On the
Mackenzie, the Athabasca, the Saskatchewan, and the Peace he had
seen many rafts, but never a raft like this of St. Pierre Boulain.
It was a hundred feet in width and twice and a half times as long,
and with the sun blazing down upon it from out of a cloudless sky
it looked to him like a little city swept up from out of some
archaic and savage desert land to be transplanted to the river. It
was dotted with tents and canvas shelters. Some of these were
gray, and some were white, and two or three were striped with
broad bands of yellow and red. Behind all these was a cabin, and
over this there rose a slender staff from which floated the black
and white pennant of St. Pierre. The raft was alive. Men were
running between the tents. The long rudder sweeps were flashing in
the sun. Rowers with naked arms and shoulders were straining their
muscles in four York boats that were pulling like ants at the
giant mass of timber. And to David's ears came a deep monotone of
human voices, the chanting of the men as they worked.
Nearer to him a louder response suddenly made answer to it. A
dozen steps carried him round a projecting thumb of brush, and he
could see the open shore where the bateau was tied.
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