by David Starr
Chapter 20
“It won’t be long now until winter comes, Duncan,” says Jules Quesnel, Fraser’s youngest clerk and my best friend at Fort St. James. “It’s barely October but we’ve already had frost on the ground and the leaves are quickly turning. Within three weeks we’ll have our first snowfall, then for five long months it will be nothing but snow and ice.
“Before winter sets in, however, we have one important task to complete,” Quesnel says. “Simon wants us to travel to the Columbia to build a small fort. He plans on befriending the people of that region, and getting as much information about the river as he can before the spring. He’s been dreaming of this trip for as long as I’ve known him, and the news about Lewis and Clark was very unsettling. He can’t stand the thought of the Americans claiming this land.”
“But Mr. Fraser is an American,” I say.
“Simon was born in New York, that’s true,” agrees Quesnel, “but he’s a United Empire Loyalist. When he was a little boy, his father served in the British army during the war and died in an American jail. His family lost everything after the Revolution, and they fled to Montreal with the clothes on their backs and little else. Losing your home like that? That’s not the sort of thing someone like Fraser forgets.”
Or someone like me, I think, understanding Fraser’s feelings better than anyone in the fort could possibly imagine.
Two days later, eight of us leave Stuart’s Lake under Fraser’s charge, canoes full of tools and other building materials. The morning chill turns my breath to an icy fog, and thick white frost blankets the dying grass along the shores.
Duyunun, Chief Kwah’s main advisor, accompanies us. In his early fifties, tall and slender with long black hair flecked with grey, Duyunun knows many of the languages spoken in the region. He’s been sent by Chief Kwah to translate for the Nor’Westers — and to keep us out of trouble.
Fraser and his men are on good terms with the Carrier people, or Dakelh, “the people who travel on water,” as they call themselves, but they have had limited contact with others, and Duyunun’s presence offers safety. Kwah is a powerful and respected chief in the region; few would dare to offend him by killing those under his protection.
“This should be an easy enough journey,” says Quesnel. “Two days on tame water with no portages is my idea of canoeing.”
“And no getting up at two in the morning and chewing a mouthful of pemmican fer breakfast!” I exclaim.
Quesnel agrees. “If you think pemmican’s bad just wait until you live a winter on smoked salmon. It’ll keep you alive, but by March you’ll be willing to trade everything you have for a strip of mouldy pemmican and a bowl of cold pea soup!”
The birch and aspen trees along the mist-shrouded river are ablaze with red and yellow leaves. The air is cold and pure, and everywhere there is wildlife. In the sky, flocks of honking geese wing south for warmer climes, while beaver and otter swim in the river. Larger mammals crash through the undergrowth as well, appearing occasionally at the water’s edge. Black bears and deer are common, and a few hours from the trail Lapointe and I had travelled on to reach Fort St. James, we even see a grizzly bear.
It’s the largest bear I’ve ever seen. I look in awe as the animal noses through the shallows of the river, searching for the few remaining salmon carcasses that rot on the muddy banks. Sensing our presence, the cinnamon-coloured grizzly stands on its hind legs to get a better look. The bear must be ten feet tall, and even from the relative safety of the canoes we keep our guns at the ready. A bear that massive could easily knock down a tree or rip a man in two with its claws, and it isn’t until the beast shuffles away into the brush that we breathe easy again.
An hour or so past the bear sighting, our canoes round a corner and a large clearing on the river’s edge comes into view. “This looks like a good spot to set up camp,” says Quesnel, pointing to the shore.
Fraser studies the opening in the woods carefully. “This is an old village site, I believe. Duyunun, do you know anything about this place?”
The Dakelh man’s lips are pursed, and he has a strange fearful look in his eyes. “This is Chunlac. I wouldn’t stay a night here for all the guns in the North West Company.”
I shiver at his response. There is something quite eerie about the clearing. Just ten minutes ago the river had been alive with birds, jumping fish and other animals. Now it is deathly silent.
“When I was a little boy, Chunlac was a large and prosperous village,” he says. “A man named Khadintel was chief here. One day when he was away hunting with his men, a band of Tsilhqot’in warriors from the south came to avenge the killing of a number of their people that had happened several years before. They spared no one. When Khadintel returned, he saw his home burned, the bodies of his family cut to pieces and the children of the village sliced open, stuck on sticks like salmon drying in the sun.”
My skin prickles as Duyunun continues his story, every man listening intently. “Khadintel gathered up a band of warriors, travelled south, and the same treatment his children received was returned on the Tsilhqot’in.”
“That’s awful!” I say.
Duyunun shrugs. “Vengeance is the way of things,” he says simply. “Don’t think for a moment the Tsilhqot’in would spare you if they knew you were allied with my people. This happened when I was just a boy, but memories and hatred live a long time here. The past is a living thing.”
Two hours later when Duyunun is satisfied we are far enough away from the ruined village, Fraser orders the canoes ashore. We set up camp in a small meadow, eat a cold and uneasy meal and go to bed. In the morning when the sun breaks clear of the mist, our mood lightens. Travelling is easy, and we forget about the ghosts of Chunlac.
Within the hour Stuart’s River flows into a larger one. “Is this the Columbia?” I ask.
“No,” says Quesnel. “Fraser hasn’t named this one yet but it flows into the Columbia further downstream. We’re more than halfway there. We’ll reach our destination well before sunset.”
Quesnel is proven right when, by late afternoon, we reach the confluence of a new, much bigger river. “Welcome to the Columbia,” says Fraser triumphantly, beaching the canoes at a place not far from where the rivers meet and large cottonwood trees line the shore. “We’ll build our post here. Next spring we’ll leave from this very spot and make history.”
Four days of hard labour is all it takes us to build Fort George, named in honour of our distant King. The fort is just a rough-cut log cabin made from the small pine trees abundant in New Caledonia, but it will be an adequate pushing off place for both the voyage next spring and a decent home for Hugh Faries and the two voyageurs Fraser’s ordered to winter in the new fort to gather both intelligence and furs.
“Simon, when we get back to Fort St. James, you should send La Malice here as well,” suggests Stuart. “I’m not looking forward to spending the winter with him. He’s not taken well to young Mr. Scott, nor is he one to let grudges go.”
“I’m well aware of La Malice’s temperament, and that’s exactly why I have to keep an eye on him.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? You know the sort of trouble he can brew.”
“That’s exactly why,” says Fraser. “Hugh’s a decent enough man, but he’s not strong enough to endure a long winter with La Malice. Besides, I’d like to return to Fort George in the spring and find a cache of furs instead of an abandoned post and bones.”
“I see,” says Stuart. “This is a case of keeping your friends close …”
“And my enemies closer.” Fraser winks at me. “Young Duncan Scott is just going to have to find a way to endure La Malice this winter. We all are.”
Chapter 21
Thick clouds turn the late December skies above Fort St. James black. A strange metallic tang in the air sits right on the tip of my tongue as Quesnel and I walk through the crisp air towards the lake. “You can taste it, can’t you?” says Quesnel. “The snow I mean. It’s on its way a
nd it’ll be a big storm. We could be indoors for days, so let’s get as much water as we can. When the blizzard hits, you won’t be able to see two feet in front of your face.”
We break the thin skin of ice that covers the surface of the lake near the shore to fill our water buckets. It’s easy enough now to break through, but in a matter of weeks it will be thick enough to walk on.
A blast of cold air brings the snow. The first few flakes are small, hardly noticeable as we work, but within minutes larger ones fall thickly. “Hurry Duncan,” Quesnel says. “We’d best get back to the cabin.”
The storm hits with a fury that confines us to our cabin for two days. With the wind shrieking night and day, we live in a state of near darkness, the only light we have coming from our candles and the small fireplace.
By the afternoon of the second day the storm has blown itself out, the sun shines and, eager to shake the cobwebs from my head, I pull the door open. When I do, a small avalanche of snow slides into the cabin, followed by an intense bright light.
“Best not to be too long out there,” says John Stuart, looking up from his book. “It’s cold this morning.”
“I just need to get out fer a little while.” I have trouble finding the words to describe my restlessness. I feel edgy, as if the walls of the small log cabin are closing in on me.
“You’re getting cabin fever,” says Quesnel.
I’ve not heard the term before, but after my experience on the Sylph, I’m wary about illness. “Is it contagious?” I ask.
“Yes, but cabin fever’s not a disease, it’s a state of mind. When you’re confined to quarters for an extended period of time, you can go a little funny. Some really do go insane. Stretch your legs if you want, but be careful; you may be a little tired of Stuart and me, but spending time with us is a far better option than freezing to death.”
Outside, it seems as if the entire world has been whitewashed. There is still open water on the lake but it’s now quite a distance farther out from shore. The air is bitterly cold, and I stamp my feet in an effort to stay warm, the snow crunching loudly beneath me, breaking the silence of the morning.
I walk down to the frozen shores of the lake. My lungs burn as I suck in the frigid air, breath rising in a steam when I exhale. It’s colder than I’ve known before in all my seventeen years and the sensation fascinates me.
It is a remarkable landscape. Behind me is the fort and the Dakelh village of Nak’azdli. Ahead sits the grey bulk of the lake, sixty miles long, soon to be entombed in six feet of ice. On the lake’s eastern shore squats Na’kal Dzulh, the Mountain of the Lake, its snow-capped peak illuminated by the first rays of the waking sun.
“It’s that way to Scotland,” I say, staring at the limestonefaced mountain. “That way to home.” I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear footsteps approaching from behind.
“Enjoying the view are you, whelp?” says a familiar voice. I jump at the sound.
“La Malice, I didn’t hear ye.”
“Walking softly is a good skill to have in the bush.”
“What do ye want?” I speak with a confidence I don’t feel. The simple truth is that I’m scared of La Malice and have been since my very first day at Fort St. James.
“What do I want?” hisses La Malice, putting his arm around my neck, pulling me roughly towards him. “A little respect from you for starters.”
I choke for air, flailing my arms as La Malice tightens his grasp. “I told you to be mindful out here, boy. Like I said, the wilderness is a dangerous place.”
“A very dangerous place, La Malice,” says Quesnel from somewhere behind me. La Malice quickly releases his grasp, and I lurch forward, gasping for breath.
“Monsieur Quesnel, how are you?” La Malice asks casually. “Out for a morning walk as well I see?”
Quesnel and Duyunun walk side by side in the snow and help me to my feet. “We both are. What were you doing?”
“Just saying hello to my old friend,” says La Malice with a smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me I must get back. I have a great deal of work to do.”
“I do not trust him,” says Duyunun, as we watch La Malice saunter back to the fort. “He has a dark soul.”
I can’t disagree. “Why is La Malice like that?” I ask, my breath returning to normal.
“You aren’t the first to ask that question,” says Quesnel. “Nobody knows where La Malice came from, and what he did before joining the Company. I don’t even know his real name for that matter, but there are stories and speculation. All I know is that bad things have happened to people in his company.”
“Like to Gilles Morel at Fort Misery?” I ask.
Quesnel agrees. “Fraser suspected something but there wasn’t any proof. After all, ‘the wilderness — ’”
“‘— is a dangerous place.’ I’ve heard that before.”
“On that point he’s right,” says Quesnel, “so make sure you’re never alone with him. Fraser would let him go for sure even without evidence, but La Malice is an amazing man with the canoe. None better. And Fraser knows he will be useful once we start down the Columbia. Now let’s get back to the cabin. I think you’ve had enough fresh air for one day, don’t you?”
Chapter 22
The long icicles that have hung from the roof since November finally start to melt. The days pass, the snow slowly disappears and trees and shrubs produce small pale green buds. Shoots of fresh grass spring up from exposed ground and the rivers and creeks appear as well, swelling in their freshet, more than one bursting its banks.
I’m splitting firewood with an axe when Fraser approaches. “Well, Mr. Scott, we are leaving for the Columbia soon. Are you still game to accompany me as McGillivray said you were?”
I’d rather go back to England, I think miserably. It’s almost two years since my parents died and I left my sister behind on the Liverpool waterfront. But when I recall my conversation with McGillivray, and the poster he has locked in his desk, I know what the answer to the question must be. “Aye, I’d like to come, Sir,” I say with what I hope passes for excitement.
“Then come with me you shall, Mr. Scott! We leave before the end of the month!”
We depart Fort St. James for Fort George ten days later. La Malice comes along as well. Everyone knows he thinks the mission is a fool’s errand, and has made no secret sharing that opinion, but because he is such an expert with a canoe, Fraser has insisted that he accompany us.
When we arrive at Fort George, we discover to our great delight that not only have Hugh Faries and his two voyageurs survived the winter, they’d even managed to obtain some furs and make friends with the local people who have proven to be more than willing to share their knowledge of the river with Fraser. We spend the next week preparing for the journey and learning what we can about the river ahead, until finally, on the night of May 27, 1808, Fraser addresses us.
“Gentlemen, at dawn we leave on a journey that will protect the Empire, guarantee the survival of our great Company and enhance our own legacies. Sometime during the next six weeks we’ll enter the Pacific Ocean at the mouth of the Columbia, and while we may encounter dangers along the way we will survive them all and be triumphant!”
The men cheer and fire their guns into the dusk sky. “Good luck to us all!” cries Fraser. “The river and our destiny await!”
At dawn, twenty-five men in four canoes leave Fort George. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and with the current slow and steady, the trip is uneventful until four hours or so to the south, when we encounter our first set of rapids.
They prove to be not too formidable, and I love the rise and fall of the canoe and the rush of cold water on my face. It’s exhilarating to fly over the white water, and I could have paddled all day, but when the river slows an hour later, Fraser points towards the bank and directs the canoes into shore for us to rest.
“At least we won’t starve,” says La Chapelle, a short voyageur with a bushy blonde beard. “Deer spoor. There must be plent
y of game around here. I’ll take fresh venison any day over this damned dry fish!”
“We’ll hunt when we can,” agrees Fraser, “but we’ll cache some of our salmon as well. It’s getting a little old to be sure, but we may need it on our return.”
“You mean if we come back,” grumbles La Malice. “If the river or the savages of these parts don’t kill us first.”
“You worry too much, La Malice,” Fraser says, pointing to a small creek that flows into the river ahead. “Do you see that stream? It is hereby named La Malice creek in your honour. Now we have to return, if only so I can put your name on the map!”
After a short rest we return to the water. Two hours later, a cluster of dwellings on a small hill above the river comes into view, reminding us that we aren’t entering an empty land.
“The Nazkoten people live here,” says Duyunun. “Although we are on good terms with them, protocols demand that we ask their permission to pass through their territory.” Fraser agrees and we beach our canoes at the village site. “Get some trade goods from the canoe, Duncan,” says Fraser, “and accompany us to the village.”
Fraser, Duyunun and I walk cautiously up to the houses. Nobody seems to be about as we reach the edge of the small community. “We’ll leave a blanket, a pot and some knives,” says Fraser. “I can’t see them, but these people are around somewhere, I know it. I’m hoping these gifts will show that we’re friendly.”
We place the gifts in a prominent location, return to the canoes and push out into the river. No other villages appear on the shore, and we travel without incident until a few hours further downstream when we hear the dull roar of rapids in the distance. Fraser orders the canoes beached so that we can scout the river ahead on foot. “The water’s very turbulent here, Simon,” says Stuart, after examining the river. “I suggest we décharge.”