Chapter XV: Flooded Out

Several years ago it was my privilege to take service for Bishop Bompas at Carcross during his absence at various stations down the river. I slept in the mission-house, and that evening spent some very pleasant hours looking over the Bishop’s library. As book after book was examined, I noticed how many bore marks of hard usage—not only worn from constant packing and repacking, but they were soiled by water. How had it happened? I wondered. Had they been spilled from a canoe in one of his long voyages, or had they been exposed to a drenching rain? These thoughts came to my mind, but not the right one. Not until years later did I learn the story of how these books became soiled.

It was at Forty Mile, in the lonely days before the words “Klondyke” and “Yukon” thrilled the whole world, when the noble Bishop was caring for his little flock at this far northern mission station. The winter had been a long, trying one, and eagerly all were awaiting the coming of spring, when the snow would melt from the land, the birds fill the air with their music, and the ice in the great river would rush roaring down to the sea.

Day after day they watched and waited. When would the ice go? The eager little dusky faces of the mission children were often pressed against the panes, waiting to catch the first glimpse of the movement. Occasionally the Bishop rose from his rude desk, strode to the door, and stood looking anxiously up-stream. He knew better than the little ones what the going out of the ice might mean to them. They were on an island cut off from the mainland by a small creek, or what is called in this country a “slough.” He had heard stories from the Indians of bygone days when the ice had jammed below and flooded the whole island, while huge blocks of ice rushed along, sweeping down everything before them. At times they became stranded, and remained there long after the waters had subsided, grim witnesses of the terrible time.

Thus all day long they watched and waited. Towards evening a shout was raised: “The ice is going! The ice is going!” and all rushed to see a wonder which, once beheld, can never fade from the memory.

“It was,” to use Mrs. Bompas’s own words, “as if a commanding officer had issued orders to march, and the whole regiment obeyed. The great mass swept by in a frantic rush, completely beyond the power of the pen to describe. Huge blocks of every shape and size, carried along at a rapid speed, ground and tore one another, while many monsters were forced upon the bank by the fearful pressure. Seven hundred miles of ice, five or six feet thick, were crowded down that stream, at this place about 650 yards wide.”

“Huge blocks,” says an eye-witness, “would get squeezed up by the pressure of still larger ones coming down behind them. Then the block in front would dart swiftly forward, like a greyhound slipped from the leash, and the great, tearing mass behind would sink and disappear, to come rolling up again half a mile farther down. On they went, tumbling over one another in their haste and gladness to be free: down to the bottom; up again into the air, grinding the sponge-ice to powder; blocked up for a moment, then whirled on again, until they were themselves pulverized, or hurled on to the bank, or reached a clear space where they might for a few hundred yards float onward more peacefully.”

Having watched the grand sight for some time, and feeling the danger of a flood was now over, the Bishop and his household retired to rest, after commending themselves to the great Father’s keeping. But little were they aware that down where the Forty Mile River flows into the Yukon a jam was being formed; and the ice and water thus impeded began to rise and overflow the banks. Unconscious of the danger, those in the mission-house slept on. Presently they were awakened by the terrible sound of water sweeping around them, and rushing through the house. The Bishop sprang from his bed, lighted a candle, and moved downstairs. Here he found the floor covered with water, which was steadily rising. Thinking not of himself, nor of his books, but only of the helpless little ones upstairs, he waded through the icy water, and seizing what provisions he could lay his hands upon, carried them upstairs. He did not know how long they might be kept there, and the children must not starve.

Rapidly the water rose, flooding all the furniture downstairs, the little organ, and the books which were on the lower shelves.

There was now nothing else to do but to remain upstairs and see what would happen. The children huddled around, trembling with fear, and listening to the roaring outside, and the water rushing through the house. The Bishop, strong and calm, tried to soothe their fears, speaking words of kindness and comfort. He could trust when the little ones feared, for had he not often been in the midst of so many great dangers? and the Master had delivered him out of them all. No doubt he thought of his peril upon the raft on the Mackenzie River amid drifting ice, his danger among the Eskimo, and his many other wonderful escapes, of which he seldom spoke. He would think, too, of the time his canoe was wrecked, and he and his companions were saved as by a miracle, the details of which he never told. Yes, after all these mercies in the past, he could feel sure that the same One who had stilled the stormy winds and waves of the far-off Galilean lake was able still to save.

Higher and higher rose the water. It crept up the stairs, inch by inch, step by step. Oh, what a cold, cruel monster it was, reaching up its icy fingers to clutch the little band above! How much higher would it come? Would it reach the upper floor? If so, what then? Besides the water, there was the danger of the floating ice. At any instant a huge block might surge against the building and sweep it away like a toy house of cards.

While the little band huddled there, anxious eyes were peering through the darkness. A few members of the mounted police were pacing up and down the shore, listening to the roaring flood, and thinking of those in danger on the island. As the water steadily rose, they hesitated no longer, but, launching their two stout canoes, started to the rescue. Moving up the narrow creek or slough, which was somewhat protected from the ice, they reached a position directly opposite the back of the mission-house, several hundred yards away. But now their work began in real earnest, for across that rushing flood, mid blocks of ice, and through the darkness, it was necessary to guide their craft. It needed courage and muscles of steel to accomplish the task, but when once these sturdy guardians make up their mind to do a thing, there is no turning back; whether it be fire, frost, or flood, they press straight forward. So now, in the face of these difficulties, they moved on foot by foot, sometimes feeling the keels grinding on a piece of floating ice, or again being swept back by a whirling eddy. But advance they did, and at length reached the house. It was impossible to gain admittance by the door; the water was too high for that. They shouted, and from a window upstairs came the Bishop’s glad response. Swinging the canoes to this side of the house, they held them close; the children were all lowered one by one out of the window, to be received by the strong arms below. Then came the Bishop, the last to leave.

Swept onward with the current, they were all borne safely across the waters and landed upon the mainland. Full of joy and gratitude was the Bishop’s heart at the rescue which had been made.

When morning broke over the land the waters had subsided, and the river was clear of ice. The mission-house was still standing, but all around huge blocks of ice lay stranded, where they remained for many days. The mission-house was in a lamentable condition. Everything was soaked, but what did it signify so long as all were saved?

This was not the only time when a flood arose and drove out the missionaries. In the spring of 1901, when the Rev. John Hawksley and family were stationed here, a flood swept upon them, and they were compelled to flee to the hills.

“For a time,” says Mr. Hawksley, “we were in some danger from large floes of ice floating round the buildings, threatening us with destruction. Owing to the pluck of one Mr. Royal, a white man, and Angus, a native member of our Church, we were taken over the broken ice and landed safely on the hills after five hours’ suspense, most of which time was spent in an open boat, exposed to the biting wind blowing at the time. We had to pass the night on the hills. We had neither food nor blankets, but the Indians at once set about making us comfortable, two of them actually venturing back to fetch a tent to shelter us, and the others willingly sharing their blankets and food with us. You will be pleased to learn that none of us were any the worse for our adventure. The church had four feet of water in it, and the house somewhat less. Our losses were rather heavy.”