooner were always tripping over each otherin my brain, while my dear cousin Maggie Maxby became a Maggie Spoonerto Lumley, and a Maggie Lumley to Spooner, and to each sometimes a Janetor a Jane respectively. If the reader will multiply into this questiontwo mothers and three fathers, four brothers and six sisters, besidesnumberless aunts, uncles, and cousins, male and female, he will easilyperceive how between mental perplexity and a tendency to slumber, we atlast gave the matter up in a sort of jovial despair.

  We were startled suddenly from this condition by a crash and anexceedingly sharp and bitter cry.

  It must be remarked here, that, in order to subdue King Frost in thosenorthern strongholds of his, we had, besides double doors and doublewindows and porches, an enormous cast-iron stove from the famous Carronfoundry. It stood in the centre of our hall, so that its genial favoursmight be distributed with equal justice to the various sleeping-roomsthat opened out of the hall all round. From this stove an iron pipearose, and, turning at a right angle when within a couple of feet of theceiling, proceeded to the chimney at the upper end of the hall. Whenthe thermometer stood much below zero, we were accustomed to raise thestove and part of its pipe to a dull-red heat, which had the effect ofpartially melting the contents of the water-jugs in our bedrooms, and ofpartially roasting the knees of our trousers. To keep this stove up toits work was the duty of an Indian youth, whom we styled Salamander,because he seemed to be impervious to heat. He was equally so to cold.When I first went to Dunregan I used to pity Salamander, on hearing himevery morning enter our hall with a gust of air that seemed cold enoughto freeze a walrus, and proceed to strike a light and kindle our fire.My own nose, and sometimes an eye, was all that protruded from thebuffalo robe at such times. But Salamander never shivered, and alwaysgrinned, from which I came to understand that my pity was misplaced.About nine o'clock each night he left us to look after the great Carronstove ourselves, and we were all pretty good stokers. Self-interestkept us up to duty. Sometimes we overdid it, raising the dull-red tobrightness now and then.

  On this particular occasion, in the exuberance of his feelings, Lumley,before bursting into my room, had heaped on as much dry wood as thestove could hold. It chanced to be exceedingly resinous wood. He alsoopened the blow-hole to its utmost extent. Being congregated in mybedroom, as I have described, deeply engaged in eager comments andfamily reminiscences, we failed to observe that the great Carron stoveroared like a wrathful furnace, that it changed from a dull to a brightred in its anger, and eventually became white with passion. As "evilcommunications" have a tendency to corrupt, the usually innocent pipebecame inflamed. It communicated the evil to the chimney, whichstraightway caught fire, belched forth smoke and flames, and cast aruddy glare over the usually pallid snow. This chanced to meet the eyeof Salamander as he gazed from his "bunk" in the men's house; caused himto bounce up and rush out--for, having a taste for sleeping in hisclothes, he was always ready for action--burst open our door with acrash, and rudely dispel our confusedly pleasant intercourse with theexceedingly sharp and bitter cry before mentioned.

  "Hallo!" shouted Lumley and Spooner simultaneously, as they boundedrather than rose from my bed. Before they had crossed the threshold Iwas out of bed and into my trousers.

  There is nothing like the cry of "Fire!" for producing prompt action--orparalysis! Also for inducing imbecile stupidity. I could not find mymoccasins! Thought is quick--quicker than words. Amputation at theknee joints stared me in the face for a certainty if I went out withnaked feet. In desperation I seized my capote and thrust both feet intothe sleeves, with some hazy intention of tying a knot on each wrist toprotect the toes. Happily I espied my moccasins at the moment, pulledthem on--left shoe on right foot, of course--and put the coat to itsproper use.

  By this time Salamander, contrary to all traditions of Indian stoicism,was yelling about the fort with his eyes a flame and his hair on end.The men were out in a few seconds with a ladder, and swarmed up to theroof of our house, without any definite notion as to what they meant todo. Mr Strang was also out, smothered in winter garments, and with anenormous Makinaw blanket over all. He was greatly excited, though themost self-possessed among us--as most chiefs are, or ought to be.

  "Water! water!" shouted the men from the roof.

  A keen breeze was blowing from what seemed the very heart of KingFrost's dominion, and snow-drift fine as dust and penetrating asneedles, was swirling about in the night-air.

  Water! where was water to come from? The river was frozen almost to thebottom. Ice six feet thick covered the lakes and ponds. The sound oftrickling water had not been heard for months. It had become an ancientmemory. Water! why, it cost our cook's assistant a full hour every dayto cut through the result of one night's frost in the water-hole beforehe could reach the water required for daily use, and what he did obtainhad to be slowly dragged to the fort by that slowest of creatures, anox. Nevertheless there _was_ water. In the warmest corner of thekitchen--at that hour about zero--there stood a water-barrel.

  "Run, cook--fetch a bucketful!" cried our chief.

  Cook, who had "lost his head," obediently ran, seized a big earthenwarejug, dipped it into the barrel, and smashed it to atoms on a cake ofthick ice! This had the effect of partially recovering his head forhim. He seized an axe, shattered the cake, caught up a bucket, dippedit full and rushed out spilling half its contents as he ran. Thespillings became icicles before they reached the flaming chimney, butthe frost, keen as it was, could not quite solidify the liquid in soshort a space of time.

  Blondin, the principal bearer of the winter packet who was a heroic manand chief actor in this scene, received the half-empty bucket.

  "Bah!" he exclaimed, tossing bucket as well as water contemptuously downthe wide chimney. "Bring shuvill, an' blunkits."

  Blondin was a French-Canadian half-caste, and not a good linguist.

  A shovel was thrown up to him. He seized it and shovelled volumes ofsnow from the house-top into the chimney. A moment later and twoblankets were thrown up. Blondin spread one over the flames. It wasshrivelled up instantly. He stuffed down the remains and spread thesecond blanket over them, while he shouted for a third. The third came,and, another bucket of water arriving at the same moment, with a largemass of snow detached from the roof, the whole were thrust down thechimney _en masse_, the flames were quenched and the house was saved.

  During this exciting scene, I had begun to realise the great danger offire in the chimney of a woode
n house, and, with the aid of my comrades,had been throwing the contents of Bachelors' Hall out into the snow. Wenow ceased this process, and began to carry them back again, while themen crowded round the iron author of all the mischief to warm theirhalf-frozen bodies. I now observed for the first time that Blondin hada black patch on the end of his nose. It was a handsome featureusually, but at that time it was red, swelled, and what may be termedblobby.

  "What's the matter with it, Blondin?" I asked.

  "My noz was froz," he replied curtly.

  "You'd better have it looked to, or it'll be worse than froz, my man,"said Lumley.

  Blondin laughed and went off to attend to his nose in the men's house,accompanied by the others, while we set to work to clean ourselves andour abode. Thereafter, with moderated fire, we again got under ourbuffalo robes, where we spent the remainder of a disturbed night inthinking and dreaming about the thrilling contents of the winter packet.