“Sir Edward Grey would request Mr. Page to express to Mr. Whitlock and the staff of the United States Legation at Brussels the grateful thanks of His Majesty’s Government for their untiring efforts on Miss Cavell’s behalf. He is fully satisfied that no stone was left unturned to receive for Miss Cavell a fair trial and when sentence had been pronounced a mitigation thereof.”
After the war the cell in which Edith Cavell had been confined was converted into a small memorial museum. Visitors to the site of her martyrdom in Brussels are told the story of one soldier in the firing squad who refused to shoot when the order was given. Wounded, he had been in the hospital under Nurse Cavell’s care and was grateful for what she had done. His refusal to fire was punished by death, and his execution took place shortly afterwards.
Edith Cavell’s memory has been perpetuated by memorials in England, and Canada. Her statue, done by Sir George Frampton, R.A., has been placed in St. Martin’s Place, London, to commemorate her unselfish life and devotion to duty.
A prominent, isolated, snow-clad peak, 11,033 feet above sea-level, fourteen miles south of the town of Jasper in Jasper Park, Alberta, has been named in her honour, Mount Edith Cavell. A majestic river of ice, its two upper branches giving the semblance of outspread wings, moves slowly down one side of the mountain and has well been designated, Angel Glacier. At the base lies a lovely lake of vivid, emerald green — the Lake of Forgiveness.
CHAPTER XIV. BRAVING THE WHITE NORTH: SADIE STRINGER
SEATED in an open flat-bottomed boat was a young bride on her honeymoon. She was in the heart of the northern wilderness, and every pull that the sturdy Indian rowers gave to the oars was taking her farther away from the centres of civilization. But Sadie Alexander had counted on this when, in 1896, she had consented to leave her home in Ontario and marry Isaac O. Stringer. She was ready to accompany him to the end of the world if need be. It really was almost the end of the world, the place to which they were going, for her new home was to be at Herschel Island in the Arctic Ocean.
The river grew wilder and wilder and by and by the roar of the rapids sounded in their ears. A few minutes later they were in the midst of a seething, boiling maelstrom and the stout craft was buffeted by rushing, swirling water. Sadie Stringer gazed with fascinated eyes at the scene. It was the first time she had run a rapid and the sensation was exhilarating. She was thoroughly enjoying the trip and did not mind the perilous waves which, at times, rolled aside to disclose the jagged teeth of treacherous rocks.
Mr. Stringer had come this way before and was better acquainted with the perils that confronted them.
When his young wife clapped her hands gleefully as a larger wave than usual struck the boat, he said, “You do not realize how dangerous it is.”
For eighty miles they spun through rapid after rapid in that stretch of swift water, the Grand Rapids, on the Athabaska River.
The journey from Ontario had been a varied one. The first part had been by rail to Edmonton but there the line of railway had come to an end. The next two thousand two hundred and fifty miles had to be covered by more primitive means. From Edmonton the young couple had gone to Athabaska Landing, travelling the one hundred miles in a springless waggon drawn by a stout team of horses. The only seat was that afforded by a board thrown across the waggon-box and on this Sadie Stringer had bounced and jolted as the creeping wheels struck rut after rut.
Down the Mackenzie River they went until they arrived at Fort McPherson on the Arctic Coast and from there they proceeded to Herschel Island, two hundred and fifty miles, where the Mission House, a cabin built of sods, was to be their home until they were able to procure a more suitable residence. Here they lived and worked among the Eskimos.
Before her marriage, Mrs. Stringer prepared for her new work by taking a nurse’s course of training in Grace Hospital, Toronto. The knowledge she thus acquired stood her in good stead for there were neither doctors nor nurses in that far northern part of Canada. At first the Eskimos were unwilling to accept medical aid, but after one of their number, a man by the name of Okpik, was cured the opposition broke down. Okpik had been very ill with pneumonia and the four Eskimo medicine men had given him up to die. They had manipulated the stick attached to the sick man’s foot and it had signified that he could not get better.
Okpik’s brother, in his distress, came to the Mission House. Would the white man and his wife help them?
It seemed a hopeless case. Okpik was very, very ill. If he should die in the Mission House it would be a serious matter, for none of the tribe would want to come there again. They never went into a building once Death had made an entry. The missionaries knew what the consequences would be if the man died — the use of their home to teach the Eskimos would be gone. But as long as there was a bare possibility of saving the man’s life they thought they should try; so Okpik was carried in on a stretcher.
For seven weeks they tended the patient, giving him the utmost care, and at the end of that time were rewarded by seeing him restored to health.
This was a great victory for the Mission and, after that, whenever the medicine men raised objections the Eskimos would say:
“What about Okpik? You said he would die and the missionaries made him better.”
On the small island, set in the midst of Arctic ice, Mrs. Stringer looked after her household and her two babies that were born during their stay at Herschel Island. In addition she taught the Eskimos in that part of the house set apart as a schoolroom and place of worship.
Only twice a year did they receive mail. This came to the Hudson’s Bay post at Fort McPherson and was sent on from there to Herschel Island. It was the custom of the Hudson’s Bay Company at Edmonton to despatch two Indians with a dog-team, one Indian going ahead to break the trail while the other guided the sled. At each post fresh dogs were procured and the men were changed. In this way the mail carriers travelled speedily from one fort to another until they came to the last outpost, Fort McPherson.
One year, when Mrs. Stringer was waiting eagerly for the mail, the Indian, whom they had engaged to carry it from Fort McPherson, brought only the larger parcels. He said the load was too heavy and one of the mail carriers had cached the smaller packages which he thought would be the least important. Imagine her dismay when she discovered that the bulky bundle contained only advertising circulars and other similar literature while the parcel with the precious home letters had been left behind. These were never brought until the next half-yearly mail came.
Once a year the missionaries went on a trip to Fort McPherson to meet the steamer which made an annual visit to that port. They usually left home in June, proceeding by dog-team over the ice. At night they slept on the ocean with five or six feet of solid ice separating their mattresses of deerskin robe from the waters of the Arctic Ocean. Open water surrounds the island only during July, August and September.
There was one summer when Mrs. Stringer remained alone at home because her baby was only three weeks old at the date set for departure. It was three months before Mr. Stringer was able to rejoin her.
The cold in that northern climate was severe and the missionaries dressed in costumes of fur. Mrs. Stringer wore a coat of domesticated reindeer skin trimmed with Arctic wolf skin. A fur hood, formed from the head of a reindeer, fitted snugly and the long wolf hair of the trimming protected her face from the bitter Arctic blasts. Fur mittens of caribou skin, fur trousers and fur boots made from the legs of the reindeer completed her outfit.
For two months in the winter there was no sun to give them light and for two months in the summer the sun never set.
One Christmas Mrs. Stringer resolved to brighten the lives of the Eskimos by having a Christmas Tree for them. In that vast expanse of ice there were no trees nor shrubs so something had to be thought of as a substitute.
A pole was set up in the school room and barrel hoops encircled it, large hoops at the bottom grading up to smaller ones up to the top. In this way the semblance of a tree was made.
On this structure gay-colored paper and bits of fancy wrappings were draped. The presents, such as bandana handkerchiefs, were hung over the barrel hoops while heavier articles were grouped about the base.
The men, women and children assembled at the appointed time, laughing and chatting happily as they gazed with keen anticipation at the improvised Christmas Tree.
By and by there was a jingle of bells at the front door and in came a veritable Santa Claus, dressed in an Eskimo fur coat. A mask hid the visitor’s features.
The presents were distributed and received with loud acclaim. A granite cup and saucer was a fortune in itself while a package of much prized tea or flour made the recipient beam with pleasure. Then, the excitement calming down, interest was renewed in the figure of the Santa Claus.
“He no come far,” said an old man, “no snow stuck to him, no hoar-frost.”
There was further discussion and finally someone cried out:
“Amamma nagooruk piyuk. It is Mama (their name for the missionary’s wife because she fed and cared for them when they were sick). She is good.” It was indeed Mrs. Stringer who had successfully impersonated good old Saint Nicholas.
Sadie Stringer was the only white woman in that part of the country. In 1927 she went with her husband, Bishop Stringer, for a thousand mile trip along the Arctic Coast to Cambridge Bay, and there she laid the foundation stone of the new mission house.
When she disembarked from the boat the Hudson’s Bay officer, who met them, remarked:
“You are the first white woman to come so far east.”
“Is that possible?” said Mrs. Stringer.
“Yes,” he replied, “no white woman has ever set foot on this land before.”
In 1924 she took another journey over ground which, until then, had never been traversed by a white woman on foot before nor since. Along with Bishop Stringer she crossed the Rocky Mountains by dog-pack from Old Crow in the Yukon Diocese to Fort McPherson in the Mackenzie Diocese. There was no road. Nothing but a slight trail leading through swamps and across hills where they had to step over long niggerhead grass.
Three Takudh Indians acted as guides and the supply of food and cooking utensils were carried in the pockets of pack-saddles slung across the dogs’ backs.
Shortly before they set out an old Indian, named William, came to them.
“Ghiki cho, Great Speaker,” he said, addressing Bishop Stringer, “will you take me too? I want to go back to my family and I cannot go alone.”
“William,” said the Bishop, “you know it is very hard to get food on the trail. I have weighed out as much as we can take and we must not have any heavier loads. There is only enough for us and the three Indians who go with us. You are not as strong as you used to be and are not able to carry a burden. I am very sorry but I do not see how you can come.”
For a moment the old Indian remained silent then he broke out into a torrent of words. He recalled the many times in the past that he had acted as guide for the Bishop and drew his attention to the fact that the Lord had always provided for them.
“Do you,” he added eloquently, “think He will fail us now?”
This was an unanswerable argument. The Bishop had only one reply.
“All right, William. You may come.”
So it had been that when they started William formed one of the party.
They were about halfway through their journey and the supply of food was rapidly diminishing when, one morning, William went off, ahead, with his gun. At noon the others stopped to rest and have lunch. Mrs. Stringer noticed one of the guides, Balaam by name, exhibiting signs of excitement. “What,” she inquired, “is the matter?”
“Caribou—” was the agitated answer.
“I don’t see any caribou,” responded Mrs. Stringer, looking to right and left.
“William,” went on Balaam, “he kill caribou.”
“But where — where? I don’t see either William or caribou.”
“This morning,” exclaimed Balaam, “William say he go kill caribou. If he do he make two smoke. There! See two smoke? William got caribou. We go get fresh meat for supper.”
It seemed an endless distance to William’s smoke and by the time Mrs. Stringer got there she was too exhausted to eat anything. But the next morning, refreshed from a night’s sleep, she thoroughly enjoyed the appetizing meal of boiled rice and freshly cooked meat.
The party camped at this spot for twenty-four hours, boning and packing enough of the caribou flesh to take with them on their journey. There was now no scarcity of food for them all and ample provisions for the dogs. William’s faith had been vindicated. The Lord had provided.
Archbishop and Mrs. Stringer were “the first to go and live amongst the Eskimo on that side of the Arctic. The work was very slow and discouraging at first but the results have been nothing short of marvellous. They were a superstitious, treacherous people at that time. Now they are a fine Christian people and have wonderful faith. A Residential School for Eskimos has been established at Shingle Point on the Arctic Coast and they are all eager to learn.”
Mrs. Stringer accompanied her husband on many of his journeys throughout the Diocese, visiting all the missions situated on the various tributaries of the Yukon. Two hundred and fifty miles up the Pelly to Ross River Mission; two hundred miles up the Hootalinqua to Teslin Mission; two or three hundred miles up the Porcupine River to the Rampart House and the Old Crow Missions; up the Stewart River to the Mayo Silver mines, in addition to the missions on the Yukon River.
“I have enjoyed my Arctic work immensely,” wrote Mrs. Stringer, “and I thank God that I was privileged to take some part in it.”
CHAPTER XV. CANADA’S QUEEN OF SONG: MADAME ALBANI
AWAY at the back of the music store some one was playing a piano; a delightful outpouring of gay notes flung off in the prettiest runs and lilts. The hidden player seemed to love the performance. There was such an undertone of joy in all the sparkling brilliancy of execution, that the listener felt his ears tingle. For he was himself a musician, a concert singer from that land of singers, Scotland. He was making a tour of Canada, and as he wiled away an afternoon in the little French Canadian town of Chambly he had dropped into this music store — surely, it seemed, he had stumbled upon a genius!
“Who is that playing?” he asked a man standing before the rows of music-covered shelves.
Monsieur Lajeunasse, the harpist, turned. “It is my daughter,” he answered, adding modestly, “She sings a little also.”
“May I hear her sing?” asked the visitor, wondering if the lady’s voice was at all comparable to her piano performance.
Monsieur Lajeunasse went to the back of the store and returned immediately. The visitor stood staring, for the harpist was leading by the hand a mere child, a sparkling dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked little girl of about eight, with a white pinafore and a long dark braid of curly hair!
“My little Emma,” the father said. Little Emma gave a shy but radiant smile and dropped a cute little curtsey. The visitor was at a loss. He knew how to talk to children and to grown musical folk, but what would he say to a baby who could play like a seasoned concert performer?
Would she sing for him? he asked. He himself was a singer. Little Emma was all smiles and sparkles. She trotted obediently to the back of the store again. The father seated himself at the piano, and his little daughter put her chubby hands behind her and opening her rosy mouth poured forth a stream of glorious golden song!
This time the stranger was overwhelmed. Why, this doll could not only play like a finished artist, she could sing like all the skylarks of his native heather hills! She must sing that very night at the concert he was giving, he declared. Little Emma’s smile was rapturous, she looked enquiringly up at Papa. “Yes, she might sing,” the father consented after a moment’s thought, and she danced away home to get ready.
That night la petite Emma sang even better than he expected. She fairly sang herself into the hearts of the audience. And
her success was a prophecy of the future, for this was the first public appearance of the great Madame Albani, Canada’s Queen of Song!
Little Emma Lajeunasse had not attained to even this childish triumph by her talents alone, great as they were. She had worked hard all her short life. When she was only four years old her mother, who was also musical, set her little girl on the piano stool and guided the dimpled hands over the keys. When she was five her father, who was a skilled player on the organ, piano, and harp, undertook her musical education. Papa Lajeunasse was no easy master. His little pupil practised steadily four hours a day. The neighbors, knowing that the child was required to put in six hours more daily at study made a protest. It was too much for the little one, they declared. But little Emma’s father knew that this child had a voice and musical ability far beyond anything he had yet met, and he was determined to lay the necessary foundation of her future success in her early years.
“She is a genius,” said a musical friend. “She will succeed.”
“Geniuses are made by hard work,” declared Papa Lajeunasse and went on with little Emma’s lessons.
Fortunately the little girl had both the health - and the radiant disposition to endure this rigid training. For she had no play time; indeed, she often told in later years that she never possessed a doll. But hers was such a sunny, happy nature that work never became drudgery. She loved music so much, too, that the constant practising was not such a heavy task as it might seem. Then she had the blessed faculty of turning everything into play. If a music book happened to have a picture on the cover she would dress herself up in a comical imitation and act out the part of the opera it portrayed. Her sister and some young aunts who lived near, and a few chosen companions made either audience or actors as the little director chose. An ornate old table cloth made a grand royal robe, and swathed in this the future Grand Opera Queen would trail around the little stiff parlor singing bits of the great roles in which she was one day to thrill the musical world. Aunt Rose was a wonderful story-teller, too, and as soon as a tale was finished, little Emma must act it out with a musical accompaniment: “Do it to music somehow,” as she always said.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 782