Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 6

He had become accustomed to the taunting from the innkeeper’s two young sons. Now, ignoring their cries of “Peter No-Name,” he plunged down the path leading to the small river that rushed to join the mighty St. Lawrence. Peter filled the two wooden buckets he carried and turned to climb back up to the bluff overlooking the growing settlement of Montreal. As he laboured upward, he noticed a stocky man with a dark beard standing at the top. The man had one booted foot propped on a large rock, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, as he stared into the distance. His broad, muscular torso and heavy arms were almost out of proportion to his short legs, which told Peter the man was most likely one of the voyageurs who usually stayed at the inn at the end of a journey. The other clues were the fire-red shirt and the gaily striped yellow-and-red sash that he wore.

As Peter drew close, the voyageur flashed a friendly grin. The last section of the path was steeper, so Peter leaned one wooden bucket against the rock while he grasped the other with two hands. Swinging the heavy pail onto the boarded walkway, he turned to reach for the one by the rock and saw out of the corner of one eye the boys running toward him. Before he could react, Peter found himself tumbling backwards down the hill, drenched by the water flying out of the bucket bouncing behind him.

Pretending not to hear the laughter of the half-dozen men fishing from the river who had witnessed his fall, Peter jumped to his feet and reached for the fallen pail. He bent to the water, trying to ignore the pain where the pail had crashed into his ribs, and allowed the container to fill slowly. Stony-faced, he began to climb once more. Those who had laughed had returned to their own tasks, but above him the two youngsters were calling out, “No-Name, No-Name ain’t got no brain.”

Peter moved upward steadily, hoping the boys hadn’t noticed that the second bucket was leaning against the rock near the top of the hill. He hoped in vain, though. Wearily, he saw his tormenters dart toward the bucket. They could keep this up for hours.

Still smiling, the voyageur stepped in front of the giggling boys. He addressed them in a patois — a mixture of English and French with words from Cree, Scots, and Irish thrown in, a language Peter was beginning to understand.

“Ho, mes amis,” the man said. “I, too, am one to play games. I will join you.” With those words the voyageur lifted the heavy bucket easily and with one hand tossed its contents onto the open-mouthed boys. Then he flung the bucket to the ground at their feet and, no longer smiling, suggested they go down to the river and fill it.

Aghast, Peter watched as the frightened boys stumbled down the hill, bucket in hand. They would tell the innkeeper and he would be blamed! With two hands clutching the second bucket, Peter stepped over the crest of the hill and placed it almost at the feet of the voyageur.

Before Peter could speak, the man asked, “You are Peter?” When Peter nodded, the voyageur hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I am Boulard. Tell me,s’il vous plaÎt, though you are no thicker than a small tree, you stand much higher than those who attack you. Higher still than me, Boulard. How is it that you do not teach these fellows better manners?”

As Peter tried to wring the water out of the too small, shabby brown shirt, he said, “They’re kin to the innkeeper at Wharf’s End. I dare not trouble them lest I lose my place there.”

Boulard frowned and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Me, I have no wish to make difficulties for you.” He thought for a moment. “Together we will approach this innkeeper and I will say, ‘I, Boulard, am the bad man of this event.’”

Too late. Behind Boulard, Peter saw the rotund innkeeper trotting toward them, his scowling face red. “You, boy! The horses aren’t watered, the chickens haven’t been fed, and here you are gossiping!” Before Peter could reply, the irate man spied his sons struggling up the hill with the water bucket. The scarlet on his face quickly spread to his bald head. “And now I see my sons doing your work. That’s too much. Collect your things and get out!”

“Monsieur,” Boulard interjected, “I know you to be a man of reason. Perhaps you will allow me to explain what takes place here.”

The innkeeper’s face brightened immediately with an oily smile. “Excuse me, Monsieur Boulard, for making you a witness to this lout’s manner. He’s done nothing to reward my charity and I’ve had enough of him.”

“You will not reconsider?” Boulard asked.

The innkeeper folded his arms over his bulging stomach and set his jaw. “No, sir, I won’t.”

Boulard smiled. “Then, Monsieur Innkeeper, you are an imbecile.” Taking Peter’s arm, he marched him down the dirt road leading to the older part of the city.

Events happened fast when they reached the small house of Annette and Jacques Vallade, Boulard’s friends. While Madame Vallade constantly refilled the tin plate in front of Peter with stew, he satisfied the curiosity of his new acquaintances between mouthfuls. “I don’t recall much at all before I woke up on the ship that found me,” he told them. “They told me the other seven in the longboat were dead.”

After a brief silence, Boulard asked bluntly, “And you do not recall so much as your name?”

It was true he had no name except the one given to him by the captain of the ship that had found him half-dead in the drifting longboat. The captain and the sailors had been kind to him during the weeks it had taken to reach Montreal, each trying their best to help him regain his memory. But he couldn’t remember anything — not even how he got the wide scar on the back of his head that stretched from one ear to the other.

“The crew took seawater and christened me Peter for a first name, but they couldn’t agree on a last name.” Peter smiled as he remembered. After several days of arguing, the crew had agreed that with his freckles, his speech, and hair that resembled summer wheat, must be from England — Portsmouth perhaps or Yorkshire but certainly not London. It was the captain who had thought Peter was about fifteen when he was rescued. With a flourish the captain had written in the ship’s log: “Peter, an Englishman, born in 1794.”

With sympathy in his eyes Boulard reached over and touched Peter’s shoulder. “It is said it was a ship of the North West Company that brought you here last year. It may take much time, but it is certain the company will learn the name of the vessel you were on before you were rescued. Then perhaps the mystery will be revealed.”

Peter nodded. “That’s why I haven’t tried to find better work. I hoped travellers stopping at the inn might have word of a missing ship. It’s been eight months now.” He pushed away his plate and stood. “I thank you kindly for the food, but I best be going.”

“Non, non!” the two Vallades chorused. “You will sleep here tonight, and in the morning we will see.”

“Me, I have been thinking,” Boulard said, tapping his forehead. He turned to Peter. “You care for the horses. Can you do more?”

At first Peter wasn’t certain what was meant by the question. “I feed the chickens and pick up the eggs at the inn …” Frowning a little, Boulard shook his head, then Peter suddenly understood. “I can read and write and do sums, and I like to draw things when I can get the paper, but I guess there’s no need here for that.”

Boulard threw up his hands. “Read and write and do sums! Now I am certain we will find a place for you.”

“He is too long in his legs to be a voyageur,” Vallade said, “and his arms resemble twigs.”

With one meaty hand Boulard waved away Vallade’s words. “Certainement, but he would make a fine clerk.”

“We were told only today there are more clerks in Montreal for the North West Company than they have use for,” Vallade reminded his friend.

Boulard stroked his beard and pursed his lips. “I have more ambitious thoughts. Peter will travel with us to Rainy Lake. It is there I am to bring letters to Monsieur Thompson. If those at the post have no need for a clerk, our mapmaker will know what to do with our young friend.”

Peter was having trouble following the conversation. “Who … who’s Monsieur Thompson?”

Boulard pretended astonishment. “Is it possible you have not heard of David Thompson, the famous explorer?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then I must inform you.” With Vallade interrupting now and then, Boulard explained that he had been in Fort Churchill twenty-six years ago when a small pale-faced boy named David Thompson was brought from England by a Hudson’s Bay ship and deposited on the cold, rocky shore. Weeks later Boulard had watched as the lad stared after the departing ship until its sails were out of sight, then wiped his eyes and was never seen to cry again.

“He was, I think, even younger than you,” Boulard said to Peter, “and I only two years more than that …”

Peter’s stomach was full, and the room was warm. Feeling his head begin to nod, he straightened his shoulders and blinked, hoping no one had noticed. Apparently, no one had, for Boulard’s voice droned on.

Peter was only vaguely aware when Boulard’s voice stopped. He opened his eyes briefly as he was helped to a pallet of robes in a corner by the fireplace, but he still heard Boulard speaking to Vallade. “We must begin early in the morning. The brigade leaves at midday, and for the trip our young friend must have pantaloons and a blouse without holes.”

Vallade spoke more slowly. “Have you considered that Monsieur Thompson might feel disagreeable when he learns he must return to the mountains? He might be filled with anger and not wish to give attention to young Peter.”

At that moment Peter slid into a sound sleep and didn’t hear the reply.

The next morning passed in a blur. Permission for Peter to travel with the brigade had to be secured from the office of the North West Company, which was easily accomplished when Boulard casually mentioned David Thompson. However, it wasn’t as easy to get the company clerk to let Peter purchase on credit. When the clerk finally agreed, Boulard helped Peter buy two pairs of heavy dark blue trousers, two coarse cotton shirts, and a pair of moccasin boots.

Peter’s euphoria, which had come with the knowledge he would no longer be at the beck and call of the innkeeper or be teased by his sons, began to fade as he stood beside Boulard on the narrow wharf in front of the North West Company’s two-storied wooden warehouse. Below, on the river, bobbed eight wide canoes. They were being loaded by men who looked much like Vallade and Boulard — short in the legs but broad in the chest and heavy in the arms. All had dark beards and hair partly hidden by what to Peter seemed to be stockings. As he watched the men, Peter began to doubt the wisdom of agreeing to a journey of several days. What if word arrived in Montreal of a ship lost at sea? Would anyone remember its name or from whence it came by the time he returned? And there was something about these boats. And the water. His stomach started to churn.

As though reading his thoughts, Boulard touched Peter’s shoulder. “Me, I have left word with all houses that do business with ships. They promise to ask the questions you would ask yourself if you were in Montreal.”

Peter smiled guiltily, reminding himself to be grateful that he had found a friend like Boulard. For the first time since the sailors who had rescued him had left Montreal, someone seemed to care about what happened to him. Straightening his shoulders, Peter pointed at the North West Company sign. “Last night you said you and Mr. Thompson were with the Hudson’s Bay Company.” He had heard talk of the fighting between the two companies.

Boulard grinned. “Do you not recall I told you the Hudson’s Bay Company had agreed that Monsieur Thompson would no longer trade furs but instead find new rivers and mountains and make maps?”

Peter nodded.

“When they did not keep that promise, Monsieur Thompson packed his instruments, and we paid a visit to the North West Company. They were happy to see us, I can tell you.”

“Time!” shouted the burly, hard-faced man who was directing the loading of the canoes.

Peter followed Boulard and Vallade to the edge of the water, his eyes sweeping over the river. The wind had come up, and small waves were rocking the heavily loaded craft in front of him. Closing his eyes, he imagined hanging on to a rail as a mountain of water poured over him. With that thought he grew cold and his legs buckled slightly.

As Vallade hopped into the canoe, the steersman laughed at Peter and asked, “Why do you wait? Does your lordship fear the river?”

The steersman would have said more, but the expression on Boulard’s face silenced him. Putting a hand on Peter’s back, Boulard gently eased him forward and whispered in his ear, “Me, I have never seen the ocean,mon ami, but I know it has much power, more than this river. If we encounter a storm, though, we make for shore pretty quick, I tell you.”

The men waiting in the boats stared at Peter. He swallowed hard and reached for the hand Vallade held out to him.