Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 25

The journey through the mountains wasn’t as bad as Peter had expected, though the snow was often up to the bellies of the horses and his snowshoes cut into his feet. Still, there were no rain or snowstorms, and when their rations ran short, they ate less. These hardships were quickly forgotten when they reached William Henry’s snug cabin. Although he wasn’t there, his two men were overjoyed to see Thompson and his companions, for they were bored and hungry for talk. Not interested in hearing tales about their journey, Peter went outside in the fresh air to admire the surroundings.

The light snow of the night before had turned into a thin drizzle of rain, but the clouds were separating now and moving eastward. The air was heady with the scent of damp pine trees, their green tips thrusting high above the smaller gold and orange aspen and birch. With Dog following, Peter walked down to where a lusty stream poured into the shallow Athabasca River and saw a rainbow arc from one mountain to another, painting the snowcaps in iridescent colours. It was so beautiful that he felt he had to share it with Boulard. As he tried to turn and run at the same time, his foot slipped on a rock on the edge of the stream, and he fell. When his head struck, he felt it explode.

It was dark when Peter awoke. Dog was lying on her side, her back pressed against him. Absently, he patted her head, and she sighed contentedly. With his other hand he felt around him. He was on the floor of a cabin wearing a shirt that seemed to come to his knees and was covered by blankets. There was a great ache in his head. Slowly, he began to remember his fall on the rocks. Slowly, he felt his frozen memory start to thaw. Slowly, he began to recall many things.

His lips formed the words, but he made no sound.My name is Adam — Adam Barrett. He rubbed his forehead.I thought when I remembered I would be happy. Why do I have this feeling of dread? The dread mounted as images of a rolling ship forced their way into his mind, and he felt the lashing rain as men cried out in the darkness.

Beside him, Dog leaped to her feet as Peter squeezed his eyes shut and rocked from side to side, trying to blot out the vision. But he couldn’t. It came with the explosion of thunder and a flash of white lightning that hung in the night sky, illuminating the ship and his father crawling toward him on the slippery deck. He felt himself clinging to the rail and stretching his hand into the darkness that followed, but no one was there. And when next the lightning danced across the boiling sea the deck was empty.

Peter turned his face toward the rough log cabin wall. Giving himself up to the pain in his heart, he allowed the tears to come. All the while he cried, Dog whined softly and poked her nose in the back of his neck. When he couldn’t weep anymore, he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and allowed the memories to begin again.

I lived in a village in England, and I had a dog — not much like Dog, but it was white, too, and had black spots. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to recall his mother, but he couldn’t. Peter knew he had been very small when she died. But before that she had given him the puppy. He remembered the puppy growing quickly into a playful friend. Together they often crept into the forbidden woods, for the land belonged to the lord in the manor house. He set snares for rabbits and grouse to supplement the meagre fare on their dinner table.

Peter smiled a little, remembering.I was almost caught once, and would have been, if the path hadn’t been covered with ice. The groundskeeper slipped and fell, but my bare feet kept me up straight. He rubbed his burning eyes in the darkness. His father had been tall and lean and had taught school. It was a small school in a tiny village surrounded by farmland where men worked hard to make the small profits they had to share with the lord. Peter’s throat tightened as he realized that was the reason they had been on the ship. They were sailing to America where his father was to teach in another country school not far from a city called Boston.

Peter opened his eyes. It was half-light now, and someone was moving near the long table. A candle sputtered, and in its glow he spied David Thompson. The mapmaker moved closer and knelt beside Peter. “Are you having a dream, lad?”

Peter shook his head and turned away. His heart ached for his father. A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned back to see understanding in the mapmaker’s eyes.

“You remember then,” he said. When Peter nodded, he sat cross-legged on the floor and placed the candle beside him. “I hoped it wouldn’t happen in this fashion, Peter. I had planned another way.”

The words cut through Peter’s sorrow, and he sat up, leaning on his elbow the better to see Thompson. “What do you mean, ‘another way’?”

For a moment the mapmaker didn’t reply. Then, as though choosing his words carefully, he said, “At Spokane House I received letters from the east. I found one from Montreal that informed me they had news of a schooner bound for Boston that went down in a storm more than two years past. Three of the crew, still alive, were picked up by an American ship.”

Peter wet his lips and spoke past the knot in his throat. “It was the Windrover.”

“Aye, and one of the men said they had carried two passengers — a man and his son.”

“I tried to find my father, but the first mate pulled me away. He said he was gone, and I heard the mast cracking. I woke up in a boat.” Peter blinked, his heart hurting as well as his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Perhaps I erred, Peter, but I thought it best to wait until our journey’s end and try then to bring back your memory slowly. I thought first to mention the name Barrett to see if that would help you win it back, and if not, I would add the little I knew. Perhaps I was wrong. I hoped to save you from a great shock.”

Wearily, Peter said, “Thank you, sir. I think I’d like to sleep now.”

When he awoke, it was late afternoon and the cabin was empty. Even Dog had disappeared, and so had much of the pain in his head. Despite the sadness in his heart, he was hungry. He lay still, thinking. Peter would mourn his father for a very long while, but right now he must think of the days ahead. It was time to ask Thompson about the possibility of gaining employment with the North West Company at a post somewhere. He knew it couldn’t be Montreal, for only very senior company men worked there. Peter would miss the men he had spent the past year with, especially Boulard, but he had no other choice. He was a man now and must look after himself.

Ignoring a stab of pain, Peter steadied himself against the wall and rose to his feet. At the same moment the door opened, and Thompson walked in, followed by Boulard. With hurried steps they reached his side and grabbed an arm to lead him to the table. “Best be careful, lad,” the mapmaker said. “I feel certain that head of yours won’t welcome another fall.”

Boulard looked down at Peter sympathetically. “Ah, my young friend, I fear now to see you leave my sight else you do more damage to your head.”

Peter tried to grin, then swallowed hard, telling himself it was time to be bold and speak as a man. “Sir, now that we’re at the end of our journey I have a great favour to ask you.” He swallowed again. “I must find work. If you have need of a man in one of your posts, would you consider me?”

The two men glanced at each, their eyes twinkling. It was Thompson who replied. “Boulard and I have been discussing that very thing. However, we don’t think a post on the prairie is suitable for someone who’s been a voyageur.”

“You don’t?” Peter was puzzled by the mapmaker’s light tone.

Thompson chuckled. “To be serious, Peter, I should tell you that while we were at Boat Encampment both Boulard and I were impressed with the ease with which you managed to teach letters and a beginning of reading to some of our voyageurs. We’re certain you have the makings of a fine schoolmaster, and if you wish, we’ll see that you become one.”

Peter’s heart leaped. A schoolmaster! “It … it’s what my father wished for me. It’s why we left England. He thought in the New World …” He was overwhelmed and couldn’t continue.

Thompson glanced at Boulard, who grinned. “I take it he agrees. Here’s our plan. You and Boulard will go on to Montreal with the next brigade heading east. I’ll give you a letter for Mr. Fraser. He’ll help you to find a school to finish your education, and you and Boulard will live on the farm I purchased three years earlier. My family and I will join you next year.”

Peter turned his back until he thought it safe to speak. The silence was broken by Boulard. “It has a good sound, this name Adam Barrett, but for me I believe always he will be Peter.”

Scrubbing the moisture from his eyes, Peter looked up. “Then I’ll no longer be Peter No-Name. I’ll be Peter Three-Names — Peter Adam Barrett.”

David Thompson smiled his agreement. “Aye, and later to have a fourth — Peter Adam Barrett, Schoolmaster.”