CHAPTER 19
Rendezvous
OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Charbonneau asked, “So what’d you think of that dog at Mukwa’s?”
Pierre recalled the critter that guarded Mukwa’s wigwam. It reminded him of his own dog, Pepper. “He was friendly enough.”
Charbonneau laughed. “I don’t mean the one you were petting,” he said, “I’m talking about the one you ate.”
“Ate?”
“What did you think was in that stew you were chucking down so fast?”
Remembering the scrawny mutts he’d seen around the Indian camp, Pierre fought the nausea back. “Dog, eh?”
Charbonneau nodded. “I know it’s hard to get used to, but out here everything is tied to survival. You live off what the land offers: hazelnuts, cattail root, beaver—it all fills the gut. Dog to the Indians can mean pulling a sled, carrying a pack, or meat on the table.”
Pierre was still trying to decide if he thought it was right to eat dog—wilderness or not—after Charbonneau had excused himself and headed for the fur-pressing room.
Later that morning Pierre went for a hike on the hill behind the fort. Skirting the edge of the Indian village, he followed a deer trail that ran parallel to the lake. A short while later he came to a clearing that offered a spectacular view of Superior. Below him a dozen canoes were rounding Hat Point and racing for the fort.
He was staring at the brigade pulling for the fort when a voice startled him. “You like Gitchegammi?”
He turned to find the pretty girl, Kennewah, holding a birch bark basket in her hand and smiling broadly. Pierre felt himself blush.
“You like Gitchegammi?” She repeated in faltering French. For a moment he thought she was referring to the blueberries in her basket, but when he looked down, she shook her head and pointed toward the lake. Pierre nodded, understanding that Kennewah was using the Ojibwa word for Lake Superior.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
Kennewah, still smiling, asked, “You like Kennewah?”
Such directness shocked Pierre. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“You like Kennewah?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said, looking into her dark brown eyes.
When the canoe race below concluded, Kennewah motioned toward a berry patch, inviting Pierre to help with the picking. They turned to walk up the ridge. He thought of offering his hand, but before he could make up his mind, she gave his hand a friendly squeeze and led him to the place where the blueberry bushes were thickest.
Kennewah knelt and, working with both hands at once, began to fill her basket. Rolling her fingers through the low bushes, she filled each palm in a single, graceful motion and dropped the berries into her basket.
Pierre often picked berries with his mother and sister back in Lachine. They always teased him about being a better eater than a picker. When he was little, Mother sometimes threatened to limit him to a single piece of blueberry pie if he didn’t fill his bucket more and his face less.
Today Pierre tried to pick as fast as Kennewah, but he ended up with only a handful of leaves. She giggled in a gentle way that made Pierre chuckle at himself. He smiled when she leaned close to him and touched his hair, saying the French word for white, blanc. He shook his head and tried to explain blond to her, but she only laughed and pushed a huge berry between his lips. He chewed it slowly, savoring the sun-warmed sweetness.
After they were through picking berries, they walked back to the village together. Though their talk was limited to simple French phrases, Pierre was surprised at how much they could say with only a gesture or smile.
CHAPTER 20
Rubbaboo
ON THE MORNING of their departure all five canoes were loaded by three A.M. Lake Superior lay still and silver gray. Pierre knew it was important to start early and paddle hard on the big lake in midsummer, because violent winds often made travel impossible by early afternoon.
As the brigade pushed off from the pier, each voyageur crossed himself and whispered a prayer before he took up his paddle. La Petite, choosing not to disturb the mist-quiet morning with a song, whistled a soft tune instead.
Commander McKay and Emile and the other hivernants had gone north the day before. New hands were hired on to replace those that wouldn’t be returning. The previous morning, Emile had shaken Pierre’s hand before he started up the famous portage and said, “Make sure you don’t beat up Belly Boy too often.” Belly Boy was a nickname Emile had used for Beloît since the day Pierre punched the bowman in the stomach.
“I promise,” Pierre said, laughing. “And you keep your powder dry.”
“Until next year?” Emile grinned, turning up the trail.
“We’ll see,” Pierre called after him.
After McKay checked one last bill of lading, he took Pierre aside and said, “You listen to Charbonneau and La Petite on the way back to Montreal, lad. If you learn as much going home as you did on our outward trip, you’ll be wintering with us soon.”
Then McKay reached in his pack and pulled out a leather-bound book. “I thought I’d loan you a bit of reading material to keep you occupied on the way home.”
Pierre’s eyes widened as he opened the volume to the longest title he’d ever seen: The Journals and Letters of Pierre Gaultier de Varennes de La Vérendrye and His Sons. Pierre had always wanted to read about La Vérendrye, the most famous of all French Canadian explorers.
“Thank you, sir,” was all Pierre had a chance to say before McKay waved one last time to the crewmen he was leaving behind and started up the Grand Portage trail.
That same afternoon Mukwa stopped by their camp to say goodbye. The chief embraced Charbonneau and wished him luck on his “many-days paddle.” Then he turned and pumped Pierre’s arm hard, calling him “my friend’s friend” and saying, “You must visit us again soon. Kennewah wishes you a safe journey, too. Perhaps you will come next season?”
“Tell her to look for me next June,” Pierre replied.
Though Pierre would miss this place, he was glad to be heading back to Lachine. When he thought of Kennewah and her straight-parted hair and shy smile, he longed for the gentler pleasures of home. Tired of smoke and grease and unwashed men, he was looking forward to simple things such as sitting at a clean table and eating a meal of his mother’s roast chicken and blueberry pie, soaking in a tub of hot water, and sleeping on the soft ticking of his old bed.
As the painted prows swung east, Pierre saw the dark eyes of Kennewah and her quiet lodge up on the hill. He would return to Grand Portage. His first journey was made out of duty to his family, but next time he would voyage here on his own account. He’d been thinking a lot about what Mr. McKay had said about tending to his studies. If he could use his schooling to secure a place as an officer of the company someday, that would give him the best of both worlds. He could learn and profit and adventure all at once.
One by one the paddlers began their steady dip and pull.
“So what do you think of our new boat, Pierre?” Charbonneau asked proudly.
“It looks narrower than our old one.”
“You’ve got a good eye for canoes. It’s speed we want, and just like the clipper ships back East, trimmer is faster.”
“She’s a beauty,” Pierre agreed. As he studied the clean, new ash of the gunwales, he remembered his father telling him how important it was to “pull his own weight.” On the route home he would make up for any weakness he’d shown earlier.
I’ll paddle as I’ve never paddled before, he promised himself. Pierre strained with his arms and shoulders, forgetting that the legs and back are the key. He pulled hard and fast, forgetting that pace is everything to the ca-noeman. Soon he was forced to catch his breath, and before they cleared the harbor, his muscles ached.
Suddenly he was angry with himself. How had he forgotten La Londe and Charbonneau’s advice so soon? When he finally caught the old rhythm, he smiled. Thinking back to his first days on the Ottawa, Pierre soon forgot his p
addle altogether and “cheated” his work by dreaming.
Time passed in a blur. The paddling and pipe stops fell into their familiar pattern as the sun tracked its way across the sky. A western breeze came up by midmorning and helped push them on.
Anxious to take advantage of the conditions, La Petite and Charbonneau kept the rest stops short. “Work your blades, boys,” one or the other would sing out, “when the Old Lady of the Wind smiles, it is a sin not to fly.” Scorning the pleasant weather as he scorned all things, Beloît was silent.
By early evening they’d traveled nearly seventy miles. Then Charbonneau steered his boat alongside La Petite’s and called out, “That’s Nipigon Point just ahead. Should we call it a day?” Pierre’s heart thrilled at the prospect of rest.
“Fine with me, Charbonneau,” La Petite replied, sculling his oar with practiced ease.
“Though these fellows haven’t pushed the issue,” Charbonneau said, motioning with his paddle toward his crewmen, “I know they’re itching to test the speed of their boat.” Pierre turned angrily. He couldn’t believe the man would suggest a race after they’d paddled for fourteen hours.
“I thought, maybe, you got beatings enough on our first trip to last you all the way back home?” La Petite teased.
“But this is a new canoe.”
“Your men are the same, Charbonneau. Don’t kid yourself. The canoe doesn’t paddle itself.” Then, turning to his crew, La Petite continued, “What you say, fellows? Shall we give these amateurs a lesson?”
A moment later all five canoes were racing for Nipigon Point.
Pierre paddled without enthusiasm. He thought, Why not just save our strength for carrying the firewood and for taking the teasing that is sure to follow?
It wasn’t until they were halfway to shore that Pierre finally became excited about the race. La Petite’s canoe was just off their port bow and opening up a half-length lead. Beloît turned to check the progress of the other three craft. Pierre assumed that the rear canoes were getting ready to pass them, as they usually did in the middle of a race, but Beloît grinned and yelled, “Pull, ladies, pull. We bury them.”
Pierre turned, and to his astonishment saw that their canoe was two lengths ahead of the next one. In his moment of inattention, he splashed the man ahead of him and nearly dropped his paddle in the lake. “Paddle, La Page,” Charbonneau said, and cursed.
Pierre whirled his blade. Here was their chance to avenge six long weeks of losing. As La Petite’s canoe pulled ahead by a full length, the big man turned and teased them, doffing his cap and waving goodbye as if he were about to board a fancy carriage.
“Let’s learn them not to celebrate so soon,” Charbonneau called.
Beloît yelled, “Yes! Yes!” as the men pursed their lips and pulled for all they were worth.
Charbonneau’s canoe closed to a half a length and was still gaining when La Petite glanced back, expecting to find a safe distance. Shocked, he took a big, sweeping stroke with his steersman’s paddle and yelled, “Press hard, fellows!”
Pierre saw that two of La Petite’s crew were startled by the sudden shout and missed their strokes. La Petite yelled again, but Charbonneau’s men pulled all the faster.
Though La Petite won by a paddle length, Pierre was elated to see the final canoe in the brigade still a hundred yards offshore.
“So what do you think of the new boat now, Pierre?” Charbonneau said with a smile as he stepped into the water and turned their craft parallel to the beach so that the middlemen could unload.
“It’s hard to believe it can be that much faster.”
“It is not all the canoe. When you paddle a bad boat it builds big muscles.” Charbonneau squeezed Pierre’s biceps and made his eyes go wide. “Now we are ready for the races.”
Charbonneau’s crew had their canoe unloaded before the last craft arrived. Standing with his arms crossed, Charbonneau claimed bragging rights. He waited until the last canoe pulled in, and then he waited still longer. When the men were convinced he wasn’t going to speak at all, he yawned, like a man who had been waiting too long in the sun. “Could you tell me, gentlemen,” he asked, “why soup tastes sweeter when it is warmed by another man’s wood?” Laughter echoed up and down the beach.
That evening Pierre was surprised when Bellegarde made a delicious concoction called rubbaboo for supper. Made from pemmican and flour and a bit of sugar, it was rich in flavor compared to their ordinary ration of salt pork and corn. When Pierre noticed that La Petite had taken a place at the head of the line, he teased him. “Not only is our famous steersman fast on the water,” Pierre said, “but he is quick to get at the cooking pot.” The crewmen laughed.
“Hush up and eat, La Page,” La Petite countered.
“Forgive me, sir,” Pierre said, “but I am only a poor student, learning how to paddle my canoe.”
As Bellegarde ladled up generous portions of his specialty, the men were quick to show their praise. “You are an artiste with a cooking pot, monsieur,” Charbonneau said as he watched the greasy little man load his plate, “and your intelligence is surpassed only by the quality of the company you keep.”
“Pouring it on a bit thick, aren’t you, Charbonneau?” La Petite called out from across the fire.
“Talent needs praise to flourish.”
“Why don’t you tell the truth,” La Petite insisted, “and admit that you’re just happy to see someone else gather the wood for once?” Several of the company seconded the comment. “Besides, Charbonneau,” La Petite continued, “you forget I wintered with you up on the Red River and—”
“I defy you to—”
“And,” La Petite continued, “I got plenty sick of your whining about the rancid buffalo fat and rotten ser-viceberries that were bagged in the name of pemmican.”
“But this,” Charbonneau insisted, “is finer and more delicate fare. Anyone can tell.”
La Petite caught Bellegarde’s attention, asking, “Where was this pemmican made?”
There was a pause while Bellegarde thought. “I believe McKay said it came from Pembina.” The men, knowing that Pembina was a post on the Red River, instantly burst into laughter.
Pierre stared at his plate. The black fibers that he’d assumed were strands of dried buffalo meat looked suspiciously like hair. He leaned in La Petite’s direction and whispered, “Is there ever hair in pemmican?”
“Is there water in a lake?”
Pierre frowned. “What sort of hair would it be?”
La Petite was still catching his breath from his hard laugh. “It depends. It might be buffalo, coyote, prairie dog, human—who knows? Sometimes it might be a mix of several kinds of critters.”
Pierre looked down at his plate again. He was hungry for something simple like boiled corn.
CHAPTER 21
Homeward Bound
THE GOOD WEATHER held for their entire traverse of Lake Superior. “Let’s push, men,” Charbonneau or La Petite urged each morning as they noted the clarity of the sky. Remembering the near disaster on Michipicoten Bay, Pierre understood their anxiety on the big lake. Charbonneau reminded them of their good fortune each day, saying, “You must say the right prayers, fellows.”
Pierre’s muscles adjusted quickly to the familiar work of paddling. He enjoyed the portage-free travel and pulled from pipe stop to pipe stop like a veteran. When time allowed in the evening, Pierre read La Verendrye’s book. The distances the famous explorer traveled in establishing dozens of French trading posts made Pierre’s journey seem small by comparison.
Charbonneau talked more than usual, admiring their progress often and saying, “The lake is a holiday, no?” or “We forget how to portage, maybe, with so many days of easy work, eh?” Pierre agreed with a nod or smile, holding to the steady motion that drew them ever closer to home.
The brigade passed through Sault Sainte Marie in a festive mood. Each clear, bright day the chansons of the canoemen echoed up the rocky shore of Huron. It wasn’t unt
il the brigade neared the French River that a gloomy silence descended.
Long before they reached the river mouth, the canoemen saw La Londe’s red marker high up on the hill. They shipped their oars for a moment and floated across the still water. Doffing their caps and bowing their heads, the men crossed themselves and offered silent prayers.
Pierre remembered the broken blade La Petite had retrieved that afternoon. As he recalled the searching faces and the darkening water, the old emptiness rose up inside him. No matter how hard or how often he thought of that day, there was no way he could make sense out of it.
Halfway up the French River, the brigade took a pipe stop. Pierre sat at the base of a tall pine and drew out the knife La Londe had given him.
He was whittling a stick when Charbonneau sat down next to him, saying, “I’ll bet it has beautiful balance.”
Charbonneau hefted the knife by its bone handle and nodded. “Just like every one he ever made.” He handed it back to Pierre and leaned against the pine trunk, taking a deep pull on his pipe.
“I know it’s hard,” he continued. “Every single one of us misses him. But it’s a part of what we accept on the trail. It can happen to anyone—me and you included—at any minute.”
Pierre nodded, grateful to the steersman for offering comfort. Then Charbonneau asked, “Did your father ever tell you the Tale of the Lost Child?”
Pierre shook his head.
“It’s an old Indian legend. Everyone who’s paddled the French has heard it. According to the story, an Ojibwa family was camped right here in this grove. A boy who was playing by the river slipped off that ledge”— Charbonneau pointed toward the river as he spoke—“and he vanished without a sound. The family searched the bank and paddled downriver, calling his name, but there was no sign of him.”
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