François Bourassa Memoir: Part 4 - Jan. - March, 1884 Rolette Co., North Dakota Territory

This is the drawing of Father Malo's first church, St.Cloud Chapel, built for him by the Métis in 1882, drawn in 1942 by our great-grandmother Lumina (Bourassa) Charbonneau, at the request of the local priest working on a history of St. John. She and Omer Charbonneau were the last couple to be married in it by Father Malo in 1887. Published in the St. John Centennial book.

THE 1^ST DAY OF THE YEAR 1884: On January 1, 1884, all were up early. After a breakfast for the entire family, apart from Abdalah's wife [still in Quebec], we prepared for Mass. Afterward, the good Father Malo insisted we have dinner with him.  We accepted on condition he come home with us afterward. "Well, as you have seen, I have finished all my offices with Mass." B. [Bruno] Charbonneau and his wife [Philomene] dined with us and joined us in the evening with his brother, Mélène [Charbonneau (1857 Quebec-1935 ND)], whom everyone was pleased to meet. [As yet unmarried, Mélène may have come to Dakota Territory directly from Quebec, and was another older brother of Omer Charbonneau, our great-grandfather]

Later photo of Mélène Charbonneau and wife Grizilia LeMieux, married in 1888 (whose older sister Delia became Horace Bourassa's wife in 1887.)

We had a pleasant evening. This first day of the year was always a day of celebration, but contrary to what I expected, the night seemed very short [They stayed up all night.]. After dinner we set up a few card games; from time to time we had music and singing. I’ll always remember some of Father's songs, especially: Par derrière chez ma tante, Vole,mon coeur, vole, Par derrière chez ma tante, Il y a-t-un pommier doux. ["Behind my aunt's house, Fly, my heart, fly; Behind my aunt's, there's a sweet apple tree." The song's URL is at the bottom.] And again, Vive la Canadienne [Long Live the Canadian Lady, also at the bottom] and many others. When one finished singing, right away, another started up. Father did not ‘take a backseat’ to anyone. It was a very short night. They left us after lunch on the 2nd.

Devil's Lake in Ramsey County, ND. Rolette County is the 4th county from the right at top of ND, with St. John next to Canadian border, so you can see the distance traveled.

THE PERILS OF WINTER TRAVEL: In the second week of January, Brunelle [the grocer] asked me for my wagon, (which was Horace’s) and team for a journey to Devil's Lake, 80 miles away [a railroad spur had been completed to Devil's Lake]. He would be accompanied by one of his men and his team. The trails were well-marked, but windy! His freight [on the return trip] was bacon, salt, flour and the like, offering Horace one-and-a-half cents per pound, and all expenses paid. It was tempting; we needed the money. Besides, Horace was always willing, so he went, and they had a pleasant trip. Horace freighted a little over four thousand pounds without causing his horses much misery. [It’s likely the wagon wheels had been replaced with sleigh runners, making it a cutter, and he assumes his reader would know this.] This trip helped us out because we were in arrears with our grocer. Our finances were exhausted and we still had a long wait for a new harvest that would not be big, in any case, since the seed would be small in the spring [They would have to hand-pick the largest kernels from their harvest for replanting in order to obtain a better harvest each year].

Abdalah and Lindorf worked at La Rivière,12 miles from us [Bernard La Rivière,a Métis, and the founder of Wakopa, Manitoba, had been a fur trader in Minnesota before deciding to build a hotel and a store to sell goods to settlers passing through]. He, La Rivière, had been acquainted with my family during his stay in Ottawa for a few years. My father had boarded for two seasons with him [while attending Parliament]. So, around January 24th, since I had to go there on business, I proposed my wife accompany me and she agreed. Once on the main roads [in their wagon converted into a cutter], it was beautiful, and we arrived in less than two hours. The next day I did some business and visited during the second evening [with Abdalah and Lindorf, we assume]. On the 26th, when we awoke, the weather was gloomy.  I said, "Maman, we have to hurry. We'll have some big weather before long."  She replied, "I'm ready." We rushed to breakfast and left. It was starting to snow. We managed 3 or 4 miles, the snow falling thickly, blown by a strong northwesterly wind. Fortunately, it was blowing on our backs. My wife said, "Mon vieux [Marie affectionately called him, 'My old man'], I'm going to get between your legs." Which she did.  At times, I couldn't see anything. I allowed the reins to dangle, so as not to disturb my mare in any way, believing it best to allow her to go at her leisure. We found it necessary to leave the main trail because of the high wind [drifting?]. We were off the trail for at least four miles, but the mare brought us straight home in just under four hours [It had taken two hours to get there]. When we arrived, our poor beast looked more like a snowball than a horse. Winter here was no better than at Montreal, and this vast prairie forced a new settler, isolated from his neighbors, to be very careful in all his outings, even to the nearest neighbor's house.

Because of our previous occupations [in Canada and in Rhode Island], we all could work at carpentry, and had brought all necessary tools. Now we applied ourselves to chairs, tables, cabinets, beds and other works.

On Sunday, February 11, 1884, Brunelle came to ask Horace to drive his team to Devil's Lake to pick up more freight. He would be accompanied by one of his nephews [Joseph Dionne], a man trustworthy and brave.

Later photo of Joseph Dionne and his wife Marie, whom he married in 1882.

The trails were deep with snow and it was windy! The trip would be long and hard, but Brunelle offered 3 cents a pound [of freight] and Horace was eager, so they left on the morning of Monday the 12^th and camped in the evening. Arriving the next day, they began loading and finished the following day. They left Wednesday morning on the return trip; each wagon was loaded with 3,000 pounds. The trails were decent and they made good time on the way. Saturday evening, 17 to 18 miles from St. John, and 9 or 10 from the first farm they could reach, they had to cross a coulee, a few acres wide and very deep. During the previous 24 hours a layer of snow had fallen on the trail; snow was 2 to 3 feet deep everywhere. They could go no farther. It didn’t take long to decide a course of action. They unharnessed the horses, strapped on their covers and left the full wagons, thieves being rare that time of year. They had not gone 3 miles before Dionne cried out to Horace, "My feet are frozen!" Horace stopped the horses, helped him remove his shoes and rubbed his feet with snow until they warmed up.  They set off again. They made another three miles before he had to repeat the process. This time, during the foot-rubbing, Dionne’s horses, in the lead since the first stop, took off (they were found the next day). It was now dark. At times, through squalls of snow, they saw lights. Horace had tied the reins around the horse-collars, and both men held tightly to a tail of each horse, allowing them to go where they pleased. Finally, after a 10 hour-day on the trail, they struck the first houses, but still had 5 to 6 miles to get to St. John. They stopped, went inside and warmed up, then went back on the road, now riding the horses. They arrived in St. John at midnight, and Horace arrived at our house at two in the morning.

Horace and Brunelle agreed to leave early Monday morning with three pairs of oxen, a sleigh and four men. On Sunday evening, everything was ready - Horace and my oxen, Dionne and those of Brunelle, Philias and his oxen harnessed to his sleigh, with Hector accompanying them, being the best driver of my oxen. All these oxen were big and vigorous, with the pace of good horses. Monday the 18th, they were on their way at 5 in the morning on a clear day.

Two hours later, after telling Lindorf [then age 18] to be sure to go to the house of his sister, Georgina, as agreed with her husband Philias, and stay with her until Philias’ return with Horace and Hector, I left on foot for St. John while it was calm, but dark, intending to return with those voyageurs, and to bring back supplies. Soon snow was falling in big flakes. At 3 in the afternoon, a traveler arriving from Devil’s Lake told us, "It’s not likely your teams will arrive here before 11 o'clock or midnight. When I passed them, they just beginning hitch up their oxen [to the loaded wagons], and that was two hours ago, and snow was beginning to fall." By now, it was four in the afternoon. I told Brunelle, "Here's my grocery list. If they come tonight, send my groceries along with them. I’m going back." He strongly objected to my leaving; the blizzard was fierce. "I have to," I answered, "the women are alone, and anything could happen."

I left then. It was just four o'clock, but the sun must have been setting. A north-westerly wind howled, and it was growing dark. Suddenly I was unable to recognize anything, not a trace, not an object. I groped my way, certain the wind was coming from the northwest. To make it home in this direction, I would have to pass a small uninhabited building erected by a Métis. At times I plowed through drifts, as though walking in water over my head. Finally, hitting the small cabin, I went in, taking a few minutes to get back my breath. After resting a few moments, I went back out and headed in the direction I thought would take me home. I had about 20 acres to cross. I was walking, but beginning to think the route was too long, when suddenly I stumbled, catching my foot on something and falling flat on my stomach. That same instant I heard a noise different from the howling wind and a light struck my eyes.  It was my daughter [Georgina] opening her door and peering outside. While I was recovering from my fall, she had been certain she had seen outside the window something moving and opened her door, yelling, "Qu’est-ce que cela donc?” [“What’s out there?”] I was only 6 or 7 feet from her door.  Had it not been for her cry, I likely would have pulled myself up and gone on in the same direction, across the prairie 7 or 8 miles. I said, “Daughter, don't be afraid. It’s me, my daughter."

Lindorf Bourassa in later years

I went in. It was so good being in her little house. I pulled off my hat and knocked off the snow.  I lighted my pipe and asked, "Isn't your brother Lindorf here?" She answered, "Did he leave the house to come here?" "I don't know," I replied. "He was supposed to come. I didn't come from our house, but left from the village at dusk.  I came straight here, having missed our house." "Ah," she said, "he would not have dared to leave in such weather. Everyone knows I'm fine. He won't have dared to leave." "It's likely that's it," I agreed. After smoking a good pipe, I asked, "Do you have a lantern in good order, Daughter?" She answered, "Yes, but Papa, you're not going out there in this storm." "I have to. You said you don't lack for anything and that you’re not afraid.  You know your mother will be worried if I don’t come home. Prepare your lantern now because I’m going."

I had to retrace my way about 500 steps. It was half past eight. Between our two houses, I had made a small meadow of 3 to 4 acres for bedding our cattle. Holding to that direction, I crossed this small meadow. The winding path was familiar to me, so I took my time. I finally arrived a few minutes after 9. My wife came to my aid, brushing me off. "Whose lantern is this?” she asked. I replied, "I thought it would be useful. I'll return it tomorrow. Did Lindorf go to his sister's house?" "Yes," she answered. I asked, "What time did he leave?" She replied, "At 4 o'clock." I told her, "I fear very much for him." I took my lantern and lighted the one in the house, hanging each from an upstairs window, south and north; and put a lamp in each downstairs window, east and west. "Why these precautions?" my wife demanded. "I fear for Lindorf," I answered, "and if others happen to be out, these precautions harm no one."

Later photo of Hector and Horace Bourassa

I was in a turmoil of worry as the hours crept by.  At 2 in the morning on the 19th, I heard knocking on the door. It was Hector and Horace. They’d arrived at the village [St. John] at midnight. After quickly eating something, the three of them [including Philias] decided to come home if possible. They uncoupled their oxen, leaving them harnessed in pairs, with Horace walking beside mine. Philias, too, followed his oxen back. At about half a mile, my two sons heard my son-in-law shouting that he was turning back.  They no longer saw him, but their oxen had been following the track until then, so they decided to go on. Then they lost their way, moving so far off, they couldn’t find the trail again. After an hour and a half of walking, they realized they’d gone farther than the distance [about 4 miles] separating us from the village. They thought they’d glimpsed a light reflecting on the snow to the left, so they turned farther north, walking on what seemed a dim light on the snow; indeed, it was a reflection of the lantern I’d placed in the south-facing window. "Finally, here are two," I said, “but two others are missing." My worry diminished slightly.  

Philias and Georgina (Bourassa) Durocher in later years

During the previous two hours, the moon in its decline had risen and was visible. At four o'clock I heard stumbling at the door, and there was Philias coming in. We brushed off snow and helped him out of his outer garments.  He had some frostbite on his cheeks, nose, ears and a little on his hands. We hurried to warm them up, rubbing them with cold water. In a few minutes, he was able to tell us the following story: "When I called out to you, you were going too fast for my oxen and I felt ill. I was forced to stop for a moment. When I was ready to start up, I didn’t see you and, unfortunately, neither did my oxen. For a few moments I was undecided about whether to turn back or continue.  I had to decide, so I went on. Because my oxen had led me completely astray, I walked on randomly. Exhausted and believing I was walking away rather than approaching, I made an excavation with my feet in the snow and huddled in it." I don't know how long he stayed there. When he awoke, the moon had risen. "Knowing the moon was rising in the southeast, I kept her on my right side, and she served as my guide." He came upon a small building site he recognized as being a mile south of the house. "So, I took a northward direction, keeping my shadow to the east, my guide that protectress of the lost and distressed." After walking a few minutes, he saw our light and was saved.

My concern was no less, now that only Lindorf was unaccounted for. I had not dared to tell the family of my fear for our son; it was enough that I was spending an anxious night. And now I had to prepare them for the trial I feared was coming, making them aware of what might have happened, for I was convinced that, if he had not stumbled into cover, he would have succumbed, being dressed too lightly to withstand that blizzard all night. I kept the lanterns and lamps burning, even though day was dawning. My wife said to me, "Ah, mon vieux, why do you borrow trouble all the time?" [Why do you worry over nothing?] The sun was rising, the weather was calm and beautiful, but very cold. I answered, "Yes, Maman, we can turn them off now, but I still fear for Lindorf.  He may not be all right."

 Philias was leaving for his house.  I said to him, "If he’s at your home, give us a signal by waving a large cloth above your head. I’ll go to Alfred's.  If he's there, I'll give you the same signal." I gave him his lantern to take back. Seeing this, my wife began having doubts about what she had previously understood. "You told me you had taken this lantern from the village." "No, Maman, I told you that I thought it would be useful to me, but not where it came from. It’s from Philias’. Having missed our house last night, I ended up at their house. These are the facts. It may be that he arrived there after I left." Philias and I left. Philias gave the signal that Lindorf was not there at the same time I was arriving at Alfred's house. Unable to enter, the door and windows blocked with drifted snow up to the top, I called out. When Alfred answered, I shouted, "Is your brother Lindorf here?" He yelled back, "Yes!" (If some read these memories, I leave it to you to judge with what elation I pulled off my hat and yanked out my pocket handkerchief, waving them above my head, assured my gaze was meeting those of our family and Philias, all at their doors.) Alfred shouted, "Papa, there must be a shovel at the stable door." I cleared his door and went in.

Here's Lindorf’s story: "As I left the house, I thought I had taken the right direction to [Georgina’s]. I walked for a long time before realizing I was in the 'sloughs' [coulees] that I thought I recognized as the ones where we had made hay last summer. In which case, I said to myself, I'm a mile too far north. I was starting to get a bit disconcerted. I turned back and walked a long time. One moment I felt odd and got the idea of taking off my coat. I unbuttoned it, but then noticed the wind was shifting and I was about to take a new direction. Suddenly I stumbled and fell on my hands on a pile of rocks and recognized the old lime kiln. I was at Alfred's house. If I could get inside, I wouldn’t go back out. It didn’t take long, knowing the furnace was only a hundred feet from his house." He, too, had frostbite in his face and hands, but didn’t remain scarred. He entered Alfred's house at 8 in the evening. Singular fact: he left at the same time from home to go half a mile [to Georgina’s], as I from St. John to go three and a half miles; we both arrived at eight o'clock. One thing is certain - he wandered about while I had come on straight.

For the rest of the winter, we continued our woodworking of all kinds. I brought out [from the mountains] 3,000 poles and 1,000 stakes. I wanted to enclose a good meadow in the spring. I paid to have these poles and stakes cut at 25 cents per 100; the aspen poles 14 feet long, three inches at the end; willow stakes and oak, 6 feet long and 3 inches at the ends.

Here is the French-Canadian folksong  "Chez ma Tante" HERE
And here is "Vive la Canadienne" HERE