by David Starr
As if acting by itself, my hand reaches into my jacket and pulls out the embroidery I’d taken from our small apartment in Glasgow. “It’s a wee picture of our old home in Scotland,” I tell her. “It’s nothing like the medicine bag but my mother made it, and it’s very special to me. Besides, I think she would have liked ye to have it.”
Louise clutches the embroidery tightly in her hand. “I love it — and I like you very much as well, Duncan Scott.”
The distance between us closes until our lips softly touch. “Promise you’ll return,” Louise whispers, breaking the kiss and speeding away.
“Aye,” I whisper breathlessly into the cool night sky. “I promise I will.”
The sun hasn’t climbed above the horizon when I wake. I slept fitfully, and as I walk down to the river I discover that my back and legs ache terribly, the after-effects of riding the horse. I’d not have traded the memory of that day for anything, but I know the canoe ride will be misery.
Desjarlais sees us off. “You’re welcome here anytime, Duncan,” he says with a sly grin. “I think my daughter would be very happy if you tired of the fur trade and hunted the buffalo with us!”
Blushing for what seems to be the hundredth time, I load my possessions into the canoe. The medicine bag hangs around my neck on a leather cord, and I feel the weight of it pressing against my heart. I look everywhere for Louise, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
Lapointe must read the disappointment on my face. “It’s not easy saying goodbye,” he says as the canoe enters the dark river. “Many of us have wives and children scattered across this continent, but leaving them comes with the job and you learn to deal with it.”
“I just wish I’d seen her one last time, Luc.”
Lapointe points his paddle to the bank. “Then stop moping and start looking.” Above the river, Louise stands silently in the pre-dawn shadows, holding a lantern above her head. She raises her hand in a wave as we drift past and then she’s gone again, swallowed up by the night.
“Put your mind into your stroke and forget about her for now,” says Lapointe. “You’ll be back in Red River someday, but we’ve a long way to go through dangerous country, so keep your wits about you. Men who lose focus out here often end up dead.”
Chapter 17
As we push towards our goal, a place far to the west called Fort St. James, the grasslands disappear as we enter a landscape carpeted with trees, rivers, lakes and swamps. We continue west through the forest along the great inland highway of the fur trade, the Saskatchewan River, dropping off men, canoes and supplies at Cumberland House, La Loch, Fort Vermilion, Fort Chipewyan and a host of other isolated North West Company outposts.
Two months after leaving Red River, and now paddling on the Peace River, a majestic range of mountains comes into view, their snow-capped peaks so large that the little piles of heath and stone I knew back in Scotland hardly seem worthy of the same name.
“The Rocky Mountains they’re called. We will traverse them to the north,” says Lapointe. “We’ve almost made it, mon ami. Fort St. James and Simon Fraser are less than three weeks away.”
We reach Fort Dunvegan, a small post on the banks of the Peace River. Ever mindful of the importance of our mission we stay just two days, then say our goodbyes as Lapointe and I leave in one lone canoe. The other voyageurs remain at Fort Dunvegan, needed for the local fur trade.
We enter the mountains. I feel claustrophobic as we fight against the increasing current of the river, following it into a deep mountain pass. We make many portages around logjams and rapids, each one more difficult than the last.
Even though our load has been much reduced along the way, our canoe still carries nearly three hundred pounds of supplies: supplies that need to be packed on our backs at each portage.
A week from Fort Dunvegan, and with the western flanks of the mountain behind us, the river widens, slows down and deposits us on the shores of a large lake. Not far from the river mouth is an abandoned collection of log cabins. The door of the largest building hangs limp, partially ripped off its hinges. Judging by the mess inside, a bear or some other large animal has made the place its home, and the destruction mystifies Lapointe.
“This place is called Fort Misery,” says Lapointe.
“I can see why,” I reply, looking at the wreckage around me.
“The name is more than appropriate in the middle of the winter,” agrees Lapointe, “but in the summer it has always been a decent enough place to rest before the final push to Fort St. James. This is valuable fur country; there should be men at this post trading with the local people. I don’t for the life of me understand what happened.”
Lapointe looks unsettled. “Usually we’d stay and rest here for a day or two, but we’ll leave at first light tomorrow. There’s no point in lingering in these ruins.”
The abandoned fort marks the start of the longest portage on the journey. A trail has been blazed through the woods to guide the few fur traders that venture this far west, but off the narrow path the wilderness is dark and oppressive. We keep our guns close by.
After three long days of portaging, we reach the banks of a large river. Grateful to be out of the forest, we stop for just a short break before Lapointe orders us onto the water. “Fort St. James is just a few hours upstream. We’ll reach it by nightfall if we put our backs into it. Allez! I’m tired of sleeping in these cursed woods!”
Just before dusk, the canoe enters a large lake surrounded by low rolling mountains. I scan the lakeshore and see a handful of small log cabins with the North West Company’s flag fluttering above them. People stand on the beach, and a chorus of shouts fills the air as our canoe crunches loudly on the gravel. Within seconds we’re surrounded by a smiling and shouting crowd.
“They are the Carrier people,” says Lapointe, exchanging a few strange guttural words with a smiling man. “Fraser named the place Fort St. James, but these people call it Nak’azdli.”
“Let me through!” A powerful voice shouts from beyond the circle of well-wishers, and the man I’ve crossed a continent to see strides purposely through the crowd.
Simon Fraser is a short, compact man with large auburn sideburns that reach down to his prominent chin. I’m surprised at his age. Fraser is barely in his thirties by the looks of things, and though I’d not consider the explorer a handsome man, there’s something captivating about him. Simon Fraser is a man to be reckoned with, I can tell.
“It’s good to see you again, Simon,” grins Lapointe. “We missed you at the Rendezvous.”
“Luc! It’s always a pleasure to see you.” I’m taken aback by Fraser’s voice. With the Scottish name, I’d expected a strong Highland lilt but he speaks with a strange nasal accent. Then his sharp eyes rest firmly on me.
“You have a youngster with you I don’t know. What’s your name, boy, and what brings you to New Caledonia?”
I reach into my jacket for the precious oilskin-covered package. “My name’s Duncan Scott, Sir. Mr. McGillivray sent me to give ye this letter — and to help ye.”
As Fraser takes the letter, a short, wiry man with a close-cropped black beard and eyes that shine like coal steps forward, leering in a way that makes me shudder.
“Help us? You hardly look old enough to dress yourself!” The man edges closer. This isn’t the greeting I’d expected, and my cheeks turn red in anger.
“That’s enough, La Malice,” Fraser says, stuffing the letter in his vest. “You’d do well to watch your tongue.”
“My apologies, Monsieur,” this La Malice says, voice dripping with sarcasm on the word “Monsieur.” “I’m certain our new helper has a wealth of experience in the bush. I’m more than happy to defer to his wisdom.”
Fraser chooses to ignore the comment and instead turns his attention to me. “Well Mr. Scott, since you’re here to help, you may as well start by unloading the supplies you have so graciously brought.”
Eager to impress, I lift a heavy bale of supplies from the cano
e, well aware that the eyes of every voyageur are on me. I struggle with the bale, and as I do, I slip on a wet rock, lose my balance and fall into the cold water of the lake. Cheeks burning with embarrassment I scramble to my feet and heave the wet bale to shore, my ears stinging with La Malice’s laughter.
“What did I tell you?” he says. “The little whelp can’t even carry a bale from the canoe!”
My temper flares and without thinking I pick up a paddle and splash the mocking voyageur. The crowd erupts in cheers, but La Malice’s eyes glitter with hate. “You’ll pay for that, boy,” the voyageur hisses, his fists clenched.
I easily sidestep the attack. Not expecting me to move so fast, La Malice stumbles and lands heavily in the lake himself. “Who’s the drowned rat now?” I shout.
“I’ll show you what happens to whelps who don’t know their place!” La Malice shouts, climbing quickly to his feet, lunging towards me as his hand moves purposefully towards the large knife in his belt.
Fraser steps between us. “Hold your hand and your tongue, La Malice. You got no more than you deserved. Leave the lad alone and get back to work.”
Venom shooting from his eyes, the voyageur splashes out of the water. “You’ll regret that, boy,” he whispers as he passes by, his breath hot on my cheek.
Simon Fraser slaps me heartily on the back. “You certainly know how to make an introduction, my hot-headed friend. You’ve won yourself a place with the men, no doubt, but I’d watch out for La Malice if I were you. He’s not exactly known for his sense of humour. Now help finish unloading the canoe. Then put on some dry clothes. And this time,” Fraser laughs, “try to keep my supplies out of the lake.”
As I’m escorted from the beach, Fraser turns to a tall man standing beside him. “After a day or two, Mr. Stuart, once Luc’s rested up, ask him to return to Fort Dunvegan with one of the other voyageurs for the winter. Also, bring La Malice to my cabin in half an hour,” he adds in a lower tone of voice. “I’ll have a stern conversation with him, but first I need a moment’s peace to read the letter from Montreal.”
Fraser holds the unopened oilskin before his eyes and struggles to control his excitement. “If this says what I hope it does, we’ll have far bigger things on our plates than a surly voyageur.”
Chapter 18
Simon Fraser, John Stuart, his second-in-command at Fort St. James, and I face La Malice in the explorer’s small log cabin. “Account for your disgraceful behaviour on the beach, La Malice,” Fraser demands.
La Malice’s eyes narrow. “Account for myself, Monsieur? Do you know how long I’ve been with this Company?”
Fraser’s reply is curt. “Your length of service in the North West Company is not the issue. Mr. Scott is an apprentice clerk and as such he outranks you.”
“That whelp is to be my superior officer?” La Malice barely contains his anger, his eyes burning into me. “I was trading furs when this boy was still in his crib.”
Fraser does his best to control his rising temper. “Clerks are selected by merit, not age, and you’ll do well to remember that, La Malice. Your insolence and insubordination ensure you’ll never be more than a voyageur. Should you lay one finger on Mr. Scott, I’ll see to it personally that your days in the North West Company are over.”
Although I appreciate the idea that I outrank La Malice, I am also disturbed that he is obviously so much stronger and more forest-knowledgeable than I am. I want to say something to calm his anger with me but there is no chance.
“There’s also the issue of that girl of yours,” John Stuart adds. “She hasn’t been seen for a while and the locals are talking.”
“She’s no concern of yours,” La Malice replies. “Besides, there aren’t any rules in the Company against having a bush wife are there? If there were, I fear you’d be most severely reprimanded yourself, Monsieur Fraser.”
The slightest hint of colour flashes on Simon Fraser’s cheeks, and La Malice smirks at his discomfort. “Like I said, she displeased me so I sent her back north to her father.”
Fraser is incredulous. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that a seventeen-year-old girl travelled all that distance upcountry by herself? Some of the Carrier have a different idea as to what happened. They claim the two of you went out on the lake last week, but only you came back.”
La Malice jerks his knife out of its scabbard. “Bring those savages who make such false accusations to me so I may defend my honour!”
“Quiet, you fool!” barks Fraser. “We live in peace here only because Chief Kwah allows it. If they hear you talking like that, you’re bound to get us all killed.”
“Two go out and only one returns. Coincidentally enough, that’s the same fate that befell Gilles Morel at Fort Misery, wasn’t it?” John Stuart says. “You remember Fort Misery, don’t you, La Malice? And Gilles Morel? You should. After all, you were the last one who saw him alive.”
Fort Misery. I remember how puzzled Luc was that the cabin was abandoned and smashed up. So that’s what happened, I think to myself.
“How many times do I have to tell this story?” asks La Malice. “Morel and I were gathering firewood near the mouth of the river. We walked on the ice. It cracked. He fell through. That’s it.”
“Then you abandoned the post,” says Fraser, barely keeping his own anger in check. “Fort Misery alone should have made the Company enough money to pay for the upkeep of all our bases in New Caledonia. Instead, a good man vanishes and a productive fur trading fort is abandoned to the porcupines.”
La Malice is stone-faced. “The Natives who lived there were hostile and refused to trade with me. I was alone and I feared for my life. What would you have done? And as far as Morel goes? These things happen in the pays d’en haut. The wilderness is a dangerous place.”
“Especially for those left alone with you.”
La Malice grins. “Some people are unlucky, I suppose.”
“And some people have difficulty with the truth,” says Stuart.
La Malice’s voice drops to a whisper. “Are you calling me a liar, Monsieur Stuart? If so, we may need to have some words.”
Words. It seems to me as I listen to this angry conversation that it may come to much more than words, but I know that it is not my place to say anything.
“Two people last seen in your company are missing,” says Fraser coolly. “We have only your account as to why, and yours is a word I have trouble believing. Hold your tongue and mind your place, La Malice, or I will ensure that the next person to leave this post will be you, and it will be no mystery why.”
Chapter 19
Fraser puts me to work preparing Fort St. James for the upcoming winter. I spend hours gathering firewood, and when the salmon arrive I’m sent out in a canoe along with the Carrier to help set nets.
The arrival of the fish causes a great deal of celebration and relief. They have arrived late this year and there were fears they wouldn’t come at all. The fish are the main winter food supply for both the fur traders and the Carrier, and their absence would mean almost certain famine.
The nets are hurriedly set and quickly fill with wriggling silver and red fish. Smokehouses throughout the village busily cure and dry the fish, and though our diet in the months ahead will be as monotonous as pemmican, at least we won’t starve.
I find it hard to focus on my chores, my mind full of thoughts of Libby — and Louise. I know with a deep regret that I should have been back in England by now, but without the trip west I’d never have met the Métis girl, and I find it strange how her kiss still burns on my lips.
I have another worry as well. I’ve no idea how long I’m expected to stay in Fort St. James, but of one thing I’m certain: September is passing by, the leaves are falling, and the days are growing short and cold. There is no doubt that I’m stuck in this awful place for the winter at least. It will be another six months before I will have the chance to return to Montreal, let alone make it back to Liverpool to look for my sister.
I try to put these worries aside and go about my business, but even with all the work I’m assigned, time passes slowly until one crisp September day, two weeks after my arrival. Fraser calls me and the other clerks, Hugh Faries, John Stuart and Jules Quesnel, into his cabin, takes a bottle of rum from a crude wooden shelf, pours five small glasses and puts them down on the table beside McGillivray’s letter.
“Gentlemen, it’s time I shared some momentous news with you. We’re on the verge of history. Three days downstream from here is a large river that I believe to be the Columbia, the very same river charted by Mackenzie in 1793. As most of you know, I informed Montreal of this two years ago, but they denied me permission to follow it, citing the need to establish proper trading relations with the local people in this region first.”
The explorer passes each man a glass and I notice that Fraser’s hand trembles slightly, with excitement or fear I can’t tell. “As you are also aware, a shorter route to the sea is vital for our economic well-being, but we also have a much larger cause of concern; I’ve just learned that the American president has sent two men, Messrs. Lewis and Clark, to travel overland from the east, reach the Pacific at the mouth of the Columbia, and claim the entire watershed as their own. Such an act cannot go unchallenged. We’ve been charged to reaffirm British interests in the region.”
Stuart slams his empty glass down onto the table. “And about time! I know your feelings towards the Americans, Simon, but they aren’t our only worry. The Russians are pushing south from Alaska, and Nootka Convention or not, the Spaniards are on our doorstep as well, ready to pounce if they sense weakness. The future of the Empire in western North America may very well depend on our success.”
Fraser refills the glasses. “I couldn’t agree more, John, and neither could McGillivray. We leave next spring to claim this river for both Crown and Company. A toast to our success! Mackenzie believed the Columbia too turbulent to travel, but I’m confident it will lead us safely to the sea and to our fortunes. There are untold riches to be had from this land, and it’s up to us to make certain they belong to the British Empire — and to us!”