Chapter 26.
The traffic to Manitoba had greatly increased since my previous trip to the Great North West, as our northern princes were often called in the eighties. There were now two or three routes to choose between, all of course through the States, the Canadian Pacific Railway not yet running through to Winnipeg, though portions of, it were built. My mother and I made careful enquiries and chose the well-known Rock Island route, the main inducement being the offer of a parlor car for the first day and a pullman the first night.
Mrs. Scott and a number of others accompanied me to the station, and after many affectionate farewells I started on my long lonely journey. My hand luggage was my chief trial. I had besides my heavy lunch basket a small handbag, with little necessaries for the way, and a pair of snow shoes. However I managed to get in the pullman that night and to change successfully at Chicago the next morning. From there we passed on to St. Paul, which was a 24. hour run. There we waited for some time, and I indulged in a good breakfast in the station. How well I remember the brisk waiter, who amazed me by carrying six cups of coffee in one hand, but ruined his reputation by upsetting them over one of the passengers, who made his displeasure known in no measured terms.
Again entering the train, we were on the last lap of our journey, but owing to delays we did not arrive in Emerson until 4 a.m. the next morning. It was October and dark enough at that hour. The station was some distance from the town and did not boast a waiting room, so I felt rather nervous as I landed on the platform. One by one my fellow passengers disappeared into the darkness, and I was left alone with an old couple who had traveled from Ontario with me. They seemed very uneasy, as their son had promised to meet them, and seeing no sign of him they did not know where to go or what to do. I suggested that we should all go to the hotel, which I knew the way to, and they gladly agreed and I was thankful to have companions on the dark walk. We sat quietly in the parlor until an early breakfast was announced, and after partaking of it, a fine wagon and pair of horses drove up and my kind old friends went off happily.
Now I began to wonder what to do and I prayed very earnestly that I might be directed to Mr. Sparrow’s house. Leaving my things at the hotel I started out, hardly knowing which direction to go in. I walked down the first street and asked at one or two houses, but no one knew the Sparrows or where they lived. Presently I saw a man delivering coal. He asked me if I wanted the people in that house, as he said they were out. I told him who I was looking for and he at once said, “I know him well, and am just going to deliver this coal at the next house. Jump in and I will drive you there.” I felt my prayer was answered and got in without hesitation, and in a few minutes I was in Mrs. Sparrow’s house. It was indeed on the very outskirts of the town, and I might say of the country, for only a field divided it from a street in the town of St. Vincent in the U.S.
Mrs. Sparrow was very glad to see me. She had a new baby boy not three weeks old, and her sister-in-law, who was supposed to care for her, had left her in the lurch. I cannot say that my strong point was caring for babies, but I could wash dishes and sweep rooms and cook, so I was able to help quite a bit. Mr. Greenman, a laboring brother from Ontario, soon after arrived, and we had a good many meetings.
A few days after I arrived, Alfred appeared on his way back to Beaconsfield. His father had bought him a beautiful pair of horses and he was driving them back to his own homestead. We spent three or four very happy days together and then he had to go on his way and I on mine. How well I remember that pleasant October afternoon when we drove together across the new bridge and through the little village of West Lynn, out on to the broad open prairie. We went most of the way in silence; there are times when hearts are too full for words. But we did not go far. He was too careful of me to let me walk alone on the prairie. “Now you must go back,” he said, as he drew up his horses, and getting down, lifted me out. There was a large stone by the side of the road, and I sat down on it and watched the wagon till it was a small speck in the distance, and then walked slowly back to Mrs. Sparrow’s. I never saw him again.
The next thing was to get off to Russell. My brother had promised to meet me in Moosomin on October 20th. From there we had to drive 70 miles to Russell. Mr. Greenman was very kind in helping me to get ready. I had my two trunks and a large bundle with my sidesaddle and some other things in it, besides my hand luggage. We inquired at the station and were told that by leaving Emerson at 4 a.m. on October 19th, I would reach Moosomin at 4 a.m. on October 20th. So Mr. Greenman conducted me to the station at that early hour, and I set off alone on my travels to a fresh home.
We got to Winnipeg about 7:30 a.m. and Mr. Rubidge, my old friend, met me there and saw to my having some breakfast. Then he got me a ticket, but only to Portage la Prairie; they would sell no tickets nor check any luggage further. It was perhaps noon when we reached the Portage, and the picture it presented comes clearly before me after forty years or more. A small station with a broad platform piled high with luggage of every description and men everywhere of every class and nationality. I saw my luggage dumped out amongst the rest and was almost in despair. How could I even get my ticket I wondered. However, I left my things on a bench — no one thought of sitting down in that jostling crowd — and timidly made my way through the dense mass. At last I reached the ticket office and got a ticket. “Where can I check my trunks?” I inquired. “You cannot check them,” was the curt reply. “But I must take them on the train,” I remonstrated. “If you can get them on, I suppose they will go,” answered the man, and the next comer shoved into my place. I went then to the platform. No official could be seen, but I soon picked out my saddle and trunks. Then as the train came puffing in, in desperation I addressed a tall, good natured looking man, and asked him to put my trunks in the baggage car. “Show them to me and I will,” was the kind reply, and soon they and I were safely on board. I felt greatly relieved and was thankful to partake of the little lunch Mrs. Sparrow had provided.
It was pretty chilly and there was little to be seen from the window; no broad wheat fields or cozy farm houses or little villages with tall elevators. There was no grain yet grown in our great West to fill elevators, and the settlers were only beginning to break up the virgin prairie. I turned my attention to the inside of the car, and in a minute the ticket collector was beside me. “When do we reach Moosomin?” I asked. “We are due about 9 p.m.,” was the reply, and my dismay may be imagined. The man in Emerson had indeed misled me; instead of arriving on the 20th and having Graham there to welcome me, I should get to Mossomin on the 19th with no one there to meet me and nowhere to go. I had no idea of what Moosomin might be like, but strongly suspected it would consist of a wayside station, as most of the so-called towns did. I could only resort to my old refuge and pray for help and guidance. I began then to look at my fellow passengers. Perhaps some one might be going to Moosomin also. There was only one woman in the car, which was tolerably full of men. This woman was quite young and had a very little baby. Her husband, a middle aged weather beaten man, was doing his best to quiet the little creature, which screamed lustily. His success was poor and he apologized to his fellow passengers by saying he believed the baby had a headache. “Headache,” growled a good natured looking man near him, who probably had a half dozen of his own, “headache, bellyache you should say.” “What can I do?” inquired the father helplessly. “Give it a little whiskey,” said his new friend, and half a dozen flasks were immediately produced. “But I can’t pour whiskey down its throat,” said the mother, “has no one a spoon?” As none was produced, I advanced with mine, and soon the baby was sound asleep. After this introduction to the young woman, I entered into conversation with her and soon found that, sure enough, Moosomin was their destination. “Yes, of course, you will come along with us,” she replied, “my husband has often been there and knows just where to go.” What could I do but, like Paul of old, “thank God and take courage”.
It was dark and chilly when we arrived and stepped on to the rough prairie. A light here and there shone through the canvas of a tent. My new friends and I stumbled along, all heavy laden. First we went to a large tent, which the man said was a stopping house, but they were full up and refused to take us in. Then we found our way to a small frame building, the only building in Moosomin. Here we found accommodation and the mother, her baby and I were shown a bed behind a curtain which we might occupy. A dozen or more men lay on the floor around the stove. We had had no supper, but we were both so thankful to find a resting place that we did not grumble, and the baby and all slept soundly.
The next day about 3 p.m. my brother appeared with a buckboard and his two black ponies. He was surprised to find me already at the stopping house, and we were very glad to meet. After another night in Moosomin we left for Russell, but I must add a word about Moosomin before going on. It was a city of tents; two or three stores in large tents and many “private houses”, as well as the hotel. The tents were just set up on the rough prairie—no sign of streets. The little one room frame house was the only building. It was a typical town of 1882.
We set out in the crisp morning air, my trunks piled on behind and the ponies trotting cheerfully along. We had brought a lunch, and at noon sat down under someone’s haystack to eat it. No house was in sight. Presently my brother said to me, “Do you see the prairie fire approaching us?” Yes, there in the distance was a line of smoke all across the prairie. “We may as well take a bundle of hay,” said Graham, “it will be all burnt in an hour or two.” Soon after we set off again we encountered the fire. It was not very fierce, as the grass was not high, but as we dashed through it the ponies’ whiskers and the buffalo robe were scorched.
After this adventure we went quietly on, and Graham told me he was arranging to manage a sawmill for Major Boulton (I fancy he had a share in it) about 70 miles north of Russell. When we stopped that night we found Major Boulton at the stopping house before us. It was rather crowded, as more than one family had been burnt out by the fire we had encountered and had come here for refuge. Major Boulton was on horseback, so next morning he changed with Graham and drove me to his home, perhaps 20 miles. Anyway we arrived at dinner time.
I wish I could describe the house and surroundings and family, as they all rise before my mind in perfect deisticness. The house stood on the open prairie about a mile from the “Russell that was to be”, then consisting of a Hudson Bay post, three or four log houses and a “Town Hall”, in process of building. It was very pretty country, with clumps of trees and lovely little lakes, covered at this season with ducks; it looked like one vast park. The house itself was of lumber and contained three rooms and lean-to kitchen. Downstairs was one large room. It did not possess much furniture; a large table with benches on each side, bearing witness to the gracious hospitality which was always ready for the stranger. Then the Major had made two arm-chairs of saplings. You might call them “rustic”, and also a high chair for the baby. He was quite proud of his furniture, especially the high chair, of which the seat lifted and disclosed a box for toys. The only other chair was made of a barrel. This was the work of Mrs. Gilly, Mrs. Boulton’s sister, a good many years older than herself, generally known as Aunt Nellie. I think she was as proud of her achievement as the Major was of his, and it certainly was a very comfortable seat. There was also a homemade sofa, covered with the usual buffalo robe. All round the room were what we might term “fixings”; little shelves and a mantel shelf with bright covers and containing china and various ornaments. At one side a staircase went up, and under it was a long dark cupboard. We also boasted a cellar. In the kitchen was a stove, a table, and a huge dresser with a very large dinner and tea set. Upstairs were two rooms; the one the stairs led up to was Mrs. Boulton’s room and contained a large bed for the parents and two babies, and a small bed for the two little boys. A doorway —no door—led into an inner room, in which Mrs. Gilly and I, and the elder girl slept, and Mrs. Gully hung her dressing gown in the doorway. We also had a small box stove, but it was rather weak on its legs and occasionally fell down, rather to our consternation. The trunks and boxes pertaining to the family were piled at one side of our room. Of course we all lived in our trunks, though Mrs. Boulton had one small packing-box cupboard. How clearly it all comes before me as I write and I can almost hear myself saying, after our ample dinner: “Now I must make the baby’s acquaintance,” and Mrs. Boulton saying with a smile, “Not today; you must go and have a good rest.” Which I was not sorry to do.