Footsteps in the Snow Read online

  We made hot tea by the fire, and our guides cooked some rabbit and birds, which they had managed to shoot with bow and arrow. We settled down for the night in our tents and woke the next morning to find the ground covered in snow. There was no trail or path, so we followed the guides, trudging through the snow. I kept a tight hand on Robbie all the time, afraid that he would wander off and freeze.

  That night we snuggled together under blankets in the tent, along with Kate (whose devious pranks seemed to diminish the more it snowed and the colder she got) and a number of other children. I’m not sure what it was, but something woke me in the middle of the night. It was pitch black and I could see nothing and yet I knew right away that Robbie was not there.

  “Robbie … Robbie,” I hissed. But there was no reply. I shook Kate awake. “Have you seen Robbie?

  “No,” she grunted. “I’m sleeping.”

  I pulled my shawl tightly around me and ran out into the night. The campfire was burning low in the centre of the tents, but I could not see Robbie in its light.

  I ran to find some of the men who had been rowing the boats. “My brother Robbie is gone, he’s gone from the tent!” I cried.

  “He probably just needed to relieve himself, lass,” one of the men said kindly. “You mustn’t worry. He’s sure to turn up any second.”

  Of course, I thought, that must be it. Perhaps I should have tied a cord between us so that he couldn’t wander off by himself. But he’s ten, I reminded myself, not a child. He shall be fine.

  I felt like crying, but I remembered that Mother was not there and Father was not there and James was not there and that I was in charge of Robbie and that I had to calm myself and try to find him. It is true, I thought, he probably did simply go out to relieve himself and perhaps he would be back quickly. But then I couldn’t help but consider that perhaps he had got lost in the white snow and couldn’t find his way back. The moon was behind the clouds, and away from the fire he would be unable to see a finger in front of his face.

  And then, dear diary, dear Mother, I got one of my feelings. Many times, Mother, you told me of your mother and her sixth sense. Sometimes you used to say that you thought I had inherited it, and other times you would say no, I had not, because I showed the signs so rarely. But every once in a while I would get a feeling, and you had taught me to always listen to my feeling and to trust it.

  I had a feeling that Robbie would have gone behind a tent so as not to get lost, but once there the light from the fire would be blocked. It would be easy to get lost then. I told the men that perhaps he had done that and so we hurried back to my tent, the men holding up burning logs from the fire so we could see.

  We were encamped in a small clearing surrounded by trees. Some of the bushes seemed to have less snow on them than others, perhaps after Robbie had rustled them, but we could not see his footprints. We slogged our way through the snow. And then, in the silence of the night, because the snow makes everything so quiet, I heard him crying.

  “Robbie!” I shouted.

  “Isobel,” he called back.

  We followed his voice until Robbie was in my arms. He was shivering with cold. One of the men picked him up and carried him back to the campsite. I covered him up with blankets as soon as he was inside the tent.

  “I feel so foolish,” he whispered to me.

  “Never mind, little one,” I soothed him. “You didn’t know how to find your way. Now you go right to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

  November 15

  I continue my story now. I could write no more last night, still feeling exhausted and weak.

  The day after Robbie’s near disaster, the sun shone bright and the snow glittered and sparkled with such glory it seemed we had woken to a magical land. But with the sun, the temperature took a ferocious dip and we found ourselves to be woefully inadequately dressed. I kept a tight hold on Robbie. I would not let him out of my sight.

  A young lad, name of Peter, had befriended him, and walked along with us. He was from one of the thirteen families that had stayed. He was certainly not shy! He told us a little of their story as we walked.

  “We came on the ship Prince of Wales,” he said in the funny little high voice he has. “The voyage was very rough. Was your voyage rough?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Our voyage was very, very rough and then the fever struck. Typhus, it was. I was probably one of the only people who didn’t get it; seems like everyone got sick. My mother almost died from it and my little sister too, but we were lucky, we were the lucky ones. My Auntie Mary she did succumb and was thrown off the ship into the cruel waters of the ocean.”

  Robbie gasped. “My mother died too, but she was buried in the ground. I would not like to see her thrown to the fish.”

  “Three or four died and were thrown off the ship,” Peter continued. “It was a terrible sight. When we landed in Churchill the captain was so frightened of the illness and so anxious to get us off the ship that he would not take us to York Factory. So we were stranded on the barren rocks with nothing — no food, no shelter.”

  I stopped him for a moment. “He simply deserted you there?” I asked. “Why, he should be thrown in irons!”

  “That’s what I think,” Peter agreed.

  Kate had come up alongside us and was now tagging along. “Ach,” she said, “listen to that boy whining.”

  “He is simply telling us what happened,” I objected. “You cannot accuse him of whining — not with the difficult journey they had.”

  Peter went on to tell us that they had had to winter where they’d been left, and then in the spring had to walk all the way to York Factory. Finally in June of last year they arrived at The Forks, where they built Fort Douglas. They wintered there, but that was when a fellow called Duncan Cameron of the North West Company convinced many of the settlers to leave for Upper Canada. It was not only his honeyed words that worked on the settlers though. At the same time the settlers’ crops were burned, as were their buildings, and the people were threatened. And yet Peter’s family were simply too stubborn to leave with the rest. I certainly admired them.

  I was also glad to see Robbie making a friend. They continued to talk as we walked and I’m sure it made the time go quicker and took their minds off the dreadful cold.

  Each day blended into the next as we trudged through the snow. One day it warmed up, which at first we believed to be a welcome relief, until the snow turned to ice and it became dangerous to set one foot in front of the other. Then the snow came again. I noticed that Robbie’s face was becoming red and sore. It seemed that he and probably the rest of us were suffering from some kind of a snowburn, which must be similar to sunburn.

  There was little food and the children were depleted from the long, cold, dreary walk, but finally we arrived here at Pembina and the fort, Fort Daer. It is just a group of huts, nothing more, but it looked like heaven to us. The other families were not yet here, so we settled into various huts, where we immediately made fires and then hot tea. The huts are no more than one-room affairs, but at least we are protected from the elements.

  The men made rubaboo for the entire company. I cooked bannock and tried to get the small children settled under big buffalo robes and blankets. And that brings us up to the present moment, waiting for our families to join us.

  November 16

  Father and James were so happy to see Robbie and me. Father immediately tried to find us a place of our own, but there are too few huts. Some of our party were already staying in storage sheds. So Father and the other men have to build enough huts for everyone, and even then we will have to share. Today they cut down trees.

  November 17

  The huts were built today, using round unfinished wood and filling in the cracks with clay. The floors are bare earth. The men have time to do no more.

  Somehow Kate and her father have ended up with us. And it is from our new little hut, dear diary, that I write to you now. If Kate dislikes me so, why is she always ho
vering about me? I tried to tell Father that we would be better off with another family, but he would hear none of it, saying that we were lucky to share with only two instead of a family of five.

  November 19

  The snow has melted again and the Indians near us are going on a buffalo hunt. Father says they are Cree and that the band we met at The Forks is called the Saulteaux, although there were Cree there, too, as well as Ojibwa. They are all, according to the settlers who have been here longer, very friendly and helpful to us.

  Evening

  What excitement! I assumed that I would see none of the hunt, but in fact I will be able to witness almost all of it. The Indians have their camp very near to our small fort and it is here that they made what is called a pound. The shaman, who is their medicine man and their spiritual leader — rather like our elder, I suppose — chose the site. Everyone, settlers and Indians alike, followed him as he performed this task. He stopped at a thicket 30 to 40 feet in diameter. As soon as he indicated that this would be the spot, I watched in fascination as the young men of the band proceeded to clear it. They cut the brush and the trees and then heaped it all up to make a wall about 10 to 15 feet high. Two tall trees were left at the entrance and a log was secured between them at the same height as the wall. This took almost the entire day, and almost all of the young men in our party joined in to help, in the hope that the Indians would share the hunt with us. I had to almost sit on Robbie, as he is too young to be wielding such sharp blades, but he managed to scramble away from me and helped the other young Indian boys drag the bushes once they had been cut.

  November 20

  Today something called a chute was built. The young men cut down more trees and bushes. These they lashed together and made bundles, which were stacked about 30 yards apart from each other and about 4 feet high. This chute was at least a mile long, or so James told me — he helped build the entire structure. Just in front of the enclosure the chute takes a sharp turn so that the buffalo, as they run, cannot see that they are headed for a dead end. It seems to me that they must be very clever animals or they would not notice such things.

  As night fell the shaman conducted a ceremony in his tent. I could hear him singing, but I don’t know what the ceremony consisted of — praying for a hunt, I suppose. But if they do not pray to our God, to whom do these savages pray? I shall endeavour to find this out.

  November 21

  James tells me that the buffalo will be here soon and that we will be able to watch as they are killed in the pound. Apparently the young men have ridden off to find the herd. They will slap the ground with their robes, which makes a loud noise. This frightens the buffalo into motion. James says that the young Indians on horseback control them. If the herd goes off course, the hunters will veer their horses at them. The buffalo then veer toward the hunters in order to cut the hunters off. The hunters — knowing they will do this — use this tactic to make sure the buffalo go in the right direction. Again, I think that they must be rather clever creatures — our Highland sheep would run in the other direction if a horse came after them! Once the buffalo are in the chute the hunters make large motions to scare them into moving forward. And once they are in the pound, they are killed.

  November 22

  Now that Kate is living in the same hut as us, it is my responsibility to make sure that she does her share of household chores. Water must be lugged from the river. Clothes desperately need washing and mending after so long a journey; and, of course, we must cook.

  My new friend Alice gave me my first cooking lesson suited to this new land. The men had managed to kill some deer. I went to her hut to watch her make haggis.

  “It’s not very different,” she said, “from the way we used to make it in the old country, except here we use deer instead of sheep.”

  Alice, her mother and Alice’s older sister Bettie began to prepare the haggis as I looked on. They had the stomach of the deer prepared already. Into it they put the heart and lungs of the deer, the shredded fat from the different organs, oatmeal, and a bowl of blood that they harvested from the carcass. They gave me a knife, and together we shredded all the lean meat. Finally when everything was in and stitched up, the stomach was suspended high above the flames of the open fire. Mrs. Connor then invited our entire family and Kate and her father to eat with them. It was extremely delicious and there was almost a festive atmosphere in the little hut. Alice made sure that James noticed what a good cook she was. Kate seemed so thankful for a decent meal that even she managed to keep quiet for the most part.

  I cannot participate in Alice’s interest in young men. After all, the only young men here are poor and unlearned. James has three times the learning of any of the other young men, because of our dear mother. No, I shall wait for something better.

  I want to sew the moccasins but the Indian girl must be too busy preparing for the coming hunt, as she waves me off whenever I motion sewing to her.

  November 24

  It is hard to describe the sights I have just seen. How can I do justice in these pages to the magnificent beasts and to their noble hunters? This is a sight, Mother dear, that would have thrilled you!

  At about midday I was mending a shirt of Father’s, sitting near the fire for as much light as possible. Kate, under my strict supervision, was mending socks, grumbling incessantly about how boring it was and how she should be out hunting buffalo. Frankly, I should have been quite happy if she chose to do so. Suddenly we heard pounding and thudding and the ground shook beneath our feet. We threw down our work, grabbed our shawls and ran with the rest of the settlers to the place of the pound.

  I have never seen a buffalo before, and although I had been told that they were large, I never could have imagined a beast so strong, powerful and dangerous. And yet the young men seemed to have no fear as they directed them into the corral. On horseback they followed the buffalo inside the enclosure, riding directly beside them, arrows ready. They shot the beasts and one by one they fell. I am not sure I took a breath from the beginning until the end, and then I felt quite faint from the excitement.

  The shaman sang a song, shaking a rattle at the same time. The women followed directly, slicing open the buffalo. A man, wailing and crying, went to each creature and began to cut up the insides and to give them to different people. Little boys who ran into the enclosure took the intestines and threw them over the branches of the tree that had been left in the centre of the enclosure. As they did this they imitated the crow, making harsh sounds. Then the little girls of the village ran to the shaman’s tipi, bringing wood. When this was done the crying man gave each little girl a small piece of heart fat and each little boy a piece of buffalo tongue.

  Then the women got to work at a speed that I found astonishing. They skinned the buffalo and hung the skins over tree branches. Then they began to scrape the hides. They motioned for the women settlers who were watching to come and help, and so we did. I was given a small sharp knife that had probably been obtained by trading furs. I had to hold my breath because of the strong stench of blood and guts. I scraped away the flesh as best I could.

  “Don’t faint, Little Princess,” Kate called to me. “Why, you look quite green!” She laughed as she worked away.

  I would not let her see me squirm, so I gritted my teeth and worked hard all afternoon. Near evening we finished and the Indian women took the hides and stretched them on the ground, holding them down with stakes.

  I shall sleep well tonight. Never have I felt so worn out, not even after our terrible walk.

  November 29

  I have been so exhausted every evening that I have been remiss about writing in your pages. I think the hardest thing to convey is how strange and different everything is. Although I always dreamed of a better life when we lived in Scotland, everything was safe and familiar. In the morning we would do our chores. The boys would help Father in the fields and I would help Mother, cleaning, mending and, of course, cooking the large meals that the men needed to sus
tain them as they worked.

  I am trying to establish some sort of order in our days here, as I’m sure Mother would have wanted. Father says that I am still a child and that I should go out and play. Play! What can he be thinking? It is up to me to make sure that this hut is clean, that the clothes are mended, that there is food to eat, and that Robbie is properly supervised. And I also must think about Robbie’s education. I am sure Mother would want him to continue to study, just as I’m sure she would want me to continue to perfect the things she felt important. At least when I write in these pages it is a chance for me to practise my penmanship and my writing skills. There are no books here outside of the Bible, and this is a great trial for me, and for James, who loves to read. Whenever Father went on one of his rare visits to town in the old country, he bought second-hand books for us, and every night we would take turns reading to one another. I suspect there were very few other families, poor tenant farmers, who behaved in such a way, but Mother never let us forget that she came from the gentry. My favourite books were the poets.