CHAPTER XVIIICHURCHILL AND MATAWAKUMMA

In 1886 the bishop wrote with much thankfulness of the location of the Rev. J. Lofthouse at Churchill—‘the last house in the world,’ as he called it, for there is no other between it and the North Pole. Churchill boasts, however, of quite a little colony of English and half-caste Chipwyans, Eskimo, and Crees. The Chipwyans are difficult to trade with, and apt to avoid a station for years if their demands are not complied with. They are cruel to their wives and their dogs, and are terrible thieves, but they stand in great fear of the Eskimo. The Eskimo of Churchill are not so bloodthirsty as their brethren in the west, who come in with their faces marked with red ochre, to indicate that they have committed a murder during the winter, a mark in which they glory, for in their opinion there is more honour in killing a human being than in killing a walrus or white bear.

CHURCHILL IN SUMMER

Out of the world as it seems, Churchill is a busy place with the coming and going of Crees, Eskimo, and Chipwyans. The annual ship goes thither from York Factory, and boats have to be built for the loading and unloading of the cargo, as well asor carrying on the trade further north with Mable Island. Food is very dear, and is obtained with toil and difficulty. In summer, porpoises are hunted; in winter, bears, wolves, and foxes are shot. The cold is intense, and quantities of wood must be hewn, and hauled home on sledges drawn by the Eskimo dog. The short summer will scarcely allow any garden produce to come to perfection. A few very poor and puny potatoes are grown, which are highly prized by the Europeans, and carefully eked out. A very little hay is made for the winter fodder of the cows; which, however, gladly eat the nourishing white moss, which is the food of the reindeer.

‘I must tell you,’ says the bishop, with a spice of humour,’ about the Churchill cows, for they are—or were—a curious lot. There were three of them. About one there was nothing very particular, except that it was somewhat of a dwarf. The second went about harnessed, for, Churchill pasture not making her particularly fat, she was so supple that she required no milkmaid to milk her; she did it herself, and seemed to enjoy the exercise. The harness supported a bag, which enclosed the udder, and which prevented her from indulging in a draught of new milk. The third had an artificial tail. The poor brute had been off at a little distance from the place, when she was set upon by some wolves; she bellowed, and at once made for home, where she arrived almost frightened to death, and without a tail. What was to be done now? The flies were in myriads, and, if she had no protection against them, they would puther to a much more cruel death than that threatened by the wolves. A happy thought struck one of the colony of fifty. They had a dead cow’s tail lying in the store! Why not use that? The suggestion was at once acted upon; the tail was attached to the stump by means of some twine, and over it was tied some canvas, well saturated with Stockholm tar. It was a great success, and the creature was again able to do battle with her diminutive but persevering foes.’

In undertaking the distant station of Churchill, in the midst of a dreary waste, Mr. Lofthouse had a life of self-denial before him, as well as very serious work, not the least of which was the necessity for learning three languages, neither of them bearing any resemblance to the other. For example, the phrase ‘It is good’ is in Chipwyannazo, in Creemilwashiu, and in Eskimopeyokumme.

Far away from Moose, five hundred miles distant, very difficult to reach—the journey to it occupying about twenty days—is the station of Matawakumma. Long and dangerous rapids have to be ascended, long and disagreeable portages to be crossed, one of which is four miles in length. One long lake—Kinokummisse, meaning ‘long lake’—must be traversed, and another—Matawakumma, ‘The meeting of the waters’—must be gone over.

ON THE CHURCHILL RIVER

The station is very prettily situated on a long point of land which runs almost across the lake. There are a few houses representing the fur-trading establishment. At a short distance is the modest parsonage-house and neat church, both of which have been almostentirely erected by the Rev. J. Saunders’ own hands. It was the most isolated station in Moosonee, but it is so no longer, as at only two days’ journey distant runs the great Canadian Pacific railroad, by which all supplies are now introduced into that part of the country.

There is at present no danger of starvation here, but formerly, when all supplies were got up from Moose, and were consequently limited, great privation was frequently experienced. If the rabbits failed, famine stared the inhabitants in the face. The worst year ever known was the one the bishop first spent in the country, when a fourth of the entire population died, some from actual starvation, the rest being killed and eaten by their friends! The tales of that terrible winter are heartrending in the extreme. The most painful case was that of a man and his wife who lost their whole family of six children.

Among the Indians of Matawakumma was one named Arthur Martin.

‘I forget his Indian name,’ says the bishop. ‘I give the name he received at his baptism. At the time referred to he was a young man, and was not subjected to as great privations as some of his countrymen. I received him into the Church in 1852, and in 1854 I received his wife, on my first visit to Matawakumma, where I married them. Many of the Indians there clung very closely to their old superstitions, and the drum and the conjuring tents were in constant requisition. Some of them still hold back, not having yet taken the Saviour to their hearts.

‘But this was not the case with Arthur and his wife; when once they had put their hand to the plough, they looked not back again. Their Saviour was their all in all. They both learnt to read, and made themselves well acquainted with the books as they came out in the Ojibbeway language, the only one they knew, and they did their best to train their children in the ways of the Lord. Their eldest son, Louis, one of the most intelligent Indians I have ever known, followed in his father’s steps, and eventually became a valuable catechist in the mission. His letters were excellent, while to Mr. Saunders he was invaluable, assisting him in everything; for he handled hammer, axe, and paddle with equal facility, and he was his constant companion in his journeys through the country. I had hopes that eventually I might ordain him, and thus increase both his influence and usefulness among his countrymen; but this was not to be. He went with Mr. Saunders to their railway station, Biscotasing; in getting into a carriage while in motion, he fell and injured his leg. It required amputation; the operation was performed, and it was hoped that all would go well; but a few days after mortification set in, and the end soon came. He seemed necessary for our work; it never occurred to us that we might be obliged to do without him. Truly

God moves in a mysterious way.

‘The death of this son was a heavy blow to his father, now growing old; but he was soon resigned tothe will of God, and went on his Christian course. Like Job of old, he was tried by personal suffering; in that, too, his faith remained firm and steadfast. A mist and darkness came over him—blindness took possession of both his eyes. It was thought that his sight might be restored by an operation, and he was sent down to Moose for that purpose. He was quite alone, having no relative with him, but he was taken good care of by a Christian woman, who tended him with sisterly devotion.

‘For awhile he kept well, was never absent from the house of God; then weakness attacked him in the legs, and he could no longer attend the services, yet not a word of complaint fell from him. He longed for news from home, and this he received; his wife was very unwell, but hoped soon to see him back with her again. Inflammation of the lungs set in, and in three or four days he had passed away. God was with him in his trial, and supported him. He made all his bed in his sickness. I saw him on the day of his death, September 12, between the morning and afternoon services. Blind and speechless, he lay in his tent surrounded by a few Christian friends, who said that he was quite insensible. He regained consciousness as I spoke to him of Jesus and His love. When I asked him whether he felt Jesus near, a joyous, assuring smile came over his countenance, more expressive than the most eloquent of speeches.

‘He was waiting in peace the Master’s call, and it was not long in coming. I commended him to Godin prayer, and, shaking him warmly by the hand, hurried off to church to conduct service. Soon afterwards the messenger arrived to summon him to the Master’s presence. With the Lord he went through the dark valley; with Him he crossed the dividing river, and then entered the joy of his Lord.’

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