The Nor'Wester

by David Starr

  I take a deep breath. Then, remembering Lapointe’s lessons on the way to Fort William, I pour black powder down the barrel, pull a round metal ball from out of the pouch, wrap it with a small piece of fabric and tamp it down the barrel with a short metal rod.

  Stuart watches approvingly as I place more of the gunpowder into a small opening on the top of the gun and cock the pistol. “Aim and fire, correct?”

  “Well done, lad. Now we stand ready to protect our canoe as it passes below.” As we walk towards the Secwepemc, I gaze down apprehensively as La Malice and Baptiste push out into the current.

  “Keep your pistol tucked in your belt unless I tell you otherwise,” warns Stuart. “If we need to protect our friends it won’t be trees we’re shooting at. If you aim that gun at a person then you’d better be prepared to kill.”

  Chapter 26

  Disaster strikes seconds later. The canoe enters the rapids and is quickly pulled by the current into an eddy. It spins wildly about, despite the frantic efforts of its crew to control it. Certain the canoe is about to get sucked under the surface and the men die, I turn away in horror. Even La Malice deserves a better fate than this, but when a cheer arises from the spectators I look back to the river to see that somehow our companions have been spit out of the vortex.

  The canoe continues helter-skelter on its way until Baptiste and La Malice miraculously regain control and manage to force it onto a large flat rock where they stop, clinging precariously to the edge of the canyon wall.

  From far below I hear Fraser shout. “Mr. Quesnel! Rope! Quickly!” I watch as Quesnel takes a length of rope from a canoe then follows Fraser up the path. There is no riverbank here. Quesnel and Fraser must climb to the top of the canyon, to a point overlooking the rock, where Baptiste and La Malice wait anxiously for help.

  Finally in position at the top, Fraser ties the rope to a stout pine tree, throws it over the cliff and then, holding onto the rope, gingerly descends the soft clay bank towards the men. At the bottom he secures the canoe with the rope, then, holding onto the rope again and using his knife to cut foot and handholds into the clay, leads Baptiste and La Malice slowly back to the top.

  The trio inch their way up, and when the exhausted Nor’Westers pull themselves over the edge to the safety of the path, I breathe a deep sigh of relief. The Secwepemc people on the banks break out in wild applause, clearly as pleased as I that our men have survived.

  Fraser faces his audience, bows politely as if he’d put on the show just to please them, then he and Quesnel carefully pull the light birchbark canoe up the cliff to safety.

  “This stretch of the river is impassable,” says Stuart. “I can’t imagine that Simon will be very happy with today’s events.”

  We return to camp, and just as Stuart predicted, Fraser is upset. But Simon Fraser isn’t the only man angry with the day’s events. La Malice and Baptiste warm up by the fire, wrapped in woollen blankets whispering angrily to each other. “That one is up to something,” says Stuart. “We’ll have to watch him like a hawk.”

  A few hours later, a Secwepemc man approaches. After the near disaster, we’re on edge, but the fellow is friendly enough and makes a surprising offer. “The water’s too dangerous to travel on,” he says. “Leave your canoes here and we’ll look after them. We have horses and you may borrow some to help you carry your belongings. The Nlaka’pamux people live downriver. They are our friends and will almost certainly give you canoes when you reach them.”

  Fraser is polite but noncommittal. “Thank you very much for your generous offer. My men and I will consider it and give you our answer in the morning.” Fraser bids him farewell and disappears into his tent with John Stuart in tow.

  “This will be an interesting night,” says Quesnel. “It’s only been eleven days since we left Fort George, and Simon won’t be willing to abandon the Columbia. After all, he’s staked his reputation on this river. Dangers or not, it’s going to take a very powerful argument from Stuart to make him change his mind.”

  Chapter 27

  I shake off the early morning chill and join the voyageurs who huddle sullenly around the fire. “Eat as much soup as you can,” says D’Alaire. “You’re going to need all your strength today, I’d wager.”

  “What are ye talking about?” I ask.

  “I overheard Fraser and Stuart talking early this morning,” he says. “Fraser’s going to accept the offer of horses to help carry our things, but he’s decided he can’t trust these people with our canoes so we’ll be packing them up that cliff and carrying them on our backs for days, no doubt.”

  As if on cue, Fraser emerges from his tent. “Gather round, men, I need to speak to you.” He chooses his words slowly and carefully. “As you know, these people have agreed to lend us some horses, but it will also be necessary to bring the canoes since we simply can’t count on finding any downstream.”

  “I told you,” whispers D’Alaire.

  La Malice is defiant. “And what if we refuse to continue, Monsieur? I nearly drowned yesterday on this fool’s mission.”

  The men fall silent. It’s exceptionally rare for a voyageur to question a clerk, let alone someone of Fraser’s rank. The tension escalates as we wait for a response.

  Fraser clenches his jaw but maintains his composure. “You could leave if you want, La Malice, but you have been hired by the North West Company to do a job so I suggest you see it through.” Fraser’s hand moves deliberately towards his pistol. Instinctively I edge towards Fraser, my own hand inching closer to the knife in my belt.

  “You’re not about to disobey the orders of your superior, are you, La Malice?” asks Fraser coldly, his eyes glaring at the voyageur. “If you did, I’d be within my rights to shoot you on the spot.” The two men face each other, neither prepared to give an inch. After what seems an eternity, La Malice speaks.

  “You’re right, of course, Monsieur. Nobody here is a coward, least of all me. It seems we’ll reach your precious ocean or die trying.”

  La Malice brushes roughly past me. “I saw your hand stray to your belt. Thinking of putting a blade in me were you, whelp? Best keep that knife handy then if I was you — you’re apt to need it before this trip is through.”

  I try to put La Malice’s threat out of my mind when, an hour or so later, the Secwepemc reappear and lead four horses down the steep track to the riverbank. We load the animals with supplies, then prepare to lead them back up the steep track.

  Following Fraser, I take the first horse. Moving slowly and deliberately, I almost reach the top of the canyon when, without warning, the trail gives way under the horse’s hooves. The animal slips, and for a second its weight nearly pulls me off my feet. I grasp the leather strap and hold tight, fighting my own panic as the horse’s bulk drags it towards the edge of the path.

  As the animal’s hooves flail wildly, it whinnies in terror, but just as it is about to fall to its death, the strap holding the bales breaks. Our supplies fall from the horse’s back and plummet down the cliff face, bouncing off the rocks and into the river, disappearing in the turbulent water far below.

  Relieved of the weight, the animal recovers its balance, and with eyes white with fright, sprints up the rest of the path, pulling the harness from my hands. “What did we lose?” yells Fraser from the top of the cliff as the horse hurtles past him, disappearing in the scrub.

  “At least half of our dried salmon and most of our medical equipment!” Stuart shouts up. Fraser curses at the news. The loss of the gear, especially the medicine, is a great blow. The journey can continue without them, but the accident and Fraser’s next command do nothing to ease the mood amongst the men.

  “Unload the other horses,” he orders. “They can carry our things along the trail, but we can’t trust them on this hill. We’ll have to pack the gear up from the river ourselves.”

  “Are you certain, Simon?” asks Stuart. “This won’t make the men happy. A regular portage is one thing but carrying bales on your back up t
his slope is something else altogether.”

  Fraser is resolute. “I don’t like it either, John, but we can’t afford to lose anything else. The men know their roles. Make the order.”

  The voyageurs react with disapproval at the command, but Waccan silences them with a hard stare, picks up the heaviest bale himself and starts up the path. The others follow and within two hours all the bales and our canoes are safely at the top.

  The sunset is beautiful, caressing the western sky with long crimson and orange streaks, but almost none of the exhausted men stay awake to appreciate it. As soon as we eat our meal of cold dried salmon we unroll our blankets and fall asleep. Tomorrow, we know, will be a difficult day.

  Chapter 28

  As Dawn Breaks, Fraser, Stuart, Quesnel and I leave camp and the grumblings of the men behind to scout conditions ahead. The path twists up and down the hills along the roof of the canyon. Even at this early hour, the heat bounces off the ground, making travelling difficult, and I can only imagine how much harder it will be loaded down with gear and canoes.

  As we walk I see something move quickly in the brown grass in front of Fraser. “Simon!” I cry. “By your feet! Look out!”

  With reflexes hardened by his years in the bush, Fraser leaps backwards, falling awkwardly. Stuart pulls out his pistol and fires at a spot on the ground just two yards in front of Fraser, the shot echoing off the rocks.

  “Did it get you?” Stuart asks.

  Fraser hurriedly inspects his feet and legs. “I don’t think so.” The “it” in question is a large, light-coloured snake with dark splotches along the length of its thick body. Not quite dead from Stuart’s bullet, the bleeding reptile twists back and forth on the ground, a strange rattling sound coming from the horned segments at the end of its tail.

  “You’re lucky the boy saw it,” says Stuart, picking up a heavy stick and clubbing the writhing snake until it lies still. “That rattlesnake could have killed you had you taken another step.”

  “Not so lucky, blast it all!” curses Fraser. Although he’s avoided a bite, he’s banged his leg on the edge of sharp rock when he fell, and blood drips freely from the nasty gash. “And of course our bandages fell into the river because of that cursed horse!”

  Fraser tries to stand but I see that his leg is hurting him. He slumps back down. “It seems that we’ve no choice but to remain here for the day; I’m in no shape for a hike now.” For the first time in the voyage Fraser looks defeated.

  “Simon, why don’t Jules, Duncan and I scout ahead anyway?” suggests Stuart, looking to take something positive away from the turn of events. “We’ll help you back to camp and then carry on. We should soon be able to judge whether to leave the canoes here or not. If the river’s as impossible as these people say, there’s no point in taking them any further. Besides, morale’s slipping amongst the men and we need to be mindful of that.”

  Stuart’s idea is sound, and Fraser reluctantly agrees to it. “Take Duyunun, Xlo’sem and his slave. You never know whom you’ll meet out here.”

  We return to camp with the injured explorer. Then, with Duyunun and our guides in front, we set off along the path. Far below, the river foams and roils between the arches and columns of stone that rise gracefully above the brown water. Our leader still refers to the river as the Columbia although the men have recently dubbed it Fraser’s River — a name more and more fitting as the days pass.

  We soon learn that paddling further won’t be an option for some time to come. Here, the river’s nothing but a cauldron of impassable rapids, even wilder than the stretch of water that nearly drowned La Malice.

  “People!” says Duyunun suddenly.

  “Where?” asks Stuart, reaching for his pistol. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Two men beside the tree that sticks out over the cliff. Do you see?” Duyunun’s eyes are sharp. The tree in question is three hundred yards or more down the path. Not until we walk another fifty yards am I able to make out two indistinct shapes in the distance.

  “It’s not wise for all of us to continue,” says Duyunun. “If they feel threatened it could cause problems.”

  “You and I will go,” says Stuart. “The chief and his slave as well since they speak the language.” Decision made, the four travellers set off towards the strangers. Quesnel and I remain, watching as the two groups meet and talk, amicably as far as I can tell. After a few moments Xlo’sem, his slave and Duyunun walk away with the strangers while Stuart returns alone.

  “They are the Nlaka’pamux,” says Stuart. The Secwepemc told us about them and that they are friends with Chief Xlo’sem. “They have invited him back to their camp, but the three of us are to return to Fraser for now. They say it would be too great a shock for all of us to arrive at their village unannounced, and they need a day or two to prepare their people for our arrival. They’ve asked us to wait here until they return.”

  Tired and dusty, we go back to camp and share all that we’ve seen. To no one’s surprise, the injured Fraser grouses at our news, having hoped the river would get better. He’s also unhappy our guides and translators have gone on ahead, leaving us completely unable to communicate with anyone we may meet.

  “Construct shelters for the canoes,” says Fraser. “We’ll leave them here and cache some food and supplies as well. It seems that if we’re to travel on the river again, it will be because of the generosity of those we meet downstream.”

  Waccan, La Malice and I are put to work building a pine bough covering for the canoes. “Fraser’s pushing his luck this time,” says La Malice, not seeming to care that I hear every word he says. “If he expects me to walk to the ocean he’s crazy. I’ll desert before I do that.”

  “Keep your voice down, you fool,” says Waccan. “If you desert you can forget about ever working for the Company again. Besides, if we do survive, there’s bound to be bonus pay.”

  “Bah! You’re as bad as these clerks!” he spits. “A dead man’s share of nothing is all you’ll get if you stay with them. I’m leaving when I get my chance.”

  Then La Malice stares at me in a way that makes my blood run cold. “And if any of you try to stop me, it will be your last mistake.”

  Chapter 29

  My thirst is oppressive. By mid-afternoon of the next day with Stuart and Duyunun still not back, most of our waterskins are empty. We’d expected to encounter many streams, but this arid stretch is utterly devoid of water save for the river, totally unreachable at the bottom of the canyon, far too steep to descend. “Drink,” says Quesnel, passing his own nearly empty waterskin to me.

  “Nae,” I croak through my scorched throat, “I can’t.”

  Quesnel is firm. “We’re certain to find water soon but if you get heatstroke or dehydrate you’ll slow us all down.”

  I drink gratefully, never knowing water to taste so good, as it does now. “Thank ye, Jules,” I say, as the last drops slide down my throat. “I should have saved mine.”

  “Yes, but you’ve learned a valuable lesson, and you don’t need an ‘I told you so.’”

  “Water! Only ten minutes up the path!” shouts Waccan, as if on cue. He has been scouting ahead, looking for streams and has just returned.

  We quickly follow the voyageur. “Ten yards off the path by those bushes! Do you see?” We hurry to the thicket, longing for a cool drink. What we find, however, isn’t fresh water at all, but a noxious pool of a white sulphureous liquid bubbling unappetizingly from the ground. One of the horses sniffs it and snorts in distaste. The animals are as thirsty as we are but they refuse to drink from the pond.

  “Don’t touch it,” orders Fraser, limping to catch up. “That water’s not safe.”

  “Perhaps if we dig nearby we’ll find fresh water,” suggests Jules.

  “I doubt that very much,” says La Malice, “but what do we have to lose?” Waccan digs a hole and water seeps into the hole, but it smells almost as foul as the pond next to it.

  One of the other voyageurs, La Certe,
pushes his way past me and throws himself onto the ground. Half-crazed by thirst, he cups his hands and drinks deeply. Almost instantly La Certe’s face turns white. He spits out the rank water and rolls on the ground, retching and wailing in agony. “Aidez-moi! It burns!” he screams.

  “People!” The cry from Quesnel turns our attention away from our suffering colleague towards the group of people, ten or so, approaching from the south.

  Then we see Duyunun, and his reassuring voice cries out. “Don’t worry! The Nlaka’pamux have come to bring you back to their village!”

  One of the men who arrives with our friend gives La Certe a waterskin. He gulps deeply, the cool clear water rolling down his face, soaking his shirt. “Why would you drink this when there’s a creek of good water just to the south of here?”

  The man is tiny, almost as short as Tinker, but unlike the treacherous peddler he’s young and honest-looking, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. The village is ready for us, we’re told.

  Forty-five minutes later we find the promised stream, flowing clear and cold. We drink deeply, fill our own waterskins and then, refreshed, we continue on our way, stopping shortly before sunset to set up camp. The Nlaka’pamux camp alongside us and have brought us some fresh fish for dinner. I am exhausted, and warm from the fire, I am soon almost asleep with a belly full of fresh salmon. Then I hear Quesnel whispering, “What do you think those two are up to?” The slave and the chief have moved away from the others and talk quietly at the edge of the firelight.

  “Who cares,” I grunt. I am ready for sleep and don’t care much about our guides.

  When we rise in the morning we find that Xlo’sem and his slave have gone. “They left in the middle of the night,” says the Nlaka’pamux man we have dubbed Little Fellow. “They had business back home they said, but wanted you to know that you are most welcome to stay with them on your return.”