Place Called Bliss, A

by Glover, Ruth

  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 . . . Bl
iss, 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.”

  “Gracious!”

  “Listen to the recipe for this firewater; if I remember what this man Dillard said, a bottle of Jamaica ginger, a quart of molasses, and a handful of red pepper were added to a quart of whiskey. When this was heated, it lived up to its name.”

  “Gracious!”

  This interesting exchange of conversation was interrupted by the timid voice of Tessie, helper in the nursery.

  “Mrs. Hugh—”

  “Yes, what is it, Tessie?”

  “It’s the baby, Mum. Miss Margaret. She’s—”

  “What, Tessie? She’s what?” Alarm had crept into Sophia’s voice. Instinctively she stood to her feet. Hugh peered over the top of his paper.

  “She’s sick, Mum.”

  Something like panic rose in Sophia’s motherly bosom. About to run unceremoniously from the room and her husband’s presence, she caught Hugh’s level look.

  “Excuse me, Hugh,” she said, pausing in flight.

  “Of course, my dear,” he said pleasantly.

  Prince Albert

  I t’s beautiful!” Mary breathed, while Cameron and Molly frolicked in the abundant grass at her feet, happy to be released from the confines of the buggy and the cart. They had made a rush for the river flowing just a few feet away, but Mary had drawn them back from the tantalizing water.

  She could understand the impression of the Rev. James Nisbet when he had stood in almost precisely the same place not too many years before and said, “I am satisfied with the excellence of the locality for a settlement.”

  Nisbet, too, had just completed the trek of five hundred miles in Red River carts drawn by oxen. He, too, had forded streams, battled mosquitoes, crossed flooded valleys on improvised scows. Here he had stood with his wife and daughter and recognized the promised land. “I have not seen any place with equal advantages,” he had said.

  Not far away stood the Mission House he had erected, and behind Mary were the scattered buildings of the town Nisbet had named Prince Albert in honor of the Queen’s late consort.

  The same things that had attracted Nisbet drew men today in increasing numbers—the fertility of the soil, the abundance of hay land, the clear, flowing waters, the myriad sloughs with their ducks and geese. The free land!

  The trouble was—and Mary shut her eyes and shuddered, just thinking of it—the difficulty in getting here. One trail had to be abandoned because of the many creeks and valleys that must be rafted. Another trail, dry and level, was not used extensively due to the lack of wood, scarcity of water in dry seasons, and the fact that no one lived along it for great stretches.

  Those trails that offered plenty of wood and water were heavily traveled, and large freighters, in wet weather, made what was a bad trail almost impossible. Over one of these the Morrison party bounced and shook, with dozens of breakdowns in the group, many delays, numerous sicknesses, and three deaths.

  But Mary, and all other newcomers, recognized the Prince Albert Settlement as one of the most picturesque in the Dominion. Houses, mostly of logs, were scattered for six miles along the river. A windmill added to the unique ambiance, and over all stretched a sky as big and as blue as one’s heart could desire and one’s imagination conjure up. Wild fruit abounded in season—blueberries, saskatoons, raspberries, cranberries, incredibly sweet strawberries. And the trees! Mary basked in their lushness.

  “We made it.” Angus’s voice, quiet yet filled with intense feeling, broke Mary’s train of thought. She leaned back against him and couldn’t help but wonder if she smelled. Certainly he did—of sweat, and oxen, and wood smoke. Locating water for bathing had not been the problem. But finding privacy to do it properly had been another matter. As for the family wash, an occasional day had been set aside for this purpose, near water naturally, but if the weather turned bad, the heavy garments failed to dry, were tossed into the carts or draped over the buggy seats, and grew dusty and muddy before drying.

  Mary breathed a prayer of thanks to the heavenly Father who had brought them through. How often, jolting along behind a weary horse, she had lifted her voice in the hymns of praise taught to the group by Carlton Voss.

  Even now, in spite of dirty clothes and sweaty body, hair too long unwashed, appetite over-gorged on rabbit, loved ones many miles away, and tomorrow’s problems too mountainous to grasp, her heart—in its newfound peace and joy—lifted in praise.

  “The lots are taken all along the river for many miles,” Angus was saying.

  “Why should that matter?” Mary asked. “Haven’t we been headed for this Bliss place all along?”

  “One of the locals back there predicts that Prince Albert will outstrip Winnipeg when the railroad reaches here. The area is hovering on the edge of a boom in growth right now. We got here in good time. Can’t you just see—back there—” and Angus waved an arm in the direction of the settlement, “factories, machine shops, paper mills, all bringing people who love this clear sky and wonderful land, and gambling everything on a chance to have a piece of it for their very own. If they’re not farmers, they’ll fit in right here and offer goods the rest of us need.”

  “There’s a sawmill and a flour mill in operation now.”

  “I’ll probably have to do what many of the homesteaders do, Mary, and that is work the land in the summer months and when harvest is done, find work somewhere else—here, perhaps, or further north in the logging camps.”

  Still too unlearned concerning bitter winters within the confines of a small cabin, without seeing another woman for weeks or perhaps months, Mary nodded assent to this development in the new life. Already her heart clung to the knowledge that whatever the circumstances, she had a Friend who had promised He would never leave nor forsake her.

  “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,” she murmured. The long buggy ride had been enriched by Bible reading and memorization and acquainting herself with her new Companion, and the weary days had been brightened and the endless hours shortened, or so it seemed.

  Angus’s gaze softened as he watched his wife and heard her. Her new relationship, rather than making a wedge between them, had strengthened their marriage bonds. The One who was to her the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley shed His sweet perfume through her life; to Angus it seemed that it should naturally be so, and it was a testimony to him and all who met her, in a manner beyond words. The One whom she acknowledged as the bright and morning star shone His light through her, and Angus warmed his own hungry heart at that flame. The Good Shepherd who had found Mary was, clearly, seeking another wandering lamb.

  “We’ll stay here a few days and rest,” he said now. “We’ll look over the available goods—everything, by the way, has had to come over the same trail we did, or by river. The Hudson’s Bay steamer, the Lily , made six trips to Edmonton from here this year, I’m told, carrying flour and other goods as well as passengers. So,” he said, more serious than teasing, “we’re not really locked in here.”

  “It surely can’t navigate in winter. And Edmonton, Angus—that’s the wrong direction.” She was, obviously, thinking of her Mam, back east.

  “Knowing Kezzie,” Angus said, and it was a comfort for the moment, “she’d make it if she had to snowshoe all the way.”

  “You’ve been looking over the store’s goods,” Mary judged. “Now, let’s go see these snowshoes.”

  Mary rounded up the children, straightened their clothes, and herded them down the street toward the Hudson�
�s Bay Trading Post.

  While Mary browsed through an interesting assortment of goods, Angus was engaged in conversation with a couple of men. To his surprise he learned that very little cash was available; his would be welcome, for sure.

  “Good country for cattle,” he was told. “Start a herd and it may bring you returns sooner than a crop, because you’ll have to clear your land and so on. Cattle are bought by the government and the Bay for their posts throughout the territories.”

  “It’s this first winter that concerns me most,” Angus said, his Scots accent fresh and strong but not strange; the Scots were well represented in the area.

  “You have a couple of months before it gets really bad. Though it could be sooner . . . never know. You won’t want to let any grass grow under your feet.”

  This reference to the grass that burgeoned so thickly around them caused considerable hilarity in the listeners, and when Angus responded with, “Well, if it does, I’ll cut it for hay,” he was slapped on the back and told, “You’ll do!”

  A plump, rosy woman not much older than Mary entered the building, bustled over to the newcomer, held out her hand, and said, “You must be the lady from Scotland. Well, I’m Sadie LeGare—French name, of course, my husband is part French . . . we’re a motley crew here, and I welcome you to our—” Here the flow of words faltered, and a sparkle of fun lit the kind eyes—“our city,” she finished.

  When Angus joined them and was introduced, the two were old friends, a mark of the camaraderie that flourished among the settlers, who needed each other so desperately. Unless he was mistaken, this Sadie LeGare was part Indian, a Métis, many of whom were being assimilated into the current society and way of life.

  “The constant need for food three times a day will challenge your imagination,” Sadie LeGare was saying, following Mary to the various sections of the store. “If you don’t have it already, you’ll need flour, of course, sugar, baking soda, salt—” Mary was pointing these items out to the clerk, and they were being assembled on the counter.