Full of doubt and misgivings, uncertain whether he had crossed the
Divide at all, Mackenzie ordered the canoe down this river. Snowy
peaks were on every side. Glaciers lay along the mountain tarns, icy
green from the silt of the glacier grinding over rock; and the river
was hemmed in by shadowy canons with roaring cascades that compelled
frequent _portage_. Mackenzie wanted to walk ahead, in order to
lighten the canoe and look out for danger; but fear had got in the
marrow of his men. They thought that he was trying to avoid risks to
which he was exposing them; and they compelled him to embark, vowing,
if they were to perish, he was to perish with them.
To quiet their fears, Mackenzie embarked with them. Barely had they
pushed out when the canoe was caught by a sucking undercurrent which
the paddlers could not stem--a terrific rip told them that the canoe
had struck--the rapids whirled her sideways and away she went
down-stream--the men jumped out, but the current carried them to such
deep water that they were clinging to the gunwales as best they could
when, with another rip, the stern was torn clean out of the canoe. The
blow sent her swirling--another rock battered the bow out--the keel
flattened like a raft held together only by the bars. Branches hung
overhead. The bowman made a frantic grab at these to stop the rush of
the canoe--he was hoisted clear from his seat and dropped ashore.
Mackenzie jumped out up to his waist in ice-water.
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