Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 14

Boulard stood, hands on hips and head cocked, as he regarded Peter. “Young Peter, it has been but a few months, but to me it seems you are much more a man than the boy I first saw in Montreal.”

Peter felt his heart swell with pride. To cover his feelings he switched subjects and told Boulard about Dog. As he talked, the voyageur’s head nodded with approval. When he finished, Boulard said, “Your friend is my friend, Peter, so we will consider Mademoiselle Dog to be part of our brigade.” He held out his hand and took a step toward Dog, who lifted her lip and snarled. Embarrassed, Peter tried to explain, but Boulard interrupted. “It is all right, Peter. There are others who have the same feelings for me. Come to the fire and have supper when you have seen to her comfort.”

Thompson had found all his precious instruments safe, including the compass, and again he waved away Peter’s stammered apology for losing the journal. “I’m the one who placed it in the saddlebag. I may be able to recall much of what I wrote in it, and when there’s time, we’ll make another.”

Peter felt a rush of gratitude and affection for the explorer and wondered why some found him hard and stern. However, as the days passed, it was easy to see Thompson was growing impatient with the wait for Bercier and the horses, for he kept riding up the Brazeau into the forest to listen for them.

After resting their horses for two days, Alexander Henry and his hunters decided to return to Rocky Mountain House. Before he left he told Thompson, “Running more than twenty horses through a hundred miles of woodland can’t be done in a few days, David. Likely, you’ll have another month to wait for Bercier. You might think of coming back to the House.”

Peter, who had been hunting rabbits with Boulard, returned to the campsite in time to bid the chief trader goodbye and was appalled when he noticed there were only two men with Alexander Henry. DuNord was leaning against a tree, ignoring his companions.

Boulard appeared to have noticed this, as well, for when Alexander and his hunters turned their horses to ride off, he moved closer to Thompson and murmured into his ear.

“What?” Thompson asked absently. “Oh, yes, DuNord. Alexander asked me to hire him to go with us. He doesn’t get along well with some of the men at Rocky Mountain House, but he’s an excellent hunter.”

Alexander Henry was wrong. Driven by Bercier, his wife, and his two sons, as well as Young Joseph, the horses arrived three days later, and four days after that they were loaded with the provisions from the canoes. Peter marvelled at the bales of supplies the animals transported, for the canoes had carried bell-shaped leather tents and leather boots for each of Thompson’s men from Boggy Hall as well as trade goods. It was late October when they began their diagonal northwest trek across the land between the Brazeau and the Athabasca Rivers. Bercier and his family had gone on to Rocky Mountain House, and now they were twenty men with twenty-eight horses plus the packhorses and dogs. There were three Cree wives, but no children.

The day before, Thompson had selected DuNord and three others, who had accepted the order happily, to go on ahead as hunters for food for that night. The two men who were chosen to clear a pathway through the heavy brush and fallen timber were far less pleased, as were the rest who led the packhorses. Peter was disappointed that Young Joseph wished to return to his people and had sent Thomas, another Iroquois, to guide in his place. Peter liked Young Joseph.

The dogs followed willingly now, freeing Peter to take short side trips in the hope of seeing a deer or an elk hiding in the bushes. Thus far most of the animals he sketched for Thompson were dead ones brought back by the hunters. Their trail snaked on a gradual upward slope through a forest scented by fir, spruce, and the damp earth. The trees were spread thinly, which might have made it easier for the horses had it not been for the windfalls of burned logs, the result of long-ago forest fires.

Few birds sang as the caravan passed, but often a squirrel scolded them and silent grey birds flew from branch to branch, watching. Peter sometimes felt uneasy when he surveyed his companions. The men were the usual crew of Indians and mixed bloods who sang and joked as they paddled long hours in canoes over miles of raging rivers upstream as well as down. Now, on horses that hopped over fallen trees and stumbled into leaf-covered depressions, they were silent except for the occasional curse when they were slapped in the face by prickly fir trees as they passed. It didn’t help their mood when, after four days of wearying travel, David said grimly, “Thus far we’ve come only eighteen miles. We must increase our pace as well as not allow our horses to tire. From this point onward we’ll dismount every two hours and lead them for half an hour.”

The grumbling increased, but Thompson ignored it as well as the frayed tempers as they crossed and recrossed the stony-bottomed creeks that soaked their boots. Peter’s respect and liking for Boulard continued to grow, for he remained cheerful as he trudged over the same ground and brushed away gnats and mosquitoes. Thompson was a different matter, however. As the days passed, it wasn’t difficult to see that he was becoming openly impatient with the mishaps that occurred due to carelessness, the worst being the near loss of a badly loaded packhorse as they picked their way over a narrow trail of loose stones high above the Pembina River.

Although it surged and crashed against the walls that held it in, the river wasn’t very wide. But the sharp rocks jutting along its edges and the steep incline leading to it forced them to follow a trail high above the water in search of a safe place to ford. Peter kept close watch on the trail as he led his horse and the packhorse that followed until he heard a cry and glanced back to see one of the men hanging on to the reins of a packhorse as it began to slide downward.

“Petain, let him go!” Thompson shouted. “Let him go!”

Already sliding over the edge himself, Petain clutched the reins of the horse and dug his heels into the loose soil. Man and beast made deep grooves in the earth as they slid toward the rocks.

Peter held his breath, unable to move when he saw that Thompson had followed the hapless pair and was sliding fast, unaware that Boulard and William Henry were shouting at him to catch the rope they had thrown. A moment later Thompson was out of sight. The silence that followed was broken only by the crashing sounds of the river.

Peter’s body was rigid with fear until a small cheer rippled through the men standing on the hillside. He stood in his stirrups as high as he could and saw that the horse, lying on its side now, had come up against a stand of new-growth aspens so small he wouldn’t have thought they would hold the struggling animal. But they did.

It took the rest of the afternoon to get the terrified beast on its feet and unload it to pass the goods up to waiting hands. Then, with the help of another horse, the trembling animal was pulled up the trail.

After Petain’s narrow escape, they camped early, and the men were given a ration of rum. Peter used this opportunity to spend extra time with Dog. Even though she still wouldn’t allow him to touch her, he sensed they were becoming friends, for she had begun to seek him out at the end of the day. Peter chose not to believe this was because she was looking for her nightly bit of meat. He had become more certain of that when she started to sleep only a few feet away from him each night.

Although Dog followed, she stayed out of the circle of firelight when Peter joined Boulard and William Henry, who were sitting on a fallen log having a last pipe before sleeping. It took only a moment for him to realize they were talking about Thompson, who as usual was out somewhere taking sightings by the stars. Peter listened with curiosity, for he knew little about their leader.

“It is possible the company will reward him handsomely for finding this great river of the west,” Boulard said. “But me, I know David. Completing his map is of the greatest importance to him for these many years.”

William took his pipe from his mouth and regarded it carefully. “And I’ve no doubt he’ll do so.” He looked at Peter and smiled. “Some say our explorer is a very stubborn man, but others admire him for his strong character.” He chuckled. “I was in Montreal when his first shipment of furs arrived from west of these mountains. In one pack were a half-dozen white pelts of mountain goats found only very high in the peaks. One of the company fools jeered at them and told David not to send useless pelts. It seems that when the furs reached London they were a great success. David has small patience with those who don’t appreciate the dangers and hardships his men face, thus when he received orders to send as many goatskins as possible, he sent word back that finding them was too risky for his men and he would send no more. And he didn’t. I find much to admire in David Thompson.”

The two men puffed on their pipes in comfortable silence until Boulard spoke. “We have travelled many rivers together and have wintered at three Indian camps. He does not ask any man to do what he will not.”

Thompson’s brave effort to save Petain may have been the reason the men seemed to grumble less for a while, but by the time they finally reached the icy edges of the Athabasca River, a few seemed ready to quit. It was DuNord who complained the loudest and kept the others stirred up. “Foolish to cross the mountains in winter,” he grumbled loudly as they unloaded the horses. And later around the campfire he mumbled, “No meat will we find up there for us. We will starve.”

Thompson ignored the complaints for the next four days as they followed the ice along the river higher and higher into the mountains. Where it was smoothest, the footing for the horses was the most precarious, and one after another they slipped and fell, sometimes knocking the packs from their backs and sometimes their riders. Three packhorses broke their legs and had to be shot. And eaten.

Peter’s heart sank when they stopped to camp on the fourth night, and Thomas, their guide, informed Thompson that horses would be useless on the trails ahead. In the morning Thompson ordered seven men and the three women to take most of the horses back to Rocky Mountain House. The men were to return with more provisions and the mail.

Appointing himself spokesman, DuNord planted himself in front of Thompson and demanded to know if he expected canoe men to walk. Thompson looked him up and down slowly, then said, “Aye, and you’ll do it along with a sled and the team of dogs. You’re being paid well for this journey. Go forward or go back with the horses.”

Something in Thompson’s cold tone must have convinced DuNord that it was useless to argue. He stalked away and stretched out on his blankets.

Axes rang as a large campsite was cleared and the tents were fastened securely to the ground. To Peter the camp seemed permanent, but when he questioned William Henry, the man chuckled and shook his head. “You forget we have to make snowshoes so we can walk on the deep snow that lies in the passes, and we’ll need sleds for the dogs to pull, as well.”

Peter stared up at the formidable mountains already covered in white. In the distance a small avalanche hit the bottom of the valley. Its thunderous noise carried on the dry, cold air made it sound closer than it was. He shuddered. Glancing up at the mountains made him feel a bit breathless, and the sounds of the avalanche doubled the feeling.

The trees were stunted — pine as well as aspen and willow — which the men appreciated. It was easier to chop down a small tree than a large one, and once down, the tree was less troublesome to split. Boulard had gone into the woods to look for birch, and Peter was told to string the snowshoes cut from wood. When DuNord saw him doing this, he spat on the ground. “Women’s work.” But Peter didn’t mind. It was a welcome change from plodding up the river valley.

Dog had become sleek and fit on the diet of meat and campfire bread that Peter managed to give to her at night. Each time he fed her he was rewarded with a tiny whine of thanks and a twitch of her tail, though she still leaped away if he tried to touch her. His companions had become interested in his efforts to tame Dog, and jokes about which — in the end — would be master and which would be pet travelled through the camp. Peter accepted the teasing with good humour. It was better to hear the men laugh than to hear them complain.

Toward the end of 1810, men, sleds, and dogs were lined single file on the ice along the edge of the Athabasca River. The noise of the protesting, excited dogs drowned the sounds of open water in the middle of the river as it smashed against the ice. Peter was driving two dogs pulling the sled just behind William Henry, who was in charge of this phase of the journey. Thompson, Boulard, and Thomas had gone ahead to mark the trail, and thus avoided the hour it took to hitch the dogs — two to a sled. Having run free all summer, they weren’t anxious to repeat their work of last winter.

Peter had tried to coax Dog into a harness without success, and so earned a comment from DuNord. “Dog not work. When meat gone, she roast over campfire.” Then he laughed uproariously.

Peter had busied himself braiding strips of deer hide for harnesses and pretended not to hear, but his heart missed a beat. He knew eating dogs was quite common. But his dog was different; no one was going to eat her.

Sometimes Peter led his dogs, but more often he was behind the roughly built sled, helping them by pushing when they had to plough through a drift of snow. Each night when the sun dropped behind the hills ahead, he was so tired that he had difficulty unharnessing his dogs and often wished he could do as they did — curl up and go to sleep. There were chores to do, however, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who was exhausted.

Without being told, he searched in the nearby trees for wood. Boulard joined him, and together they dragged a dried log to the centre of a small clearing. With the help of a few smaller pieces of tree and brush as tinder, the dry wood blazed into a welcome fire. Striding to his horse, Thompson removed the small keg from behind his saddle, and the men quickly gathered around him with their cups to receive a ration of rum. Thompson took none, nor did he offer any to Peter. Instead, he found his kettle and held it outstretched. Peter was meant to get water for tea.

Warmed by the tea and a generous helping of deer meat, Peter felt better. After feeding Dog and the sled dogs, he joined Boulard, who was standing close to the blazing fire. Seated on a nearby log, Thompson was speaking to William Henry. “I won’t order you to stay, William, but it would please me if you agree. The dogs can no longer pull these heavy loads, and here would be a good place to build a depot to cache some of the goods until we need them. Two of the men will stay on with you to help add to your post.”

Disappointment showed plainly on William’s face, and for a moment he didn’t reply. Finally, he said, “I’ll do what’s needed, though my hope had been to go on to the ocean.”

Staring into the fire, Thompson nodded. “I understand, and in your place I’d feel the same. Wintering here will be a lonely business, but I need a man I can trust.” With one hand he gestured toward the men moving about the camp. “All are good men, but some have no liking for this expedition, and I fear, without supervision, any I assigned to this post would return to the east and more than likely take the supplies with them.”

As he listened, Peter found himself hoping DuNord would be one of the men to stay here at the river’s headwaters, but then he chastised himself. William was his friend, and he didn’t really wish him to be shut up all winter with DuNord.