Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 21

The mapmaker had no way of communicating with the few Indians they saw in the next two days, but from their gestures he thought there might be some falls and carrying places ahead. He was right, much to Peter’s relief, for it was beyond tiring to sit all day in the canoe and brush mosquitoes away from his face and off Dog’s nose. Surprisingly, she didn’t snap or growl when he did so, leaving Peter to believe the tiny bugs bothered her plenty, too.

Their canoe reached a series of low cascades studded by huge rocks that didn’t discourage the voyageurs at all.“Allez!” Charles shouted, and the canoe shot over the first drop to dip its bow into the white foam and back up again, darting and weaving between the rocks. Clutching Dog’s rope and drenched with spray, Peter laughed. He envied Charles and vowed that someday he, too, would steer through rapids.

More rapids appeared, but this time Thompson was watching for them. In spite of his men’s entreaties, the mapmaker ordered the voyageurs to pull for shore.

“Regard the small distance through which we must go,” Boulard coaxed. “It is better for these men than unloading, carrying, and loading again.”

With the cries of agreement from the rest of the paddlers, Thompson finally consented. “First, however, I’ll remove my instruments and goods.” He nodded to Peter. “I’m not an oarsman, nor are you. Get your goods and come ashore.” As an afterthought, he added, “And be sure not to leave behind the drawings you’ve made for me.”

Peter, too, had been doubtful about running the rapids ahead. Not only were there rocks, but a large island in the middle of the river narrowed it into two channels, each with huge trees leaning almost horizontally to the middle of the water.

It was one of the trees, not a rock, that caused the trouble.

With Dog at his heels Peter trailed after Thompson downstream, planting each foot carefully on the slippery rocks and crawling around the trees overhanging both water and shore. The men in the boat had to rearrange the cargo to redistribute the weight, thus Peter and Thompson had almost reached the shore at the end of the rapids where calm water flowed before the men pushed back into midstream. The rushing water was too noisy for Peter to hear the cries of the men until they were almost opposite him, but he saw that they seemed to be trying to turn the canoe. At the same moment Thompson dropped his box of instruments and pulled off his boots. Seconds later he was in the water, hanging on to the branches of a huge cedar stretched across the surface.

Peter stood transfixed, watching as the mapmaker released his grip on the tree and flung himself farther into the river, only to whirl helplessly in the cascade until his arms again struck the cedar. Thompson grasped a leafless branch and clung to it as what appeared to be a bundle of clothes floated almost out of his reach. The explorer lunged into the current once more and grabbed the coat on the body bobbing toward him, giving it a mighty tug and hauling it back to the tree. Shocked, Peter saw that the bundle was Pareil. Gasping and coughing, the two men worked their way along the trunk of the tree until they reached the shore. The canoe landed downstream a few yards, and Boulard raced up to help the two men to a warm spot on a large boulder.

While Boulard and the paddlers aided the two drenched men in stripping off their clothes, Peter left the rocks with Dog to search for twigs. He returned with a small pile to start a fire under a fat log of driftwood. “Good lad,” Thompson gasped as he struggled for breath. “We’ll camp here tonight, and by morning our trousers should be dry.”

Peter retreated to sit away from the men and savour the mapmaker’s unexpected praise. He felt uncommonly lighthearted, so much so that he had to put a hand over his mouth to hide his grin when he saw the stocky Thompson climb a hill in his long underwear and look west through his telescope.

Returning to the fire, Thompson stood with his hands outstretched to warm them and spoke the words Peter had been waiting for ever since they had started down the river. “I believe I can see Point Vancouver,” he said plainly, trying to conceal his excitement. “More than once I’ve read Captain Vancouver’s account of surveying the river this far. Tomorrow we may see the Pacific Ocean.”

Thompson was mistaken by one day. It took two days to reach Tongue Point and a view of the Pacific. The explorer seemed astonished when all the men voiced their disappointment.

“Me, I see Lake Winnipeg with waves much larger,” Vallade declared, and the rest agreed.

“Think of it, men,” Thompson said. “The country of Japan is opposite where we stand. It’s five thousand miles across that water.”

“For this we have come so far?” Pareil lamented. “I am sad.”

Thompson scowled and was about to speak when he observed the twinkle in Pareil’s eyes. “Wait until we reach the very end of this river,” he told the voyageur. “Your thoughts will change.”

They returned to the canoe, and after paddling about two miles, they spotted a cluster of four low cabins. On a short pole fluttered the American flag, with another banner below it displaying lettering they couldn’t read. Without expression Thompson said, “I believe that to be John Jacob Astor’s fur-trading post.”

Peter looked up quickly to see if Thompson was disappointed that the Americans had beaten them to the ocean, but his features showed nothing.

There were no tents, but a half-dozen men who appeared to be Indians were hauling wood, and two men emerged from one of the buildings to welcome their visitors. Peter started in surprise. He recognized the men — Duncan McDougall and David Stuart. They had been working in the office of the North West Company when he left Montreal with Boulard, and now they seemed to be employed by the Pacific Fur Company.

If Thompson bore any resentment for these men deserting his own company in favour of Astor’s, he kept it to himself. Instead he smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure for me and my companions to be here at last and to present you with this letter.”

It wasn’t sealed, and Thompson gestured for McDougall to read it. When the man finished reading, he handed the letter to Stuart, who whistled sharply as he folded the papers and returned them to Thompson.

“’Tis a surprise, for certain,” McDougall said. “We haven’t been told the North West Company was planning to buy a partnership in our company. Does this mean then you’ll be expecting to use our trade room and the like?”

Thompson chuckled. “Not at all, my friend. And it’s my understanding our company didn’t wish to purchase a full partnership. Only a share.”

Both of Astor’s men were visibly relieved, and Peter knew why. As a full partner in the North West Company, David Thompson would have reduced the presence here of McDougall and Stuart back to the status of clerks. In addition the four small cabins were undoubtedly already crowded.

“Come then,” Stuart said, beckoning to the rest of Thompson’s men. “It’s near time for supper. Let us share some of our bounty from the ocean with you. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”

This friendly atmosphere lasted for the few days the Canadian voyageurs rested at Fort Astoria, though the conversation became guarded when the subject turned to building forts and trading with the Indians. Peter was grateful that McDougall and Stuart made certain the Native woman who cooked for them served plenty of food — the best they had to offer. There was fresh salmon, deer, and things in shells from the sea. He decided he liked the last.

After they felt rested, Thompson gathered his men and announced they were going seven miles west to Cape Disappointment — the very end of the river. It was there that the men first accepted the immensity of the ocean as they watched each wave begin far out on the horizon and grow higher and higher as it rushed onward to hurl itself far up onto the shore.

Contemplating the wild collision between the river and the ocean, Thompson said, “I was told that only a few months earlier a ship called the Tonquin lost eight of its crew when they tried to row over that.”

Peter noticed Côté cross himself and was certain the man was praying they wouldn’t be expected to row in that place.

While they stared at the sea, Thompson said to no one in particular, “We’ve wet our feet in the great Pacific, but we must find our way back up this river to finish the task we set out to do.”