Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 23

It must have been a full half-hour before the Indians began to move back up the slope behind them and the muskets could be lowered. There was a bit of shaky laughter as each man hastened to slap the bugs on his face and hands.

Almost immediately, Thompson and his voyageurs disappeared to help the men of Fort Astoria. For Peter the wilderness around them had become too quiet, and he wished now he had been one of those chosen to help. Perhaps the Natives hadn’t left and would attack the men as they dragged the dugouts.

As the minutes passed, Boulard, too, became anxious, and to Peter’s horror, he said, “It is safe here. I will go only a small way to look over the rocks to find our friends.”

Peter nodded, heart in his throat, and then grinned in relief when a dugout appeared, followed by another and another, each dragged by eight men. When all were safe on the rock ledge, Stuart dropped down to sit at its edge and pull off his boots and socks. Dangling his feet in the water, he spoke glumly. “We hid the last boat as best we could, and I say to the devil with it. There’s naught in it worth risking a life to save.”

As Peter expected, the mapmaker didn’t agree. “No matter a man’s colour, he should not profit by evil and treachery.”

The next morning, when Peter awoke to the sound of an axe splitting wood, he was told that Thompson and Stuart had taken seven of the men down the river to retrieve the boat left behind.

“Me, I believe they are troubled in the head,” Boulard said as he stirred the fire. “But David, he would leave nothing behind for those who do wrong.”

As the sun brightened the hills, the dugout and the men appeared. After a quick breakfast of boiled salmon, they were on their way. For Peter it wasn’t soon enough.

Two very small canoes, each paddled by two young warriors, began to follow less than an hour after the brigade pushed out into the river. They called out words Peter didn’t understand and were answered by a chorus of voices coming from the trees ahead at the edge of the water. The river was almost a thousand yards wide now, but the current running against them was strongest in the middle, making it necessary at times to paddle uncomfortably close to the shore.

“No need for concern,” Thompson told his men. “I recall we have five miles or more of flooded meadowland along this river. Those in the woods can’t attack us from beyond the floods. The arrows wouldn’t reach us.”

“And those behind,” Pareil added with a chuckle, “the current would push them back if they lifted their paddles to favour us with an arrow in the back.”

So they were safe for now, Peter thought, but what if the Indians followed them to where the meadows weren’t flooded? He had scarcely finished thinking about that possibility when he saw a stand of pines on a slim spit of high land stretching far out into the river. From that bit of dry land and from the canoes following the brigade, voices called back and forth almost without stopping as the brigade drew near. About a hundred yards from that place of easy ambush, Thompson called out an order. With the paddlers pulling hard against the current that was now broadsiding them, the five boats made an abrupt turn and angled for the opposite shore. Cries of rage and disappointment from the shore floated after them, inspiring large amounts of hilarity among Peter’s companions.

Two days later, after an almost sleepless night of swatting mosquitoes and tiny flies, Peter could only grin wearily when they reached a village of friendly Shawpatin Indians. It was here that Stuart decided he would wait for the overland brigade he was supposed to meet. “I believe I’ll arrange a trade for lighter boats,” he said.

“Of course,” Thompson agreed. “I’m certain your overland people will have no trouble finding you here.”

Peter hid his grin, knowing the mapmaker was aware Stuart wanted the Nor’Westers to get ahead so he could go on to the place where he was to build a trading post. Judging by Stuart’s red face, he, too, knew Thompson hadn’t been fooled. Nevertheless, the two men shook hands, and there were shouts of “Au revoir” until they were out of sight.

Peter’s spirits were high as the men paddled easily up the sand-bottomed side of the fast-flowing river. “We’re going home,” he whispered in Dog’s ear. Tentatively, he put his hand on her head and was rewarded with a rumble deep in her throat. With a sigh Peter put his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands and peered down at the dog. She glanced up at him once, then looked away.

Behind Peter, Boulard said, “Perhaps it is only that she wishes to take part in your conversation and with that sound gives you the answer.”

With gratitude in his eyes, Peter turned and gazed at the smiling man. Boulard always knew what to say to make him feel better. He liked the big voyageur better than anyone he knew. And Dog, of course. It was good to have two friends. He leaned sideways in the canoe and let his hand trail in the water as he studied the high walls of the canyons. They took shape, each different from the other as the canoe passed. Some were tall, rounded cones of basalt, gleaming in the sun, and others were jagged rocks with fine, knifelike edges that threatened them as they approached. The sun was warm, and there was plenty to eat. Each of the four villages where they stopped had supplied them with salmon, which though small were very tasty. But he looked forward to arriving at the Snake River where they would change their mode of travel. Thompson wanted to leave the river for a time and go to Spokane House where he hoped to find Finan McDonald.

It took three days to travel up the Snake to its confluence with the smaller Palouse River. Camped beside it was a large Nez Perce village. Thompson immediately smoked with the headmen and gave them news from the other villages that they were always eager to hear. He did this without an interpreter, since he understood and spoke their language, something the Natives seemed to appreciate very much. Thompson spoke of the huge ocean and the condition of the Indians far south. Judging by his voice and gestures, Peter thought the mapmaker must have given an exciting account of the conflict with the hostile Natives they had encountered, for the listening men reacted with horrified expressions.

When Thompson had no more news to report, he told the village elders they had come by canoe more than three hundred miles and must go another four hundred to Kettle Falls. From there he would again travel by canoe to reach the place where he would find the boats loaded with goods for them and the villages below. Then he asked if they had horses they could sell so that he and his men could be on their way.

The headmen informed Thompson that they could spare one horse for each man and one for carrying, but they didn’t wish payment. The horses were a present.

After two days of steady riding, they arrived at Spokane House — built close to the Little Spokane River — and were greeted by Finan McDonald. Thompson looked around the long log-built trade room and nodded his approval. Bundles of furs were stacked neatly against the wall, and the rough wooden floor was swept clean. Peter decided they had been expected.

“So it’s back you are,” McDonald said.

“It would appear,” Thompson said dryly. “I see the brigade from east of the mountains isn’t here. Have you any word of them at all?”

“William Henry sent word from Athabasca Pass with an Iroquois messenger to ask if any had heard from you,” McDonald replied. “But he said nothing about a brigade.” He handed Thompson a small stack of mail and invited him and his men to supper.

Thompson accepted the mail without opening it and responded to the invitation by saying, “If you’ve women here to wash our clothes whilst we have a bath in the river, we would appreciate that, as well.”

With Dog by his side Peter found a deep pool guarded by large rocks and leaped into the water. It was cool and soothing, instantly washing away the gritty sand from his hot skin. Most of the ride had been across a treeless plain with a high wind blowing the dust and sand into eyes, nose, and mouth. Now, while Dog paddled back and forth in the quiet pool, Peter allowed himself to hang in it, barely treading water. He closed his eyes and wondered how and where he had learned to swim. Then, suddenly, he realized that for many weeks he hadn’t had one of the disturbing visions that had left him too quickly to see them clearly. Nor had he even thought about his memory loss. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was because he had some memories now — ones made on this journey. And he also had friends. Although these were comforting thoughts, Peter knew they weren’t enough.

His eyes flew open when a large rock hit the water by his side. Boulard sat on the river’s grassy bank. “You are not a fish,” he said. “The ragout is prepared, and if you wish to dine, you must put on trousers. If you attend as you are, you will disgrace us.”

In reply Peter splashed water on Boulard. Then he whistled for Dog and climbed out of the water. As he reached for his shirt to dry himself, he asked, “How soon will we leave here?”

Boulard turned his hands palm up and shrugged. “I think maybe soon, maybe not. Once more we must first make our way on the horse to Kettle Falls.Mon ami, you understand it is important for David to be certain of the place where this Columbia River begins. How else will he know if his maps are true?”

“It’s also important that we get through the mountains as soon as we can,” Peter insisted.

Boulard cocked his head doubtfully. “There may be difficulties. David has said if no one has been sent to take his place, he must himself make certain the goods in the brigade are sent to the people down the big river.”

Peter frowned. “What brigade?”

“Do you not recall from Boat Encampment that David made the message on a piece of bark for our men to take to William Henry who was to send it on to the east? In this message David requests much trade goods to be brought to Kettle Falls for all the Columbia District.”

“Trade goods …” Peter said thoughtfully. “Does that mean we’ll have to go down the river again?”

Boulard’s reply was a shrug, and he turned away as he heard Vallade calling his name. Left alone, Peter felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. But after giving the matter some thought, he reminded himself that there was nothing waiting for him east of the mountains, and at least here, with the brigade, he was with friends.

They arrived at Kettle Falls in the last days of August after riding through a lush green countryside with forests and narrow brooks of swiftly running, sparkling water. There were almost fifty tents lined up above the falls, mostly Okanagans and members of the Spokane tribe. All were friendly and outdid themselves in singing and dancing for Thompson and his men. These were good people, Peter thought, as bowl after bowl of food was offered to him.

The next day, when the search for wood for the canoe began, the women and children joined in the hunt. As usual it was impossible to find good birch, and they had to settle for cedar found upriver. In two weeks the canoe was built and they were ready to leave.

Thompson, however, ignored the complaints from his crew and insisted they wait. “I’ve sent Finan McDonald up the river to see if the men from the east have lost their way,” he explained.

McDonald arrived a few days later, weary and discouraged. He reported he had travelled two hundred miles without sighting the brigade. Thompson listened, his expression grim. To Boulard he said, “William Henry would have pointed the way through the pass, and in my letter to him I outlined a course to follow to Kettle Falls once that was accomplished.” He stood silently, biting his lip, then continued. “If I erred in my judgment that the Columbia River flows west from Boat Encampment, they would miss us here. If that’s true, they may be some time finding their way to one of our trading houses.”

Boulard pulled on his beard thoughtfully. “Then,mon ami, it is my belief to relieve this concern we must ourselves ascend this river to learn if it will lead us to Boat Encampment. If it is not on this river, it will be on another, and we may find someone who has observed our brigade.”

It was tireless Pareil who sat behind Peter in the canoe this time, but even he could be heard muttering, “One believes after finding where this miserable river meets the ocean that we have finished our task but, no, we must also advance to the beginning. Instead of returning to our loved ones, we must now search for a brigade that may not even yet be west of the mountains.”

Later, when the first flakes of snow fell on their heads, Pareil spoke into Peter’s ear. “At the beginning of this great journey we thought to be east of the mountains in August, and already it is September.”

Peter nodded but didn’t reply. He was sure the men wouldn’t want to go down another river looking for the brigade after they reached the top of this one, and he wondered what Thompson would do if they refused.

The river was as difficult to ascend as Boulard had warned it would be. Hunched against sleet or sweating under a burning sun, the men laboured twelve hours a day, every day. Even when the wind was behind and they could put up sail, the paddlers strained to keep the canoe moving against the strong current. Each night they camped at about six o’clock, and while Thompson took his usual sightings of the horizon, a few of the men went hunting. And the hunting was good. There were flocks of geese picking in the grass in the meadows, and ducks swam back and forth on every backwater of the river. Peter set his traps, and more often than not there was rabbit for breakfast. Even though they carried no flour or fat, hunger wasn’t a problem.

On the twelfth day of travel Peter found himself nauseated, and his head ached, but he said nothing. By the time they camped for the night, Peter’s condition became obvious to all when he stumbled ashore and threw up everything he had eaten that day. “Best have some tea,” Thompson suggested, then picked up his box of instruments and walked up a barren hill close to the river.

“Don’t want anything,” Peter mumbled, reaching into the canoe for his bedroll. There was no grass near their campsite, only sand and small stones, but though he felt better now, he was too tired to care. Spreading his blankets on the ground, he stretched out and closed his eyes.

Peter dozed, waking once when Dog whined and poked him in the ear with her nose. He waved her away and went to sleep again until dusk and light from the flames of the campfire danced across his face. He felt much better, hungry even. He stirred, and as he leaned on one elbow preparing to sit up, he stiffened with fear. Not two feet from his face a long, very black snake was coiled.

“Don’t move, Peter,” Boulard’s voice called out softly. “Don’t move, and you will be —”

Peter felt a rush of air and hair brush his face as Dog hurtled by. He leaped to his feet, peered into the dusk, and saw Thompson and Côté hammer the hapless snake with the butts of their muskets. Dog stood near the men, her head hanging down. Peter tried to run to her, but Boulard held him back. “Wait, Peter, she received a bite, I think, and it is possible the tooth remains that will poison you if you touch it.”

Pushing Boulard aside, Peter knelt by his dog. She fell to her knees and then onto her side. It was Thompson who crouched beside him, and as Dog lay with her eyes closed, he carefully examined her legs and stomach. Lifting her front foot, he pointed to a tiny drop of blood. Peter stared at it in horror. “Can’t you do something? Can’t you take out the poison?”

Thompson got to his feet and took his kerchief from his neck. “Even if she were my own child, Peter, I could do little except to tie off the foot above the bite and try to squeeze out the poison. That we’ll do, and we must make certain she remains quiet. Perhaps the snake has struck something else recently and had little poison for your friend. We must wait.”

Taking his knife from his belt, Thompson nodded to Boulard, who secured Dog’s head firmly under his arm and ordered Peter to hold her legs. Dog struggled weakly when the mapmaker’s knife sliced a small cross over the snakebite, but she didn’t cry out.

“Come, Peter,” Boulard said when the task was finished. “We will shake out your bedroll.

Peter followed numbly. It was his fault that Dog was dying. He had been warned not to put his bedroll down until after dark, for by then the snakes would have found a place to sleep for the night and wouldn’t emerge until morning after the dew had dried. When he returned to Dog’s side, he saw Charles on his knees patting a handful of black mud on her leg. “What …?” Peter began when Charles looked up.

“Mud good for bite,” the Iroquois said.

Peter nodded and tried to smile. He was grateful that Charles was trying to help, but somehow he was certain mud wouldn’t do any good.

The voices around the campfire were low that night while Peter sat up on his bedroll with Dog beside him. One by one the men retired to their own beds, and when Peter’s head began to nod, Boulard put another piece of wood on the dimming fire. “Sleep now,mon ami. Tomorrow will arrive soon.”

Peter slid down beside Dog to stare at the sky. There had to be animals up there, he reasoned, then wondered if Dog would recognize him when they next met. He dozed and awoke each time Dog quivered beside him. Near dawn she cried out and her feet thrashed frantically. Peter sat up quickly and gathered her into his arms. She stiffened, then relaxed with a whine deep in her throat. Sobbing into her fur, Peter gently stroked her back and her sides. She stirred then and lifted her head to lick his face once before her head dropped.

Unable to bear the pain he felt, Peter squeezed his eyes shut and rocked back and forth, holding his friend. It was then that the misty vision appeared again. This time he saw himself on a boat slowly sailing from a green shore. People were waving, and nearby a dog sat watching him. It was smaller than Dog and didn’t have long hair, though it was black and white. He tried to cry out, and the vision disappeared.

Peter was hardly aware that someone had crept to his side and wrapped his arms around him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Thompson.

“She died,” Peter croaked, “and it’s my fault.”

Thompson released him and lifted Dog’s head. He frowned, then put his hand on her side. “Not yet, Peter. I feel her heartbeat. She is but asleep.”

During the night, both Côté and Pareil were overcome with the same sickness Peter had experienced, and though they were better in the morning, they were too weak to go on. Thompson announced he would leave supplies with the two men, and the rest would continue the journey. His face wore a glum expression as he sat cross-legged by the fire. “We’re now on the same longitude as the North Saskatchewan. If we don’t come to Boat Encampment within two days more, I’ll have failed.”

“Failed?” Vallade echoed.

“Of course,” Boulard said. “You recall David has said he would know where the Columbia River begins when we once again see Boat Encampment.”

Vallade nodded doubtfully.

Remembering how kind Thompson had been the night before, Peter prayed that he would be allowed to stay behind and care for Dog as well as the two men. As if reading his mind, Thompson glanced at Peter. “We’re short two men now. You’re needed to help with the paddling.”