Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘I am sorry for thy loss, friend.’ We were silent for a little. Then I said, ‘Thee has not told me how thee and Rachel were married before the priest.’

  ‘Ah. There was a little difficulty about that. There's no priest at Mackinac. There used to be, but after the British took over, the church was misused, and the old priest's house is become a brothel. But I did my best, brother Mark, I did my best. I went to Madame La Framboise – a woman famous on Mackinac for her piety – though mind you . . . but that's another story. La Framboise took a fancy to Rachel, and she'd heard from the Indians that Father Richard was back at L'Arbre Croche for the winter – that's an Ottawa village across the Straits of Mackinac. The good Father travels among the tribes; sometimes people have to wait years for him to turn up again, but we were lucky. I'm not a Catholic, you understand, but out here you take what you can get. When the Straits froze over there was a party of Indians going back, so we went with them. Sure enough we found Father Richard at the village, and he married us the same day.’

  ‘I see.’ Rachel had run away in September. It shouldn't matter to me, who in any case recognised no priestly authority, but I couldn't help asking, ‘In what month do the Straits freeze over?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alan, a little too carelessly. ‘About December, usually. But you want to hear the rest of the story:

  ‘In May I needed to go into the Michigan Territory before the hivernants left their posts for Mackinac. Rachel was better in body by then, but I knew in her mind there were things which weren't right. I was scared. She said she couldn't stay at Mackinac. She said . . .’ For the first time in his narrative Alan paused to look for my reaction. Up until then he was like a man speaking to himself, while I kept silent. ‘She said if I left her she'd kill herself.’

  ‘That was wrong in her.’

  ‘According to the rules of your Society? I can well believe it. I didn't think her wrong, but I was very troubled. She wasn't like herself. Sometimes I forgot all the joy that had been there when we were married, and sometimes I remembered it and wondered if there was anything in the world I might do that would bring it back. Perhaps I made the wrong decision. It made things worse, certainly. It must be comforting to be a Quaker, and be so sure what is right and what is wrong.’

  ‘Thee maligns me, friend. I'm often not sure at all.’

  ‘You seemed sure enough just now. Anyway, it's the custom to take one's woman when one travels. Only never a white woman: that's unheard of. I didn't know what to do, but I knew adventure came more naturally to Rachel than sewing seams at home with nothing to do but wait. If she'd been that sort of girl she'd never have married me. So the long and the short of it was, I got the right clothes for her, and I took her with me. I knew she wouldn't be much use at first. The Indian women know all that's necessary, and she knew nothing at all. But I thought learning might bring her back to herself a little.

  ‘It was a risk, but sometimes I thought it would work. The voyageurs liked her; if they hadn't we'd have been doomed from the start. They admired her pluck, and they liked her direct way of talking to them. Everything was new to her, but she watched what the men did, and was very quick to learn. She didn't mind if they laughed at her. She'd turn her hand to any work they'd let her do – when she felt well. It was lucky she was a working farmer's daughter and not delicately bred – saving your presence, Mark, but it's the truth. A woman's no use out there if she can't catch a fish or skin a rabbit. Of course she couldn't gather food as the Indian women do, and she was far more inclined to argue. Not that I minded that. But there were times she'd withdraw into herself – just sit and stare at nothing at all. On the water there was nothing she could do. When we reached the posts I had work to do, so I couldn't think about Rachel too much, but as the summer wore on I couldn't help noticing how silent she was, and how unhappy. She never mentioned the baby, but I knew . . . I had reason to know . . . she hadn't got over it, not at all.

  ‘On the way back we were dérangé – forced ashore by a gale. We were lucky: we were caught in open water, but we managed to make the Manitou Islands. And so we came to South Manitou.’

  The silence grew around us. I sensed peace in it, and so I let it be.

  Alan cleared his throat. ‘This is the part you want to know about in some detail, isn't it? Do you think I didn't search? I went to just about every Indian village on the Michigan coast, right down to Black River. I asked, and I searched, and I sent the word out, and there was nothing. Nothing, anywhere. There are things I can't know; they don't tell us. I've been working among them these seven years. I know how little I know. Sometimes you think you know, and then you come up against . . . it's a blank wall. What you propose to do – what do you know about it? It's hopeless, I tell you, hopeless.’

  I waited for him to go on.

  ‘This is the part you wish to know. We camped on South Manitou Island. We had three canoes, a score of men, and all our furs to bring back to Mackinac. It turned out we were lucky trade had been so poor: if the canoes had been fully loaded . . . As for Rachel – I'd got more and more worried about her . . . Men can live in two worlds at once, and move from one to the other quite easily. They'll have two families, even, in different worlds, and not find it hard. She didn't think of it like that. She was always trying to make connections, judge everything by the same standards. Maybe in the end it broke her heart.

  ‘Oddly enough, to begin with I loved her capacity for silence. At times she'd be very animated, and I liked her to talk to me. But I'd never thought before that a white woman . . . it was restful that she could be around, for hours maybe, and no word said nor any need of one. In my experience, with women of our race there's always talk. I never thought her silence would grow to scare me. And yet she tried very hard to learn Ojibwa, and that helped too. She listened well, I thought at the time.

  ‘I was busy, though. I hadn't had time . . . I thought it was the heat that made her ill. It was a summer like you've never seen in England: hot and humid, day after day, the air so heavy but never a storm came near us. The corn shrivelled in the husk; the springs were dirty; the earth in the camp was baked solid: it burned your bare feet if you trod on it. When it got so hot, she just huddled in the shade of the wilting trees and stared at nothing at all. When it was time to pack up she seemed distracted, almost confused at times. She hardly said a word as we went downriver. She was happier when we were on the open lake. She said she could breathe better. Of course she didn't know . . . no voyageur likes open water.

  ‘It's an exposed coast, and in summer there's usually an onshore breeze driving you on to the shoals if you're not careful. We camped one night by a lagoon, and set out as usual just before dawn. The lake was almost flat calm – it's never quite flat when you're out on it. I swear it breathes – you can always see the rise and fall if you look for it – like an animal asleep. We kept as close to shore as we could. It was hot.

  ‘The weather changed – you get these storms out of nowhere. In less than twenty minutes the waves were four, five feet high. I suppose you're used to the sea? So was I, once. You won't understand the lake. You don't get the long swells you get at sea. Just short waves, high and choppy. A big canoe can get caught on the crest of two of those, and break in half. Just like that. I've seen it happen. The wind was offshore – that's unusual. There was thunder behind us, and then the rain came down like water out of a bucket. The lightning was right on top of it. You can't hold a canoe broadside on to wind and waves. Like it or not, we were being driven out into the lake – even if we could have made the mainland shore the canoes would've been smashed to pieces. But there were the Manitou Islands . . . We signalled to the others – it was already too loud to shout – and changed course. Things eased right away, of course, but it would stop your heart to look back at the following waves. And she was the only one who could look back. The rest of us – me too – were paddling for our lives.

  ‘It was a miracle we raised South Manitou. Visibility wasn't more than half a mile, if
that. But we did – we headed for the bay. A canot du maître isn't meant for open water. We had to get round the headland and into the bay. It nearly finished us. But then we were pretty much blown onshore. It didn't do the canoes any good. We'd done mighty well, for all that, for none had foundered and we were still together, and on dry land.’

  Alan heaved a great sigh. ‘I suppose you want me to tell you about the island? The usual camping place is a long beach facing east. Imagine it shaped like a crescent moon – we beached at the top, where we'd be sheltered from the wind. Traders sometimes use the place. The island isn't all that big – maybe a mile across each way – it's all forest, beech and birch and hemlock, and a cedar swamp on the south side. There're no paths, just the dead wood lying, and where the sun gets to the edge of the forest there's the worst poison ivy you've ever seen. It's waist high in places – leaves as big as your hand. You can't go through. The only paths are in the south, where the Indians have a summer village. The voyageurs just use the beach; they don't go inland. We were the only trading folk there.

  ‘There are sandy beaches all round where a canoe could land, even to the west, but there's nowhere to camp that side – too exposed – just high dunes that you'd have to climb atop of to get wood or shelter. No one would camp there, but in fair weather they could land. The only height of land is the dunes. You can't see out from anywhere else – don't I know it! Anything or anyone could hide out in the forest, if they could get past the poison ivy and the flies. If someone knew how to fish and trap he'd manage in the summer. In winter he'd starve, no two ways about it.

  ‘We set up camp and waited for the wind to die down. We had to repair the canoes – it'd been a rough landing. Our crew caught some pike in a little lake and there was a fight about dividing it – nothing that mattered. Rachel got up and walked away along the beach. When she didn't turn back I ran after her. I grabbed her by the arm and I asked her – yes, to be honest I did say – where the devil was she off to? She said she was just going for a walk; she had to get away for a bit. I said no, it was getting dark. We didn't know the place. She pulled her arm away and said, ‘We're on an island. I'll be quite safe.’ I made her promise – give her word I mean – that she'd turn back in a minute. She said she'd do that, but she insisted on going, just for a little while. I let her. I said, “Don't be long.” That was the last I saw of her. In the twilight her dress was the same colour as the forest; if she'd left the beach I wouldn't have been able to see her anyway.’

  He stopped abruptly. His face was turned away from me, still looking at the window. I heard him catch his breath, and I realised there was more grief in him than I'd guessed. I said nothing. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and cleared his throat.

  ‘She didn't come back. I walked up and down the beach. The forest was just a curtain of dark. I kept the fire burning. I tended it all night while the men slept: we were all worn out, remember. There was no point trying to go after her in the dark.’ I heard him take a breath. ‘All nights pass in the end.’

  ‘We searched the island for the best part of a week. I questioned the Indians. Loic was sure they weren't hiding anything. We took a canoe right round the island. We had no more supplies. I had to get the furs back to Mackinac. The men wanted to get home. We left.

  ‘I did what I had to do at Mackinac, and got leave to go back. Loic and I took his Indian canoe, and we came back along the Michigan coast, just the two of us. Have you any idea how large this land is, brother Mark? It was the inshore villages we wanted – bays and rivers – not the open lake. It was like searching for a needle in a bottle of hay. To be honest I knew the result before we started, and I was right: nothing. We found nothing. There was no trace of her, dead or living.’

  This time I broke the silence myself. ‘What does thee think happened, Alan?’

  He gave a despairing kind of shrug. ‘How do I know? Maybe she went into the lake. Maybe she did it on purpose, maybe not. The water's deep round the islands. The currents are strong. Maybe she stayed on the island. I don't think so. She had a knife; that was all. Where could she have gone? If there were a canoe, it could only be Indians or voyageurs. Voyageurs would have come to the usual beach. Besides, they'd never steal a woman. They wouldn't want her in their canoe, and then where would they take her? No, it wasn't voyageurs. It wasn't Yankees either; if there'd been an American boat around we'd have heard about it. No, if she was taken, it has to have been by Indians. But news travels fast among the villages, and I had Loic with me, who would hear it all.’

  Alan looked directly in my face at last. ‘Do you understand what I'm telling you, Mark Greenhow? Do you understand why all hope seemed gone? I realise you think I owe it to you . . . You could hardly have picked a worse time. What is it that you want us to do?’

  1 This incident, and Ermatinger's generous response, caused much stir at the time; there were those that thought the black fellow should have been returned to his owner without more ado. Others said he would have done better to go straight to the Indians, as other fugitives had done. Nowadays, Alan tells me, there is a regular exodus of former slaves from the United States into Upper Canada. I replied to his letter saying I'd heard the subject discussed at London Yearly Meeting, and that Friends were united in offering wholehearted support to the liberated policies of Upper Canada, though we understood that even now complete security of residence was not guaranteed to all citizens, whatever their race, and whatever oppressions they might have fled. Even as I write, we pray daily that the day of equitable justice will yet come.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE MOON WAS FITFUL BEHIND SCUDDING CLOUD. Inky waves slapped against the canoe as we climbed aboard. One o'clock in the morning seemed an eccentric time to embark, but Alan's arrangements had ceased to surprise me. The gusts of wind were strangely mild; at home our breezes have a bite even in high summer. As we paddled away the canoe bucked like a fretful pony, sending bits of spray flying like foam. A chancy night to go a-voyaging, but I kept mum, and went where I was bid. We were loaded to the gunwales, so I had to sit more or less cross-legged. The brigade of canoes that had been laid up by the jetty that morning was embarking too. Here and there I could see a flash from a dark lantern, but once we were afloat all lights were doused but the moon.

  I felt happier than I'd done the previous night. Whatever Alan might be, he'd loved Rachel, and he was not – I was certain of it – a villain. Sequestered my life may have been, but a Friend is not necessarily an ill judge of other men, just because he lives differently. I thought to myself that as far as domestic virtues went, I would trust my brother-in-law. As to his other enterprises, I would not vouch for what he might be up to, even a yard out of my sight. Or within it, come to that, for what were we doing now, abroad on the wide waters when every honest man was lying a-bed? I let the question rest. The other reason I was happier was that Loic had agreed to give me a paddle. Once again I was at the rear, where I could do least harm, under the eye of the gouvernail, but I soon proved I could keep time. I didn't know what we were about; Alan had just said this wild night voyage was ‘more convenient’. I put my trust in the Lord and my strength to my paddle; enlightenment would surely come.

  How any man could steer a course, with the light so uncertain and the waters so unruly, was beyond me, but our brigade hung together, and pressed onwards. At least, we must have been moving at some speed, at the rate we were paddling, but I saw no landmark by which to measure. At first the wind seemed to be on our right, and the spray came flying into our side of the canoe. Presently it seemed to shift, or maybe we did. At one time the swell got so heavy I was alarmed. We rose so high at each crest that I felt we were tipping backwards, then we seemed to hang poised before we hurtled downwards – that was when I was really feart: it felt as if we'd never rise again, and the next wave would surely swamp us. But after a while that eased off, and when I could look up again I saw that the moon had swung right round so it was no longer on my right but almost dead ahead. We were paddling
a path of light directly towards it. The wind dropped and the sky turned pale. I could see a humped silhouette on the horizon, which I guessed was land.

  It was quiet enough now to hear a man speak. My brother-in-law's voice came softly from the bows. ‘Brother Mark?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Welcome to the United States of America!’ I could hear the laugh in his voice. I could read him, as clear as an open book in the bright noonday. This wild adventure – whatever it was we were at – this was the breath of life to him. He was happy, as I was when I stood upon the summit of Helvellyn in deep snow, and saw all the winter fells spread like an ermine cloak around me.1

  I didn't see the island until we were close up to it. It was long and low, that was all I could tell. We landed among little splashy waves on a sandy beach, and the four canots du maître drew in silently beside us. As we jumped into the shallow water and began unloading, a single ray from a dark lantern shone out from one of the canoes.

  ‘Douse that light!’ called Alan sharply.

  The cargo was all ashore and the canoes beached in no time. The voyageurs took up their burdens, and vanished into the darkness above the beach.

  ‘Are you there, brother Mark?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Come on, then!’

  I stumbled after him along a forest path. We didn't go far from the lake; I could still hear the waves on the shore. There was a smell of damp earth and pine. An oblong of light appeared ahead, and when we came close I saw I was looking into an open doorway. Inside, the building was long and low, rounded at the ends, built of birchbark on a frame of sapling trunks lashed together. There were ashes in the cold hearth, but no other sign of habitation. Instead the place was being used as a storehouse. Canvas-covered bales were being stacked high, kegs neatly piled, cases and barrels carefully stowed. A couple of lanterns cast huge crossed shadows.