Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 7

Even while paddling against the strong current, the voyageurs sang and made jokes. And when the wind blew in their favour, they hoisted sails and sat back to smoke their pipes. They hadn’t travelled more than a few miles before Peter relaxed and began to enjoy himself. Sometimes the paddlers were silent and listened as intently as Peter when Boulard described the adventures he had shared with David Thompson when they journeyed over the prairies and woodlands, forever pushing north or west and building forts to trade for furs. Always Thompson made his maps of rivers, hills, and valleys.

A vision of a mist over a green hill dotted with white flowers appeared in Peter’s head and vanished so quickly that he wondered if he had imagined it. He shook his head and listened to Vallade, who was speaking now. “I also have shared a dugout with this mapmaker. He is a good man and fair, though we must listen to him read from his Bible at the end of each day.” Vallade glanced at Boulard. “I do not think Monsieur Thompson will be pleased to learn the company wants him to cross the mountains again instead of going to Montreal.”

Boulard chuckled knowingly. “David will be pleased. All the while we were at Kootenay House he had to do what is expected of a partner of the company and build more houses to trade for furs. He never had time to search for the big river — the Columbia.”

“Then how did he know it was there?” Peter asked.

“It has been spoken of many times by the men in the ships with big sails who passed the place where it smashes into the Pacific Ocean. Me, I have not seen that. Yet.”

Vallade laughed. “You have caught the fever for searching for this river of mystery from Monsieur Thompson.”

Boulard grew serious. “It is Madame Charlotte Thompson who will be unhappy about this news. And Fanny.” He tapped his pipe on the side of the boat and put it into his vest pocket. “Fanny has only nine years. Our mapmaker wishes to place her in school in Montreal. David now has a farm nearby where they would live for one year to be certain she will be happy. I, Boulard, agreed to travel ahead to arrange for this school, and this I did often by dogsled, for much of the rivers were covered with ice.” He shrugged. “But I think now David’s family will not see Montreal this year.”

Except for the clouds of black flies that often hovered over their boats, Peter found the trip exciting. They travelled north up the Ottawa River to the Mattawa River, down that river to Lake Nipissing, then a little south along the French River and into Lake Huron’s Georgian Bay and from there into the vastness of a beautiful lake called Superior. Most of the time the paddlers sang as they dipped their oars in the water. Peter marvelled at the voyageurs’ strength every time it was necessary to unload the boats and carry them and each ninety-pound pack of goods overland during one of the many portages. They never seemed to complain. Peter didn’t complain, either — not aloud. But when weeks passed with no sign of a fort or anything except a few Indian camps, he began to wonder if the post at Rainy Lake — their destination — really existed.

As they rinsed their cups and plates one cold morning, Vallade spoke his thoughts. “It is my hope that Monsieur Thompson will greet us at Grand Portage tomorrow night.”

Boulard playfully punched his companion in the chest. “It is too early for the festivities,mon ami. I am not certain he will wait for them to arrive.”

Vallade appeared disappointed. “It is now June and the ice has left the rivers. It is certain the brigades carrying the provisions are following us, and those from the north will be swiftly descending to Grand Portage with the current. Thus we will meet and celebrate.”

Boulard shook his head. “I have lost track of the days, but you forget that our small canoes that are carrying only mail for Grand Portage and goods for the Rainy Lake post are much faster than the big ones. We will arrive too soon for the celebrations.”

Vallade sighed and looked at Peter. “There is great feasting and dancing in the nights when the brigades from the north and west meet those from the east.”

Peter glanced at Boulard, who explained. “The brigades — as many as thirty perhaps — from the north and the west carry the furs our Indian friends bring to them in winter, and those from the east bring supplies and trade goods for the next winter. These arrive in Montreal on the great ships, and the great ships take back the furs across the ocean to England.”

Peter nodded, thinking that this arrangement was very sensible. He had seen heavily laden canoes arrive in Montreal and wondered from whence they came.

Shortly before the voyageurs reached their destination, they swung their eight canoes into shore. Then, with much joking and laughing, the paddlers put on red-tasseled caps and bright sashes, but Vallade didn’t get his wish. There were only a few canoes at Grand Portage when they arrived, though there was a small celebration nevertheless. Peter and his new friends were treated to a bountiful meal of potatoes, beef, and fish. He found it a welcome change from their daily fare of pork, pemmican, and maize. There was no word of David Thompson, and in the morning they were off again.

Although the post at Rainy Lake wasn’t large, the small wharf was crowded with dozens of wide birchbark canoes. “It is the flotilla from the west,” Boulard said, a broad smile lighting his eyes. “Monsieur Thompson will be with that one.”

Peter’s stomach flip-flopped. After leaving Grand Portage, Boulard had revealed his plan. “Observe, Peter. I, Boulard, have been thinking. When we encounter Monsieur Thompson, I will request you lodge with us in Rocky Mountain House for the winter where you will learn to be a company man. In the spring when we go back to the mountains to find this mysterious river, maybe you will accompany us. Though perhaps you will choose to be a clerk at the post. I, myself, will present you to David.”

Even though Peter had still found himself more than a little bewildered by the change in his life since he had met Boulard, he had nodded agreement. After all, he trusted his new friend. Besides, what choice did he have?

Now, determined to make a good impression, his heart thumping, he climbed from the rocking craft and fell face forward onto the muddy shore. He scrambled to his feet, afraid to look up for fear everyone on the landing had witnessed his clumsiness. Apparently, no one had except for the family being greeted by Boulard.

A squarely built, solemn-faced man glanced down at Peter once, then ripped open one of the letters Boulard had handed to him. Peter groaned. This must be David Thompson, with his wife and two of his children! He tried to brush off the mud clinging to his breeches, but only succeeded in rubbing it into the cloth. Worrying that he might have mud on his face, as well, he stood back and waited to be presented, but Boulard appeared to have forgotten him. He watched the explorer scan the document in his hand.

Finally, the man’s face broke into a smile, and he clapped Boulard on the shoulder. “At last, old friend, those blockheads in Parliament have realized it is time to claim the land beyond the mountains before the Americans take it for themselves. We’ll return to the Columbia district immediately — this time to find the great river to the west and, I pray, a good safe passage to the Pacific Ocean.”

He turned to his wife. “Think of it, Charlotte. You recall while at Kootenay House we learned that farther west the furs are richer and more plentiful. Our company could double in size and profit if we establish trading places along that great passage. Our ships from London could round this continent and take the furs on to China. Men who sailed with Captain Cook reported furs fetching astonishing prices in the Far East.”

“This great river,” the small woman said softly, “is the one you spoke of that Alexander Mackenzie and Simon Fraser couldn’t find?”

“True,” Thompson said, smiling at his wife. “But they didn’t have the good sextant and compass I now have. Nor, and I’m not boasting, are they my equals as surveyors. I’m convinced they were too far north, and though they did find rivers to the sea, they were impossible for use with loaded canoes.”

“And if you find this great river, then you will finish your map.” It was a statement, not a question, and her voice was full of hope.

As they talked, Peter studied the family. The boy clinging to his mother Peter surmised to be Samuel. Standing erectly was a girl who was the image of her mother. He decided this must be Fanny, who was to go to school in Montreal. She looked younger than nine. Like her mother, she was quite small. Above her softly rounded cheekbones her eyes, too, were set wide apart and were the colour of russet autumn leaves, while the skin on her arms was lighter than her mother’s. Peter recalled Vallade saying that Madame Thompson had a Cree mother, but that her father was a Scottish partner in the North West Company who had sailed back to England, leaving his family behind. That would make Charlotte Thompson half-Scottish and half-Cree, and her daughter a combination of both mixed with the Welsh ancestry of David Thompson.

Peter smiled when it crossed his mind that Fanny was fortunate to look more like her mother than her father whose cleanly shaven jaw was square and heavy, making him appear quite stern. Below the explorer’s dark hair, which hung to his bushy eyebrows, were piercing blue eyes.

When Charlotte murmured Fanny’s name in a question, he couldn’t hear everything she said, but he saw the light go out of Thompson’s eyes. The explorer hesitated a moment, then gestured toward a family stepping into one of the canoes pointed to the east. A tall man dressed in buckskins got in first, then helped in an Indian woman with two children who clutched her bright red cotton skirt. They were followed by a tall boy.

“Mr. McCalfie,” Thompson said, “and his family travel east with the brigade. They’ll put their son in school as we mean to do with Fanny. I know him to be a good man — honest and responsible. I’ll ask that he look after Fanny until they reach Montreal. There our friend Alex Fraser and his good wife will see to her needs.”

Charlotte nodded, then straightened her shoulders as she turned to Fanny. Peter felt a lump in his throat as mother and daughter talked quietly hand in hand while the afternoon sunlight painted their skin golden. He slipped carefully back to the canoe and reached inside for the bag holding his goods. Inside was a roll of precious paper and his charcoal sticks. He returned to the dock and, careful to keep himself screened by the clerks and voyageurs counting and packing bales into the boats, he started to sketch.

Boulard and the explorer returned from their discussion with McCalfie, and the last bit of cargo was carefully placed in a canoe. The paddlers lifted their oars and began to sing. Peter was oddly comforted when he saw Fanny being held closely in the arms of plump Mrs. McCalfie. When the last canoe disappeared from sight, Boulard motioned for Peter to wait when he followed Thompson into the log building.

An elderly Cree woman stood near Charlotte holding an infant and shushing a toddler while Fanny’s mother stared at the river. These two children, Boulard had told Peter, were John and Emma, Thompson’s other offspring. Taking a deep breath, Peter approached the group. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’d be obliged if you’d accept this.” He held out the sketch he had made of Fanny.

Charlotte looked at him blankly, then peered at the drawing. With a gasp she snatched the paper and studied the face of her daughter. Glancing up at Peter, then back at the picture, she sobbed once and stepped forward to hug him.

Not knowing what to do, Peter put his arms around her awkwardly and let her cry. Over her shoulder he saw Thompson striding toward them, his face darkened by a scowl.

Peter released his hold on the explorer’s wife, but before he could explain his arm was grasped roughly and Thompson growled, “What is this? What …”

Smiling through her tears, Charlotte said, “David, look. Look at the gift this young man gave me.” As she spoke, she thrust the drawing in front of her husband’s eyes. “It’s a picture.”

“Picture?” Thompson barked. “A picture of what?”

“Of our Fan. Look.”

Releasing Peter, Thompson took the paper and stared at it for a long moment before he handed it to Boulard. “You have proved me wrong, my friend. This young man may be useful, after all. It would save me much time if he could draw the plants and animals in my journals, thus freeing me of the task of describing them in detail.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes twinkled when he added, “Perhaps it’s just as well that my wife will stay east of the mountains.”

“David, no!” Charlotte protested.

Her husband nodded. “It must be so. There will be little time to rest on this journey over the mountains. Also, you’re with child again. It will be better for you, Samuel, Emma, John, and the new baby to rest with your brother and mother at Whitemud House.”

When Thompson led his family into the trade room, Peter turned to Boulard and tried to thank him for his help. The voyageur’s eyes were troubled. “There is much I did not know, Peter. I thought to have you aid Monsieur Thompson in his making of maps in a warm cabin in the long days of winter, which will arrive soon enough. Today I learn he does not wish to wait for next spring to cross the mountains.”

Peter was silent and confused. Finally, he asked, “What does that mean, Boulard? Am I to return to Montreal now?”

Boulard shrugged. “If that is your wish. There will be other brigades with cargo to bring to the east in which I can arrange for you to travel. I have no fear the chief trader here will find work for you to do while you wait.”

Peter’s heartbeat quickened as he pondered his dilemma. He would be alone again — no friends, no family. If he continued with Boulard and Thompson, he wouldn’t be alone, but he would be far from Montreal when the name of the ship that had sunk and from whence it had come was discovered. Still, he shook his head and whispered, “I don’t want to go back.”

Boulard grinned hugely and clapped Peter on the shoulder. Taking a large red kerchief from his pocket, he dusted a corner of the wharf before seating himself, then motioned for Peter to sit beside him. “Before you are certain of your decision, you must be told of the dangers and hardships of the journey.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Vallade said the Peigans are Indians who live far to the west in the foothills of the great mountains and that they’re fierce warriors and collectors of horses.”

“That is true. It is my opinion that they often try to collect the horse even while one is seated on it.”

“Then there’s danger from the Peigans?”

Boulard shook his head. “Not so much all Peigans, though we are careful not to offend them. With Monsieur Thompson I once wintered with them. We are friends with the paramount chief, who is much respected by his people. It is not so with the war chief, who is now unhappy with us. He learns we take guns over the mountains, so their rivals the Kootenays can hunt and defend themselves.”

Hesitantly, Peter asked, “Will we see this war chief?”

Boulard shrugged. “Perhaps. We load up at Rocky Mountain House as always. We paddle fifty miles upriver to Howse Pass through the mountains where the North Saskatchewan River begins. Many Peigans trade with us at Rocky Mountain House, and they camp not far from this river. They know when traders go to the mountains, but until now they have not tried to stop us before we reach the pass. This has been true for three years. Praise God it will always be so.”

Peter’s throat was dry, and his voice squeaked as he said, “You told me I must be able to fire a musket, but I don’t think I ever have.”

“Yes, you must learn much. It will not be as I thought. You will not have many months to learn our ways. I do not agree with my friend David when he chooses to begin our journey as soon as we are prepared. It is possible we will cross the big mountains when they are covered with snow and ice.” He peered into Peter’s eyes. “You have not felt cold such as we will experience, nor venture on trails so formidable. I will see that you are dressed as we ourselves will be, but still you will find your hands and feet so cold they will be without feeling.”

Peter closed his eyes as a flash of memory shot into his head and he felt himself running down an icy path while his feet burned with the cold. The image disappeared quickly, but he kept his eyes shut, hoping more would appear. However, there was nothing. Biting his lip, he opened his eyes and darted a glance at Boulard.

“Do you recall something,mon ami?” the voyageur asked.

Peter stood and squared his shoulders. “No, but I’m not giving up on remembering how I got here. It won’t matter where I am when that happens. I feel grateful that you and Mr. Thompson are willing to take me with you.”

“Bien,” Boulard said, rising to his feet. “Now we will inform Monsieur Thompson and prepare for the long trip up these waters.”