Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘I'd given up on “immediately”, friend. Anyway, here I am. Am I to understand thee's ready to leave?’

  ‘I've been ready for the last two days! Tomorrow, then, brother Mark? Good. D'you want to put the kettle back? I haven't dined yet – Anne broiled a fowl for us, in case you were back. Just let me finish this.’

  I put the pot back over the fire and set the pewter dishes on the table. There was white bread in the crock and fresh butter left to cool in a pannikin of water.

  ’En roulant ma boule roulant. En roulant ma boule,’ sang Alan, as he sealed his letter, and I realised he was chiming in with my humming. I must learn not to do that before I go home, I thought, and instantly the memory of my greater sin hit me like a kick in the stomach. I felt like one of those days in the hills when one gets all weathers from sleet to heatwave in the space of an afternoon, only this was in my heart, which was infinitely more uncomfortable. One moment I was filled with unaccountable joy, and the next with an awful consciousness of my transgression. Also, I was ravenous.

  Alan and I reduced the fowl to a pile of bones, and by the time I'd wiped my plate with the last of the bread, I felt better. In fact the two of us enjoyed the most congenial evening we'd spent together yet. Alan diverted my mind by telling me all the news – I would hardly have recognised him for my elusive and taciturn companion of pre-battle days. Luckily he asked me no questions about my own doings, for I was in no fit state to answer them.

  Mackinac was still seething with Indian warriors, Alan said, who'd encamped all round the village and were clearly determined not to shift until adequate gifts had been distributed to them all. Apparently Captain Roberts owed it to John Askin that not a drop of blood, human or animal, had been wantonly spilt. This was unheard of in the aftermath of an Indian battle. Askin had bought a small herd of stirks from the islanders to supply the Indian warriors for the time being. Naturally the islanders were anxious; I remarked that I'd have been worried myself, to find such an army – or any army at all, come to that – bivouacked on the Highside fells. Meanwhile there was another row going on because Captain Roberts had detained some of the American soldiers, who'd been identified either as British citizens or deserters from the British army – I'm not sure which – and was even now impressing them in his all too scanty troops. Roberts wasn't going to have an easy task, ahead of him, said Alan, and he, Alan, was thankful not to stand in his shoes.

  That brought us to our own plans. Alan was amused I'd stolen a march on him, and seen Loic. ‘So do you want to go over with Stéphan and me tomorrow them, or shall I go and tell Loic, and we'll pick you up here?’

  This cast me into such an agony of indecision I nearly gave myself away. Desire conquered reason, after the briefest of struggles. ‘I'll come with thee.’

  ‘Good. We can take everything over, in that case. We don't need to come back here.’

  Next morning Alan asked me to take his letters to the South West Company Office, while he went to tell Stéphan we were ready to go. Just before we parted, a British infantryman came up and asked if we knew the way to Dr Day's house. ‘Indeed yes,’ said Alan. ‘I hope you're not sick!’ He took the young fellow by the arm and pointed. ‘Up that way.’

  When he turned round I was staring at him with my mouth open. ‘Mark? Is anything amiss?’

  ‘I had seen thee before!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alan, was thee in York last year? Early in Ninth Month?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In . . . September. Thee was in York in September, wasn't thee?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ asked Alan cautiously.

  ‘Because I met thee! Outside the hotel! Thee directed me to the Toronto Coffee House!’ I took him by the lapels of his coat and fairly shook him. ‘None of thy tricks, Alan. Thee can't deny it. I know!‘

  It was his turn to stare at me. ‘I don't remember . . . No, no, I'm not denying it! I'm just saying I don't remember thee – I mean you.’ He laid his hand on my arm. ‘It's true, Mark. I was there. I'm sorry. I didn't know you.’

  ‘Nor did I know thee.’ I could barely take in the enormity of it . . . nearly a whole year . . . and such a journey . . . and all the time . . . I shook my head. It was neither his fault nor mine; there was nothing to say, in fact.

  ‘Later, I'll tell you about it. I promise.’ Alan grinned. ‘We're not going to be short of time together, anyway.’ He gripped my hand suddenly. ‘It's a strange world, brother. I'll see you on the shore.’

  I walked slowly on, carrying his letters, feeling all amazed. Many Friends believe that the Lord has his own purpose in everything that befalls us. I'm not so sure; if we have free will, then we bring about our own consequences. Hence the evils of this world, in fact . . . Only in this case I had not chosen anything, being simply ignorant. If I'd met Alan in York last September, and known him then . . . I could not think about it clearly . . . I glanced at the two letters in my hand. Perhaps I should not have read the directions, but I have no doubt the Lord – and Alan too – will forgive me for it. One letter was inscribed to Simon MacKenzie, Agent, Fort William, Indian Territory. The other was to Mrs James Mackenzie, Ardelve, Ross-shire, Scotland, North Britain. That would cost the recipient a pretty penny, I made no doubt. It set me wondering even more about Alan, at all events, and realising how very little I knew of his history.

  As we paddled over to Bois Blanc, I began thinking about Waase'aaban. I was very feart, and wished I had not come. When we beached, I felt a fluttering inside that would not be quenched. As we approached the house, I wanted to hurry forward, and yet at the same moment I longed to turn and flee. Stéphan may have had some idea of all this. I am very sure Alan had none. Then Loic was at the top of the beach calling to us, Boozhoo! Biindigen! Is it today, then?’

  He showed us the canoe, with its new birchbark and strong seams. It was an Indian canoe, bigger than Stéphan's, about sixteen feet, I judged. We took four paddles. The stores were piled ready under a birchbark shelter next to the woodpile. There were two muskets, along with a small keg of powder, a horn of priming powder, and bags of lead and shot. We took three trade blankets, a big square of canvas – no tent, we were to sleep under the canoe – sacks of flour and pease wrapped in oiled canvas to keep them dry, an iron kettle, a small axe, and sundry tools and other items in birchbark containers. As well as his own tools, Loic took rolls of birchbark and spare rawhide for canoe repairs. There was also a bale with tobacco and a bale of beads, traps, axe heads and other trade goods; Alan said we'd surely need presents. Alan didn't take his precious map – he said he knew it by heart, but he had a compass and pocket sundial together in a little wooden box.1 We laid everything out on the baked earth outside the house, and checked through it. It seemed a great deal to fit into one canoe, with three men as well, but I knew enough about voyageurs by now, and was not surprised when presently the canoe was floating offshore, not too low in the water, with everything stowed and balanced. We lifted the bow up on to the beach and went ashore again.

  In all this time there'd been no sign of Waase'aaban or Pakané. Loic said they'd gone berry picking; it was the blueberry season. He knew where they were, and said he must say goodbye to his wife before he left. ‘I'll not be gone above an hour.’ He turned to me. ‘You come, Mark?’

  ‘Ay.’

  I followed him without another word, leaving Alan and Stéphan to speculate as they would.

  Loic led me by little paths across the marshes, deep into the heart of the island. We passed brown ponds thick with rushes, surrounded by open clearings fall of dead grey stumps. I had crossed the portages of La Vase, so I knew old beaver lakes when I saw them; the water meadows were slowly turning back to forest. A white heron rose into the air each time we came close, only to land further on and be disturbed again. Presently the soil grew sandier and drier. We pushed through bog myrtle and blueberry. And there was Pakané sitting on a bank among the berries, suckling Biinooji. My heart lurched when I saw them; a question en
tered my mind which I should have asked myself long before. But then I saw Waase'aaban just a few yards away, with berry-stained mouth and hands, filling a birchbark container with blueberries. She jumped up when she saw us, and smiled at me. It was a smile of such innocent delight, just because I had come, that my heart soared. I forgot my sudden fear; I forgot the agonies of guilt and repentance; I forgot that outwardly she was as unlike a Member of the Religious Society of Friends as any girl could well be; I forgot that she was only fourteen and I was twenty-four. I remembered only the two starry nights when we had lain in the dunes, as if we were the only man and woman in the world.

  Loic was talking to Pakané, and though I couldn't understand the words, the effect on Waase'aaban was immediate. ‘You go now, Mark?’

  ‘Yes, but I will come back.’

  ‘Before winter?’

  ‘I hope before winter.’

  ‘Gaa ngoji gdaa-baa-izhaasii,‘2 she said, very low.

  I bent my head to hear her. ‘Gaa ngoji gdaa-baa-izhaasii,‘ she repeated.

  ‘Please, in French?’

  She wouldn't translate, but stood before me, looking at the ground, clasping her hands together.

  I clasped my hands over her hands. ‘I will come back.’

  ‘Gaa ngoji gdaa-baa-izhaasii.’

  I gave up trying to speak, but held her hands in mine a moment, then pressed them, and let go.

  Loic bent over his son in his cradleboard and kissed him. ’Ka-waabimin nwiidigemaagen, ngwiss!‘ He stood up. ‘Mark, it is time to go. Ka-waabimin nwiidigemaagen, Pakané.‘

  An hour later we waded into the bay with our loaded canoe. Alan was our bowsman, and I climbed in amidships after him. Loic pushed us out a little further, and swung himself into the stern. ‘Allez-y, les gars!’

  ’Allez-y.‘

  1 I was much taken with this device, which I often had the use of during our journeying. I bought myself a similar one in Montreal on my way home, and I still take it with me when I walk on the high fells. I find it difficult now to imagine how I ever managed without it. However I think the possession of a mechanical device too often allows a man's innate faculties to fall into disuse. I never dreamed of having either timepiece or compass when I was a lad, and I was never lost or benighted in the hills. Loic, too, had no difficulty with time or direction, and he scorned to use the compass, pleading always that he could not read. I knew that was merely an excuse. I understood his antipathy, but my case was different, for I was in a country where very many of the natural signs were strange to me. Besides, I have a liking for ingenious devices, and so I succumbed to this one. It was a good guinea's worth, and has served me well.

  2 I learned much later this means, ‘Thee shouldn't go anywhere.’

  CHAPTER 18

  THIS WAS WHERE RACHEL WAS LAST SEEN. I STOOD ON the beach at South Manitou in the dawn light, and looked about me. The bay was just as Alan had described it: a mile-long half moon of white sand. The lake was pearl-white, very still. A couple of mallards were swimming parallel to the beach, sending out long dark ripples which spread to the shore, licking my feet with miniature waves. I went on walking slowly, paddling barefoot in inch-deep water where the sand was firmer. The beach shelved gradually, so the water here stayed warm, even though the sun was still lost in a far-off haze. I couldn't see how anyone could walk into the lake and drown: not here. She'd have had to get way from the beach to do that, on to the exposed shore beyond.

  It was a good place to walk. I could think at the same time, with nothing to distract my mind but smooth sand and water. The first thing was to visit the Indian village. We'd arrived after dusk the previous evening, but I could see now that Alan was right about the forest. The trees crowded close to the shore. There was a shady clearing at the top of the beach on the north side, made by passing voyageurs, where a small brigade could shelter out a storm behind the birch trees that lined the shore. At this time of year the clearing was a veritable hayfield. The grass was studded with harebells and some bright yellow flowers I didn't know, and orange and black butterflies danced over all. There were clouds of mosquitoes too; in this still weather we'd done much better to camp on the open shore. I'd gone up to the clearing, though, as soon as it got light, and walked slowly round it. From its edges I peered into the forest. At the edges, where it was light, there were huge clumps of poison ivy. In the dim interior great grey beech trunks rose to a canopy so high above my head I felt like one of the crawling insects of the forest floor when I looked up. A huge tree had fallen, letting in a light that turned the leaves above to a shower of green and gold. Below, saplings sprouted from the decaying trunk. From the depths of the wood I could hear the loud knocking of a woodpecker. Yes, Alan was right. She could never have wandered into the trackless forest. She would have had to find a path. The only paths, Alan said, went from the Indian village, where we would go today.

  I wandered on, my feet splashing in the shallow water. I asked myself what I'd expected to find. I was born to a country that's bare and open: wild certainly, but if thee can climb, and face the weather, thee can go where thee likes and see where thee's going, on a good day. This flat, sandy country was impenetrable. And yet God created all this, just as he created the hills of Lakeland, on the third day, and he found it good. I said the verse over to myself, but instead of bringing this alien world nearer to my heart, it made the God whom I'd worshipped all my life seem suddenly remote. The ways of God are not comprehensible to us, I knew that well, but it was on the beach at South Manitou that I fully understood that there is infinitely more in the mind of God than I could even begin to conceive. Once, at Mosedale, Joseph Priestman ministered to the effect that we needed to remember that it was God who made man in his own image, and not the other way round. Man, said Joseph, is inclined to the sin of Pride, and what greater Pride could there be than to create a little god in our little image, and to think of the Almighty God, our Creator, who made the heavens and the earth and all that therein is, as someone like ourselves that we could begin to understand?

  Certainly when I thought about the interior of South Manitou – and the very heart of the island lay only half a mile to the west of where I stood – I realised that distance is not the only thing that divides us from knowledge. One heart may lie so close against another that they seem to beat as one, and yet the thoughts of that other heart are still alien as the stars. A sudden thought came to me, of that other beach on Bois Blanc, and I felt the tears prickle against my eyes, but I shed them not. I had no answer to the questions in my own heart, and so for the time being I let them lie.

  Alan once said to me, had I any idea how large this land was? I thought I had, for did I not cross half a continent to reach this place? The last two weeks, however, had taught me he was right. As the crow – or the gull, rather – might fly, my memory of Alan's map told me we were barely a hundred miles from Mackinac. In the canot du maître we'd flown seventy miles down the French River in a day. But then we had a swift current to take us, and the strength of fourteen men. In Loic's Indian canoe, on the open lake, with only three paddlers, the whole world was magnified immeasurably. Loic was our gouvernail, and, though I'd never steered a canoe in my life, I was aware of his skill. Often I was very feart; I think he took risks, but if they'd not been justifiable I wouldn't be writing this at my desk in the window at Highside this day.

  The first night we had camped at the north point of the peninsula which is the Michigan Territory, close to the burnt out ruins of a substantial fortress, which Loic said was Michilimackinac. That evening Alan regaled me with tales of French wars and Indian massacres at that spot, which kept me from my sleep an hour or more. To be honest, I never slept sound all the time we were in the Michigan Territory, but grew used to sleeping with my ears open, like a dog, for I could never lose the sense of the hostile wilderness at my back, and foes within, four-legged and two-legged, that I knew not, nor wished to know.

  We left that dismal ruin before dawn, but that afternoon we camped
early, and stayed ashore three full days. I found that ill to bear, for so much time was already wasted, but Loic was adamant, and when we set to again I understood why. We had to paddle several miles due west into open water to get past a long headland with rocky shoals all round it. Even in fair weather it was a desolate, frightening place, for there was no mercy to be had from lake or land, if so be we'd needed it. It was a relief to reach the shelter of a large Ottawa village built on a high bluff further along the coast, marked from the lake by an enormous bent pine tree at the very top of the bluff. The village lay in what looked to be natural meadowland dotted with copses of wild cherry trees, brambles and raspberries. There were gardens of corn, beans and squash, and, just as on Mackinac, long racks of whitefish spread to dry. I said to Loic that the lot of these people had fallen in a fair ground, but he said that was not true, and that the meadowlands were not natural, but had once been settled villages for about fifteen miles along the coast. The French had moved their Jesuit mission here, long before the British came. The British were ill to deal with, and so the Ottawa, who supported the French, had attacked Fort Michilimackinac. A while later a British trader sold a tin box to the Ottawa in exchange for furs. He said the box contained something that would do them great good, but they must not open it until they got home. This they did, and inside the first box they found another box, and within that yet another. They came to the smallest box of all, which was barely an inch long, and opened it. There was naught inside except a little mould. This they passed around, wondering what it could be. Very soon the smallpox broke out among them, and within a few weeks almost all the people had died of it. ‘That is why you see the land so empty,’ Loic said. ‘Forty years ago you would have found naught but the dead unburied, the gardens laid waste, and the rest of the people fled away.’