Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 15

It took three weeks to construct a rough log shelter for William Henry, his two men, and the trade goods. Peter worked hard — sometimes driving the horse that dragged the long, unpeeled logs cut from tall lodgepole pines, sometimes braiding more snowshoes. Although everyone was tired by nightfall, the men seemed content to sit beside the fire and hear Thompson read aloud from his Bible. Later, one evening when the talk became more general, a voyageur named Fortrand looked at Thompson and bluntly asked, “Monsieur, from where did you come before here?”

For a long moment the explorer stared into the fire and didn’t reply. When he did, Peter felt a wave of uneasiness, for Thompson’s voice more than his words told how much he missed his own country. “I was born in London and there attended school. Each day I passed by an old and beautiful cathedral famous for its gardens of flowers in the summer. I’d stop to listen to the choir singing and sometimes had to run as fast as I could so I wasn’t late for school.”

Boulard chuckled. “In this London you did not hunt for your food, I think, nor make your bed in the snow.”

Thompson smiled and shook his head.

“Did you …” another voyageur began.

Thompson, however, stood and again shook his head. “Enough of memories. I must take one more sighting, and daybreak will soon be upon us.”

Reluctantly, Peter rose from his seat by the fire. He wanted to hear more, for he had never thought of Thompson nor any of the men as boys like himself who also had to learn to shoot a musket and sleep in the snow.

In the morning Peter heard Thompson tell Boulard that he didn’t fault William Henry for not choosing DuNord to stay and help build a larger post. “William feared the fellow’s complaints would encourage the other man to do the same, and by spring all three would be ready for bedlam.”

Boulard shrugged. “Monsieur DuNord may be of better material than it appears. Perhaps he will demonstrate he is a man as we cross these mountains.”

They left the newly built post at the end of December, with the dogs pulling eight sleds of trade goods and baggage, and their last four horses carrying fresh meat and supplies of fat and flour. It was a bitterly cold day, but there was no wind and the sun was shining. Peter’s spirits lifted when the men began to sing as, with one sled following another, they left the tiny post. It was a good beginning. However, after the first few days of trying to control the unruly dogs pulling the sleds, the enthusiasm dimmed noticeably and the men started to take two to three hours to get moving each morning while demanding to camp each day before sundown. Thompson ignored their complaints until DuNord pushed him too far.

Day after day the line of men had trudged upward with sleds overturning every time they struck a stump or a log hidden under the snow. On the ninth day, DuNord, in a fit of temper, threw his sled down the hillside with his dogs still attached. Packs of provisions flew as the sled broke along the way.

Thompson had been far ahead of the line and didn’t learn of the commotion until Boulard sent a man ahead to call to him. When he returned, he glanced from the sled to DuNord, who stared back insolently. Quietly, Thompson said, “It needs a man of courage to cross these mountains. Not all are capable. You may take a double pack for yourself to carry and reload all else on the other sleds, or I’ll give you a share of the supplies and you can return to Rocky Mountain House.”

DuNord’s bushy black eyebrows shot almost to his hairline in surprise. “You cannot. Alone, I would not live.”

“Most likely,” Thompson said, “and thus far I haven’t been the cause of any man’s death. However, if it comes to a choice between you and the success of our undertaking, you must know what my choice would be.”

DuNord hastily piled boxes on the remaining seven sleds, then picked up two heavy packs to carry himself. Whenever Peter glanced behind him, he felt a tiny bit of sympathy for DuNord. Powerful as the man was, he laboured mightily through the deep snow with his heavy burden, his mouth set in a grim line.

Thompson must have had these thoughts, as well, for after less than three hours, he was waiting when the train of sleds caught up with him. “You, DuNord, unload one of the packhorses and take another man with you to hunt. There are tracks of sheep and red deer aplenty. Dead ahead is Jasper Lake where we’ll make camp. Keep moving due west through the woods and you’ll find us.”

To Boulard, Thompson said, “I find the complaints from some of the men irksome. Here they worry about snow barely above their knees but will happily spend a winter in Montreal, though it be ten feet deep there.”

Boulard nodded. “And some try to ease their fear by beating the dogs, even those who do their best to pull the sleds.”

“You should have said as much at once,” Thompson said. “We have few enough dogs. They mustn’t be bruised to make it more difficult for them to pull in the heavy snow. I’ll no longer set my pace to be so far ahead that I may better know what is happening behind me.”

Peter turned away to hide his joy when they camped that night and Thompson announced, “It’s time to rest the dogs. We’ll camp here two nights, and since the wind and cold are bitter, you’ll have a cup of rum.”

Instead of the usual cheer there were only murmurs of approval from the weary men. Peter knew how they felt. His fingers and toes were numb, he ached with exhaustion, and the sight of the forbidding, snowcapped mountains ahead guarding the valley filled him with dread. Some of his fatigue disappeared, however, when Thompson said to the men, “You’ve done well. You can see that we’re now deep into the mountains. My hope is that we’ll cross them within a few days, and on the other side it will be less cold.”

DuNord and his companion were unsuccessful in their attempt to find game, which didn’t help his sour disposition. He turned away from the fire now with a look of suspicion. “Monsieur, you say ‘hope.’ Do you not know where we are?”

Thompson waved his hand in the direction of the guide who was sitting away from the fire on a huge snow-covered boulder. “Thomas knows, and I trust him to show the way.”

Peter was uneasy. Only the night before Thompson had expressed for the first time some doubt in Thomas’s ability to find his way through the mountains. “He’s an honest man,” he had said to Boulard. “Even though the Iroquois have been here for nearly ten years, he doesn’t pretend to know every river. But we trust each other — I with my compass and Thomas with his instincts.”

The ice-encrusted Athabasca had become increasingly shallow as they penetrated deeper into the mountains. Fed here in the summer by trickling streams, the river was spread widely now around the snow-covered sandy mounds that jutted up from the riverbed. With Dog at his heels Peter stumbled along behind the sled, hardly believing his eyes whenever he glimpsed the glittering glaciers in the distance. There was snow enough everywhere, but the vast fields of ice crouching on the gigantic mountains appeared to threaten the dog train as it intruded farther into the river valley. Even Thompson’s calm assurance seemed to lessen each time he paused to survey another ice-choked stream connecting to the river they followed.

One night they camped early and found enough wood for a fire to burn all night. Thompson, as usual, left the camp to climb higher and take a sighting for his journal. Again one of the men found this behaviour strange.

“Here, by the warm fire, we have food and good talk, but our leader prefers the dark sky to our company.”

DuNord’s tone was angry. “He makes maps for other men to make this hellish journey.”

Hot words sprang to Peter’s lips, but Boulard spoke first. “He charts our journey to learn if it is easier and faster for trading than the old way up the Saskatchewan.”

Peter found himself scowling when DuNord’s fellow complainer, LeTendre, spat and said, “A good company man then, but not a friendly one.”

Again it was Boulard who responded. “Monsieur Thompson works hard for the company.” He turned to Peter. “Have you learned how he became a mapmaker?”

Staring into the fire, Peter shook his head. Boulard crossed his legs, clasped his hands on his knees, and began. “Me, I was at Fort Churchill on the cold Hudson Bay for two years when David arrived from England.” He gestured toward Peter. “He was of the same age as this one is now and away from his family for the first time, but no one ever heard him complain. Even from me, who knew the winters there, came plenty of complaining, I tell you. The walls of the room with his bed were as mine — thick with ice — and he had to walk up and down the trade room to keep warm even while wearing all his clothes.”

When Boulard paused to poke a stick into the fire and light his pipe, Peter became aware that the rest of the men had stopped muttering and were listening. Satisfied that his pipe was drawing well, Boulard continued. “The captain of a supply ship gave to our chief trader, Samuel Hearne, a copy of the map made by Captain Cook. One day he showed it to us. David saw it was only the coasts of this land that had been mapped — nothing of the rivers and mountains and prairies. It is then that he made the promise — he would be the one to find these rivers and mountains and place them on that map.”

Boulard paused again as if trying to remember, then said, “It is impossible for me to think of the name of the head clerk who found great amusement in this promise. He was a fellow full of himself. For this reason he was much upset when David found a mistake in his ledger. Thinking to even himself, he suggested that David greet an Indian warrior entering the trade room by shaking the man’s hand. In this way David might gain a good customer for the company. Suspecting nothing, David did so, and the Chippewa leaped back and pulled out his knife. It was fortunate for David that I ran to the trade room when I heard the shouting. It was difficult for me to persuade the Chippewa that David did not know that offering his right hand was a sign he wished to fight.”

Vallade nodded. “Our Monsieur Thompson, he might have been killed.”

“Certainement,” Boulard agreed. “It appears David gave this much thought, and that night he said to this clerk, ‘I do not know what I did to deserve your wrath, but it should not be enough to get me killed. To even us, I will turn my backside to you now so you can kick it.”

The listeners burst into laughter, including Peter. Boulard looked at him reprovingly. “Why do you laugh?” he asked with mock severity. “David received the kick, though after that they were friends.”

“Me, I did not see Fort Churchill,” one of the voyageurs said, “but I have heard it is a bad place.”

Boulard nodded. “Cold it is for much of the year and bare of trees. And there are big white bears that are always hungry.” He shuddered. “If in this world food could be found only at Fort Churchill, I would starve before I would go there.”