The Seaplane and the Sickbed

The east wind, barely a whisper at dawn, did little to shift the heavy air. Saturday, July twenty-seventh, 1929. The air hung thick, promising a sweltering day even as the sun nudged over the horizon. My boots crunched on the coarse gravel as I made my way to the jetty, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke clinging to the morning air. The 'Fort Rock' was already chugging, her diesel engine spitting a cloud of grey, acrid smoke that hung low over the water. Six men, their faces grimed with anticipation and the last vestiges of sleep, clambered aboard, their canvas bags slung over shoulders. They were off to Charlton, to help unload the supply ship, due any day. A big job. A crucial job. Every rivet, every crate, every barrel held the promise of another year’s survival. I watched the 'Fort Rock' pull away, a steady white churn behind her, shrinking against the vastness of James Bay. The men waved, a perfunctory gesture, already focused on the journey. I lifted a hand in return, then let it drop, the heat already making my palms damp.

The sun climbed, beating down with a stifling force. The kind of heat that made the very air seem to vibrate. I ran a hand over my brow, feeling the sweat already beading there. It would be a long day. The 'Fuel Choppers,' a group of Indigenous men from the settlement, were already at their task. They’d brought down a sizable raft and boatload of wood yesterday, and today was for stacking. The logs, still damp from the bay, smelled of spruce and the cold, mineral tang of the water. They worked with an economical rhythm, hoisting the rough-barked sections from the bank, carrying them up the slight incline to the woodpile. The thud of wood on wood, the grunt of effort, the soft patter of discarded bark on the packed earth—these were the sounds of the post, the constant, low hum beneath the call of gulls and the distant, restless water. I watched them for a while, noting the efficiency, the steady pace. No wasted motion. Every autumn, this pile would grow, a bulwark against the coming freeze. A stark visual tally of our preparedness.

Sunday, twenty-eighth. The wind had shifted south-west, a welcome change. The morning was fine, a clear, cool light washing over the bay. I took a brief turn around the perimeter, inspecting the traps, checking the integrity of the storehouse locks. A routine, a ritual. But by afternoon, the sky had bruised. Fat, dark clouds rolled in, heavy with moisture, and the fine weather soured into a stormy afternoon. Showers of rain, not quite a downpour, but enough to make the paths slick, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and distant thunder. It made me think of home, for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment. The kind of rain that made you want a fire, a book. Instead, there was the constant hum of worry, the knowledge of the supply ship somewhere out there, battling these same unpredictable northern squalls.

Monday, twenty-ninth. A west wind now, blowing with real intent in the morning, rattling the panes of my office window. The storm had picked up. It turned truly foul by afternoon: a dense, swirling fog, thick enough to swallow the distant shore, followed by a relentless, cold rain. Just after noon, the 'Fort Rock' churned into view, a dark shape emerging from the grey curtain. She was loaded with supplies from Charlton, but the conditions were too dangerous to attempt unloading. The waves crashed against the jetty with a low, hungry roar. I watched from the safety of the main building, sipping a mug of bitter coffee, a knot tightening in my stomach. The delay meant everything. Fuel, food, equipment—all just sitting there, taunting us from the rocking deck. Every hour lost was another hour of dwindling certainty, another bite out of the short window before the freeze.

Tuesday, the thirtieth, and the west wind persisted, a steady, cold push against the post. The morning was still rough, the bay a grey, turbulent mass. I walked down to the jetty, the spray catching my face, tasting of salt and grit. The 'Fort Rock' pitched gently against her mooring lines, a lumbering beast waiting. But then, almost miraculously, the clouds began to thin towards noon. A pale, watery light broke through, illuminating the whitecaps. "Right, lads!" I bellowed, my voice barely carrying over the wind, "Let's get her emptied!" There was a scramble, a flurry of activity. The smell of wet canvas, the creak of the hoist, the rhythmic thud of crates being lowered. The six men, tired but resolute, worked alongside the rest of us, forming a human chain. We worked quickly, methodically, ignoring the cold dampness that clung to our clothes. Each box, each sack, was a victory, a small warding off of winter's inevitable chill. Later, the Fuel Choppers, their boat lightened, pushed off again, heading back upriver for another load. They gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod as they passed, a shared understanding of the never-ending cycle of labour. That evening, as the last light bled from the sky, the wind died down. The bay was calm, almost glassy, reflecting the deep, bruised purples of the horizon. I stood outside my door, breathing in the cold, clean air, a strange mix of exhaustion and quiet satisfaction settling over me.

Wednesday, the thirty-first. A north-east wind in the morning, cutting through the thin layers of calm, but it swung north-west by evening. It rained hard, all day long. A sheeting, drumming rain that turned the paths to slick mud. The kind of rain that seemed to seep into your very bones. The Fuel Choppers returned that evening, their boat low in the water, heavy with its load of wood. They looked sodden, their oilskins dripping, but there was a quiet triumph in their eyes. Another load secured. Another piece of the puzzle against the cold. The air in the bunkhouse, I noticed, already carried a heavier, earthier smell, a mixture of wet wool, pine resin, and simmering stew. The days were drawing in, the light fading earlier, the evenings longer, darker.

A Seaplane's Shadow

Thursday, August first. North-west wind, still damp, but the persistent rain of the morning gave way to a fair, if cool, day. The Fuel Choppers were at it again, carrying the wood ashore, then turning right around, their empty boat making good time upriver for yet another load. Their work was a constant, a bedrock of the post's rhythm. My eyes scanned the vast expanse of the bay, checking the weather, the clouds, the way the light hit the distant, treeline horizon. A flicker. High up, impossibly high, a glint of metal caught the sun. I squinted, shading my eyes. It was a seaplane. A real seaplane. Not just a smudge, but a clear, distinct shape, heading north, disappearing into the pale blue expanse above the river mouth. It was half-past ten. My breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound. A plane. Here. It was a jolt, a jarring reminder of a world that was moving, changing, while our own remained tethered to the ancient rhythms of trade and season. This was a new kind of visitor, a herald of what? Progress? Intrusion? I didn't know. The silence that followed its disappearance felt deeper, more profound.

The image lingered, a metallic ghost against the sky. A few hours later, just before four, I saw it again, passing south. A silver flash against the lowering sun, fading faster this time. It left a strange echo in the air, a hum that wasn't really there, just the ghost of engines. That day, we also began giving out winter advances to the Inland hunters. The ledger was heavy, its pages filled with neat, precise entries. Each name, each amount, a carefully weighed gamble against the harshness of the coming months. Tobacco, flour, shot, traps. A trust built on years, on shared survival. The hunters, mostly quiet men, nodded, their eyes already holding the distant, focused look of the hunt.

Friday, second of August. South-west wind, a fine day. The Fuel Choppers arrived again, their boat and raft laden. Another layer added to the growing woodpile. A canoe slipped into the cove, carrying Fort Bastien people. More faces, more stories, brief and often unspoken, of journeys across the immense land. Saturday, the third, dawned with rain, but it cleared in the afternoon. South wind in the forenoon, then turning north and blowing hard, making the flags snap on their poles. The Fuel Choppers carried ashore more wood. The work was endless, tireless. Sunday, the fourth, a fine day despite the hard north-west wind. The weather was a constant companion, a presence to be read, to be respected, to be feared.

Monday, the fifth. North-west wind, blowing hard all day, accompanied by driving showers of rain. The Fuel Choppers, their routine unbroken by the weather's moods, left again for another load. Their perseverance was a silent lesson. Tuesday, the sixth, the wind still howled, but the sky had cleared. The Fuel Choppers came in that evening, their boat barely visible against the churning grey water, a testament to their skill. Each log they brought was another day of warmth, another meal cooked, another measure of safety.

Wednesday, the seventh. A soft south wind. A fine day, though the wind still blew with some force. Jimmie Carson and his family arrived from Ruperts House, their small open boat looking worn, but their faces alight with the simple joy of arrival. Children, small and bundled, blinked against the light. We exchanged news, small talk, the quiet pleasure of seeing other human faces. The Fuel Choppers, their work finally complete for the season, brought in their last load of wood that evening. It was a milestone. The woodpile now stood a formidable mountain, enough, I hoped, for the long, hungry months ahead. Some of the Inlanders also departed today, heading for their distant winter hunting grounds, following the old Factory River trail. Their absence left a small, hollow space in the post's daily chatter. John Richards, a quiet, diligent man, was in the garden, his hoe rising and falling with rhythmic precision, turning the rich, dark earth. The smell of damp soil and growing things was a stark, green counterpoint to the ever-present scent of pine and salt.

Thursday, the eighth. South wind, a fine day. The Fuel Choppers, now repurposed, carefully took ashore the remaining wood from the raft and the boat, stacking it meticulously. John Richards was still in the garden, his back bent, absorbed in his task. Two more families of Inlanders left that evening, their small canoes loaded, their goodbyes quiet, almost unheard against the vast silence. They were fading into the immensity of the bush, a world I understood only peripherally, a world of snowshoes and snares, of patience and hardship. Friday, the ninth, brought a hard north wind, though the weather held fair. Saturday, the tenth, it rained in the morning, but cleared by afternoon. The Fuel Choppers, their main task done, spent the day cleaning and repairing their gear, their work ethic unwavering. Three more families of Inlanders departed. The post was thinning out, a preamble to the long, isolated winter.

Sunday, the eleventh. North-east wind, light, a fine day. A deceptive calm before the coming storm. Monday, the twelfth. The north-west wind returned with a vengeance, blowing hard, and by noon, the weather turned truly stormy. The bay was a mass of churning whitecaps, the sky a bruising purple-grey. The 'Fort Rock' had set out for Charlton earlier, but had to turn back from Gull Islands, unable to brave the heavy seas. I saw her return, a struggle against the relentless waves, her engine straining. A failed attempt, another delay. Later that evening, Mr. Bastien, Revillon Frères' inspector, arrived from the north in his own boat. He was a small man, sharp-eyed, with a neat moustache and a precise way of speaking. His presence always brought a subtle tension, a reminder of the quiet, underlying competition for furs and trade. We exchanged civilities, each measuring the other, beneath the polite veneer.

Tuesday, the thirteenth. A fine day, the wind steady from the east, calming the bay. The 'Fort Rock' left again that morning for Charlton, carrying Mrs. A. Louttit and her daughter. A rare sight, women travelling so far, their small figures bundled against the cool air. Wednesday, the fourteenth, north-east wind with rain, but it cleared by evening. Mr. Bastien, the inspector, left that morning for Moose. His departure left a small, almost imperceptible easing of the atmosphere. Thursday, the fifteenth. North wind. The 'Fort Rock' finally got back from Charlton that evening. Bishop Bailey, a man of imposing height and quiet authority, came over as a passenger. His dark clothes stood out against the rough-spun garments of the post. He carried himself with a quiet dignity, observing everything with a calm, discerning gaze. He made his way to the small, unadorned mission building, his presence a weight, an unspoken judgement.

Friday, the sixteenth. South-west wind. A fine day with very little wind, but by evening, the rain had started again, a soft, persistent patter against the windows. Saturday, the seventeenth. North-west wind, stormy all day, the bay a boiling cauldron. We got the 'Fort Rock' ready for another trip, ballasting her carefully against the rough seas. Each trip was a risk, a gamble against the capricious northern weather. Sunday, the eighteenth. North-west wind, foggy with very little wind. A ghostly sort of day, where sounds seemed muffled, and the world felt small and indistinct. Monday, the nineteenth. North-west wind, blowing during the day, but calming down by evening. The 'Fort Rock' left that morning for Charlton, for another load of freight, carrying Bishop Bailey as a passenger. His departure was as quiet as his arrival. He left, I thought, without truly seeing anything, just observing what he expected to see.

Tuesday, the twentieth. A fine, calm day, with a gentle north-west wind. The kind of day that lulled you into a false sense of security. Wednesday, the twenty-first. South wind, fine day, light wind. Thursday, the twenty-second. South wind, raining. The 'Fort Rock' got in from Charlton that morning. She was a constant, her comings and goings marking the rhythm of our lives. Friday, the twenty-third. South-west wind, a fine day. More Inland people left the post, heading for their winter hunting grounds. The steady outflow was a quiet subtraction, a dwindling of the community here.

Saturday, the twenty-fourth. South wind. Very hot, light wind in the morning, then calm. The heat had returned, a late summer gasp. More people left the post today. Sunday, the twenty-fifth. A fine day. South wind, calm. One of the warmest days we'd had all summer, a final, lingering warmth before the inevitable chill. Monday, the twenty-sixth. West wind. Stormy and raining all day. The warmth was fleeting. The rain was persistent, a steady drumming on the roof, washing away the last vestiges of summer. Tuesday, the twenty-seventh. North-west wind. Still stormy. The post felt like a ship, endlessly tossed on a vast, indifferent sea. Wednesday, the twenty-eighth. North wind. Clear day, a sharp, clean clarity that brought with it the bite of a deeper cold. Thursday, the twenty-ninth. North-west wind. Fine day, but blowing hard. The wind was a constant, shaping every aspect of our lives.

Friday, the thirtieth. South wind. The final day of the month, August thirty-first. North-west wind. Calm in the morning, but then the wind began to blow, gaining strength through the day. And then, the coughs started. Small, dry coughs at first, in the bunkhouses, in the store. A few men complained of chills, a persistent ache in their joints. Nothing dramatic, at first. Just the quiet grumbling of men accustomed to discomfort. But then the numbers grew. More than a few. Quite a few people, I noted in the ledger, had been laid up with the 'flu' this week. Some, the stronger ones, or perhaps the lucky ones, seemed to mind it little, shaking it off after a day or two. But others… others were pretty sick. Too sick to work. Too sick to move much at all. Their breathing shallow, their eyes dull and watery. The post, which had just been emptying out for the winter, now felt stifling, crowded with the sick. A chill, more profound than any wind, began to settle over East Main, a deeper fear than simple hunger or cold. The medicine chest, stocked so carefully, already looked thin. We were alone here, a tiny flicker of human life against the vast, indifferent wilderness. The coughs had grown louder overnight, a ragged chorus from the bunkhouses. The medicine chest felt lighter each time I checked it, and the bay, usually so bustling, stretched out empty and cold, a stark, vast silence that offered no help, only the promise of an unyielding autumn and a long, hard winter ahead.