The Broken Blade

by William Durbin

  “That’s all there is to it?” Pierre asked.

  “Just a few days drying and she’ll be ready to caulk.”

  Pierre looked at the graceful lines of the hull. He guessed the finished craft would be around twenty-five feet long. “Are the north canoes faster than a Montreal?” Pierre asked.

  “Not only faster, but easier to portage and maneuver. The Ojibwa have been perfecting these boats for centuries. You can run white water that would stave in a lake canoe.” Charbonneau was tracing the curve of the hull as he spoke. “Why, I remember one day when we were running the Namakan River …”

  Suddenly there was a war whoop behind them. Pierre whirled to see a tall Indian smothering Charbonneau in his arms. At first Pierre thought his companion was being attacked, but then he saw Charbonneau grin. As he squeezed Charbonneau tight, the Indian sang out, “Charbonneau, you old bone shaker.”

  They pushed each other back to arms’ length, and Charbonneau had a chance to speak. “So how was your winter, Mukwa?”

  Pierre had never seen anything like Mukwa. To keep from laughing, Pierre covered his open mouth with his hand. The brave wore a wide-brimmed hat with a sash wrapped around the crown, holding three ostrich feathers high above his head. A silk handkerchief was tied at his throat, and a red checkered shirt showed beneath his blue waistcoat. Lace was pinned to the shoulders and sleeves of the coat, and he wore dark burgundy knee breeches. Though he didn’t wear shoes, Pierre noticed a gray sock on one foot and a red one on the other, each held up by a silk garter.

  “You know the winters, my friend,” Mukwa replied. “The game goes a little farther out each year, but we survive.” The Indian spoke excellent French. He grabbed Charbonneau by the shoulders again. “It is good to see you, Charbonneau.”

  They squatted on the ground and visited awhile longer, sharing news of the past year. After Charbonneau explained La Londe’s death, he said, “We better get back to the fort and report in.”

  “I understand,” Mukwa said. “But you must promise to feast with us before you leave this place.”

  “I’d be flattered.”

  “We will talk of old times,” he said, “and bring your little friend. He can meet my daughter, Kennewah. Now off with you.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Pierre showed his anger at being called a “little friend.” “Where did he ever get an outfit like that one?” he sneered.

  “He’s the chief, and he wears what he wants.”

  “A chief called Mukwa?”

  “Mukwa means ‘bear’ in Ojibwa,” Charbonneau explained patiently. “The bear is a powerful spirit. As a member of the Bear Clan, he could tell you many stories, but according to custom, winter is the only season to share the old legends.” He stopped. Since La Londe’s death, Charbonneau’s gruff, military manner had softened, and Pierre appreciated the way he often went out of his way to explain things.

  “But I always thought Indian chiefs wore headdresses and buffalo robes,” Pierre said.

  “Mukwa wears what his people regard as the finest dress of the civilized world. Bright clothes are a sign of wealth. The traders encourage it, too—they’re always willing to swap a bit of lace or a handkerchief for pelts. So the chief gets a bit gaudier every year.”

  “Do all the chiefs dress like that?”

  “No.” Charbonneau chuckled as he replied. “Though you do run into a showy fellow now and then, farther inland the Indians dress as they always have. The men wear breechclouts, beaded leggings, and moccasins. The women …” He paused for the slightest moment. “The women wear the softest doeskin shifts you could ever imagine. They’re all decorated with tiny beads and colored grasses and quills. In winter they wear rabbit-skin robes.”

  Charbonneau looked at Pierre’s intent face. “We’d better check in with McKay before he decides we’ve run off to parts unknown.”

  As they made their way back down the rocky hillside, Pierre tried to picture an inland village such as Charbonneau described. The dark-eyed women in their beaded doeskin dresses sounded like perfect visions from a dream.

  As they neared the stockade, Pierre saw that Grand Portage had come alive. Though only two dozen men had greeted them that morning, there seemed to be a thousand people milling around the stockade now. Charbonneau scoffed, “Looks like the rascals have crawled out of bed. All it takes is the scent of rum to roust them out.”

  That night a magnificent banquet was held in the great hall. Traders, clerks, and interpreters crowded along plank tables heaped with honey-glazed ham, venison, smoked trout, bread and butter, peas, Indian corn, potatoes, and fresh milk. Mr. McKay and the other North West Company officials sat at a head table, but except for some fancy bottles of wine, their fare was no better than that of the men from the brigades.

  Six weeks of corn and salt pork had left Pierre ravenous for real food. Of all the elegant dishes placed before him, he savored the garden peas and milk most of all. He’d scorned vegetables back home, but the sweet, buttery flavor of the fresh-picked peas stirred his senses to a level of delight only surpassed by the thick, cream-topped mugs of milk. When his belly was full, Pierre sat back, a picture of contentment. From across the table, Emile gave him a broad grin and said, “Do you suppose we could get Bellegarde to stop by the kitchen for lessons?”

  “They’d throw him out on his ear,” Pierre said, chuckling.

  “Or at least make him take a bath first,” Emile added.

  As soon as the meal was over, Pierre was surprised to see the men carry the tables to the far end of the room. A bagpipe, fiddle, and flute appeared; and just as the music started, some young Indian women showed up at the door. Dressed in their Sunday best, the men picked out partners and bowed.

  Beloît, being slower than his mates to notice the women, nearly trampled two fellows en route to the door. Displaying a cavalier spirit, he dropped to one knee before the lady of his liking.

  Pierre watched with pity, imagining the horror that would fill the girl’s eyes when Beloît lifted his scarred face.

  “Watch this,” Pierre whispered to Charbonneau. “That girl will scream for sure when she sees his ugly mug.”

  To Pierre’s surprise, the pretty girl smiled and nudged the friend beside her. When Beloît offered his arm, he and his chosen promenaded proudly to the dance floor.

  “Did you see that?” Pierre was shocked.

  “What? Beloît and the girl?”

  “Yes. She’s so pretty and he’s …”

  “An awful mess,” Charbonneau offered, chuckling at Pierre’s astonishment. “It’s a different world up here. Scars are a fact of life in the wilderness. They’re badges of honor—tokens of a life lived hard and well.”

  Pierre was still shaking his head in disbelief when he felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned to see a pretty Indian girl standing beside him. When she said something in Ojibwa to Pierre, Charbonneau burst out laughing.

  “What did she say?” Pierre asked, embarrassed by the sudden attention.

  “She says she wants to dance with the handsome young Frenchman,” Charbonneau translated. “Apparently all the young girls are talking about you. They like your blond hair and your big muscles.”

  “I thought you were an honest steersman,” Pierre said.

  “That’s what the lady said.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Believe what you want,” Charbonneau replied, “but be polite. She’s waiting for an answer?”

  “Ah …” Pierre was flustered. “Tell her that I don’t know how to dance.”

  Charbonneau grinned. He turned to the girl and spoke.

  When he finished, she took Pierre’s hand and led him onto the floor. Pierre glared back at Charbonneau, who grinned innocently. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I only told her that you love dancing even more than paddling your canoe.” He laughed then as Pierre disappeared among the whirling men and women.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mukwa’s Wigwam

  “HOW LON
G WILL we be staying at the fort?” Pierre asked Charbonneau the next morning.

  After complaining about “too many questions before breakfast,” Charbonneau explained that their layover would last a week. He told Pierre the crew would reassemble, less McKay and several others who were taking the trade goods north. The Montreal canoes would bring baled furs back to Lachine, while the north canoes headed into the wilderness.

  During his vacation from paddling, Pierre wandered through the fort and encampments. Though he ran an occasional errand for Charbonneau or La Petite, he had a lot of free time. Mainly he listened to the old-timers and learned as much as he could about the century-old trading system of the Northwest Territory.

  One afternoon Pierre was helping La Petite sort through a load of trade goods. The big fellow tossed him one of the famous North West trading muskets to put on the gun rack. “Be careful,” La Petite cautioned. “You’re holding twenty plus in your hands.”

  Pierre looked at the brass side plate of the gun with its familiar etched dragon and shook his head. “How can you keep track of all those pluses?”

  “Why, it’s simple, lad,” McKay answered. “They’re trading credits. One plus equals one prime beaver pelt. All our company men use the same formula. As each season begins, they give the Indian trappers credits based on the value of a prime beaver pelt. A butcher knife is worth one plus, a woolen blanket eight, a North West gun twenty, and other things like kettles, hatchets, ironworks, cloth, and needles all have their own values.”

  “You give the Indians trade goods before they even bring in furs?”

  “Aye,” McKay responded. “It’s all based on trust. I’ve seen some cheating done, but the whites mainly author it. If you give an Ojibwa a rifle in the fall, you can count on twenty pelts come spring.”

  “But what about other furs?” Pierre asked.

  “If a prime beaver hide is one plus, a silver fox or a good bear hide can be worth three or even four plus. Some are worth a lot less. It might take eight muskrat hides to equal a single plus. It all depends. Even the grade of beaver can vary. The finest we call winter-greased beaver. It’s caught in cold weather when the pelt is prime. Then it’s worn by the Indians until the long hairs fall out, leaving it velvet soft. Why so much interest in the trade?” McKay inquired. “Are ye thinking of wintering with us some season?”

  “Me? In an outpost?” Pierre reddened at the thought of becoming an hivernant.

  “Aye. And if you don’t like the bull work, tend to your studies—we need a lot of smart fellows to keep track of the money that pours in and out of the frontier.”

  McKay turned away. Pierre felt proud that his commander thought him smart enough to work as a clerk someday. When he considered the weight of a quill pen compared to a paddle, maybe schooling made sense after all.

  The trade item that McKay didn’t mention was the one that caused the most trouble: rum. On only his second afternoon at the fort, Pierre watched as two fellows who’d been drinking got into an argument over a woman just outside the stockade. It looked like an innocent squabble until one of the men pulled out a knife and jabbed it into his rival’s kneecap. The wounded man stabbed the other fellow twice in the chest.

  The speed of it was dumbfounding. The braves were standing in the sun talking, and an instant later one was bleeding to death in the dust. With the help of his friends, the man with the gashed knee limped home, while the other was carried to the dispensary to die.

  Later that day, the brother of the dead man, a boy of only ten, went to the house of the man who’d killed his brother. He pushed the muzzle of a North West gun through the doorway and pulled the trigger.

  There were two funerals the next day. Pierre got a glimpse of one of them when he and Charbonneau were walking to Mukwa’s for dinner. Charbonneau paused in front of a crowded wigwam.

  Through the doorway Pierre saw a number of Ojibwa, both male and female, clustered around the corpse. They were drinking and crying. One man sat at the feet of the corpse, staring into space, while a woman knelt at the head of the body and sobbed, pouring liquor down the dead man’s throat.

  “What are they doing?” Pierre whispered.

  “I’m not sure.” Charbonneau shook his head. “Maybe they think the dead are just as fond of rum as the living.”

  They walked on. Pierre asked how he’d met Mukwa.

  Charbonneau chuckled. “That’s a strange one. I found him one winter near an outpost up on Lake Vermilion about nineteen or twenty years back.” Charbonneau paused. “He was just a boy, lying half dead in the snow. A Sioux war party had killed his entire family. Though Mukwa had a musket ball in his shoulder and another in his leg, he crawled across some thin creek ice and escaped. I built a fire to thaw him out and hauled him home on my dogsled. After I dug the lead out with a skinning knife, I waited for him to die, but he toughed it out. Following the custom of his people, he’s been forever grateful.”

  When they arrived at Mukwa’s wigwam, Pierre was impressed by the quiet order. His wife, three children, and aged mother all greeted the visitors with polite nods, but they left the talking to the chief.

  The meal was superb. The courses included roast venison, wild rice flavored with maple sugar, smoked trout, and a delicious stewed meat served in laced vessels molded out of white birch bark.

  As much as Pierre enjoyed the food, he couldn’t help admiring Mukwa’s oldest daughter, Kennewah, who passed dishes to the guests. Pierre expected the whole family to be dressed in gaudy clothing like their father, but Kennewah wore a simple white doeskin dress. Her eyes were deep brown and soft.

  Kennewah’s gentle and quiet manner reminded Pierre of Celeste. It had been six weeks since he’d talked to a person his own age. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but the boldest thing he brought himself to offer was a smile.

  A baby, who was about the same age as Pierre’s little sister Claire, sat across from him during the meal. Whenever Pierre winked at the child, he grinned broadly.

  “Kewatin has found a friend,” Mukwa commented, proud that his guest paid attention to his young son.

  Charbonneau and Mukwa spent the evening talking about old times. La Londe’s name came up more than once. It was clear he’d been a good friend to them both. Pierre listened quietly, but when Mukwa called La Londe Snake Bite, Pierre asked why.

  Charbonneau grinned. “He was deathly afraid of snakes. It’s funny, too, ’cause none of us ever knew it until we went on a scouting trip down the Red River one spring. Mukwa was our guide. We were checking out the trading possibilities, and things were going along fine until we camped on a feeder stream of the Red one night. It was a low, boggy area, but we couldn’t afford to be choosy since it was getting dark. We’d no sooner pitched our tent and crawled under our blankets when La Londe let out a yelp and jumped up. A snake had tried to crawl up his leggings. We all laughed. It was just a harmless water snake, but La Londe was so riled up he nearly pulled the tent down. To calm him we lit a tallow candle and searched the bedding. Altogether we found three or four of the little rascals.”

  Pierre shuddered at the thought.

  “We threw the snakes out the door, tied the flap down tight, and got La Londe settled in. Everything would have been fine if Mukwa here hadn’t played the funny man and given La Londe’s big toe a hard pinch. Poor fellow jumped up again, yelping, ‘I’m bit. I’m snakebit.’

  “‘There’s nothing to worry about, La Londe,’ Mukwa said. ‘Them’s just water snakes, livin’ in those old graves down by the river.‘”

  “After that comment”—Charbonneau shook his head and grinned—“he was too spooked to even think about sleeping. Poor fellow sat up the rest of the night staring at the tent flap with his blanket wrapped around him, muttering, ‘Snakes in graves.’”

  “He caught up on his sleep the next day,” Mukwa added.

  “La Londe could take a passable nap in the saddle,” Charbonneau said, chuckling. “He only fell off his horse twice all day.”<
br />
  “But that’s what ended up saving our skins at the end of it all,” Mukwa said.

  Charbonneau nodded. He and Mukwa sat in silence a moment, pondering something that had happened long ago, but the talking was done.

  A short while later Charbonneau and Pierre thanked Mukwa for his hospitality. Mukwa gave Charbonneau a hug, and Pierre bowed politely to both the chief and his family. On the way back to the fort, Pierre’s curiosity got the best of him. “What did Mukwa mean by La Londe saving your skins?” he asked.

  Charbonneau didn’t answer right away. He began with a sigh. “The next day we were coming up on a ridge when La Londe, who’d been snoring for at least a mile, tumbled off his horse. Mukwa and I dismounted to help him, when we heard some commotion just ahead. We tethered our horses and belly-crawled up a hill. Below us was a Sioux war party, marching south. A string of ponies stretched around the ridge and clear out of sight. The faces of the warriors were splattered with grime and blood. Scalp poles were slung over their shoulders. A long, blond cascade of hair dangled from one pole, and we were close enough to see a pearl comb still tucked in place. It turned your stomach.”

  He took a deep breath. “But the worst was the three little golden locks of hair on the next pole. Before we knew it, La Londe cocked his North West gun and drew a bead on a Sioux. It would have been suicide, but I thought he was going to fire.

  “After the last warrior passed, La Londe still lay there, his gun cocked, sighting on the horizon. There were tears running down his cheeks.”

  Pierre was still thinking of La Londe when Charbonneau changed the subject. Charbonneau whispered, “Look,” and pointed toward the waning moon. Below its slender arc, star-flecked Superior stretched farther than Pierre could see. At that moment as they stood alone in the silvery dark above the fort, Pierre remembered that he was halfway home.