Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 16

The next day Peter heard a shout and saw that ahead of him the sled of a voyageur named Côté was tipping and the man was in danger of losing his load. Peter halted his own team and ran ahead to help right the sled only to see his own sled fly past him as his dogs raced to fight with Côté’s team.

As he helped untangle the yapping dogs, Côté spoke wearily. “Me, I believe it is not so much the difficulties of the trail that makes a night’s rest so welcome. It is these foolish events.”

Peter heartily agreed. A dozen times a day there were mishaps of one kind or another. Often a harness broke or a sled cracked on a rock or a dog rolled down a hill, and too often it was DuNord or one of his fellow complainers who made the others wait while they sat down to rest. Thompson was getting more impatient as the days went by, for the miles were passing slowly. Thus Peter’s scalp prickled with anxiety when the two teams started again only to find Thompson had left the head of the dog train and was coming toward them rapidly on his snowshoes.

Instead of being angry with the delay Thompson waved at them and called out cheerfully, “Make haste! Ahead is a small river that interests me.”

The river didn’t appear small to Peter. It was about forty yards wide, though it appeared to be as shallow as the Athabasca they had been following for so many days that he had lost count.

“We rest here for two nights,” Thompson announced. “Tomorrow Pareil and Côté may have better fortune hunting for meat. The rest of you will make camp, while Thomas and I follow this stream to see if it will allow us to pass between the fields of ice.”

Filled with a new energy born from hope, Peter knew he couldn’t wait until their return to learn if they had found a way through this everlasting ice and snow. “Please, sir, I’d like to go with you and Thomas.”

Thompson appeared surprised, then almost pleased. “Of course, Peter, but the climb won’t be easy.”

Peter felt a stab of resentment, wondering if Thompson — blind in one eye and with a bad leg — thought of him as less able. As though he had heard Peter’s thoughts, the mapmaker nodded and said, “We’ll be glad of your company.”

Hastily, Peter dropped a handful of pemmican at Dog’s feet and swallowed one himself before turning to scramble behind Thomas over the slippery rocks guarding the side of the water. As they climbed higher, Peter tried not to think of how steep the return trip to the camp would be and instead listened to Thompson exclaim about the beauty of the sun setting behind the mountains. Peter made no comment, but he had to agree it was a sight to behold, one he would someday like to paint. The gold and red streaks of wispy clouds drifting above the peaks and the shafts of light darting between them like golden arrows of hope almost made him forget how cold his hands and feet were. Still, he sighed with relief when Thompson called a halt and pulled out his telescope.

In the distance Peter saw only the tips of more mountains and no sign of a river valley leading through them. He slumped to his knees, suddenly weak with fatigue and the realization that it could be weeks or maybe months before they found the river the mapmaker sought. If they ever did. Peter wanted nothing more at this moment than to lie in the snow and stay there forever.

His thoughts were shattered by Thompson’s sudden announcement. The mapmaker’s eyes shone as he collapsed his telescope and said, “I’m confident we’re at the beginning of our last ascent in these mountains. Rum all around tonight.”

It took longer to pick their way down the steep trail they had made. When they reached the camp, Peter neither received nor wanted any rum. He longed only for his bed by the fire. Thompson, however, was still bursting with enthusiasm.

“This river I found with my glass we’ll call the Whirlpool,” he explained while the men drank their rum. “It leads upward, but due west, whilst the Athabasca trickles from a great field of ice to the southwest.”

“What is the beginning of the Whirlpool River?” Boulard asked. “Is it possible we must find our way across on the ice mountains?”

“I can’t be certain of its source,” Thompson said with characteristic honesty. “If it does come from an ice field, we’ll find a way around it.”

In the morning Thomas announced it was time to leave the last three horses behind, for it would be impossible for them to climb through the deep snow that lay ahead, and even if they could, there would be no grass or brush for them to eat.

Thompson nodded reluctantly. “Had we not the two moose Pareil and Côté succeeded in bringing down, we would slaughter one of the horses for food. As it is, we have no means of carrying more meat.” He shook his head, and Peter heard him mutter, “The poor creatures won’t find anything to eat hereabouts, either.”

The next day Thompson gave one of his rare speeches to the men. “The most wearying part of our journey is almost behind us. Today we begin the final trek up this stream, which I’m certain passes through the heights that divide this continent. I’m also certain that on the other side of these mountains lies the river we seek and plenty of wood nearby to build a canoe.”

Most of the men cheered at the prospect of travelling once more by canoe, but Peter heard DuNord grumble to a fellow complainer, “This mapmaker leads us, and we must follow like dogs.” He gestured toward the biggest mountain Peter had seen yet. It loomed just north of their campsite. The voyageurs had named it La Montagne de la Grand Traverse. “It serves as a warning,” DuNord said. “There is more hardship to come. I do not like this.”

In the weeks that followed Thompson took his turn behind a sled to help the struggling dogs as they climbed upward over endless rocks hiding beneath the snow. At night the snow was soft under their bedrolls, but the cold seeped through the tanned leather hides under their blankets to stiffen their muscles and make walking difficult the next morning.

Although the days were sunny for the most part, the air was bitterly cold. Then, after a week of sunlit travel, the sky darkened abruptly. Peter, only mildly curious, turned to look behind him. Above a deep grey mist that obscured the mountains a black cloud had blotted out the sun and was boiling toward him with incredible speed. Peter stood, transfixed. A harsh urgency in the voice that called to him over the sound of the rising wind broke the spell, and he sprang ahead to grasp the lead rope. Dragging his team and sled, he stumbled after Boulard, who waited beside a deep cleft in the mountainside. Inside the opening Thompson and the rest of the men were already tossing aside rocks to make room for their tents.

“Would … that we had … warning enough … to gather deadwood … to build a fire,” the explorer said, his words coming between gasps for breath as he shoved a heavy boulder into a dry creek bed that wove through the gap in the mountain. “I fear … this may last … for some time.”

Pausing for a moment, Thompson ordered Peter to gather the food from the sleds and store it in his tent. After he accomplished this task, Peter, with Dog beside him, plunged farther into the cleft to find Boulard and help him put up the tent.

The wind was less violent here, but though it was mid-afternoon the sky was as black as midnight without stars. An hour ago Peter had felt almost uncomfortably warm from the exertion of pushing his sled through the deep snow. Now he could feel the sweat in his boots icing his feet. He stopped suddenly, and a feeling of rage swept over him as he looked around at the dark figures working swiftly to prepare protection from the stinging cold. Rage, because he had been sure that after the weeks of cold, hunger, and fatigue, the journey would be easier now.

In a moment of absolute clarity, Peter knew this was the end. They were going to die here. And he didn’t seem to care.

Then a solid figure appeared through the snow, almost bumping into Peter. “It’s you then, lad,” Thompson said, his voice muffled by the scarf half covering his face. “Pass the word that each man must take his animals into the tent with him while they sleep. The dogs will help keep them from freezing. I’ll share a tent with you and Boulard.” When Peter didn’t respond, he peered more closely at the boy’s face and then shook his shoulders roughly. “There’s no time for fear, lad. Get yourself up ahead and help put up your tent.”

With the aid of a shove from Thompson, Peter forced his legs forward to the flat spot where Boulard was struggling to keep the tent from blowing away before he could fasten it down with heavy rocks. Wordlessly and with practised motions, the two of them managed to set up their shelter.

“Sacré Marie!” Boulard said as he stripped off his coat and shook the snow outside. “In my travels I encounter many storms, but none so bad as this.”

Peter, too, shed his coat, careful not to knock snow inside their tent as he shook it outside the door. Out of the wind and snow he felt better now — almost ashamed of his moment of panic. Even so, their lives depended on how long the storm lasted.

Sharing the tent with the dogs was surprisingly without difficulty. They seemed only too content to huddle closely together, leaving barely enough room for Peter and his companions to sit up. And at night, stretching out beside the three men, their warmth made sleep possible. Thus it lasted for three days.

On the fourth day they awoke to find the sun driving away the clouds. Even DuNord and his friends seemed more cheerful as they chewed strips of dried meat and washed them down with snow. There was no need to urge them to hurry as they packed the sleds and hitched the dogs.

Less than an hour after the line started to move once more, a Chinook wind began to blow — its warmth welcome at first, then creating a new problem. Their snowshoes as well as the sleds repeatedly stuck in the softened snow. They were above the timberline now, the sun turning the snow to a blinding white that forced Peter to squint most of the time and peer through his eyelashes. His shoulders and arms burned with the effort of keeping his sled from tipping from side to side as the yapping dogs slipped and slid and at other times half swam through the watery snow. Dog was always at his heels.

Peter was uncomfortably aware that a hundred feet behind him DuNord was lashing his dogs with a braided deer hide rope, cursing all the while. The noise made Peter’s head ache. When shrieks of pain penetrated the racket, Peter stopped to rest his own team and glanced over his shoulder. DuNord had halted and, with his rope doubled, was systematically beating a howling dog cringing in the snow.

Even though the warmer air had brought the snow down to about three feet, it hindered Peter’s effort to reach the enraged man in time to save the helpless animal. It was an eerie sight: The other dog was strangely silent as it sat in the reddened snow beside its dying comrade.

Peter stared in horror at the bloody carcass, then up at DuNord, who stood breathing heavily from his exertion.“Salaud!” Peter shouted in halting French. “You dirty skunk!”

DuNord’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Peter, his fists clenched. Too furious to be afraid, Peter braced himself and readied his own fists. From behind him a voice twice barked an order, and DuNord slowly lowered his hands. Boulard put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and spun him around.

“Return to your sled, Peter,” he said firmly. “Me, I will deal with this one. Go.”

Peter trudged through the snow and waited without looking back. Dog sat by his feet, and for the first time allowed Peter to touch her. A few minutes passed and then Boulard returned. “You chose an evil one to call bad names, Peter, though myself I do not blame you. Take my sled that I may watch your back.” Boulard glanced down at Dog. “This DuNord, he is short one dog now and demands the right to harness his sled to your friend.”

Aghast, Peter stared at Boulard, too stunned to protest.

The voyageur smiled ruefully. “You are not amused, and neither am I. Mademoiselle Dog is one of us. Never will she pull the sled of DuNord.”

Peter blew out the breath he had been holding and grinned weakly. Without speaking he moved his team past Boulard’s sled and ordered them to go quickly. They had fallen far behind the rest of the dog teams, and Peter was determined not to be forced to make camp that night with only Boulard and DuNord.

Without stopping to rest the tired animals, the three teams followed the trail made by their companions and found them camped above the river. Nearby, an enormous glacier glowed greenly with the last light of the setting sun.

Thompson had disappeared, but he returned moments after Peter and his companions reached the camp. In a voice deepened with satisfaction, he said, “By my calculation, tomorrow we’ll begin our descent on the west side of these mountains.”

Peter wasn’t surprised that there were no cheers from the men. They still faced a grim journey, and some of them were now openly suspicious that Thompson hadn’t travelled this way before. After making known his opinion of the mapmaker’s ability to find his way, DuNord had another bit of information to add to the atmosphere of uneasiness.

“There is a tale of a monster in these mountains,” he said darkly. “LeTendre, and me, we observe the signs this night.”

Rising to his feet, Boulard yawned and stretched. “I have examined this big footprint you and LeTendre believe to be made by a monster. As for me, I believe it to be that of an old bear, and Monsieur Thompson agrees. A very large bear, to be sure. But a monster? No.”

The next morning Peter awoke damp and cold after a night of restless sleep broken by dreams of huge white bears creeping toward him while the men stood by laughing. Shaking off his dark mood, he reminded himself that the trail would be mostly downhill now and they would make better time. Before the morning was over, though, he learned how wrong he was.

They followed above the banks of a stream openly flowing westward. Thinking this must be the river Thompson sought, Peter was elated until Thomas said his people called it Wood River. If the mapmaker was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead he grinned sourly. “I, David Thompson, by the authority of the king of England, do hereby rename these waters Flat Heart River in honour of the gloomy spirits of this company of explorers.”

Peter observed that none of the men appeared to find their leader’s remarks amusing.

Even though they were wallowing in increasingly deep, soft, wet snow, the dogs still managed to increase their speed when they went downhill, but too often found themselves on one side of a tree and the sled on the other. Entertaining though this was, time was wasted untangling the mess, and the air was filled with the whining and yelping from the dogs and the curses from the men. Peter stopped laughing at the antics of the dogs and started to worry as it became increasingly clear they couldn’t continue to pull their heavy loads in the wet snow.

Scattered trees had begun to appear here and there, and when they neared a stand of thick white pines, Thompson halted the train and announced they would relieve the dogs of some of their loads here. Boulard climbed partway up a tall pine to loop a deer hide rope over a heavy branch so that spare provisions could be hung until needed. Now, besides Thompson’s metal box of instruments and papers, flour, fat, dried meat, and rice on the sleds, there were only tents and clothing for the men.

Even though the loads had been lightened, a few of the voyageurs continued to complain bitterly with each step and insisted on resting every half-mile. Then rain began to fall. Hunching his shoulders, Peter plodded onward at the edge of the water. He sighed as once more they had to cross the narrow stream zigzagging like a feather in a windstorm. Soaked and miserable, Peter paused on the other side while his team and Dog shook themselves free of water and watched Boulard lead his animals across.

“Not so much this,” the voyageur said, wiping the drops from his eyes. He grinned crookedly. “Mon père wished for me to go to school to become a man of letters, but I, with the wisdom of a child, preferred to do this.”

Knowing the doughty Boulard was half joking, Peter tried to think of how to reply in kind when his ears caught a faint rumble of thunder in the distance. Automatically, he peered upward, expecting to see lightning, as well. Instead he saw that a cloud of snow near the top of a mountain was rushing downward, burying the trees as it went. Bringing up the end of the train of sleds, DuNord had stopped to rest higher up on the trail they had made coming down the mountain.

“DuNord!” Peter screamed, startling Boulard into whirling around. “DuNord,vite! Vite!” Without thinking Peter leaped back across the stream through water up to his knees, shouting as he went. Reaching the opposite bank, he raced up the hill, his heart pounding. Gasping for breath, he paused and pointed upward.

The rumbling had become thunder, and as he grasped the meaning of Peter’s shouts, DuNord’s eyes widened in terror. Leaving the sled and dog to fend for itself, he leaped down the trail, jumping and sliding. Freed, the dog raced ahead of him, the sled bouncing behind, and plunged into the river.

Boulard had followed halfway across the stream and caught Peter’s arm now as he staggered back. Panting for breath, they clambered up the bank and crouched behind a giant cedar moments before a mass of snow, dirt, and rocks surged up the river valley.

Although the path of the slide was narrow, they were almost deafened by the roar as trees and earth tumbled less than a hundred feet from their shelter. When the noise died to an angry rumble, Peter yelled, “Did he make it? Is DuNord safe?”

Before Boulard could reply the man in question appeared, coughing and swiping with a rag at the dirt caked on his face. Without speaking he snatched the rope hanging from the harness of his sled dog and yanked it down the trail left by Thompson and the rest of the men.

Boulard shrugged. “This fellow, he appears to be safe, though he does not seem happy.”

Peter’s heart was still pounding, but he laughed when he realized he might have saved the life of the one person who wished to do him harm. Following the water Thompson had named Flat Heart River, Peter felt a thrill of happiness when it led them to two others. One was small. Thompson called it the Canoe River, but the other was much wider. It must be the Columbia River!

Peter’s joy disappeared when the mapmaker explained. “This one —” he indicated the larger river that the two smaller ones emptied into “— you can see flows northward, thus it is our old friend the Kootenay.”

As the men stared, grim-faced, at the high walls of snow lining the Kootenay, Peter’s spirits dropped into his boots. Sick at heart, Peter barely heard Thompson’s words as he outlined their predicament. “You can see for yourselves,” he said, gesturing to the banks of snow, “since there are few of us, it would be unwise to explore beyond the place where the three rivers become one until it’s freed from much of the snow and ice. We have no knowledge of its current nor its direction. Here we can find our way up the Kootenay and wait in comfort at Rocky Mountain House for spring. There we’ll find canoes for travel down to the ocean.”

If Thompson had hoped mentioning canoes would make the voyageurs happier, he was disappointed. The angry muttering was louder than ever, and when the men started to journey along the shore of the snow, those that complained barely moved along its bank. Each was carrying little more than his own belongings now, for they had abandoned the sleds, and most of the dogs were making their own way in the woods. Dog, however, clung to Peter’s heels.

That night Thompson disappeared, as usual, to find a clearing where he could see the stars well and returned while the men were holding strips of meat over the blazing fire and the flat bread was frying. He satisfied himself with a handful of pemmican and two rounds of the bread before beckoning to Boulard and Peter. “Come. We’ll walk a little up this river and see what lies ahead for tomorrow.”

When they paused to rest out of sight of the camp, Thompson said, “Your face tells all, Peter. I saw the look when I said this river was the Kootenay.” Peter started to speak, but Thompson held up one hand. “Prepare yourselves for a surprise. I’m not certain, but I’m thinking this isn’t the Kootenay and may be the Columbia we seek, though I prefer not to say as much in front of the other men.”

It was easy to tell that Boulard was quite surprised. “But, David, how can this be? You believe this Columbia River you seek flows to the west. This one goes north.”

Thompson nodded. “The same river on which we built Kootenay House in years past when we travelled the North Saskatchewan to get to Howse Pass and then made our way to this river, which begins in a big lake.”

“I do not understand,” Boulard said.

“Listen carefully,” Thompson said. “With my glass I’ve seen that soon after the place where this river becomes one with the Canoe and Flat Heart Rivers, the waters turn south.”

Obviously convinced, Boulard clapped Peter on the shoulder. “David, why do you not wish for the men to know? Why do we not hasten to build a canoe and go down this great river?”

“The water will rise, my friend, and the current will get stronger as the snow melts — perhaps too strong for this time of year. Thus we will continue to follow it to Kootenay House where we can find food, rest, and horses on which we can travel for part of our journey and thus avoid much of the floodwater.”

If he hadn’t been standing in deep snow, Peter thought he might have danced up and down, so happy was he that the end was almost in sight. Instead he grinned. “Let’s go and see what’s up ahead.”

They didn’t go far. Around the next bend they found an enormous rock jutting from the side of the mountain far into the water and creating a narrow passage filled with rushing water. Apparently undiscouraged, Thompson pulled off his knitted cap and ran his fingers through his chopped-off hair. “We’ll have to build a raft and pole around this.”

When they returned to the men who were trying to coax a flame from damp wood, Thompson explained the need for building a raft. Duloc, one of the worst of the complainers, jumped to his feet. “For me this is too much. It is madness to go on.”

LeTendre followed suit. “I, too, will go back to the House. Who is with us?”

When the discussion was over, Peter realized that besides himself and Boulard there would be only six left to follow Thompson — Pareil, Villiard, Vallade, L’Amoureux, Côté, and Thomas, their guide. They would be too few now to make a raft and pole their way on a two-hundred-mile journey to Kootenay House.

Peter found he was right. Thompson decided to return to the camp where the three rivers met and winter there. The deserters came with them to the confluence of the three streams to receive their share of supplies. After they said their farewells, Thompson seemed more cheerful.

“They were useless as old women fearful of everything,” the mapmaker said. “But that’s the way with many men when they encounter the unfamiliar. The track of the creature in the mountains, the depth of the snow, and the avalanche and this impassable river are all too much for men who aren’t strong.”

Peter felt a glow of pride as he watched the weak men enter the trees. It wasn’t too much for him, though, to be honest, there were times when he had thought otherwise. From now until they returned east of the mountains, he told himself, he would think only of today and not worry about tomorrow.

Reaching inside the pack he had dropped beside a tree, Peter pulled out a small rabbit that Thomas had helped trap the night before. Skinning it quickly, he whistled for Dog, thinking she had wandered into the forest to chase one of the black squirrels that raced up and down the trees scolding as they ran. Peter moved into the woods and whistled again. And again. He could no longer see the camp when he was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps in the trees behind him. Peter spun around and was paralyzed with fear. DuNord’s face wore a grin that exposed broken teeth as he stalked toward Peter.