Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 11

Peter slept badly the next couple of nights, jumping at every rustle in the dry brush made by the night creatures of the forest. When Thompson finally told him he had to leave and set out on his own to get help, he wanted to protest, but he knew he mustn’t. Thompson was right. Although the explorer’s leg didn’t appear to be broken, it was greatly swollen and he couldn’t ride. It had taken two days to fashion a shelter of pine branches and dried grass and to collect a large heap of wood for fires. Now Thompson was able to hop around with the aid of a forked branch from a bare cottonwood tree and did all he could to help Peter prepare for his lonely journey.

It was still dark when, on the third day, Peter rose and kindled the fire, trying not to wake his sleeping companion. But Thompson stirred and thrust his head out of his shelter. “’Tis time then, is it?” Slowly, he emerged, dragging his musket with him. Handing the weapon to Peter, he said, “You have game enough to last you on your journey and likely won’t have need of this. Take it nevertheless. I have my two long pistols to keep me company.”

Peter nodded wordlessly, remembering how he had lost his own musket. He listened carefully as Thompson cautioned him not to hurry so fast that he forgot to rest the horses. “It’s of great importance that you don’t stray from this water.” He gestured to the nearby river. “I’m certain now that it’s the Brazeau and that it will lead you to the North Saskatchewan. When you reach it, follow it upstream until you arrive at the fort and stay there until Alexander Henry comes from Whitemud House.”

“This might take a long time.”

The explorer’s reply was terse. “Aye,” he said, clapping Peter on the shoulder once, then turning back to his shelter.

Peter’s progress in the forest was slow, and his arms ached from the continuous tugging of the two packhorses that seemed to find it impossible to travel in step. But each time he felt fear or despair creeping into his weary body, he pushed it away with thoughts of Thompson lying alone and in pain. He told himself it was up to him now to do his best to get help.

Peter quickly became irritated with the river he was following. Fed by rivulets of smaller streams, it had widened considerably as the hours passed, and its course snaked downward through dense stands of tall, rough-barked trees, making it impossible to tell how far he was still from the North Saskatchewan. When ahead he noted a thinning of the trees, his mood brightened. As he urged his horse forward, he cautioned himself not to set his hopes too high. When he finally emerged from the trees, he found himself at the top of a long, low hill covered by dead grass and clumps of brush. There, at the bottom of the hill, was the North Saskatchewan winding through the prairie. Peter rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He was almost certain he also spied four canoes heading upstream. Positive now, he wondered if they were hostile Peigans. But, no, Thompson had told him that Peigans didn’t use canoes. They rode horses. Peter swallowed hard. Could it be the brigade? His heart pounded madly as he gathered his reins. They were coming fast. He had to hurry if he wanted to intercept them.

Behind him the sun had already dipped below the tips of the tallest foothills, and the long shadows cast by the occasional spruce or cottonwood disguised the hollows in the soil, making the race down the slope doubly perilous. He slowed his mount once, thinking to halt and load his musket so he could signal the brigade, then almost immediately kicked his horse into a gallop once more. A shot from his gun might bring trouble again. Peter’s mount stumbled twice and almost fell, but he didn’t try to slacken her speed until they were in shouting distance of the great river.

When he reached the North Saskatchewan, he slid off his sweating horse and led her and the pack animals down a shallow ravine to the river to allow them to drink. Already the canoes had approached the mouth of the Brazeau and were sweeping past its turbulent entrance to angle to the shore where Peter waited. He greeted the men, trying not to show his disappointment. They weren’t part of the missing brigade.

There was one man he did know — tall, lanky William Henry, cousin of Alexander Henry of Whitemud House. It was William who had brought the boats from the east with provisions for Thompson’s journey through the mountains. Upon seeing the man, Peter was so relieved that he had to struggle to keep tears from his eyes.

William leaped from the boat and grasped Peter’s shoulders. “What the devil are you doing here, and where are David and the hunters?”

Stumbling over his words, Peter presented the bare facts and would have given the details had not William turned to the waiting men and ordered them to build a fire to cook some of the meat on the packhorses.

“They haven’t seen a chunk of meat for three days,” he said to Peter. “Now let’s find a comfortable rock and I’ll hear the rest of your tale.”

When Peter finished speaking, William was silent for a long moment before he stood and said, “Plainly, David must be attended to, though nothing can be done until the day breaks. Then I’ll take your horses and one man to find him, and you must go on with the boats to Rocky Mountain House. My cousin will have arrived there by now, since he and the others rode cross-country. He must be told of David’s missing men.” William rose then and motioned for Peter to follow. “I’m ready for a strip of that elk meat. We’ve had nothing but pemmican for three days.”

“Elk?” Peter glanced at the fire where the men were cutting meat from one of the carcasses they had taken from the pack animals.

“Most call them red deer,” William explained. “I did, as well, until I spoke with a gentleman from New York who’s an expert in these matters. He identified the beast as an elk, not a deer.”

As Peter filed this bit of information in his head to tell Thompson later, he felt a rush of concern for the wounded man and suddenly something else — almost affection for the solemn, taciturn explorer. “Mr. Henry, couldn’t one of your men take a message to your cousin and I could go with you to find Mr. Thompson?”

William halted abruptly and peered at Peter for a long moment, then said, “No, and for many reasons, Peter. First, my cousin will have a hundred questions to ask of you that one of my men wouldn’t be able to answer, and second, you have the look of one who has travelled far enough for now astride a horse. You’ll do well to sleep when you can in the canoe to prepare you for what comes next.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter mumbled, knowing full well he shouldn’t argue with a chief trader.

William chuckled, and as he continued to walk to the fire, he said, “And you need feel only a little concern for David. I’ve no doubt he has his Bible to read and his journal to add words to when he wishes. The time will pass.”

Peter shook his head. “He gave it to me with instructions to write details of my journey to the North Saskatchewan.”

William turned and stared at Peter. “’Tis odd he would part with the thing unless he feared —” He stopped himself and instead said, “I expect you had little time for writing.”

Peter grinned. “I best get to it now before it’s too dark to see.”

The meat had been taken from the packhorses, but the pouches still hung on each side of the animals as they grazed. Recalling that Thompson had put his journal in a pouch by itself and strapped it on the horse with the black mane and tail, Peter approached it first. His breath caught in his throat when he saw that the strap that kept the pouch closed had broken. With shaking hands he lifted the flap and felt inside. It was empty! Hoping when there was no hope, he dug frantically in the pouch on the other side and in the ones hanging from the second packhorse. Although they weren’t empty, none held Thompson’s precious journal.

Peter’s perch on the bales of trade goods the canoe carried was far from comfortable, but he slept most of the two days it took for the four canoes to reach the end of their journey. It was the shouts of welcome and the grinding sound of the bow of the canoe scraping on the shore that awakened him with a start. On a hill overlooking the river loomed the tall stockade of Rocky Mountain House. Peter leaped from the canoe into water up to his knees and shook his head to clear it of sleep. A voice shouted his name, and Alexander Henry emerged through the fort gate to stand, fists on hips, looking down at him.

“Peter, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here? And, may I ask, where’s David Thompson? The men of his brigade would be interested in learning that, as well.”

“Where are they?” Peter asked eagerly, scrambling up the zigzag path. “We tried to find them.”

“You first, lad,” Alexander demanded. “They’re safe as far as I know. Now where’s David, or has he lost you, too?”

The words tumbled from Peter’s mouth as he explained the difficulties they had encountered in the last fortnight. He omitted the fact that they had been lost.

Alexander bore little resemblance to his cousin. While William was clean-shaven, Alexander wore a neatly trimmed beard, and though they were the same height, Alexander was heavy-set. But their greatest difference lay in their manner. William was quiet and calm, and Alexander greeted every situation with loud words interspersed with a few choice curses.

When Peter finished his story, Alexander clapped himself on the forehead. “This is worse than I thought. You mean to say our esteemed mapmaker, Mr. David Thompson, now wants his brigade to meet him downriver at the Brazeau?”

Peter swallowed hard, but he spoke firmly. “Mr. Thompson believes it’s the only way. He said to tell you that blood was spilt when the brigade tried to go up the North Saskatchewan. Do you know where they are?”

“Aye, that I do know.” Alexander spat on the ground. “The entire lot, including three of their Cree wives, were here when I arrived two days ago. They said the Peigans stopped them about forty miles upriver and had a bit of a skirmish, though there was little damage to either side, except for one of ours who bumped his big nose on a rock. The Peigans made them return to this post, for they’ll allow no one to travel upriver to trade with the Kootenays. I, in my infinite wisdom, outfoxed them by giving them enough rum for a sleep sound enough to allow the canoes to slip away upriver. Clever, I was.”

“When they woke up, did they wonder where the brigade was?”

Alexander laughed without mirth. “In the morning when they woke with aching heads, I told them the canoes had returned downstream to Boggy Hall.”

Peter closed his eyes, not even wanting to think of a way to connect the brigade with Thompson now unless someone found the men and turned them back. But the Peigans might be furious when they learned Alexander Henry had tricked them. And there would be Bercier with the horses waiting at the mouth of the Brazeau. What a mix-up! There was nothing that could be done, though, but to return to Thompson somehow and allow him to sort it out.

However, Alexander already had a plan. “I suppose I could waste more rum so the brigade can slip past going downstream this time.”

“Would that be possible?” Peter asked, hoping the man wasn’t joking.

Alexander sighed deeply. “Oh, aye, I expect it is.”

Before Alexander could turn away, Peter reached inside his shirt for the letter Thompson had given him and handed it to the chief trader, who read it hurriedly. When he finished, he said, “After we send the brigade on its way to David, I’ll ride back to the Brazeau with you. He wishes for four horses and two dozen dogs to pull sleds, and I have a wish to do some hunting.”

Although Peter was puzzled, having heard nothing of sleds, he made no comment. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “There’s something more, sir. The other Mr. Henry asked me to tell you that if Mr. Thompson still plans to go on across the mountains, he’d like to go with us. He very much would like to see the Pacific Ocean.”

The chief trader shrugged, then nodded. “If that’s his wish, fine, though I hope he’ll bear in mind that it isn’t certain David Thompson will find this great river he seeks to lead him there. Both Alexander Mackenzie and Simon Fraser made the same effort and failed.”

Peter kept silent, though Boulard had told him that both of those men had found rivers that led to the ocean, but they were too fierce for use as trade routes. His heart sank when it occurred to him that Thompson’s Columbia River could be the same.