One winter, 40 or 50 years ago, a band of Algonquin Indians at
Wayabimika all starved to death except one squaw and her baby; she
fled from the camp, carrying the child, thinking to find friends
and help at Nipigon House. She got as far as a small lake near
Deer Lake, and there discovered a cache, probably in a tree. This
contained one small bone fish-hook. She rigged up a line, but had
no bait. The wailing of the baby spurred her to action. No bait,
but she had a knife; a strip of flesh was quickly cut from her
own leg, a hole made through the ice, and a fine jack-fish was the
food that was sent to this devoted mother. She divided it with the
child, saving only enough for bait. She stayed there living on fish
until spring, then safely rejoined her people.
The boy grew up to be a strong man, but was cruel to his mother,
leaving her finally to die of starvation. Anderson knew the woman;
she showed him the sear where she cut the bait.
A piece of yet, more ancient history was supplied him in Northern
Ontario, and related to me thus:
Anderson was going to Kakabonga in June, 1879, and camped one
night on the east side of Birch Lake on the Ottawa, about 50 miles
north-east of Grand Lake Post.
He and his outfit of two canoes met Pah-pah-tay, chief of the Grand
Lake Indians, travelling with his family. He called Anderson's
attention to the shape of the point which had one good landing-place,
a little sandy bay, and told him the story he heard from his people
of a battle that was fought there with the Iroquois long, long ago.
Four or five Iroquois war-canoes, filled with warriors, came to
this place on a foray for scalps. Their canoes were drawn up on
the beach at night. They lighted fires and had a war-dance. Three
Grand Lake Algonquins, forefathers of Pah-pah-tay, saw the dance
from, hiding. They cached their canoe, one of them took a sharp
flint - "we had no knives or axes then" - swam across to the canoes,
and cut a great hole in the bottom of each.
The three then posted themselves at three different points in the
bushes, and began whooping in as many different ways as possible.
The Iroquois, thinking it a great war-party, rushed to their canoes
and pushed off quickly. When they were in deep water the canoes
sank and, as the warriors swam back ashore, the Algonquins killed
them one by one, saving alive only one, whom they maltreated, and
then let go with a supply of food, as a messenger to his people, and
to carry the warning that this would be the fate of every Iroquois
that entered the Algonquin country.
CHAPTER IX
MOSQUITOES
Reference to my Smith Landing Journal for June 17 shows the following:
"The Spring is now on in full flood, the grass is high, the trees
are fully leaved, flowers are blooming, birds are nesting, and the
mosquitoes are a terror to man and beast."
If I were to repeat all the entries in that last key, it would make
dreary and painful reading; I shall rather say the worst right now,
and henceforth avoid the subject.
Every traveller in the country agrees that the mosquitoes are
a frightful curse. Captain Back, in 1833 (Journal, p. 117), said
that the sand-flies and mosquitoes are the worst of the hardships
to which the northern traveller is exposed.
T. Hutchins, over a hundred years ago, said that no one enters the
Barren Grounds in the summer, because no man can stand the stinging
insects. I had read these various statements, but did not grasp the
idea until I was among them. At Smith Landing, June 7, mosquitoes
began to be troublesome, quite as numerous as in the worst part of
the New Jersey marshes. An estimate of those on the mosquito bar
over my bed, showed 900 to 1,000 trying to get at me; day and night,
without change, the air was ringing with their hum.
This was early in the season. On July 9, on Nyarling River, they
were much worse, and my entry was as follows:
"'On the back of Billy's coat, as he sat paddling before me, I
counted a round 400 mosquitoes boring away; about as many were on
the garments of his head and neck, a much less number on his arms
and legs. The air about was thick with them; at least as many
more, fully 1,000, singing and stinging and filling the air with
a droning hum. The rest of us were equally pestered.
"'The Major, fresh, ruddy, full-blooded, far over 200 pounds in
plumpness, is the best feeding ground for mosquitoes I (or they,
probably) ever saw; he must be a great improvement on the smoke-dried
Indians. No matter where they land on him they strike it rich,
and at all times a dozen or more bloated bloodsuckers may be seen
hanging like red currants on his face and neck. He maintains that
they do not bother him, and scoffs at me for wearing a net. They
certainly do not impair his health, good looks, or his perennial good
humour, and I, for one, am thankful that his superior food-quality
gives us a corresponding measure of immunity."
At Salt River one could kill 100 with a stroke of the palm and
at times they obscured the colour of the horses. A little later
they were much worse. On 6 square inches of my tent I counted 30
mosquitoes, and the whole surface was similarly supplied; that is,
there were 24,000 on the tent and apparently as many more flying
about the door.
