Beloît stood with his thighs braced against the gunwales. A cascade of water hit him full in the chest, but he held his footing. Yelling like a warrior, the bowman reached with his paddle and pulled the canoe straight into the next swell.
In the brief calm that followed, Beloît turned to the rear of the canoe. “The kettle, Pierre,” he shouted. It was his duty as the youngest crewman. Pierre bailed while the rest of the men paddled with all their strength.
The waves were getting higher now that the wind had the full force of four hundred miles of open lake behind it. And what was worse, the brigade had to angle across the waves to hold their course for the headland. Charbonneau steered as direct a route as he dared, knowing that the strength of his crew wouldn’t allow a more gradual approach.
Beloît paid careful attention to each wave, shouting “Ship oars” when he wanted the bow to rise with a dangerous swell and yelling “Fall to” when he wanted the paddling to resume.
Quartering into the waves was becoming more dangerous, and turning around and running with the wind to the eastern shore would be suicide. Turning to Charbonneau, Beloît pointed with his paddle. “How about the island?” he shouted through the wind.
There was no answer. Pierre turned. Charbonneau was studying the big island. Shrouded in mist, it was only slightly closer than the headland of Michipicoten Bay. The clear advantage would be a direct upwind course.
“What do you say?” Beloît called again.
Charbonneau stared at the island, and then at the north shore of the bay. Emile and several other crewmen turned now, but no one spoke. There would be no survivors if they swamped.
Finally Charbonneau nodded. “Signal McKay!”
All five canoes turned upwind and headed straight for Michipicoten Island. They were no longer in danger of broaching, but they still had to struggle against the waves.
Emile offered to take a turn with the kettle, while Pierre paddled again. Numb with cold and fatigue, Pierre’s mind floated back to his church in Lachine. The candles were lit. The altar cloth and flowers were in place. Yet the only people in sight were Pierre and Celeste. Wearing a blue lace dress, she was standing in front where the priest should be. Her hair was tied back with white ribbons, and she smiled at Pierre. Just then the door opened and Father Michel, dressed in his Sunday robe, ran up the aisle, hurrying like a small boy who was late for school. Celeste’s face darkened. The priest turned, and Pierre was shocked to see it was not the priest but the town doctor. He held out a huge pair of silver shears toward Celeste. Pinched between the tip of the bright blades was Pierre’s father’s severed thumb.
Pierre lurched forward. Ignoring the command to ship oars, he’d taken a paddle stroke in empty air.
“Whoa!” Charbonneau exclaimed, reaching with his paddle to keep Pierre from pitching sideways out of the canoe. “Stay in the saddle, son.”
Just then there was a sickening crack amidships, as the canoe was caught on double crests and lifted both bow and stern. Had the seams split? Despite the bailing, the water in the canoe was now rising over the top of Pierre’s moccasins.
An hour of paddling finally brought them into partial calm. The rain stopped, too, as they neared the island, but by now three men had to bail. With fewer men paddling, the water poured in even faster.
Pierre saw that the other canoes had reached shore, but they were still a quarter of a mile out. Must we die so close to a lee shore? he thought.
Beloît wrested another kettle from a pack and set one more man to bailing. They worked furiously, but the gunwales sank ever closer to the surface of the water.
La Petite could see their plight from shore and hastily unloaded his cargo. Recruiting four of his men, they soon paddled out to help.
Holding the canoes side by side, Charbonneau’s crew used the last of their strength to transfer the freight from the foundering canoe. Even before the parcels were unloaded, the teasing began.
La Petite looked at the sorry fellows sitting calf-deep in chilly water and chuckled. “You know, gentlemen,” he declared, “it works better to paddle over the lake instead of in it.”
CHAPTER 15
Dégradé
THE SUN REAPPEARED the next morning, but the wind blew with such fury that the brigade was forced to stay on the island another day. For the first time they were what the canoemen called with great loathing dégradé.
For two days there was work enough to keep them busy. They dried out the freight and regummed their canoes, but by the third day of wind, Pierre noticed that any comment could start a quarrel.
When Bellegarde was serving his “soup” that night, the inevitable finally happened. Beloît grumbled as usual about the food. Though Bellegarde normally ignored him, that night he spoke up. “Maybe you like to cook for yourself, Beloît?”
“Any idiot could cook this slop,” Beloît retorted.
“You are one idiot I’d like to see try.”
“Achhh …,” Beloît hacked, spitting into Belle-garde’s ladle and tossing his plate to the ground.
As Beloît turned to walk away, Bellegarde swung his metal scoop and caught the bowman on the side of the head. “Pig!” the cook yelled, as Beloît’s cap flew off and corn and steaming liquid splattered everywhere.
With a roar Beloît charged into the older man, knocking him backward and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. When Beloît cocked his fist, Pierre assumed it would end quickly. But Bellegarde thought fast. Arching his back with all his strength, he turned his head to one side and launched his knee upward.
Beloît groaned as Bellegarde’s bony kneecap caught him in the groin, and at the same time, his fist missed Bellegarde’s chin and hit the ground with a sickening crunch. For the next few minutes there was a flurry of punching.
The men yelled for Bellegarde to “Knock his block off!” or “Smash him good!” Emile and Pierre both jumped up and down, calling encouragement to the cook. Pierre clenched his fist and punched the air, wishing he could smack Beloît for every insult he’d hurled Pierre’s way. Out of the corner of his eye, Pierre even saw that McKay was urging on old Bellegarde.
In spite of all the cheering, Beloît soon emerged on top. It would have ended there if he’d struck a fair blow. Instead, Beloît grabbed Bellegarde by both ears and pounded his head against the ground. La Petite decided this was more than Bellegarde deserved, so he bent down to pull Beloît off.
“He’s had enough now, Jean,” La Petite said.
But Beloît wasn’t through. To everyone’s amazement, Beloît, acting as if he’d gone crazy, jumped up and assaulted La Petite.
La Petite was taken off guard and fell to his knees. Then, to Pierre’s horror, Beloît grabbed a stick of firewood from the pile by the soup kettle and took a swing at La Petite. Traveling with the full force of Beloît’s paddle-toughened arms, the inch-wide piece of driftwood hit La Petite’s head and splintered in half.
Emile yelled, “No!” and Charbonneau and Bellegarde both stepped forward to restrain Beloît. But before they could act, Beloît unleashed a kick at La Petite’s stomach. Pierre lowered his head, sure that the kick would put La Petite down for good.
But when he heard a leathery thwack, instead of the thud of a blow he expected, Pierre looked up. La Petite caught Beloît’s moccasin in his right hand and lifted his foot straight up. Beloît’s shoulders slammed to the ground, with the sound of a beef slab hitting a butcher block. A rush of breath escaped Beloît, but the strength of his rage brought him to his feet.
Beloît lowered his head to charge, but this time La Petite was ready. Pierre saw one fist flash out, and an instant later the attacker was lying unconscious at the base of a pine tree.
Pierre guessed the men would talk for many years about what La Petite did next. Hurrying forward, the big man touched Beloît gently on the side of his neck and then bent to check his breathing.
After he was satisfied that Beloît was uninjured, La Petite called, “A kettle, Pierre.” The men applaude
d when La Petite dumped the lake water over Beloît’s head.
Beloît shook the confusion from his head and extended his hand. “Well struck, little fellow,” he teased.
La Petite shook Beloît’s hand then, laughing at this crazy idiot who had seemed so intent on killing him only moments before. Still chuckling, he said, “You do swing a mean stick, Jean. It’s just like a bowman to mix his work and his pleasure.”
CHAPTER 16
Prettying Up
To PIERRE’S SURPRISE the fight lifted the gloom of the brigade, and once they got back under way, they covered two hundred miles in only three days. Taking advantage of favorable winds, they hoisted their oilcloth tarps and sailed with little help from the paddles. “Bless La Vieille, the old lady of the wind,” Charbonneau declared.
Their final afternoon on Superior they camped only ten miles from Grand Portage. Pierre asked Charbonneau, “Why don’t we just paddle down to the fort tonight?” Though the steersman had been friendly lately, he dismissed this question without a reply, turning instead to prepare his bed.
Even Emile refused to explain, only saying quietly, “Just wait and see.”
The next morning the men rested until well after dawn. When they finally threw off their blankets, they immediately began sprucing themselves up for their arrival at the fort. Pierre was amazed to see men who had been dirty the entire trip suddenly begin to preen themselves with great care. Some bathed. Some washed and combed their hair. The most conscientious in the group even unsheathed their hunting knives and trimmed their beards. The men pulled bright sashes and capots out of their packs and donned them with the deliberation of priests dressing in vestments.
Beloît hadn’t ventured to rinse out so much as a handkerchief on any of their Sunday rest stops, yet he declared this morning his wash day. Before the sun was even full in the sky, the crude fellow stripped off his clothes and waded into the lake. He thrashed his shirts and pants and handkerchiefs around in the icy water, gave them a hasty wringing out, and spread them on the rocks to dry. Except for the dirty cap, which remained perched on his head, Beloît ate breakfast naked. No one seemed to notice or care. Only Mr. McKay bothered to joke, “Trying out a new summer uniform, Jean?”
Once breakfast was over, the men still showed no sign of leaving, so Pierre decided to go for a swim. He walked over to a rock ledge that had a deep drop-off. Peeling off his clothes, Pierre took a short run and leaped feetfirst into Superior. The cold stopped his breath, but Emile and Larocque, who were standing nearby, cheered his performance. Pierre climbed out, chilled to the bone but refreshed.
They left at midmorning, and it felt good to be back in the canoe and paddling at a stroke-a-second voice. Beloît took up a chanson and the others, out of pity for his croaky voice, joined in.
When they rounded Hat Point, Pierre finally saw the fort. He couldn’t believe how simple the rude stockade was. Grand Portage was better known in the banking houses and royal courts of Europe than any other place in the Northwest Territory. His father spoke so reverently of the fort that Pierre had imagined a castle. Yet here it was, a lot of pointed logs stuck in the ground with wigwams and tents scattered around it.
Grand Portage was home to a thousand Ojibwa Indians who built canoes and supplied meat for the company. He also knew it was the rendezvous point for every trader headed west, yet the place looked deserted. There were only a handful of men between the stockade and the beach.
Just then La Petite called to Charbonneau. “How about a race to see who unloads?” Pierre groaned. He was sick of the teasing and sick of having to do everyone’s work when they lost. He hadn’t counted the races they’d lost to campsites and carrying places, but he thought there must have been hundreds. Pierre knew his crew’s losses were his fault, and he was convinced a stronger paddler would have surely made a difference.
“Fall to,” La Petite yelled.
Shouts went up from the canoes, and the men onshore began calling out encouragement. Three canoes pulled ahead, but Charbonneau’s craft held the fourth position until they were only a hundred yards offshore. Then just when Pierre decided they had a chance, the trailing canoe surged past. Knowing they’d lost, Charbonneau’s crew shipped their paddles and coasted to shore.
As they unloaded the freight, Beloît, who was unused to losing canoe races, complained to Charbonneau. “I don’t like the idea of having to carry all these packs just because you got a bunch of milksops in your crew.” Beloît leered at Pierre to lend emphasis to his words.
“Stop whining, Beloît,” Charbonneau countered. “You had a paddle in your hand, too.”
But Beloît wouldn’t quit. “It takes more than one real man to handle a Montreal,” he insisted. As he walked over to pick up his first parcel, he jabbed his elbow into Pierre’s ribs and bumped him out of the way. Pierre nearly fell, but no one said a word.
Feeling totally alone, Pierre picked up a pack and started up the path to the storehouse. Even Emile avoided his eyes. Most of the men trotted as fast as they could up the hill, anxious to get the job done, but Pierre dragged behind. He was convinced his paddling had lost them the race. He thought everyone must be sick of him by now.
To make matters worse, each time Beloît met Pierre going up or down the path, the dark man insulted him. “If that pack’s too heavy for you, madame,” he said one time, “I can get you a hatbox to carry.” Another time Beloît said, “Perhaps we can find you a cane if the hill’s too steep.”
Pierre studied the stockade. He couldn’t believe he’d traveled twelve hundred miles to find a row of log pickets stuck in the mud. For the first time since La Londe’s death, Pierre felt like crying. He returned to the shore and picked up another parcel. Beloît, who had a full load on his back, noticed that his eyes were red. “What’s the matter?” he chortled. “Crying for your mama?”
Ignoring the man, Pierre turned to hurry back up the trail, but Beloît stuck out his foot. Pierre sprawled across the path, and his pack ripped open. A stack of nested kettles fell clanging onto the rocks.
Beloît opened his mouth wide and guffawed. “You dropped your pot, Mother. How will you ever cook supper?”
Seized by a sudden rage, Pierre stood and swung his fist at Beloît. “My name is Pierre,” he yelled, punching Beloît square in the stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of the bowman. He stumbled and lost his footing on the slippery rocks. Then, with his arms wheeling wildly, he pitched backward into the lake.
“Ahhhhhh …,” Beloît bellowed. A column of water flew up, and the men began to laugh.
Beloit’s feet were still on the shore, but the weight of his packs pulled his chest half underwater. He splashed his arms. “Help me, you idiots. Help.”
“Lie still and we’ll try,” Charbonneau offered, stepping forward. “You might consider a please, too,” Emile added.
Beloît bellowed, “Idiots!” but calmed himself when he almost tipped over onto his face. When Charbonneau and Emile finally pulled him out of the water, he shed his soggy pack and walked straight for Pierre.
Pierre felt like bolting for the fort, but he held his ground. With a weird grin, Beloît flexed his fingers. Pierre imagined a huge, knobby fist flashing toward him. Beloît grabbed Pierre’s right hand and pried it open. “Just checking to see if you have a musket ball hidden there. You pack quite a wallop in that fist, Pierre.”
Then there was more laughter, and the hauling was suddenly easier to bear. Pierre grabbed the nearest parcel, grateful to have escaped with his life, and proud that, even though it had taken six weeks of hard paddling, Beloît had finally called him by his rightful name.
CHAPTER 17
Grand Portage
BY THE TIME Charbonneau’s crew finished unloading, the rest of the brigade had tapped a brandy keg. “If you don’t care to pickle your brain,” Charbonneau offered, “I’ll show you the grounds.”
They walked beyond the stockade to the encampment. Pierre was surprised to see two separate camps with a rushing creek
between them. One was for the pork eaters, the men who headed back to Montreal before autumn; the other was for the hivernants, the men who wintered in company outposts to the north.
“Why two camps? Don’t they talk to each other?” Pierre asked.
Charbonneau laughed. Pierre was amazed at how relaxed the man was this afternoon. “They talk just fine,” he answered. “The problem is their talk always leads to fighting. Hivernants like to boast, and the worst of the whole lot are the Athabascans. The company keeps ’em apart so they won’t kill each other.”
Pierre nodded. His father had told him many stories about Athabascans, that company of voyageurs who were legendary for their strength and endurance. Their standard packs were 110 pounds, and they were hired for five-year terms. They bragged constantly and liked to prove their toughness in fights with other voyageurs.
Up the hill behind the fort, Charbonneau stopped and announced grandly, “Here it is, the carry that everyone talks about—the Grand Portage itself.” Pierre looked up the nearly vertical path. “One day,” Charbonneau continued, “you’ll be proud to tell your grandchildren you stood here. Fort Charlotte and the Pigeon River are nine miles off, but what makes the trip so brutal isn’t the distance. There’s a three-hundred-foot rise between here and there. The company tried horses and mules, but they decided it was cheaper to make men lame.”
Pierre imagined the agony of such a carry and was glad to be a mere pork eater. The toughest portage on the Ottawa was nothing compared to this. The hivernants had good reason to brag.
Charbonneau led Pierre toward a maze of birch bark wigwams. “Let me introduce you to a few of my friends,” he said, grinning like a man who’d been too long absent from home.
As they approached the edge of the Indian encampment, two men were wedging a long sheet of sewn birch bark between two rows of stakes that followed the rough outline of a north canoe. One of the men nodded to Charbonneau, but both kept working. Stones were piled on top of the bark sheeting to help form the hull. The men were getting ready to lash the gunwales to the top of the bark with cedar root lacing. “Next they’ll fix the ribs in place,” Charbonneau explained, “and then the thwarts and seats.”
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