Burned Bridges

They bore on in a northerly direction, keeping not too far from the lake

shore, lest the combination of a sudden squall and a heavy-loaded canoe

should bring disaster. When Mike Breyette's "two-tree" hour was run Mr.

Thompson stepped from the canoe to the sloping, sun-blistered beach

before Fort Pachugan, and if he did not openly offer thanks to his Maker

that he stood once more upon solid ground he at least experienced

profound relief.

For many days he had occupied that midship position with ill-concealed

misgivings. The largest bodies of water he had been on intimate terms

with heretofore had been contained within the dimensions of a bathtub.

He could not swim. No matter that his faith in an all-wise Providence

was strong he could not forbear inward tremors at the certain knowledge

that only a scant quarter-inch of frail wood and canvas stood between

him and a watery grave. He regarded a canoe with distrust. Nor could he

understand the careless confidence with which his guides embarked in so

captious a craft upon the swirling bosom of that wide, swift stream they

had followed from Athabasca Landing down to the lake of the same name.

To Thompson--if he had been capable of analyzing his sensations and

transmuting them into words--the river seemed inexplicably sinister, a

turbid monster writhing over polished boulders, fuming here and there

over rapids, snarling a constant menace under the canoe's prow.

It did not comfort him to know that he was in the hands of two capable

rivermen, tried and proven in bad water, proud of their skill with the

paddle. Could he have done so the reverend young man would gladly have

walked after the first day in their company. But since that was out of

the question, he took his seat in the canoe each morning and faced each

stretch of troubled water with an inward prayer.

The last stretch and this last day had tried his soul to its utmost.

Pachugan lay near the end of the water route. What few miles he had to

travel beyond the post would lie along the lake shore, and the lake

reassured him with its smiling calm. Having never seen it harried by

fierce winds, pounding the beaches with curling waves, he could not

visualize it as other than it was now, glassy smooth, languid, inviting.

Over the last twenty miles of the river his guides had strained a point

now and then, just to see their passenger gasp. They would never have

another chance and it was rare sport, just as it is rare sport for

spirited youths to snowball a passer-by who does not take kindly to

their pastime.

In addition to these nerve-disturbing factors Thompson suffered from the

heat. A perverted dignity, nurtured in a hard-shell, middle-class

environment, prevented him from stripping to his undershirt. The sun's

rays, diffusing abnormal heat through the atmosphere, reflected

piercingly upward from the water, had played havoc with him. His first

act upon landing was to seat himself upon a flat-topped boulder and dab

tenderly at his smarting face while his men hauled up the canoe. That in

itself was a measure of his inefficiency, as inefficiency is measured in

the North. The Chief Factor of a district large enough to embrace a

European kingdom, traveling in state from post to post, would not have

been above lending a hand to haul the canoe clear. Thompson had come to

this terra incognita to preach and pray, to save men's souls. So far

it had not occurred to him that aught else might be required of a man

before he could command a respectful hearing.