West to Grande Portage

by Joan Donadlson-Yarmey

  Phillippe saw Marguerite standing with Jeanne and Antoinette. Relief flooded him. He left his post at the canoe and waded ashore. He raced over to her and grabbed her in his arms. He swung her around.

  “I am so glad to see you,” Phillippe said setting her down. “I was beginning to think you would not make it.”

  “Father and mother brought me in the caleche,” Marguerite said. “I have been watching for a while. You are so handsome in your outfit. You look like a true voyageur.”

  Phillippe felt his heart would burst at her compliment. He realized that her approval was all that really mattered to him.

  “Do you have your soap?” Ira Levington asked.

  “Yes, it is in my roll,” Phillippe said.

  “Good, you never know when you will meet a young maiden.”

  Phillippe reddened as he glanced at Marguerite. He already had a young maiden.

  He hugged his parents, his aunt and uncle, Jean-Luc, Antoinette, and Jeanne. He shook William’s hand then grabbed his bag from the sand, dashed out into the water, and stowed it beside Jerome’s.

  He, Jerome and Claude had been told they were the middlemen of the canoe. It had sounded impressive until he found out that the most inexperienced voyageurs were placed in the middle of the canoe. They were also the least paid.

  All along the river brigades of the other merchants were ready. The canoes of various sizes held men, all dressed in their finest, brightest clothes, and swelled with pride. This was the largest formation of canoes going west since the British had opened the west trade again.

  Phillippe saw that Andrew had placed his tent, bedroll, bag of extra clothes, and the box which held his ledgers, quill pen, and ink in the canoe. He then took his place on top of the bundles in the center of their canoe. As the clerk he did not paddle. Andrew was dressed in breeches, shirt with frills down the front, boots, and a waist coat He had on his three cornered felt hat in spite of all the ribbing he had taken from Pierre. Phillippe saw him look up at Jeanne who was standing on the bank smiling at him.

  “Will you marry me?” Andrew suddenly yelled trying to be heard above the din.

  “What?” she called back. She forced her way through the crowd to get down the bank.

  “I love you,” he hollered when she was closer. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.” She ran out into the water to the canoe. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  They hugged and kissed amid the hooting and clamoring of everyone within hearing distance. She took her white handkerchief out of her dress pocket and gave it to him. He kissed it and tucked it in his shirt sleeve.

  Phillippe threw his cap into the air and whistled, then swatted Andrew on the back. He looked over at his family standing on the bank. They were all laughing and clapping. His aunt was crying. As Phillippe hugged Jeanne he saw the scowl on Pierre’s face. He also saw the look of anger on Florian’s face. Maybe it was not good that Florian had heard the proposal and that he had heard Jeanne accept.

  * * *

  Phillippe’s heart beat excitedly as he climbed into the loaded canoe along with the other voyageurs. He kneeled on top of the bundles as they did. Phillippe picked up his scarlet paddle. He had been given a quick demonstration the day before on how to paddle. It seemed easy. When everyone was settled they maneuvered out into the river to circle and wait for the remaining canoes of the brigade. Phillippe was shocked to see that the canoes sat barely six inches above the water. He felt a stab of fear. That was not very much height to keep the water out.

  At the bow of the canoe knelt Francois. He was the forward man and he watched for rocks and floating logs and was in charge of the canoe, giving the orders.

  Uncle Pierre was in the stern as the steersman. He used the nine foot long steering paddle to keep them heading in a straight direction or to turn them to avoid the debris in the water and the rocks the forward man pointed out. He also steered them into shore for portaging or the night. Pierre was the head steersman for the brigade. He gave all the orders.

  There were canoes as far as Phillipe could see up and down the river. The moment had come. Phillippe was about to leave Montreal and go west to Grande Portage. He took one last look at the shore where his family stood. He waved to them and they smiled and waved back. In spite of what he had learned about their faith in him, he was happy that they had come to say goodbye to him. He did love them and he hoped that he would prove his worth on this trip.

  Phillippe wiped his sweaty palms on his pants then gripped his paddle tight. The signal was given. Church bells rang. Guns were fired. The men in all the canoes began their paddle and immediately burst into song.

  * * *

  The river was covered with canoes for miles. All of them had a flag that flew high. They were so colorful with a feather at the prow and stern and a painted design on the front. The scarlet paddles dipped and rose in unison and the canoes were off. The voyageurs cut such romantic figures as they paddled, their voices carrying to the people on the shore. The shore was white as the hundreds of Montrealers who had come out for the event waved their handkerchiefs. They cheered madly, for they adored the bold sons of Montreal who were on their way west.

  Jeanne could not hide her happiness. Andrew had actually asked her to marry him and in front of her family and most of Montreal. It was a question she had never thought she would hear from him. She looked down at her dripping skirt. Her feet squished in her boots. She had not considered the consequences when she ran out into the water to kiss him and give him her handkerchief. She had not wanted him to leave without taking something of hers and that was all she had.

  Jeanne had nothing to wave along everyone around her. But she did not mind. Hers would be back in the fall along with her fiancé. She waved her hand at Andrew and smiled as he waved her white handkerchief back. She continued until he was out of sight.

  “Oh, Jeanne, I am so happy for you,” Antoinette said after the last of the canoes were far in the distance. “We must being planning your wedding.”

  “Yes.” Jeanne linked her arm through her cousins. “I want it to be perfect. And I want you and Marguerite to be my bridesmaids.” She reached for her sister’s arm.

  Marguerite tried to smile but failed. Jeanne was dismayed to see that Marguerite’s face was pale and she had two red spots on her cheeks. She knew that was a sign that her sister was feeling sick. Coming to see Phillippe off was too much for her.

  “Mother, father,” Jeanne called.

  They turned from where they were walking with Phillipe’s parents. They reacted immediately.

  Marie rushed to her daughter’s side.

  “I will get the caleche,” Etienne said. “Keep her here.”

  When Etienne managed to drive the horse-drawn caleche through the throng of Montrealers leaving the waterfront, Marie and Jeanne helped Marguerite into the back seat. Marie and Bridget climbed in with her, while Louis took the front seat with Etienne.

  “I will walk with Antoinette,” Jeanne said.

  She watched as her family pulled away. She felt so sorry for her sister. It seemed as if every time she appeared able to get out and do something normal, she suffered afterwards. Jeanne was glad that Marguerite had made it to see Phillippe off on his first trip west. He cared so much about her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Most of the voyageurs in Phillippe’s canoe had experience and paddled in time with each other. Phillippe did his best to paddle along with them. But at fifty strokes per minute it was not long before his arms began to hurt. He was having trouble making the movements but he could not quit so soon. He glanced surreptitiously at Jerome who was across from him. He did not seem to be tiring.

  “I guess all the farm work and tree cutting did not help me,” Phillippe muttered.

  Phillippe tried to ignore the burn in his muscles. He was so relieved when, after a few miles, Pierre gave an order and steered their canoe towards land. The other canoes followed and they pull onto the bank. Those who wished to climbed out the
canoes. The others stayed with the crafts.

  “Come,” Pierre said to Phillippe.

  Phillippe followed his uncle and the rest of the men up the hill to St Ann Chapel. They entered the chapel.

  “St. Ann is the Protector of Voyageurs,” Pierre explained to the new men as he deposited a coin.

  Phillippe watched his uncle say a prayer and cross himself. He put the coin Pierre had given him earlier in the box, crossed himself, and said a prayer.

  “Please give us a safe journey and keep Marguerite well until my return.”

  “I did not bring any money,” Jerome said.

  “Say your prayer anyway,” Pierre said. “She does not protect only the ones who pay.”

  When all the men who wanted to had entered the church, they returned to the canoes and continued on their way.

  As they pulled back into the river one man began to sing. The rest joined in.

  We are Voyageurs

  Men of the Woods

  We Paddle the Rivers

  Carrying the Trade Goods.

  We are Voyageurs

  Strong and True

  We Paddle All Day

  Under the Sky of Blue.

  We are Voyageurs

  We Carry 200 Pounds

  When We Have to Portage

  Over the Rough Ground.

  We are Voyageurs

  A Very Special Brand

  To Everyone Back Home

  We are the Envy of the Land.

  And so the song continued. When they ran out of verses for it, a man would begin another song. Phillippe attempted to learn some of the words to try and take his mind off his distress, but they were singing so fast he could not remember the words.

  The beat of the songs were in tune with the dip of the paddle. And they had to paddle fast because they were fighting the current of the river. Eventually, the different brigades spaced out along the river, some paddling faster and disappearing in front, some being slower and falling behind.

  Suddenly Pierre yelled. “Light up!”

  Everyone on all five canoes stopped paddling.

  “About time,” Phillippe heard the man behind him complain.

  “That was a long paddle.”

  “Yes, we usually stop every hour.”

  “I want to put some distance between our canoes and the other’s,” Pierre said. “We want to be one of the first brigades to Grande Portage.”

  It did not take long for the pouches to open and the pipes to come out. The voyageurs filled their small clay bowls with tobacco and then a bit of dry grass. They took out their strikers and open and closed the blades to get a spark. The spark caught the dry grass on fire which in turn lit the tobacco. They leaned back inhaling deeply as they stretched their legs. They were on a five minute break.

  Phillippe moved gingerly. His legs barely listened to his instructions. They had no feeling in them. He looked at Jerome.

  “It is not as easy as they make it look, is it?” Jerome nodded at the older voyageurs as he, too, slowly worked his legs.

  Phillippe did not bother to open his pouch. He did not feel like trying his first smoke now. He did not need to feel sick as well as sore. He did noticed that they were drifting back with the current. They were losing some of their hard earned distance.

  Jerome pulled out his pipe and tobacco. He filled, tamped and lit it, then inhaled with pleasure.

  “You have smoked before?” Phillippe asked.

  “I have for a few years. I sneak it from my father’s supply whenever his is drunk. He does not notice.” Jerome grinned as he pointed to his outfit. “This was my father’s from when he was a voyageur. He may have been as mad about me taking it as he was about me leaving.”

  Phillippe dipped his cup over the side into the water. He brought it to his mouth and drank over and over again. He was sweating and had been most of the paddle. Some of the men had removed their shirts and sashes. He was about to strip when he heard some noise behind them. Everyone looked back and saw another brigade coming up the river.

  “Time to go,” Pierre said.

  Phillippe groaned to himself. He slowly tucked his legs under him as the men quickly emptied the remaining smoldering tobacco from their pipes into the river. They checked to make sure none was left in the bowls, then placed them in their pouches. They positioned themselves and at Pierre’s signal, began paddling.

  “Come on men, put your backs into it,” Pierre yelled. “We will not be overtaken.”

  Paddling was the monotonous rhythm of stroke after stroke after stroke for an hour without stopping. As the day wore on, Phillippe grew tired and stiff. He occasionally banged his hand on the side of the canoe. The breaks were not long enough for him to regain his breath.

  There was no changing of sides. He was on the right side and that was where he stayed. And the canoes did not stop so the paddlers could shift positions. He was kneeling on the bundle and stayed there until Pierre called a smoke break.

  Once he decided to sit like some of the other voyageurs were doing. But that did not work. He could not bend enough to get the paddle deep into the water. At the next smoke break he went back onto his knees. He also removed his shirt and sash.

  He grimaced. He had thought working and planting the fields, clearing the land, and harvesting the grain, were hard work. He was so wrong; until today, his life had been easy.

  * * *

  Pierre was struggling. He had decided to be the steersman so that he could keep an eye on the other canoes. He had also thought being at the stern would be easier on his back than paddling or being the forward man, but that was not proving to be true. The constant standing in one position put a lot of tension on his back and legs. He tried to change his stance but there was precious little room for his feet amongst the bundles and other items. He could sit for a change but he was Pierre, the best voyageur in Montreal. He did not rest.

  The never ending need to move the steering paddle to correct the direction of the large canoe in the river worked his shoulders and back more than paddling. He needed to stay alert listening for a command from the Francois telling him to change direction to miss something in the river. And it would not take long for the canoe to begin to drift towards the shore if he did not pay attention.

  Pierre stood sideways in the canoe so he could twist to keep an eye on the canoes of his brigade that were to the side or following behind. They were his responsibility and he had to make sure none of them ran into any trouble.

  Pierre thought about the smaller north canoe which was used between Grande Portage and the remote northwestern outposts. The north canoe was about twenty feet in length and only needed between two and six voyageurs to paddle it. No forward or steersman. It was easily maneuvered around rocks and debris in the water. The only drawback was that it could not carry the loads of the Montreal canoe.

  “Log!” Francois yelled and pointed his right hand.

  Pierre looked and saw a large log being carried at a rapid pace in the current towards them. He tilted his blade to the left and pulled the shaft towards him. The large canoe sluggishly moved to the left to avoid the log bobbing in the water. If it hit the canoe in the right spot it could put a hold in the side. Pierre watched the canoes behind him. They, too, managed to miss the log.

  “Light up,” Pierre called. He needed to sit.

  He could barely force his knees to bend. It felt as if his back would break if he moved. He reached and grabbed the side of the canoe to help him ease down. He pulled out his pouch and filled and lit his pipe. He inhaled and exhaled trying to take his mind off the pain. Sitting lessened his discomfort a bit.

  During the five minutes, some of the men shifted bodies, but the experienced ones remained where they were. Over the years they had gotten used to staying in the one position from morning until time to stop and unload for the day.

  All the brigades were paddling up the Ottawa River. It was 350 miles long and there would be many portages. Also there were several shallow areas where they
would have to unload. He had wanted to have the voyageurs paddle longer than the usual hour before stopping for their smoke. But he himself could not stand for that long. One hour it would be.

  “Time to paddle.” Pierre put his pipe away and slowly stood. He could barely straighten upright. Over his many years as a voyageur he had seen men break limbs, suffer from hernias, develop rheumatism, and drown or die in other ways. He had considered himself stronger and more resilient than them. But not anymore. The harsh, unforgiving life of voyageur had caught up to him. If he was struggling to get through the first day, what was the rest of the trip going to be like? He had to accept that this was definitely his last summer.

  * * *

  Phillippe’s arms had no strength left. He was barely moving the water when he dipped in his paddle. The new recruits had been told that on the first day they could stop paddling if necessary but he could not bring himself to do that. He kept the movement even if he was doing no good.

  He looked at Andrew as he tried to find a different position. He did not seem any more comfortable than Phillippe but at least he could change the position of his legs a bit. Phillippe was stuck. He understood now why the best voyageur was only 5’6” tall. They had to be short because there was little room for their legs.

  Evening came and still they paddled. Phillippe was starving, having eaten an early breakfast at the camp. He had begun to think they were going to paddle all night when Pierre finally yelled for them to pull into shore. His uncle steered his canoe towards the bank. The men in front jumped out and guided the canoe gently up to the partially rocky beach. They did not need the rocks to scrape a hole in the birch bark. The area was large and the five canoes fit on the shore nicely. The rest of the men climbed out.