Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 10

Quickly, Peter and Thompson scrambled up one of the tall cliffs that jutted out of the forest above the river, then lay on their stomachs to study the Indian camp in the distance. “I see no sign of our people,” Thompson said. “And the Peigans don’t appear to have scouts on guard. They would if they had reason to fear the company would be looking for its people.”

The explorer turned and inched down the steep hill, with Peter following cautiously until they plunged into the tangled forest at the bottom. Hoping Thompson wasn’t as lost as he was, Peter ignored the scratches from the thorns on the tall brush and hurried to keep his companion in sight until he saw the dark shadows of the two horses.

Bridle in one hand and weapon in the other, Peter vaulted into his saddle. At that same moment the nervous animal swung sideways, causing Peter to topple to the ground on one side and his gun on the other. As the musket landed, it fired, the roar reverberating through the trees.

The wind knocked out of him, Peter lay still for a moment, but with Thompson’s “Thunderation!” he jumped to his feet, terrified he might have wounded the explorer or his horse. Relief clashed with dread when he saw Thompson glaring beside him and holding the reins of both horses. Without a word Peter dropped to his knees to search for his musket in the darkening woods.

Thompson spoke then, his words sounding as though he were grinding them through his teeth. “Leave it! Get on your horse! The Peigans will want to know who fired that shot, and added to that, Young Joseph might think it was a signal to bring down the meat.”

It was completely dark when they reached their camp and reported to Young Joseph, who listened impassively. “The Peigans cannot track in the dark. They will wait for daybreak.”

Heartsick at not being more careful, Peter barely slept. He could hear Thompson tossing restlessly on his pallet nearby.

The next morning in the murky light between darkness and dawn they led the stumbling horses over fallen logs and pushed their way through tall brush that tore at their clothing. To Peter it seemed they were moving uphill with agonizing slowness and in a wide circle, always looking back over their shoulders into the shadowy forest behind them.

There was no break of day. The dense, dark clouds hid the sun. Peter’s arms ached with the effort of tugging the reins of his horse as he urged it around boulders and over fallen trees. It felt as if they had been leading the animals for hours when they came upon a wide stream rushing downward. They were able to mount then and allow the animals to pick their way in the shallow edge of the water.

Hopefully, Peter spoke over his shoulder to Young Joseph. “Even the Peigans shouldn’t be able to track us now.”

The Iroquois didn’t answer.

Hours later, when the first fat snowflakes began to fall, Thompson decided with obvious reluctance that it was time to rest the weary horses. Peter guided his mount to a patch of tall grass and slid to the ground to hobble to the river. The toes on his left foot throbbed with pain, the result of trudging through the woods in the unaccustomed stiff leather boots. As he pulled off the offending boot to wriggle his toes in the icy stream, the silence was shattered by the roar of a musket.

In spite of his own shock of surprise, Peter was aware of the reactions of his companions. Behind him Thompson had leaped ahead to snatch the reins of his horse as well as the two packhorses, but Young Joseph had disappeared. Peter saw that his own mount was moving nervously through the trees, trailing the reins. Grabbing his boot and ignoring the pain in his foot, he limped through the trees after her. It was then that he heard a second gunshot, though much farther away.

It was snowing more heavily now, and not wanting to become separated from his companions, Peter tugged at his horse and moved toward the sounds of the river. He had taken two steps when Thompson appeared at his side. “Stay here,” the explorer whispered. “Young Joseph left us to find who fired the musket. Perhaps it was a man of the brigade.”

“Maybe it was the Peigans following us,” Peter volunteered, trying to prevent his voice from shaking.

Thompson moved away without replying.

It seemed longer, but it was less than two hours before Young Joseph returned, his usually sober face wearing a grim smile. “They do not find our trail. The gunfire was to signal to find their way back to the river.”

Peter and his companions rode slowly, following this new river downstream until it was dark again. When they camped, they allowed themselves a small fire. Young Joseph rolled up in his blanket only minutes after he swallowed the last strip of deer meat and fell asleep. Peter was relieved. He knew he was due for a stern tongue lashing for causing their trouble, and he preferred Young Joseph wasn’t witness to it. He moved to sit on a log and wrapped himself in a blanket just as the explorer came back into the firelight carrying a small kettle.

Thompson squatted by the fire. “I have water to make tea, Peter. It will warm us more than our blankets.”

Peter darted a quick look at the explorer. Thompson was speaking to him, and not in anger. His thoughts were hopeful. “Sir …” he began stiffly. “I know I … I’m sorry for the —”

With a wave of his hand Thompson dismissed the apology. “You only had an accident, whereas I’ve been foolishly careless.”

Peter was astonished. He hadn’t thought of Thompson as someone who ever owned up to making a mistake. Or of being careless.

The explorer poked at the fire with a long stick to make a level place for the kettle. “Thinking it would be safer, I wrapped my compass and placed it in the iron box in the canoe.” He gestured toward the river. “I believe this may be the Brazeau — it’s of sufficient size — but it may not be. If I’m right, it will meet with the North Saskatchewan some two days’ ride downstream from Rocky Mountain House. From the House we’ll follow it upstream until we find our brigade.” He paused to sip his tea and stare into the fire. “We must find our men.”

Peter’s heart dropped below his belt. David Thompson — the great mapmaker — wasn’t certain where they were now! He took a deep, shaky breath, but when his companion turned to look at him Peter tried to speak confidently. “If the sun is up tomorrow, it should be a lot easier to know which way to go.”

Thompson made no comment, and they drank their tea in silence.

A grey dawn revealed that they had been covered with a blanket of snow while they had slept, but the clouds were thinning and weak rays of the sun were finding their way through the trees. Peter stuck his head out of his blankets and saw Young Joseph pulling thin strips of wood from a pack to make a fire while he listened to Thompson.

“You’re certain you’ll have no trouble finding the Kootenay Plain?” Thompson asked.

Young Joseph grunted an inaudible reply and knelt to strike flint against stone. Thompson waited while the Iroquois blew gently on the tiny flame. When he appeared satisfied that his fire had started, he stood. “I know these woods. I will leave my horse here.”

Thompson nodded. “Tell Bercier to bring all the horses to where the Brazeau meets the great river and wait there. Tell him to watch for the Peigans.”

Peter shrugged off his blankets and looked around, then sat upright. Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Where’s Young Joseph going? Who’s Bercier?”

“Bercier cares for the horses we’ll need when we reach the mountains. He drove them to the Kootenay Plain long before we began our journey and expects to wait there for the brigade.” Thompson paused, looking thoughtful. Finally, he said, “I fear the Peigans will no longer allow us to journey freely up the North Saskatchewan. We must find another way through the mountains.”

“But Boulard told me the Peigans are your friends.”

“Some are, but I fear the brigade was attacked by those who aren’t. It vexes me to believe they may have drawn the blood of one of our men. Armed as we are, we might easily defeat them, but fighting would only mean children without fathers for them and more trouble for us.”

After a hurried meal of a few strips of deer meat and the dried berries Charlotte had packed, Young Joseph tied his blanket in a roll, slung it over his shoulder, and picked up his musket. Thompson attached a pouch containing more meat to the blanket roll and handed the Iroquois a small bag. “You may need this extra powder and shot, my friend, though I pray you won’t.”

Young Joseph nodded and placed a hand on the explorer’s shoulder. He stood there for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the trees.

Peter looked after him anxiously. “How does he know which trail to take?”

Thompson stirred the campfire. “Many years past, Young Joseph’s forefathers came from the east with fur traders and settled in the forests at the foot of the mountains. They know these rivers and hills very well.”

When Thompson stood, Peter gestured to the rushing water. “The river’s getting a bit wider. Does Young Joseph believe this is the Brazeau?”

“The Iroquois have different names for the mountains and rivers than we do, but this morning he said this was the only large river in these parts. I feel it must be the one we seek.” Thompson turned to the tethered horses. “We’re long past the time to bring meat to the brigade, and if they fear to hunt for themselves lest they attract hostile Peigans, the men will be hungry indeed. This red deer we have would be most welcome.”

During the next few days, as the stream they followed widened into a fast-moving river fed by the dozens of small creeks and rivulets they forded, Peter saw Thompson grow more confident about their whereabouts. He lost track of the number of days they rode through the trees along the river while leading the unruly packhorses. Then, finally, they discovered a break in the forest at the top of a hill. Far in the distance, light from the setting sun glinted off a tiny ribbon of water. Before Peter could ask the question, Thompson was peering through his telescope. “It’s my belief we’ve found the North Saskatchewan, lad.”

Peter was too choked with relief to reply.

Thompson closed his telescope. “It’s too far away for us to try to reach it tonight. At first light we’ll start. With luck, by nightfall tomorrow, we’ll camp beside it.”

While speaking, Thompson slid from his horse and led it and the packhorses to the water to drink, then moved upstream to fill his teakettle. Kneeling on a large rock, he turned to Peter to speak when the rock suddenly rolled and the explorer cried out. Not knowing his companion was in trouble, Peter scrambled after the kettle floating downstream and returned to find the mapmaker bent awkwardly, one knee jammed between two boulders and his face contorted with pain.

Without hesitating Peter jumped into water that reached to his knees and clawed at the smaller stones around one of the large rocks. Then he used all his strength to push it away from the trapped knee. With shaking hands he stripped his bedroll from a packhorse and yanked a blanket from it to stretch on the ground before he helped Thompson onto the damp earth. Taking a second blanket, he covered him and then searched for flint and rock to start a fire. All the while, Thompson was silent, eyes closed, face white. With trembling hands Peter managed to strike sparks over the slivers of wood and bark that he had been told to carry, and quickly had a fire to warm his companion.

Thompson opened his eyes. With one arm propping himself, he rose to a half-sitting position. “In the pack behind my saddle you’ll find a small box. Bring that and a cup of water.”

Peter quickly found the box and followed Thompson’s instructions. He unrolled an oilskin pouch and handed it to the explorer, then watched as Thompson shook a small amount into his mouth of what appeared to be finely chopped tree bark. Handing back the pouch, the mapmaker chewed, distaste showing plainly on his face. Moments later he used the cup of water to help him swallow the stuff.

“’Tis one of Charlotte’s remedies to ease the pain,” he explained, carefully lying back again. “There’s work to be done, Peter. The horses have to be seen to and more wood has to be gathered for the fire. When you’re done with that, I’d be pleased to have some dry trousers.”

Grateful that he had been given something to do, Peter left to attend to the horses and then to gather dry clothing for both Thompson and himself. He returned to the fire to find that the explorer had fallen into a deep sleep that lasted for more than an hour. When he awoke, to Peter’s great relief, he was able to sit up straight and say, “Well then, lad, whilst I make some plans, suppose you make tea.”