Young Alaskans in the Far North Part 2

"That's old Father Le Fevre," replied his uncle. "He's the purchasing agent for all the many missions of the Catholic Church in the Far North. Each year he comes in with ten or more scows, each carrying ten tons of goods. He may go as far as Chippewyan, and then come back, or he may go on to Great Slave. I understand there are two good Sisters going even farther north this year. No one knows when they will come back, of course; they'll be teachers up among the native schools.

"Well, now you see the transport system beyond the head of the rails in the Athabasca and Mackenzie country," he continued, as, hands in pocket, he pa.s.sed along among the finished and unfinished craft which still lay in the s.h.i.+pyard.

Outside, moored to stumps along the sh.o.r.e, floated a number of the rude scows, some of which even now were partially laden. The leader of the expedition pointed out to one of these.

"That's our boat yonder, young men," said he. "You'll see that she has the distinction of a name. Most scows have only numbers on them, and each post gets certain scows with certain numbers. But ours has a name--the _Midnight Sun_. How do you like that?"

"That's fine, sir!" said Rob. "And we'll see to it that she doesn't come to grief as long as we use her."

"Well, it will only be for a couple of hundred miles or so," said Uncle d.i.c.k, "but I fancy there'll be nothing slow in that two hundred miles."

"Where will we eat?" demanded John, with his usual regard for creature comforts.

"That's easy," said Rob. "I know all about that. I saw two men loading a cook-stove on one of the scows. They took it out of a canoe, and how they did it without upsetting the canoe I can't tell, but they did it.

I suppose we'll cook as we go along."

"Precisely," nodded Uncle d.i.c.k. "The cook-boat is the only thing that goes under steam. The cook builds his fire in the stove just as though he were on sh.o.r.e. When he calls time for meals, the men from the other boats take turns in putting out in canoes and going to the cook-boat for meals. Sometimes a landing is made while they eat, and of course they always tie up at night They have certain stages which they try to make. The whole thing is all planned out on a pretty good system, rough but effective, as you will see."

"Is he a pretty good cook?" asked John, somewhat demurring.

"Well, good enough for us, if he is good enough for the others,"

replied his uncle. "But I'll tell you what we might do once in a while. They do say that the two good Sisters who go north with the mission brigade know how to cook better than any half-breed. I've made arrangements so that we can eat on their scow once in a while if we like."

"What's that funny business on the end of our boat?" asked Jesse, presently, pointing to a rude framework of bent poles which covered the short deck at the stern of the boat.

"That's what they call a 'bower' up in this country," said Uncle d.i.c.k.

"They have some curious old English words in here, even yet. Now a bower is simply a lot of poles, like an Indian wickiup, covering the end of your boat, as you see. You can throw your blankets over it, if you like, or green willows. It keeps the sun off. Since the Hudson's Bay Company charges a pretty stiff price for taking any pa.s.senger north, it tries to earn its money by building a bower for the select few, such as we are."

"I don't think that we need any bower," said Rob, and all the other boys shook their heads.

"A little suns.h.i.+ne won't hurt us," said Jesse, stoutly.

"But think of the style about it," laughed Uncle d.i.c.k, pleased to see the hardiness of his young charges. "Well, we'll do as we like about that. One thing, we've got to have a chance to see out, for I know you will want to keep your eyes open every foot of the way."

"Well, I wish the breeds would hurry up and get the boats loaded,"

added Jesse, impatiently, after a while. "There's nothing doing here worth while."

"Don't be too hard with the breeds," counseled Uncle d.i.c.k. "They're like children, that's all. This is the best time of the year for them, when the great fur brigade goes north. It couldn't go without them.

The fur trade in this country couldn't exist without the half-breeds and the full-bloods; there's a half-dozen tribes on whom the revenues of this great corporation depend absolutely.

"You'll see now the best water-men and the best trail-men in the world. Look at these packages--a hundred pounds or better in each.

Every pound of all that stuff is to be portaged across the Smith's Landing portage, and the Mountain Portage, and even at Grand Island, just below here, if the water is low. They have to carry it up from the scows to the steamboats, and from the steamboats to the sh.o.r.e.

Every pound is handled again and again. It's the half-breeds that do that. They're as strong as horses and as patient as dogs; fine men they are, so you must let them have their little fling after their old ways; they don't know any better."

"How many of the fur posts are there in the North, Uncle d.i.c.k?" asked Rob, curious always to be exact in all his information.

"Well, let's see," pondered Uncle d.i.c.k, holding up his fingers and counting them off. "The first one above here is McMurray; that's one of the treaty posts where the tribes are paid their annuities by the Dominion government. It's two hundred and fifty-two miles from here, and there's where we hit our first steamboat, as I told you.

"Then comes Chippewyan, on Athabasca Lake. It was founded by Sir Alexander Mackenzie in seventeen eighty-eight, and from that time on it has been one of the most important trading-posts of the North--in fact, I believe it is the most important to-day, as it seems to be a sort of center, right where a lot of rivers converge. That's four hundred and thirty-seven miles from here. When you get that far in, my buckos, you'll be able to say that you are away from the hated pale-faces and fairly launched on your trip through the wildest wilderness the world has to-day. It is a hundred miles on to Smith's Landing--sixteen miles there of the fiercest water you ever saw in all your lives. Wagon portage there, but sometimes the boats go through.

Fort Smith is at the other end of that portage.

"Next down is Fort Resolution, and that's seven hundred and forty-five miles from here. Hay River is eight hundred and fifteen, and Fort Providence nine hundred and five miles, and Fort Simpson, at the mouth of the Liard River, is a thousand and eighty-five miles from here.

Getting along in the world pretty well then, eh?

"There are a few others as I recall them--Fort Wrigley, twelve hundred and sixty-five miles from here, and Fort Norman, fourteen hundred and thirty-seven miles. Now you come to Fort Good Hope, and that is right under the Arctic Circle. It is sixteen hundred and nine miles from here, where we are at the head of the railroads. If we are fast enough in our journey we'll get our first sight of the Midnight Sun at Good Hope, perhaps.

"The next post north of Good Hope is Arctic Red River, eighteen hundred and nineteen miles; and of course you know that the last post of the Hudson's Bay Company is Fort McPherson, on the Peel River, near the mouth of the Mackenzie. That is rated as eighteen hundred and nineteen miles by the government map-makers, who may or may not be right; being an engineer myself, I'll say they must be right! In round numbers we might as well call it two thousand miles.

"Well, that's your distance, young men, and here are the s.h.i.+ps which are to carry you part of the way."

"And when we get to Fort McPherson we're not half-way through, are we, sir?" asked Rob.

"No, we're not, and if we were starting a hundred and twenty-eight years earlier than we are, with Sir Alexander Mackenzie, we would have to hustle to get back before the snows caught us. As it is, we'll hope some time in July to start across the Rat Portage. That's five hundred miles, just along the Arctic Circle, and in that five hundred miles we go from Canadian into American territory--at Rampart House, on the Porcupine River. Well, it's down-stream from there to the Yukon, and then we hit our own boats--more of them, and faster and more comfortable. I have no doubt, John, that you can get all you want to eat on any one of a half-dozen good boats that ply on the Yukon to-day from White Horse down to the mouth.

"Of course," he added, "this trip of ours is not quite as rough as it would have been twenty years ago when the Klondike rush began. The world has moved since then, as it always has moved and always will. I suppose some time white men will live in a good deal of this country which we now think impossible for a white man to inhabit. Little by little, as they learn the ways of the Indians and half-breeds, they will edge north, changing things as they go.

"But I don't want to talk about those times," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm for the wilderness as it is, and I'm glad that you three boys and myself can see that country up there before it has changed too much. Not that it is any country for a tenderfoot now.

You'll find it wild enough and rough enough. It has gone back since the Klondike rush. In travel you'll see the old ways of the Hudson's Bay Company, even although the independents have cut into their trade a little bit. You'll see the Far North much as it was when Sir Alexander first went down our river here.

"And as you go on I want you to study the old times, and the new times as well. That's the way, boys, to learn things. As for me, I found out long ago that the only way to learn about a country is not to look it up on a map, but to tramp across it in your moccasins.

"So now," he concluded, as they four stood at the river's brink, looking out at the long line of the scows swinging in the rapid current of the Athabasca, "that's the first lesson. What do you think of our boat, the _Midnight Sun_?"

"She's fine, sir!" said Rob, and the other boys, eagerly looking up into the face of their tall and self-reliant leader, showed plainly enough their enjoyment of the prospect and their confidence in their ability to meet what might be on ahead.

III

THE GREAT BRIGADE

"Roll out! Roll out!" called the cheery voice of Uncle d.i.c.k on the second morning of the stay at Athabasca Landing.

"Aye, aye, sir!" came three young voices in reply. The young adventurers kicked off their blankets and one by one emerged through the sleeve of the mosquito tent.

"What made you call us so early?" complained Jesse. "It's raining--it began in the night--and it doesn't look as if it were going to stop."

"Well, that's the very good news we've been waiting for!" said Uncle d.i.c.k. "It's been raining somewhere else as well as here. Look at the river--muddy and rising! That means that things will begin to happen in these diggings pretty soon now."

For experienced campers such as these to prepare breakfast in the rain was no great task, and they hurriedly concluded their preliminary packing. It was yet early in the day when they stood on the river-bank, looking at the great fleet of scows of the north-bound fur brigade as the boats now lay swinging in the stiffening current.

The river was indeed rising; the snow to the west was melting in the rains of spring. Time now for the annual fur brigade to be off!

At the river front already there had gathered most of the motley population of the place. Everything now was activity. Each man seemed to know his work and to be busy about it. The Company manager had general charge over the embarkation of the cargo, and certainly the men under him were willing workers.

A long line of men pa.s.sed over the narrow planks which lay between the warehouses and across the muddy flats to the deep water where the boats lay. Each man carried on his shoulders a load which would have staggered the ordinary porter. All went at a sort of trot, so that the cargo was being moved rapidly indeed. It was obvious that these half-breeds, but now so lazy and roistering, were very able indeed when it came to the matter of work, and easy to see that they were, as Uncle d.i.c.k had said, the backbone of the fur trade of the North.