of several cases of cannibalism among them. In a few instances, when a family was starving back in the “bush,” one member— generally the husband—had attempted to kill some of the others to allay his own hunger. In most cases, some or all escaped from the cannibal and eventually reached the nearest trading post, nearly dead with fatigue and starvation. Then I remembered a comment Mr. Wilson of Moose Factory had made as he pointed out a passing Indian: “He had a snack off his wife last winter.”
These cases are rare, but hunger is not rare, particularly farther north. The Cree Indians were primarily hunters and had not learned to hoard or lay up for the future. This was not so much the fault of the Indian as of circumstances. The Crees depended on hunting, directly or indirectly, for both food and clothing. The depleted game supply of the Labrador Peninsula is a variable quantity, unreliable and deceiving. The food that the Indian bought at the trading post, with the winter’s fur catch, was often used up before the next winter’s trapping began.
One of the most astonishing natural history notes I got from Mr. Jobson was his account of the passenger pigeon, now gone forever. He said “wild pigeons” had been common in the 1860s. He saw them on Albany River, Moose River, and one at Woswanapi as late as 1884. His description certainly fit the passenger pigeon: bluish, with a reddish breast, long tail, and “small feet.” They flew about in flocks and fed on berries. Mr. Jobson had even seen them in burned woods; sometimes they alighted on houses.
It was not until February 17 that I could press northward again. Then there were several teams going toward Fort George.
One night in an Indian camp stands out in my memories of this part of my journey north. Running through a spruce forest, we came to a large wigwam. I could see that it was made of upright poles set close together and apparently covered with moss, but the details of its architecture were not clear since it was coated with snow. It seemed very large for a wigwam, but still I did not guess there were as many Indians living in it as we saw when we stepped inside. In the center were two roaring stoves. Around the edge, bordering the wall, ten families found room to spread their blankets and stack their belongings, each family appropriating a certain space. A place was cleared for my sleeping bag, and my grub box was carried in and put beside it.
I had wondered about the Crees, with their ill-fitting “civilized” store clothes, in this wilderness environment. But this camp was something different, some of it dating far back in their history. The floor of the wigwam was covered thickly with spruce tips, wonderfully smooth and level. Most of the men were away somewhere, but the women were busy. At one side of the door a young woman was industriously weaving a rabbit-skin blanket. With slender brown fingers she deftly handled the furry white strips. Another woman was cleaning fish. Several others, in a group by themselves, were busy picking cones off spruce boughs and dropping them into a kettle. I wondered what kind of brew that was to be. Above them hung an arctic fox, recently trapped. It was a picturesque bit of Indian household activity.
After a little warming by one of the stoves I went outside to look around. A small group of children, dressed in rabbit-skin clothes, were coasting down a little slope on a small toboggan. Like children farther south, these youngsters enjoyed a frolic in the snow, but they were also unconsciously training themselves for the work of grownups. In his winter travels in the forest, the Indian uses a small, slender toboggan such as these children were using. Now several more women came into camp, each hauling a log through the snow for firewood. A good supply had been cut and piled neatly in front of the wigwam. A little later the men came in, one by one. I gathered that they had been tending their fish nets, set under the ice.
Here was the winter home of the Indians. I appreciated their hospitality, but it was a restless night. Children cried and complained continuously. Some were evidently sickly, others just hungry. During the evening I had from time to time given a biscuit to some complaining youngster until, before I realized it, my supply was very low.
At other camps, too, I heard the hungry crying of children, and I kept giving away my food. The birthday cake went, and I ended up eating dog food. My Indian companion on this part of the trip was surprised that a white man would do this; and I, in my ignorance, was surprised that he was surprised. What was the custom of this northern country?
My visit at this camp impressed on me more than ever the uncertainties of the Indian’s life. He was never many meals ahead and depended largely on hunting, in a land where game is never plentiful.
After several days’ travel on the coastal sea ice, my Indian companion and I arrived at Fort George, another typical Hudson’s Bay Company village and post, several buildings at the edge of the coastal forest.
That evening in the house of the trader, where several white people of the post had gathered, I had an embarrassing moment. I had spent so much time with Indians in these past weeks that I had begun to speak like them.
The Crees on the Labrador side of James Bay had a very vigorous way of speaking. Their word for “yes” is eh-heh, pronounced quickly and vigorously. When I meant to say yes to a question that evening at Fort George, I heard myself saying, “eh-heh”—not at all the smooth “uh-huh” of a white man.
Here at Fort George I heard another story of cannibalism. In the store an Indian woman was pointed out to me. “She and her husband were camped back there in the woods,” the trader told me, “and they ran out of food. As they were starving, she sensed that her husband was planning to eat her. So she somehow escaped from the camp and made it in to this post.” I wondered what happened to the husband.
My visit at Fort George was very brief. Mr. Maver, the trader from Great Whale River, was there and was returning north the next morning. I was invited to go with him.
After we had said our good-byes in the crisp wintry air, the team started off. As I ran forward to keep up with the sled, I stumbled and fell flat in the snow. I remember the trader’s laughing voice calling after me as I picked myself up, “That’s a bad start you made, young man!”
This lap of the journey took five days of dog travel, with Mr. Maver, his Eskimo dog driver, and his fine team. (No white man ever drove dogteams in this part of the world.) I soon realized how fortunate I was to be traveling with Mr. Maver, who was friendly, outgoing, and helpful. I knew that he was liked by everyone on the entire coast and that he was very able. He held the key post of the region, one aspired to by all beginners in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company.
Most of the time we all three trotted beside the sled—riding was too cold. But I knew that when the chief factor made an inspection trip of trading posts up the coast, he lay on the sled all the way, wrapped in many blankets and robes.
We spent one night with an Eskimo family in their tent. The atmosphere in that family group was cheerful and warm, although I later learned that for two days they had been without food—no seals.
I learned another thing on this coastal trip. The Eskimos, who had lived here for numerous generations, had observed and come to understand the physical factors affecting winter travel. As usual the undersides of the sled runners were covered with steel bands. But for the colder part of winter the Eskimos had improved on this. They applied a warm, wet mixture of mud to the bottom of the runner over the steel, shaping it like a round, mud tire. The mud quickly froze solid in the extreme cold. After smoothing the surface, they applied warm water, which quickly froze into a perfectly smooth coating of ice. Runners so treated slid smoothly over the winter landscape. I was told that at Moose Factory they sometimes used soft cattle manure instead of mud.
When the ice coating wore down, the driver would heat some water and apply a wet coating over the surface again with a rag. This froze at once, and we again had a glass-smooth runner to glide over the snow.
Before we reached Great Whale River there came a day when our driver tipped the sled over on its side and knocked off all the mud. “He must feel that the colder part of the winter is over,” said Mr. Maver. “From now on there will be some thawing, and for this the steel runners are better.”
A little after noon on February 27, we saw ahead of us