Aurora’s look over her shoulder was mocking. ‘So you like red meat.’
‘I’m not getting any white, am I?’
‘Partnership, Mr Gage, partnership.’
‘I’m just curious, like any man.’
‘I’ll bet you are, American. Stay away from them, if you value your life.’
‘What does that mean?’ It pleased me that she even bothered to warn me off.
‘Come to camp. You’ll see.’
We broke out of the last trees to the bright light of the lake shore. The large Indian canoe was drawn up, its warrior occupants making a fire separate from that of the voyageurs. There were six braves, shirtless in the sun and wearing breechclouts and buckskin leggings. They squatted like grasshoppers, easy but powerful. Their muscles gleamed from grease applied to ward off blackflies.
The man I’d assumed was a British officer was also an Indian, I realised. His black hair was pulled back and adorned with an eagle feather. Unlike his companions he wore a faded British military coat, the brass of its buttons worn but shiny. I wondered where he’d got it.
This chief, if that’s what he was, was conferring with Lord Somerset, and his regal bearing was a match for the aristocrat, reminding me again of Brant and Tecumseh. Unconquered tribal leaders had poise and panache, it seemed. His eyes were dark, nose strong, and lips set in a curl of slight cruelty. His muscles that I could see were as taut as the banded strands of a warship’s hawser. His gaze flashed with recognition when he saw Aurora and, disturbingly, the same look of recognition stayed when his gaze turned to me. Had he been at one of the forts? Surely I’d recall him.
‘The goddess Diana returns with her kill!’ Cecil called in greeting, smiling.
‘The deer is not all we found,’ she said.
‘Oh.’
‘Squaws washing in a pond. Red Jacket’s?’
‘Slaves. An Ojibway gambled them away. Red Jacket is taking them to Grand Portage and then to his village.’
‘Ethan was transfixed.’
‘I shouldn’t blame him. The one’s a beauty.’
‘Pah.’
‘Ethan, my cousin has made you a bloody packhorse, it seems!’
‘She has the rifle,’ I tried to joke. In truth, I was embarrassed. My determination to bed her had allowed Aurora Somerset to lead me by the nose like a bull, but now there were these other women. Hadn’t Pierre said to take a squaw?
‘Well, you’ll be newly popular,’ Cecil said. ‘All the men like fresh venison.’
‘Including your new guests?’
‘This is Red Jacket, a chief from the western end of the lake who is Ojibway on his mother’s side but Dakota on his father’s – the product of two historic enemies, and thus most unusual. His mother was captured and brought him up knowing both tongues. He travels widely and fights well. I was hoping to meet up with him, but with the storm, I wasn’t sure. He knows the west – knows the country you’re headed for, perhaps. He can serve us both! They took refuge on an island west of here and then paddled down this morning looking for us.’
‘Greetings,’ I said, holding out a hand.
The chief said and did nothing in reply.
‘He wears an officer’s coat?’
‘Yes, striking, isn’t it? Probably best not to ask him how he got it. I don’t think it was a present, and I hope it never wears out so he begins eyeing my clothes.’
‘But you trust him?’
‘Implicitly. Red Jacket makes no secret of where he stands, or what he wants. His appetites are plain.’
Including venison. The meat restored us, and we spent the rest of the day at what we called Refuge Bay, bathing, stitching, patching, and eating. Aurora returned my rifle, complimenting it if not me, and she’d cleaned it, too. The two women I’d seen appeared dressed modestly in buckskin, their eyes downcast and their manner obedient. If they were embarrassed at being seen at their bath, they didn’t show it.
Pierre came over. ‘The pretty one is named Namida, or ‘Star Dancer’ in the Ojibway tongue,’ he whispered quietly, squatting while he smoked his pipe. ‘It’s a name given by her original captor. The other is Little Frog. They were taken by these scoundrels after gambling at the Sault. There was a whiskey fight, and Red Jacket here delivered the coup de grace to her first owner with a tomahawk. They’ll be taken to his band to be slaves until some buck asks for one of them. The tribes are always looking to replenish their depleted numbers. Too much war and disease.’
I studied the pair with interest, willing them to look up. Namida finally glanced my way as she stooped to do camp chores, and I more than glanced back. She was a woman of about twenty with hair as lustrous as an otter pelt, and she carried herself with grace. She was light for her race, but had the high cheekbones and generous mouth of the tribes, her smile a piercing white, her throat decorated with a porcupine bead choker, a silver coin on one ear. Her arms were bare and smooth, her calves taut, and her figure – well, I’d already seen that. She was as different from Aurora Somerset as a wild pony from a racetrack thoroughbred, but had fire of her own, I guessed. I knew it was partly my longing for my lost Egyptian woman, Astiza, who had a little of the same look, but my God, how lightly her moccasins moved, how bewitchingly her hips swayed, how innocent her averted gaze! She was nothing like the tired native women I’d seen in Detroit. And then she looked at me fully …
‘I thought you didn’t like squaws, my friend?’ Pierre said as my head followed her through the encampment as if on a swivel.
‘She has blue eyes.’
‘Aye, Mandan by the story I heard – or rather their relatives, the Awaxawi – captured as a girl and traded back and forth until she wound up on the Sault. She’s hundreds of miles from her homeland, and probably sees Red Jacket as an opportunity to get a little closer to home. Odd-looking for an Indian, isn’t she?’
‘That’s not an adequate word for such beauty.’ Mandan! Hadn’t mad Tom Jefferson suggested they might be descended from the Norse or Welsh?
‘I thought you were besotted with Aurora,’ Magnus put in. I ignored him.
Aurora was watching our tableau from a distance, disapproving, and I enjoyed paying her back some discomfort. If I could provoke enough jealousy of Namida, maybe the British tease would be more willing to renew our intimacy. I was considering just how to organise my campaign when my gaze was noticed by Red Jacket and he snapped something to Cecil.
The Englishman came over to speak. Aurora was also watching, her look towards the girl malicious.
‘The squaw looks different than her race, doesn’t she?’ Cecil said.
‘I didn’t know Indians had that colouring.’
‘I’ve heard of it and seen it. Welsh, some say. Some Indian words sound Welsh.’
‘Or Norwegian,’ Magnus said.
The aristocrat’s brows rose. ‘Do you think so? Imagine if your distant ancestors came this way! I think I’m beginning to understand your enthusiasm, Magnus. Although if it were the Welsh that settled Namida’s country … well, that would make Louisiana British territory by first right, wouldn’t it?’
‘Or so confuse history that none would have rightful claim at all,’ I said.
‘Stay away from those squaws,’ Cecil warned. ‘I’ve heard the Mandan maidens are positively ethereal in their beauty, the most attractive women on the continent – but this pair is Red Jacket’s property. He has a temper. He might have eaten the liver of the man who wore that coat.’
‘He’s a cannibal?’
‘They all are, when they want to destroy their enemies and imbibe their strength. I’ve seen Indian braves devour hearts and their squaws fry the liver. But if it ever comes to that you’ll long to be eaten, because the pain that comes from the torture before is indescribable. Women like those two there will be the cruellest, and they’ll heat sticks in the fire and insert them in every orifice.’
I swallowed. ‘I’m only looking.’
‘Don’t even look. One does not quarrel with Re
d Jacket and survive. Just ignore them – unless you’ve already tired of my cousin.’
‘Lord Somerset, it is she who seems to have tired of me.’
‘I told you, patience. She favours few men with a hunt.’
‘And favours even fewer with anything else.’
He laughed and walked away, nodding to the Indian chief.
That night I bedded down by myself, tired of pursuing Aurora and tired of my companions commenting on it. I’m not averse to playing the fool when I think there’ll be sweet reward at the end, but there’s a limit to humiliation even for me. The game with Somerset had turned sour, and I decided to swear off women entirely.
Then there was a quiet footfall near my bedroll and a female whisper in the dark, in the French that dominated the fur trade.
‘Sauvez-moi.’ Save me.
Then Namida crept away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We pushed on the next day, hugging the north shore. The lake was cold, the air crisp and flawless, the mountains a glittery granite. I’d thought the French to be tireless paddlers, but the Indians seemed even more so, impatient at our pauses to smoke. But then they, too, would drift alongside to beg twist tobacco to put in their pipes.
‘They’re just in a hurry to get to Grand Portage to drink,’ Pierre scoffed.
‘No, I think they can paddle longer than the great Pierre,’ Magnus teased him.
On and on we stroked across a vast blue universe, my arms and torso turning into twisted steel from this unrelenting labour, day after long summer day. Storms would pen us periodically, all of us dozing in camp as wind and rain lashed our tarps, and then the tempest would pass and we’d go on. At camp each night Namida kept her distance except for an occasional wary, pale-eyed glance, while Aurora was even more aloof now that Red Jacket accompanied our party. It was as if he was a wilderness duke who demanded propriety. She retreated alone to her tent and spoke nothing to the Indian women, nothing to me, and nothing to Red Jacket. Occasionally she sat alongside her cousin to have long, earnest conversations, gesturing towards all of us.
I, meanwhile, wondered if this Namida or her plainer friend, Little Frog, could shed any light on the Norwegian’s mysterious map, given that she came from the tribe and area that interested Jefferson.
My chance came on the fourth day after I first spied her bathing, when I was sitting apart from the others for a moment’s privacy and she came up to shyly offer some corn mixed with molasses. ‘I flavoured it with berries from the forest,’ she said in French.
‘Thank you.’ I ate with my fingers. ‘You come from the west?’
She cast her eyes down.
‘You are Mandan?’ I persisted.
‘Awaxawi, their cousins.’
‘Have you ever heard of Wales?’
She looked confused.
‘Why are your eyes blue?’
She shrugged. ‘They have always been blue.’ Suddenly she leant close to whisper. ‘Please. I can guide you.’
‘Really?’
‘Take me home and my people can help.’
‘You know what we’re looking for?’ Now that would be disconcerting!
‘Your giant’s ancestors left cave pictures of themselves. We have red-hair writing. Old writing on a magic stone. I can help.’
‘A stone?’ I was stunned. That sounded like the inscriptions I’d seen in the Orient! ‘What kind of writing?’
‘We don’t know. It is secret.’
‘Secret? Like a cipher?’
But Red Jacket snapped something at her and she hurriedly retreated.
The fact that she gave her corn mush treat to no other voyageur didn’t escape notice. ‘So now you have a serving wench, my friend,’ Pierre congratulated.
‘She thinks we could help get her back home. She claims her tribe has some kind of old writing. Somehow she surmised we’re going beyond Grand Portage to look for Magnus’s ancestors.’
‘All the camp knows that. Old writing? From where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No matter. She’s Red Jacket’s now.’
‘I don’t see him treating her with any respect.’ I kept eating. The sweet-sour berries added some interesting flavour, and there was also a crunch of seeds. ‘She deserves better. I want to rescue her.’
He laughed. ‘Ah, then her spell is already working!’
‘What spell?’
Pierre pointed to my food. ‘Indian women are well-practised in love charms. The Ojibway swear by the seeds of the gromwell to capture the heart. Oh yes, American, she is bewitching you.’
‘She didn’t need seeds to do that.’ I grinned. ‘Have you watched her hips?’
‘Keep your head, or you’ll lose your hair to Red Jacket.’
I glanced over at the Indian, who indeed seemed to be eyeing my scalp. I made a face at him and he darkened and looked away. Aurora frowned too, which gave me even more satisfaction. That girl had her chance, didn’t she?
Maybe she’d come crawling to me at Grand Portage.
Except that now there was Namida.
As we paddled on, I spied a long, low island on the southern horizon.
‘Isle Royale,’ Pierre said. ‘Forty miles end to end, and dotted with curious pits. You can still see chunks of copper ore and discarded tools. There are old copper mines there, so numerous you wonder what civilisation worked them.’
Magnus glanced up at the bowman.
‘The Indians had copper,’ the voyageur went on, ‘but nothing on the scale of those workings. It looks like enough was dug to arm the warriors on both sides of the walls of Troy. But how would this copper have got to Greece, eh?’
‘Perhaps people have been crossing the Atlantic and trading metal far longer than we guess,’ Magnus said. ‘Maybe my Norse were part of a train of explorers going back to ancient times.’
‘But who boated all this way in those days?’
I couldn’t resist joining in, even though I knew it would only fuel the speculation. ‘The astronomer Corli, and his colleague Gisancourt, speculated that Plato’s allegory of Atlantis was actually a real place, an island in the Atlantic. Perhaps the miners came from there. Trojan refugees. Carthaginians. Who knows?’
‘There, you see?’ said Magnus. ‘This lake has been a highway.’
‘Oui, there are mysteries in this wilderness,’ said Pierre. ‘Not just old pits. Sometimes a man comes across a mysterious mound or a tumbled stone wall in the oddest places. Who built them? But all is silence, no answer but the call of birds. You quest for El Dorado, giant, but no conquistador has yet found it.’
‘Not conquistador, but king,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘How about it, Magnus? Somerset called you royalty. What did he mean by that?’
‘Bloodhammer is an ancient name of a Norse monarch,’ my companion said evenly. ‘I’m proud to say I share his bloodline.’
‘You’re Norwegian nobility, cyclops?’ Pierre asked.
‘For what it’s worth. There’s no independent Norway, according to the Danes.’
Here it was then. My companion did not just want independence for his nation. He wanted to reinstitute Norwegian aristocracy in which he might claim a place. He was not so much a revolutionary as a royalist!
‘So you’re a long-lost king, Magnus?’ I clarified.
‘Hardly. And the lineage of my ancestors is nothing compared to what we’re looking for, Ethan.’
‘And explain again just what are we looking for?’
‘I told you, a golden age that was lost. Secrets of the gods. In every culture there’s a fount of wisdom, a tree of life, and not just an Yggdrasil. In Norse stories, Iduna’s golden apples conferred to the gods everlasting life.’
‘Like a tree in Eden.’
‘Aye.’ He stroked again. ‘And the serpent is like the dragon who guards the golden hoard.’
At long last we saw the masts of an anchored sloop in the shoreline ahead and realised we’d come to the end of t
he lake. The faint wail of bagpipes and fiddles floated across the water, and our Indians began yipping like dogs. We stopped short at a small island to dress ourselves for Rendezvous. The voyageurs donned their brightest clothes, tilted their caps at a jaunty angle, and fixed them with feathers. Lord Somerset cleaned his own boots to a high polish, and Aurora disappeared behind some bushes before emerging in a gown fit for the English court, wrinkled and musty but still stupefying in its sheen. The two Indian women stroked their lustrous hair with wooden combs and painted their lips with juice, and the men were bangled with copper and bone ornaments. Magnus and I trimmed each other’s hair, brushed our greatcoats, and traded worn moccasins for fresh ones. I’d quickly seen the practicality of this footwear: light, silent, and quick-drying.
Then, properly attired, we shoved off again and all six canoes began a race around Hat Point to sprint for the grey-weathered stockade. All of us sang the now-familiar French paddling songs at the top of our lungs, paddles dipping in synchronized rhythm. As we came into view a horn sounded ashore and cannon went off, and as we neared the pebbled beach a tide of trappers, Indians, and bourgeois managers poured down to meet us, cheering, insulting, and firing guns in the air. Great cottony puffs of white smoke blossomed, reports echoing merrily across the bay. Indian braves whooped with cries that raised the hairs on my neck, shaking tomahawks like rattles. Women waved blankets and clashed iron kettles. Cecil, Pierre, and I fired in turn, and Aurora waved her parasol, her green eyes bright with excitement.
Then the bowmen leapt lightly into the shallows and we were ashore, strangers pounding our backs and offering swigs of shrub.
Tents, wigwams, and overturned canoes used as lean-tos were spread on either side of the fort, hazy wood smoke hanging over the encampment like a roof. Music drifted, drums thumped, and the pop-pop of shooting competitions filled the air. I could smell roasting meat, spice, and molasses.
Grand Portage itself was a modest stockade a few acres in extent that contained a dozen sawn-log buildings, gardens of corn, herbs, and vegetables, and sheds for furs and trade goods. Amid the stumps outside where the forest had been logged, a dozen assembled Indian tribes camped with hundreds of visiting voyageurs. A muddy trail wound from the fort up through the slash and into the forest for the eight-mile portage that led to the navigable part of the Pigeon River above its falls. From there, canoeists could paddle upstream to waterways that led west to the fabled Rocky Mountains or north to the Arctic. We were at the continent’s crossroads, the edge of empire between British, American, French, and Indians.
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