Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 18

By the time the canoe had been rebuilt and caulked with pitch stripped from the pine trees and heated, it was mid-April and the snow was fast disappearing along the river. The day the boat was launched was bright and clear, the air fragrant with wet cedar.

“A good omen,” Thompson said after breakfast as he straightened from his crouch by the fire and squinted at the sun. He looked around. “I’ve named this place Boat Encampment with respect for our efforts here.”

Boulard stood, hands on hips, surveying his surroundings. “It is certain never will I forget this place.”

“Me, neither,” Peter agreed, but for a different reason. He had grown fond of Boat Encampment. Here he had come to feel he was somebody — somebody with good memories of hardships and friendships with men who treated him as an equal.

The mapmaker studied each man in turn. “I wish to be certain that you understand my reasons not to follow the big river downstream and go to Kootenay House instead.”

There was a murmur of assent from the men, and Vallade spoke up. “We are few, and our canoe may not be strong enough to carry us in places we have not been.”

“And we will find men at Kootenay House and horses,” Côté finished.

Reluctant as he was to say goodbye to their little home of cedar planks, Peter breathed a prayer that this time the canoe would hold together when Villiard and Pareil grasped the bow and Vallade and Côté lifted the other end, preparing to haul it to the water.

The canoe did stay together as it was lifted, and Peter cheered silently when it settled into the water like a big brown duck. Grasping the braided pine roots tied to the bow, he held it firmly close to the shore while the mounds of moose meat, tents, trade goods, and personal belongings were loaded. There had been some discussion as to whether there was room enough for Peter’s too-long legs to allow him to kneel and paddle as did the rest of the men. At the end of the discussion the cargo was rearranged to make room. Peter then picked up a roughly hewn paddle and knelt at his place near the back of the canoe with Dog beside him and Boulard behind to instruct him in the art of paddling while he, himself, took care of the steering. Thompson stood in the bow with a pole to keep them from the rocks. The voyageurs began to sing.

In spite of the auspicious beginning, their canoe, clumsy and difficult to steer, carried them no more than twelve miles the first day. Still, they camped that night full of confidence that the following day would be better. But it wasn’t.

They had spent the night huddled under the overturned canoe and awoke to find themselves beneath a foot of drifted snow. Nevertheless, the entire group remained cheerful, and forgoing breakfast, quickly had the craft righted and loaded again. That day it didn’t snow, but a cold, wet fog engulfed them for slow, uncertain miles. A muffled voice spoke Peter’s thoughts when it cried out in the mist, “Will nothing go well on this accursed journey!”

Their leader sounded tired as he responded with, “It will get better as we go south. However, I see there is more ice ahead. We best pull to shore.”

They spent five miserable days hunched beside a fire of damp wood, waiting for the weather to clear and the ice jam to melt. Peter wondered if before they had started Thompson had suspected they would have so many troubles on the search for this river. He most likely wasn’t all that happy with eating and sleeping day after day in the freezing cold, either, but he probably had the comfort of knowing someday that this would come to an end and he would have the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t faltered.

Peter had given some thought to what he would do after their journey ended. He might be hired as a clerk in a company post, but first he would have to get back over the mountains. He shuddered.

Although their journey continued thus for the first half of their trip to Kootenay House, few complained aloud. Compared to those miles, the second hundred were relatively easy. The weather warmed, and most of the ice and snow along the river disappeared. However, the back-breaking work of paddling and poling the heavy canoe upstream took its toll, and even Boulard questioned the need for hauling the heavy trade goods.

Thompson was firm but patient. “Until they find a man to replace me, I’m responsible for the Columbia River District. And to make it profitable, I must find villages for trading. Also, as I told you at the beginning of our journey, we must have goods to offer as we go down the river. If we hurry by the Indian villages as we pass downstream with the current, will they not resent our intrusion into their territory without permission and view us as enemies? When we return slowly against the current, it may be too late to make friends with them.”

That made sense to Peter, and to Boulard, as well, apparently. The voyageur nodded approval. “As always, you understand our Indian friends best. But, me, I am of the opinion we perhaps will arrive at the big ocean much later than the men sent by ship by Mr. Astor.”

“Whether we do or not is of small importance,” Thompson said. “My plan is to get the village people to promise to gather furs only for us. If they agree, there will be few furs for the American company no matter how many posts they build.”

As they advanced up the river, the air seemed less cold, and on the willows they passed tiny green leaves were slowly unfurling. Peter’s tired body gained new energy when Thompson announced they were nearing Kootenay House where they would find men to join them for the rest of the voyage.

However, Thompson was mistaken. Moments after he spoke they rounded a bend in the river and met a canoe of a half-dozen free traders. As one, the two canoes turned to the shore to exchange news.

Greetings were exchanged, and after Thompson related their purpose in ascending the river, one of the traders shook his head. “I’m told it’s useless to go to this Kootenay House, for after some attention from the Peigans, it’s empty.”

“Do you have news of Finan McDonald, the man in charge of the post?” Thompson asked, his eyes anxious.

The trader and the men in his canoe shook their heads. “I’m sorry,” the trader said. “Perhaps others have heard.” He shrugged and picked up his paddle.

“A moment, please,” Thompson said. Peering around the trader at a stocky Iroquois in the middle of the canoe, he called out, “Charles, is that you, my friend?”

The Indian grinned and nodded. “Bonjour, monsieur. I am Charles.”

Thompson turned to the men in his own canoe. “Charles and I travelled these waters together many times when I was at Kootenay House. He’s a very good man.” Turning back, he said, “Charles, we’d consider it an honour if you’d accompany us on our voyage to the west. We have need of a good canoe man.”

That was easy, Peter thought as the man clambered into their canoe. Long black hair blew freely beside his round face, and his grin revealed one front tooth was missing. In spite of the cool air blowing across the water, Charles wore no coat, and the rolled-up sleeves on his bright red shirt revealed bulging muscles on his arms. He took the pole from Thompson and stood in the bow of the boat.

When they reached Kootenay House, Peter was glad they had been warned that it had been deserted, for when they reached the landing below the stockade the ominous silence was broken only by the raucous cries of three crows circling overhead. Without speaking Boulard leaped from the canoe and climbed the path to the fort.

Almost reluctantly the rest followed in single file. It was clear that Kootenay House had been abandoned some time ago. A family of tree swallows had established residence close to the ceiling of the men’s quarters. Peter followed Thompson as he moved from room to room in silence. When the search was completed, the mapmaker went outside to rejoin the men.

“There’s no sign of a message from Finan McDonald,” Thompson said. “We best go on to Salish House in the morning. He may have moved the trade goods there.”

Peter thought it felt good to spread his bedroll in a room with a solid roof, though there was something eerie about this empty post. Sighing deeply, he turned on his side and threw his arm over Dog, who was stretched out beside him. When he was warned by a low growl, he sighed again.

In the morning, to save on their dried meat, breakfast had to wait until Boulard and Pareil returned from a barely successful hunting effort. They carried a thin carcass of a mule deer between them. In response to the half-joking complaints from the rest of the men, Boulard blamed the late winter for the lack of fat on their contribution to breakfast. Although the meat was undeniably tough, it was quickly consumed and the canoe was packed.

Boulard had said that he had lived at this post for three years with Thompson and his family, and they had created trading posts along the river. Wondering how long their next journey would be, Peter asked, “How far away is Salish House?”

“Not far,” Thompson said. “Downstream we have to drag our canoe across a strip of land to a river nearby that will take us down to the Salish Indian Road. We’ll leave the canoe there and walk through some very fine country until we reach Clark’s Fork. I’m certain we’ll find both hunters and traders there.”

Thompson was right about the country, Peter thought. With Dog at his heels he trotted through the warm grass of a meadow dotted with patches of early spring flowers, mixtures of white and yellow. Behind were blue mountains topped with snow that sparkled in the sunlight, and ahead was a forest of deep green conifers sharing space with newly leafed aspen and birch. For the first time in months Peter was warm deep into his bones. He tried to lengthen his steps to keep up with the man striding along beside him whose name was Ignace.

The newcomer had been with a hunting party they had met when they stopped to rest on Tobacco Plains. Knowing that Ignace was another excellent canoe man, Thompson had hired him for their voyage down the Columbia River. When they reached Salish Indian Road, Ignace had been very helpful in finding a safe place to stow their canoe and the trade goods, greatly lessening the burden for each man to carry. Nevertheless, Peter was looking forward to the horses Thompson had promised to get when they reached Salish House. He felt safer on a horse somehow. Knowing this Salish Indian Road was on Native war grounds, each of the party had readied his gun and walked with it now at waist level.

Peter was gratified to see Ignace was barely taller than himself, and when the man glanced over at him and grinned, Peter wished he could speak Iroquois. Perhaps he could try sign language, though he wasn’t certain how to go about it. The only time he had seen sign language used was in the trade room at Rocky Mountain House, and he wasn’t sure what the gestures had meant. Thinking hard, Peter didn’t notice the men ahead of him had stopped suddenly. He recoiled as his foot collided with Boulard’s boot and his gun jammed the voyageur in the back.

Before Peter could apologize Boulard turned and put a hand over Peter’s mouth. “Ahead, there in the woods, someone speaks,” he whispered.

The rest of the men had dropped to their knees, guns ready. Peter and Boulard followed suit and waited in the tall grass. Hearing a rumble in Dog’s chest, Peter grasped her collar and warned her not to make a sound. Then, peering over Boulard’s shoulder, he stared at the grove of trees less than a hundred feet away.