A Place Called Bliss (8 page)

July 12—Had a miserable day. Had to cross creeks twice. Angus waded in water up to his knees, and, before he had a chance to dry off, it rained. These trails soon became gumbo mud! The feet of the oxen and all the stock were soon great gobs of mud and the wheels of the carts—well! We stopped early, but could find no dry grass for a fire and were far far from trees. Angus put up a tarp, and we crowded under it, tried to change into dry clothes, and ate a cold supper—leftover bannock again, not nearly so good as it was this morning when it was hot.

July 15—Before we went on, after the rain, we took time to dry out our things and let the children run and stretch their legs. But not too far. You can’t imagine what a sea of grass this is, Mam. It is endless. Once in a while we come across a settler, and I must say their shelters, which they call soddies, are pathetic sights, so lonely and small on the big stretches of land around them. One man charged us a dollar to cross his land! We made about eight miles today, Angus figures. The trip, God willing, will take close to fifty-five days or thereabouts. The more I see of this prairie, the happier I am that Angus has chosen to go on to the bush country. Trees! How I long to be among them again.

July 19—Yesterday an old Indian came alongside from somewhere or other. He seemed to be starving, and so we fed him. The Indians are pathetic. The Meatis, on the other hand, are proud people but are very restless and discontented. They see their land being divided and taken from them, and I can hardly blame them for their unrest. No one wants to be governed by faraway Ottawa. They have found a leader in a young half-breed by the name of Louis Riel. Watch for his name, Mam; you will hear of him, I’m sure. The people of the Red River give him much resistance, and there is bitterness
and fear in many places. Still, this old Indian was peaceful enough and trudged off across the prairie wrapped in his blanket and bothered us not at all.

Although I haven’t had my talk with Carlton Voss (the preacher I told you about), I heard him give a sermon last Sunday. We stop on Sundays, Mam, for most of these people are good, God-fearing folk. Well, Mr. Voss kept using a term I certainly never heard in the kirk back home. It was “born again.” You must be born again, he said. Some people were nodding their heads, some said “amen,” like they knew what he was talking about. Some people were sort of uneasy. Me—I confess there was something stirring around on my insides like I never had happen before. When the time is right, I’ll talk to Angus and see what he makes of it all.

July 21—Days slipping by before I know it, though it seems each one is very long indeed. Today we got a slow start because some of the oxen had strayed away and the boys searched until they found them about four miles away. We passed Portage la Prairie yesterday; saw some wonderful farms near there. We camped near one of them, and they let us have water—good cold water—and we bought fresh milk, our cow barely giving any milk now, probably due to all this walking. Tonight I am baking bread, and the next time we have a stop of any length, if we’re near water, some of us ladies are going to have to do washing. We are a dusty and, I’m afraid, smelly bunch!

July 25—Making slow time, they say. Rigs keep breaking down. Red River carts are supposed to be easy to fix, but one has to have material (wood) available. We camped last night at Rat Tail Creek. A great many freighters passed us today. An old squaw came by selling pemmican. The children picked strawberries and we had them with pancakes for supper.

July 28—My heart is very heavy today. The Carney baby fell out of the cart and the huge heavy wheels ran over him and crushed him to death. Once again I heard Mr. Voss standing beside an open grave, giving comfort from the Bible. I came straight back to the cart and searched out my Bible again and looked up the words he said before I forgot them. They are found in John (much easier to find and to say than Thess.) 11:25. Jesus is saying that He is the resurrection and the life. “He that believeth in me,” He says, “though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” He ends by asking “Believest thou this?” and it seemed he was talking right at me. Do I believe all this? I must, for I have such a yearning in me to understand it, like as if someone (Someone?) is calling me on the inside. Martha (that’s who Jesus was talking to) answered Him right back and said, “Yea, Lord, I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God,” and I have a sort of swelling up in my heart, like as if I feel the same thing. Now here I am, preaching to my Mam! The gospel really is good news, like they say. More later, I think.

Days later—I know we’re into August, but I’ve lost track. So much has happened. One day we met a man coming out of the sea of grass shoving a wheelbarrow. In it, on top of their gear, sat his wife. “Stop, Henry,” she said, and he seemed glad to do so. She reached out a gloved hand and he helped her out. “Good day,” she said to all us watching (probably with our mouths open). We all chorused “Good day” in a sort of ragged chorus. “Is there coffee?” she asked as graciously as if she were Queen of England, and someone hastened to the campfire and poured her a cup. We saw to it that her poor husband had one, too, and that they had a good meal. (It was noontime and we were grazing the animals and resting a bit ourselves.)
Their story, which is too long to repeat here, is that Madam Queen is sick and tired of “living like this,” and she swept her hand over the prairie’s vastness, and that their animals died somewhere back there and they were on their way “out.” We think she has gone straight out of her mind, poor thing. She finally climbed back in that barrow and the last we saw of them, Henry was trudging her on down the road. We passed three more graves today, which didn’t lift our spirits any.

August 7?—Travel is slow due to lame oxen. And lame people! I think we could have walked to the moon by now. Passed freighters again today. Had many sloughs to go through or around. We are in hill country, having passed Fort Ellice, where many Indians were gathered. They stole, we believe, two oxen and ate them. When we passed their tents later, they laughed at us. Well, it’s better than scalping! The Indians’ dogs were a big nuisance, and you couldn’t blame Frank Grimm for shooting at them. But we were uneasy after that and glad to be on our way again. We are nearing the bush, and it is very pleasant. Bought some milk today from a settler and some cream, as raspberries are ready.

August 18, I think. At least two hundred carts passed us today. We are in the Touchwood Hills, much cooler, and everyone is considerably cheered. You’d be surprised how often we meet people heading back! Of course some are going for supplies or some such reason, but some have had enough and want out. One man ate supper with us a couple of nights ago and gave Angus directions to Bliss, the place Angus has in mind. Said it was a good place, and his land is available. Maybe we’ll settle on the Fairfax land. Though I wonder why we think we can make it if he can’t. But, poor man, his wife died in childbed.

Speaking of which makes me remember. Two days ago Mr. Swart, whose wife and infant we buried soon after starting, married Rose Fennel. She is only fifteen. It was a sort of sad occasion, and while we gathered around and wished them well, it was with mixed emotions. Poor Rose; she deserved a happier wedding. But that’s the way it is out here, they say. Mr. Swart had to turn his back on what’s happened and go on. Certainly he couldn’t make it without a wife, and his children need a mother.

August 26—Yesterday we reached the south branch of the Saskatchewan River. Thankfully there were Indians to ferry us across. (More than once we have had to remove the wheels on the carts and float them over. These were such tense and tiring times that I had no strength or will to write when evening came.) There is so much I have not had time to tell you about, Mam. Someday, hopefully, you’ll come visit us (I doubt that we’ll ever make it back out—we’re here to stay), but when you do, we’ll hope the railroad has come up this way. When it does, land will go much faster and soon all this wonderful farming country will be swelling with people.

Today we have camped at St. Laurent Mission, and that’s how come I know the date; though this isn’t civilization by any means, they at least know what time of the year it is. They have a garden here, and we were able to buy potatoes. Ummm, good.

It’s just a few days now until we reach Prince Albert. From there we’ll make our way to this Bliss place, if Angus has his way. But time is growing short for talking to Rev. Voss if I am going to do so. I keep wondering if he’ll turn off at some of the spots where others turn aside; two families, for instance, turned off for Nipawin, and another family turned back, even though we are so close to our destination. Rev. Voss is coming
by our tent tonight, and oh, Mam, perhaps I’ll find some answers to this cry in my heart.

Sept. 1—It’s so simple, Mam. So simple and yet so profound. I’m a changed person. It’s hard to understand that people looking at me probably can’t see any difference. But inside, where the hunger was and the longing, it’s like a candle is burning, and it’s bright and light and full of joy. I want to tell everyone about it! Rev. Voss says the way to tell it is to live it (and that may be much harder). But I’ve begun, Mam, I’ve begun.

He explained, so simply, all about Jesus coming to earth to save sinners and that though He went back to heaven, His Spirit, whom He called a Comforter (and He surely is that) is with us, and He has been drawing my hungry heart to God. That’s when the candle was lit, Mam, and I understood. Then it was so easy to pray, to say all those things that made the past forgiven, and I gave the future into His hands.

Oh, Mam, the peace! And the healing—it has finally begun. About my wee Angel, I mean, and (never mentioned before but hidden in my heart) a certain bitterness toward Angus for bringing me to this new life and that terrible voyage. Last night, late, I confessed this to Angus and we had a very tender hour together, praying, loving, planning. I think we were a happier bride and groom than Mr. Swart and Rose, God bless ’em!

I tell you, Mam, this buggy ride is taking me to Bliss in more ways than one!

B
reakfast was over, Hugh was enjoying a final cup of coffee, and Sophia, dawdling over her tea, stifled a yawn by smothering it delicately with her lace-edged handkerchief.

Even so, Hugh noticed. “Tired, my dear?” he asked, with a smile. Their previous day had been a long one; the lacrosse game had been just the beginning.

Not ordinarily given to the festivities that marked an age when the rich grew richer while the poor became poorer, but having committed himself to the game, Hugh had good-naturedly devoted the remainder of the day to his wife.

They had joined the rest of the “posh” crowd—a new word coined to fit the times—in the mindless sort of thing they did every afternoon between 3:00 and 6:00: parading up and down King Street with no other intention than to gossip and strut the latest fashions. Hugh despised it, and even Sophia admitted that, once indulged in and experienced, she could see no practical reason to continue.

Then there had been the dash for home and the changing of clothes for dinner at the Miltons’ large and garish mansion.
But it boasted the new tin bathtub and the hot water that was just now making its appearance in a few homes. Heatherstone, of course, had both, but neither its master or mistress was crass enough to make mention of it.

And what a dinner it had been, keeping them seated for three hours followed by coffee and a boring piano recital by one of the Milton daughters. Ten courses the Milton servants had served, if Hugh’s memory served him correctly, peaking with a huge stuffed boar’s head and concluding with rare and exotic fruit, imported cheese, and fancy glacés. Hugh’s four-button cut-away, tailored to fit without a wrinkle to be seen, was snug and uncomfortable. Sophia, he was certain, was breathing with difficulty in the prized new corset with its Coraline stays.

Sunday stretched before the Galloways, an attractive alternative with the quiet peace and comfort of a home they enjoyed and a rather rare opportunity to be together.

“I noticed you were having quite a conversation with that scarlet-coated individual across the table from you,” Sophia prompted.

“North West Mounted Police uniform; quite attractive, I’d say, certainly eye-catching. Their motto, by the way, is ‘Maintain the Right.’ Seems fitting.”

“I do trust they are in evidence where Angus and Mary have gone.”

“Well,” Hugh said, half humorously, “mounted means horseback, and police means enforcer of the law, so I assume North West refers to the Alberta and Saskatchewan territories.”

“I suppose so,” Sophia said dubiously. “We’ll just have to wait and hear what news comes from this . . . Bliss, is it? At any rate, this enforcer seemed to keep everyone at that end of the table spellbound.”

“Fascinating, the account of their activities, like nothing we’ve ever heard of, that’s certain. The force was formed in the first place to eliminate the whiskey forts in the territories. Indians, of course, can’t abide whiskey but crave it. Unscrupulous men made and traded it to them at these forts through small
openings or wickets. An Indian would hand over his buffalo robe and receive in return a cup of whiskey. A full quart would cost him his pony.”