Chapter XIV: Stirring Days at Forty Mile

A grand picture rises before the mind as we think of Bishop Bompas far away in the Northland, worn by years of toil, and yet pressing on to new work. If I were an artist, I would sketch him standing at Fort Norman in front of the rude mission-house. He is looking away to the west, towards the Rocky Mountains, with his left hand to his ear, as if listening to voices from the great Yukon River. In his right hand he clutches two letters, one urging him to come to Manitoba to rest, the other pleading with him to return to England to spend the rest of his life in peace. Which call will he heed? That is the question, as we see him standing there in the “Valley of Decision.” His own terse words give the answer, which might well be placed below the picture. “I find,” he wrote, “the needle points west rather than east, and north rather than south.”

Yes, that was always his idea, to be going farther to reclaim the sheep of the wilderness. He shrank from the thought of going back to England. He had been now twenty-five years in the North, and loved the wild.

“To life in England,” he wrote, “and to my relatives there, I feel so long dead and buried that I cannot think a short visit home, as if from the grave, would be of much use. If over fifteen years ago, when I was at home, I felt like Samuel’s ghost, how should I feel now?”

Leaving Fort Norman, he went again across the Rocky Mountains, and spent the winter of 1891-92 at the lonely rampart-house. He did not mind the loneliness, for he spent the time at his beloved studies. In the spring, when the snow had disappeared from the land, he would walk through the woods drinking in the beautiful things of Nature.

“I find,” he said, “a few flowers even in this Arctic clime, such as the pretty wild-rose, the lupin and bluebell. There are also berry blossoms, and plenty of the white blossoms of what we call ‘marsh tea.’ These blossoms really make rather pleasant and aromatic tea. The leaves, when used for the same purpose, are rather bitter. Raspberry-shoots, birch-buds, and some other berry-trees are also at times used to make tea in the absence of the genuine article, but they are rather medicinal. The west side of the mountains is, on the whole, more flowery than the east side.”

In the spring, after the ice had gone out, he went down the Porcupine River to the Yukon. It was here he met Mrs. Bompas, who was returning from England. They had not met since 1887, and Mrs. Bompas vividly describes this meeting. After speaking about the trip up the river from St. Michael’s, she mentions the great excitement which ensued on July 26, when “two Indians came on board, bringing news of the Bishop, who is at the next village, ‘Showman.’ But a delay took place owing to the boiler being cleaned, and it was not until midnight that ‘two bells’ sounded, a signal for the boat to stop. I pricked up my ears, and then another bell, which meant, ‘Stop her.’ It must be for wood, of course; but I sprang from my berth, and looked out of my small window to see a pretty Indian camp, and—my husband on the beach, grey and weather-beaten, but in health better than I had expected!”

From here they went up the river to Forty Mile, where there was a large camp of miners and Indians. In the log-house, which had been built by poor Ellington, the Bishop and his faithful wife took up their new burden among complete strangers. Their special work was among the Indians, and for the children a school was at once started. There was much to do about the place—repairs of all kinds to be made, and the Bishop was kept very busy.

From time to time we catch brief glimpses of the life in the mission-house. Occasionally Mrs. Bompas lets in a little light, which is most interesting. We see the Bishop turning from the cares of the diocese to provide for some Indian child, or do necessary work around the house. She tells how the Bishop “has been busy carpentering and devising a number of things for our comfort—a beautiful cupboard to hold the girls’ clothes, shelves and brackets, new bench for dining-room, bedsteads mended, a new door for our little dining-room, frames for double windows, new dining-table, and old one repaired. This, with his self-imposed duty of waiting upon everyone, superintending the kitchen, and doctoring any sick members, has filled up his time the last few weeks. I feel thankful when for a short time in the evening he retires to his study and takes up his beloved Syriac.”

But, alas for “the beautiful cupboard and shelves” which the Bishop had so carefully made! Boards were very scarce—not enough even to make coffins in which to bury the dead, and the shelves had to be taken down to make a coffin for an Indian who had been brought in from the distant hunting-grounds. Mrs. Bompas, who relates this incident, tells most pathetically of the trials they had in connection with burying the dead on the Mackenzie River. The Indians would beg packing-boxes from the Hudson’s Bay Company’s officers, and as these were generally too small, arms and legs would often be seen hanging out of the box as it was lowered into the grave.

Whenever the Indians arrived from their hunting-grounds, the Bishop was kept busy almost night and day attending to their wants, and instructing them in the faith, if only for a few days. This teaching was by no means lost, for out on the hills and mountains the Indians had their daily services, when appointed leaders would instruct the others.

Many were the wants the good Bishop relieved. He always kept a store of medicine in the house, and became quite expert in his knowledge of Indian troubles. To them he was doctor as well as teacher, and they always turned to him in time of trouble. He was tireless even to the last in his attendance upon sick persons. Sometimes he even performed surgical operations. With nothing but a pocket-knife he has been known to sever a diseased toe or thumb of some member of his dusky flock. Once he cut off a man’s leg with a common hand-saw, and the man is living and able to work to-day.

One spring, east of the mountains, he was public vaccinator. Smallpox was raging, and the previous summer over two thousand Indians are said to have died. The Bishop found at times much trouble in persuading the natives to submit to the operation, but, in spite of difficulties, he vaccinated about five hundred.

He had himself suffered from snow-blindness, and knew how painful it was. When he saw many of his flock thus afflicted, his heart was moved, and he did his best to relieve them. He had never studied at a medical college, but his keen powers of observation and the study of some of the standard medical books that he had always at hand stood him in good stead on many an occasion. He had witnessed so often the sufferings endured by his flock owing to snow-blindness in the spring that, when he returned home for consecration, he took advantage of the visit to attend several lectures at an eye hospital, and was henceforth able to treat the patients who came to him with splendid success. Great was the faith the Indians had in the Bishop’s healing powers. Only a few years ago an Indian along the Yukon River, who had been treated by the police doctor for some time, was heard to say, “P’lice doctor no good;” and then with animation continued, “Ah! Beeshop heem moche good!”

So now at Forty Mile the Indians came to him with all kinds of troubles. One day a young woman arrived with her hand in a pitiable condition, and asked the Bishop to give medicine to make it well. She had had a quarrel with one of her neighbours, words led to blows, and then a rough-and-tumble fight ensued, and even hair-pulling. During the affair the woman’s hand was badly bitten and lacerated by the sharp teeth of her opponent.

On another occasion a woman was brought prostrate and disfigured from a fight with her “man.” (They never say husband here.) She was bleeding from mouth and ears, and must have received hard usage. We are not permitted to know the cause of their troubles, but no doubt they happened quite often, and the good missionary was quite accustomed to them.

But his patients were not all like these. There were other cases which touched his heart most deeply. A little boy, named Andrew, was one day brought into the mission-house with a broken leg. Carefully the Bishop set it, and this gave the child much relief. He became quite contented with his new home, and “sang and whistled in his bed so prettily,” Mrs. Bompas tells us. It was difficult to keep the little fellow still, so the Bishop slept in his room every night so as to be near. Then, when the boy was well enough, the Bishop lifted him in his strong arms and carried him out on the platform. Andrew’s face was radiant with joy, and how beautiful a sight it was to see his noble protector gazing fondly down upon him!

Not only did the women and children need his attention, but the men of the flock as well. Though many were quiet, and gave little or no trouble, there were always others of a turbulent nature. Of these the Bishop had no fear. He never hesitated to speak the word of rebuke, or to interfere in order to stop a fight.

One day two Indians became engaged in a serious fight close by the mission. One, Roderick by name, was determined to kill the other, and was making desperate thrusts with a long, sharp knife. The Bishop, observing the encounter, made for the contestants, and taking Roderick by the collar, quietly said, “Come.” But the Indian still fought and slashed with his knife, the Bishop all the time retaining his hold, and saying, “Come, come with me.” After much effort he succeeded in separating them, and half leading, half dragging, drew Roderick to the mission-house. Then the Indian, completely exhausted, sank upon a large stone near by. Ere long he began to realize how he had been saved from committing murder, and reaching out his hand, seized that of the Bishop to thank him for what he had done.

As the miners continued to arrive, the Bishop became much worried over the change that took place among his Indians, and sadly he wrote:

“Nothing could be of greater contrast than the squalid poverty and want of all things in which the Indians here lived thirty years ago and the lavish luxury and extravagance with which they now squander hundreds of dollars on needless food and dress, if not in a still more questionable manner. The Indians now place such high price on any meat or fuel, or other things which they supply to the whites, such as leather or shoes, that it is hard for your missionaries to live with economy among them, and the worst of all is that the younger Indians are only too apt to imitate the careless whites in irreligion and debauchery.”

Then the white men exerted a baneful influence upon his Indians, demoralizing them through drink and in many other unlawful ways. He had to contend with the same difficulties as other missionaries in like circumstances. It was Hans Egede, the great apostle to Greenland, who, in 1730, said that while able in perfect security to sleep in the tents of the natives, he had to keep a watch and fire-arms by his bed as a protection against his fellow-Christians. Bishop Bompas remarked, after several years’ sad experience with the whites among his little flock, that “the advent of white population strengthens the call for missions to the natives. While they are in the minority in population, they are not so in Church attendance. At Dawson, with a population of 4,000 or 5,000, no weekday services can be maintained, while at Moosehide, Klondyke, with only 500 inhabitants, frequently 50 attend daily evening prayers.”

In January, 1895, the Bishop gave a description of this Northern settlement: “A town is laid down at Forty Mile, and they have two doctors, library, reading-room, debating society, theatre, eating-houses, and plenty of ‘saloons,’ as public-houses are called in the West, besides two stores or shops, and a few tradesmen. One debate was as to which has caused the most misery in the past century, war or whisky. It was decided to give the enviable preference to whisky. This was truly appropriate in a mining camp.”

Though the miners, for the most part, were a hard-working, well-meaning class of men, there were a few who were bent on mischief and playing practical jokes. Some of these latter, at times, proved more serious than they anticipated, as it was in Ellington’s case. Observing the venerable Bishop moving steadily about his daily work, with his thoughts on higher things, they imagined it would be a fine idea to spring upon him a practical joke. So one day a man with a very serious face came to the mission-house and asked the Bishop to bury a certain miner who had recently died. This the Bishop agreed to do at the appointed hour. When the man had departed, Mr. Totty, who was at Forty Mile, remarked that it was strange that they had not heard of the man’s illness. At this the Bishop became suspicious, so, going to the white settlement, he asked a store-keeper there when the man had died. “He is not dead,” was the reply. “Some of the boys wanted to have a little fun and watch you read the Burial Service over an empty box.”

Though, fortunately, the attempt upon the Bishop failed, this trick had imposed upon Mr. Ellington some years before. He, in all sincerity, stood by the open grave, and read most feelingly the beautiful Burial Service from beginning to end, only to find out at last it was all a farce.

Notwithstanding certain jokes of this kind, the miners had the profoundest respect for the Bishop and his devoted wife. Though many of them were indifferent to all things spiritual, still, they could admire nobleness when they beheld it, as they did every day in the two faithful soldiers of the Cross in their midst. As a token of their esteem, on Christmas Day, 1892, a splendid nugget of gold was presented to Mrs. Bompas, with the following address, signed by fifty-three miners:

“It is proposed to make a Christmas present to Mrs. Bompas, the wife of the Rev. Bishop Bompas (for which purpose a collection will be taken up amongst those who are willing to contribute), and that the present shall be in the form of a Forty Mile nugget, as most appropriate to the occasion, as a mark of respect and esteem from the miners of Forty Mile, irrespective of creeds or religions; and, further, that it be distinctly understood to be a personal present to the first white lady who has wintered amongst us.”