Previous entries of Henri Julien's Diary

July 9th- We reached the Pembina River. It is a muddy stream, the water of which is very bad.

July 10th-We came in sight of St. Joseph, at the foot of Pembina Mountain, where three persons were killed a few days before by the Sioux. In consequence, the Métis of the whole country were in mortal terror, and we met bands of them fleeing from St. Joseph on the American side to Pembina on the Canadian frontier. There they hoped to be under shelter.

Proceeding on our march we halted at Grant's solitary log house, where a sturdy Scotchman, with his Indian wife and chiidren, sells liquor to wanderers along the border. The officers of the staff bought some milk from him, and, if the truth must be told, took a stray glass or two of whisky. But they gave positive orders that no beverage of the latter description should be given to the men.

It was in the neighbourhood of the Grande Coulee that we first encountered the hostility of the mosquitoes. We had met them before, of course, but never in the same way. The mosquito of the prairie must be a distinct species in entomology. We had men among us who had travelled in all parts of the world, and who had been pestered by all manner of insects but they all agreed that nowhere had they seen anything to equal the mosquito of the prairie.

I myself have hunted in the interior of Quebec, and fished in the inland lakes of Ontario, and the visitations of these tormentors I then thought the most intolerable of nuisances, robbing me of fully half the enjoyment of my sport. But the Canadian mosquito is as different from his Manitoba congener as is the white men from the Indian, the civilized bug from the barbarian. As soon as twilight deepens, they make their appearance on the horizon, in the shape of a cloud, which goes on increasing in density as it approaches to the encounter. At first, a faint hum is heard in the distance, then it swells into a roar as it comes nearer. The attack is simply dreadful. Your eyes, your nose, your ears are invaded.

If you open your mouth to curse at them, they troop into it. They insinuate themselves under your clothes, down your shirt collar, up your sleeve cuffs between the buttons of your shirt bosom. And not one or a dozen, but millions at a time. You can brush them off your coat sleeves in layers.

In the Mississippi valley, mosquitoes are warded off by a gauze net. In our Canadian backwoods (eastern Canada), the smoke of a big fire drives them away. But up here, they would tear a net to shreds, and put out a fire by the mere superincumbent weight of their numbers. The best proof of their virulence is they attack animals as well as men. They send a dog off howling with pain. They tease horses to desperation. They goad even the shaggy buffalo as vengefully as the gadfly vexed the bull of Io.

Often in the evening, when our tents were pitched, and we went down to the nearest brook or rivulet to water our horses, hoping that this was to be our last work before turning in for a sweet night's rest, the mosquitoes would rise in columns out of the spongy soil under our feet and begin a regular battle against us. Our horses would rear, pitch and kick. We, ourselves, would be covered with scratches and blood. Our only refuge was to run our horses to their pickets, then hasten to throw ourselves on the ground, and cover ourselves up in blankets.

July 12th-We are definitely out on the prairies and have crossed the Pembina Mountains, in which are hidden about one hundred predatory Sioux. They are keeping on the American side. On the 10th, they carried away a woman, at Grant's place, where we passed on the 11th. We have not much sleep; water is scarce, but for the rest, all is going on very well. For the last two days we met with many families running away from the Sioux. I do not think that we shall have much to do with these latter, as some American cavalry is advancing to meet them. Mosquitoes are our plague, the doctor has, however, discovered a very good remedy for their attacks, which we are trying tonight for the first time.

July 13th-We halted towards noon at Devil's Creek. The scenery of the vicinity is wild and romantic, and sufficient of itself to suggest the odd name given to the water course. There is doubtless some Indian legend attached to the spot, but no one could tell me anything about it. At night we encamped at the foot of Calf Head Mountain, a round hillock commanding a view of the surrounding prairies. The next day we moved to the eastern branch of the Pembina River, crossed it, and the whole Pembina valley, pulling up and down very steep banks. When we camped some six miles further on we found no water and, to add to our discomfort a furious wind rose upon the prairie and the night was exceedingly cold.

At this point, however, we were cheered by the arrival of our interpreters. They were six in number, the most magnificent specimens of the Métis type I ever laid my eyes on. The smallest of them was over six feet in height and stout in proportion. The chief was Peter Leveille, a prairie hero, true to his name. Genthon was a Hercules, weighing 275 pounds. This man is known all over the prairie country. He was one of Sandford Fleming's guides on his Pacific Railway exploring expedition, and it is related of him that when his horse stuck in the mud, he would raise him up by the tail and propel him forward. Welsh was a Scotch Métis, who understood neither English nor his father's Gaelic, but jabbered all the Indian languages, Sioux, Cree, Assiniboine, and weighed 235 pounds, and, though over 70 years of age, had not a grey hair on his head. Poitras was nervous and muscular. Morin was a famous guide, and one of the oldest buffalo hunters in the North-West. Baptiste Page was a right good fellow and a favourite of mine.

These six men had been sent in our train by Lieutenant-Governor Morris, with six wagonloads of presents - guns. ammunition, calico, cloth, beads and knic-knacks- to consiliate the Indian tribes through which we had to pass. They did their work successfully and well, and took a prominent part in our expedition. They proved a most valuable acquisition. They alone were worth in sagacity and endurance any twenty of our own men.

July 15th-We passed two good streams, one called Badger Creek from the number of badger holes along its banks. We stopped three hours there to allow our horses their fill of the rich, luxuriant grass.

July 16th-We had to leave the ox-carts and cattle behind in order to force our marches a little. Several of the carts broke down over the rough roads and considerably retarded our progress. Some of the sick and lame horses were with them. In order to protect this lagging convoy, as also to watch over our ambulances, a corps of lancers was organized. This force was also to act as scouts. It was composed of 22 picked men, under the command of Sergeant-Major Thomas Miles. They rendered efficient service throughout the expedition .

After travelling 25 miles. we camped at the top of Turtle Valley, where, on account of the high winds, we had to sleep without tents. No grass was to be found. An old stack of the preceeding year's hay, left standing on the ground was portioned out to the horses, but they refused to eat it. Government horses, like government men, being used to feed well, are apt to become too dainty. We left this ungracious neighbourhood early the next morning, pushing our way sturdily without grub until two in the afternoon.

This was bad, but we were fated to encounter worse. We were attacked by grasshoppers. The depredations committed by this insect, last year, all through the North-West, especially in the territories of Nebraska and Dakota, are so well known and have been so graphically described in the papers. that I need not dwell upon them. But seeing them at work, as I did, with the modes of attack and the clean sweep of devastation which they carry on, I can form some idea of the locust plagues of ancient Egypt. I was also vividly reminded of the masterly description of their Tavages by Dr. Henry Newman in his novel ''Callista'', to which I would refer such of my readers as wish to enjoy one of the finest pages of modern literature. As if the grasshoppers were not enough we were plagued with the prairie dust. The men called it infernal, and that is just the word for it. It consists of ashes and coal powder from the almost yearly burning up of the grass. Everything is covered with this dust in a few minutes. Men looked hideous with their smutty faces. There is no use washing while on the march, which, I am afraid, was a great relief to many of the men, who were not too fond of water in any case. To wind up all our sensations of this day, we saw the prairie on fire in our rear. The spectacle was sublime. The crackling flame. the lurid light, the heavy masses of smoke rolling low at first over the surface of the grass, then mounting higher and higher, till, caught in a stratum of breeze, they veered and floated rapidly to the east, formed a scene of impressive grandeur. The day concluded with the evening parade.

More of Henri Julien's Diary

Back to Our Heritage Home Page