Читать книгу B.J. Bayle's Historical Fiction 4-Book Bundle - B.J. Bayle - Страница 8

Boulard wasn’t joking about the long journey. It took weeks to reach Whitemud House. Most of the trip was without incident except for a violent storm as they passed along the shores of Lake Winnipeg. True to his word, Boulard pointed the nose of their canoe to the shore, and the rest of the boat brigade followed. They camped until noon the next day when the fury of the wind and rain lessened. A week later they were painfully peppered with hail when they portaged at the Narrows.

Although the days passed slowly, they were broken almost daily by encounters with huge fur-laden canoes travelling downstream to Grand Portage. At these times the vessels would turn toward shore and news would be exchanged by the voyageurs without leaving their boats. Thompson kept these intervals short, for it was plain to see he was impatient to reach Whitemud House.

Boulard was never too busy steering their craft around the rocks in the river to answer Peter’s questions about the ever-changing landscape and the wild creatures they saw. Huge flocks of geese rose in clouds when they were disturbed by the songs of the paddlers, and ducks flapped overhead as did high-flying cranes, identified only by their throaty cries. It was the long-legged antlered creatures that interested Peter most, for he was certain he had never seen them before. Once a half-dozen dog-like creatures darted from their drinking spot when the canoes appeared. Boulard called them prairie wolves.

About the time Peter began to yearn for the wretched straw bed he had slept on in the Montreal inn’s stable rather than continue to suffer the stony shoreline of the North Saskatchewan, Boulard announced they would spend that night in Whitemud House.House wasn’t exactly the term Peter would have chosen for the string of low-roofed log buildings with holes for windows. They were half surrounded by brightly decorated tents that Boulard called tipis. Small brown-faced children were shouting, followed by equally noisy dogs as they rushed to greet the canoes.

“Here is your home, but not for many days, Peter,” Boulard said with a grin.

Peter stared unseeingly at his friend as the enormity of what he had undertaken swept over him, and for a moment he wanted to be anywhere except here in this strange land. Realizing Boulard was looking at him questioningly, Peter managed a faint grin, then bent to gather his packet of paper and spare clothing. As he stepped into the shallow water along the shore of the North Saskatchewan, he fixed a smile on his face and prepared to greet the knot of adults and children rushing toward them. They ignored Boulard and him, however, in favour of the canoe containing David Thompson and his family.

The explorer wasted little time on greetings and instead beckoned to Boulard and Peter to follow him into the largest of the line of rooms that were almost filled with boxes and barrels. Peter learned later that these contained trade goods that would be purchased on credit by the Blackfoot for the coming winter.

Thompson had scarcely spoken to Peter during the lengthy expedition up the North Saskatchewan, but now he turned to him. “Boulard will see that you have all you need for the journey. These goods will be your pay for now, but if you prove your worth, you’ll receive more pay at the end.” Ignoring Peter’s stammered thanks, the explorer turned to Boulard. “We leave when our provisions arrive. While we wait, see that Peter is able to sit a horse and to handle a musket.”

Peter discovered he had no trouble mastering the tall chestnut mare he was given, even though she snorted and danced around, resenting an interruption in her feeding. The gun was a different matter, though. It took several attempts to load the thing, and a dozen more to hit Boulard’s big bandana only twenty feet away. When that was finally accomplished, Peter learned to pack a horse and put up a tent.

Once he was invited to the Thompson family’s roomy cabin to aid Charlotte in the preparation of an alphabet book so she could teach six-year-old Samuel to read. On the table was a copy of Oliver Goldsmith’s novel The Vicar of Wakefield, with a bookmark protruding from it. When he saw the book, a veil appeared in his mind’s eye, and through it he saw a lamp burning on a rough table, its glow illuminating a book beside it.

“I’ve read this book!” Peter cried. “I know I have.”

Although the vision had lasted only an instant, he was delighted. Eagerly, Charlotte began to discuss the novel’s plot, and Peter had to force himself to respond. He was much more interested in trying to imagine the lamp and the table again and perhaps the room where they stood. Charlotte’s enthusiasm for the book had diminished her natural shyness. Sensing this, Peter reluctantly let go of his vision and concentrated on her words.

“The company doesn’t wish women to be taught to read, but my husband taught me, anyway,” she said proudly. “Also Fanny and I will teach the rest of the children. David wants us to be prepared for living in Montreal.” She sighed, and her voice dropped as she added, “After he finds his great river, that is.”

Peter took his leave then and later found Boulard beside an overturned canoe that he was caulking with heated pine tar. Accustomed now to helping with tasks without being told, Peter found a flat stick and dipped it into the sticky black substance. “Boulard, if David Thompson is a partner in the North West Company, why does he have to be the one to find this Columbia River? Why couldn’t he send someone else and go to Montreal with his little girl?”

Boulard stopped applying the tar on the seams of the canoe and turned to Peter, his eyebrows raised almost to the black hair that hung on his forehead. “Send another? Peter, after all I have told you of David Thompson, you still do not understand that finding in the big mountains the beginning of this magic river and thus a route to the ocean is of the greatest importance to him. He wishes to do so for the company he serves, but more than that, he will be able to finish his map of this land. For David maps have been his life from his very first days in this country.”

When Peter wandered into the trade room, there was no doubt in his mind that Thompson was a full partner in the company when he heard him speaking to Alexander Henry, the chief trader of Whitemud House. “Charlotte is to charge whatever provisions she needs to my account, and see to it that she and her mother are well supplied with wood and water.”

Peter was startled to hear Henry’s reply. “You spoil your woman, man, and the rest of the women know it. This very morning my own wife demanded I cook the morning meal and clean the pots.”

Thompson smiled slightly. “And I suppose you burned the pots when you scorched her kippers and eggs.”

Both men burst into laughter, and Henry said, “Kippers and eggs! I’ve been in this wilderness so long that I’ve forgotten what they taste like.”

Peter frowned. Thompson’s laughter was an unfamiliar sound. He had heard some of the paddlers grumble that the mapmaker was a dry stick of a man — and too strict with his rules. And it was said the other partners in the company were annoyed that he didn’t drink spirits and refused to take alcohol across the mountains for trade with the Indians there. Lost in thought, Peter jumped when Thompson turned and called out, “There you are, Peter. I wish to speak with you. I’m pleased to hear that you’re handling your horse well, since you’ll ride with me and two of our hunters while the rest of the company takes to the canoes.”

As Peter wondered if he was expected to thank the man or be truthful and say he would prefer to go in the canoe with Boulard, Thompson solved his quandary by turning to Henry and continuing their conversation. “When last I came from across the mountains, the Peigans showed me no unfriendliness. Why do you think we might have trouble this time as we go up the river?”

Henry shrugged. “You said yourself that Finan McDonald wasn’t the man to care for business at Kootenay House, and from what I hear, you were right. He went hunting with some of the Flatheads and, not knowing their enemies now have guns, the Peigans tried to ambush them. Five of their own were killed in the battle, and they blame McDonald for two of those. It’s certain the Peigans will take exception to our people arming the Kootenays or any other of their adversaries.”

“You might,” Thompson said, “have no trouble from the Peigans when you reopen Rocky Mountain House if you make it clear you’re there to trade with them only. They have need of the goods you’ll be bringing.”

With a heavy heart Peter left the trade room to think about what he had just heard. Travelling on snow and ice and crossing mountains were enough to make anyone figure they ought not to be here, but shooting at people and having them shoot back … He shook his head and shivered.