Journey: A Novel

by James A. Michener

  ‘And this one will do us?’

  ‘It will,’ and the deal was made.

  But the Germans were honest workmen and they wanted Luton to be satisfied with his purchase, so they sprang about adding small grace notes to an already fine job—an extra inch of coaming all around, double reinforcement for the housing into which the mast would be stepped when the wind made the use of two small sails practical—and when all was done and Luton and his party were summoned to view it, one Schnabel appeared with a brush and a bucket of paint: ‘Now, what’s her name to be?’ Lord Luton looked about with his two hands raised palms up as if seeking counsel, so Trevor Blythe offered a felicitous suggestion: ‘It must be properly English. Perhaps Sweet Afton, in hopes the Mackenzie will flow gently.’ When everyone applauded, Luton was inspired to invite onlookers in the area to a christening spread of wine, cheese, cigars and such sweetmeats as could be purchased at the Landing. Cracking a bottle of wine against the prow of the little craft, he intoned: ‘This may not be champagne, but I christen this ship Sweet Afton, and may God protect all who sail in her.’

  It was the kind of boat the Schnabels had found adapted to the Mackenzie system: flat-bottomed for negotiating rocky rapids, relatively light in weight for the brutal task of portaging, and high-straked to repel waves that often swept the bigger lakes. Well aft, the Schnabels had erected a small, low shack intended primarily for the stowing of gear but also big enough to sleep two, not in comfort. To port of the shack ran a wooden bench providing a position from which the steersman could operate a long sweep to swing the boat from side to side while avoiding rocks in the rapids or the floating logs which menaced ordinary stretches of the river.

  The Afton was a craft which summarized much Mackenzie lore, and when the Schnabels turned her over to her new owners, she was about the best that could have been devised for tackling the great, wild river.

  As they prepared to embark, Luton was perplexed to find that in addition to the bright-red name of his boat, the Schnabel with the paintbrush had added, at the halfway mark, a thin red line running vertically right across and around the boat, inside and out: ‘What’s that for?’ and the painter explained: ‘To guide you when you’re sawing.’

  ‘And why would I be sawing?’ and the man called to his brother: ‘Tell him.’

  ‘Oh, sir, even though you will be sailing down the Mackenzie, your main job will always be to get over the mountains and into the Yukon …’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ Luton said, half smiling at Carpenter.

  ‘So you must choose one of the rivers that come into the Mackenzie from the west.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, too.’

  ‘They’re all serviceable. Liard is quite usable. Gravel can be excellent. But whichever you choose …’

  ‘I was advised last night by a Hudson’s Bay official to avoid those early rivers and head straight for the delta, and then take …’ Here he produced from his pocket a notebook in which he had written down the complicated tangle of rivers in the extreme north: ‘Peel to the Rat, portage to the Bell, and on to the Porcupine.’

  ‘The wise ones, old-timers, seem to choose that route. But when you do get safely into the Rat you face situations which force you to saw your boat in half. The little rivers are too winding for the full-length boat to get around the corners. You just cannot manage it, but half a boat twists and turns nicely. And before long, especially with the Rat, the water grows so shallow that you can no longer sail or pole. Then you attach hauling ropes, leave your boat, walk along the bank, and pull her upstream.’

  Luton interrupted: ‘But what do we do if there is no bank to walk on?’

  ‘Then you catch your breath, step down into the cold mountain water, and hike right up the middle of the Rat, hauling your boat behind you. And at that moment you’ll thank us for telling you to saw it in half.’

  Another brother said: ‘And of course, when you reach the end of the Rat, you must haul your boat on land over the mountain pass, portage we call it, to the headwaters of the Bell. You do this by hand—strength of your arms and back—and when you’re draggin’ her up that last half-mile ascent, you’ll be damned glad you sawed her.’

  Departure was somewhat disrupted by the arrival on horseback from Edmonton of the Detroit dentist, who, when he saw his boat sailing down the Athabasca River, galloped along the bank, shouting: ‘Pirates! That’s my boat!’ but he was mollified by Harry Carpenter, who called back: ‘They’ll build you a better!’

  The sail down the three hundred and fifty miles of the Athabasca established a pattern for the entire trip, with Lord Luton, passionately eager to reach some spot far down the Mackenzie before the winter freeze imprisoned the boat, driving his men relentlessly. At the various portages around rapids, where the laden boat had to be hauled over uneven ground, he employed waiting Indians to help, but he himself pulled from the lead position, setting a pace that his four followers sometimes found difficult to match. However, if the distance overland was extensive, it was Fogarty’s dogged strength which kept the Afton crawling forward.

  But the regimen that enabled them to cover extraordinary distances, once sailing again, had been established that first night out of Athabasca Landing when Luton refused to pull into shore: ‘Starlit night. Good omen. Keep sailing.’ And they did, with him at the tiller, and thereafter, except when storm prevented, the Sweet Afton forged ahead day and night, piling up remarkable distances. During one spell, an unusually swift current combined with a stiff breeze to push the Afton along at a steady four miles an hour for a day’s run of ninety-six miles. ‘We’re flying!’ Philip cried. But of course, there were those other days at the portages when they were lucky to cover one mile.

  The other regimen he established was that on these night expeditions either he or Carpenter must be in charge, with one of the younger men or Fogarty in assistance. By a process of natural selection his partner became Trevor Blythe, and in the dark passages of the night they discussed those things which interested Luton: courage, deportment, sportsmanship, cricket, the responsibility of Englishmen to hold the world together, provided they received occasional help from Germany or Russia. He had little respect for France and practically none for the United States, which as he explained to Blythe. ‘Lacks every virtue we’ve been discussing.’

  During daylight runs the travelers learned a great deal about this part of Canada, because what they saw was an endlessly repeated landscape with almost no redeeming features: formless hills, vast expanses of graceless forest, bogs with stagnant water. ‘Not one of my favorite trout streams,’ Luton said as the dismal landscape continued, not for miles but days, without showing signs of improvement. But when they reached the Slave River on the second of September they faced not boredom but real problems, for this short stream contained many rapids, some difficult to navigate, others so impassable as to require exhausting portages. And as each of the wasted days grew markedly shorter, the men had sobering proof that winter was crowding in. However, they were about to encounter a problem of such magnitude that these comparatively petty annoyances were promptly forgotten.

  The Great Slave Lake, which those unfamiliar with northern Canada had never heard mentioned, was immense, larger than either of two renowned Great Lakes—Erie and Ontario—and when the Sweet Afton blithely swung into it, the passengers had in mind a pleasant day’s sail, or perhaps two, because the map showed that they would be skirting no more than the southern edge. ‘We won’t see the lake, really,’ Luton told his men, ‘and that’s a pity because it does look a bit of something, doesn’t it?’

  They spent six anxious days on the vast lake, covering one hundred and twenty miles, hugging the shore and cringing as sudden gales out of the northwest whipped up waves that should have been expected only in midocean. Navigation became so perilous that only Luton or Carpenter was allowed to steer, but with sails furled they frequently had to seek safety in coves or behind some headland.

  Luton was in charge one afternoo
n when he heard Carpenter shout from his position forward: ‘Evelyn! My God!’ and down upon them crashed a monstrous wave which engulfed everything and required frantic bailing. The Afton pitched and rolled through a nasty six minutes with everyone grabbing for whatever he could reach, but Luton refused to panic, and soon had the little craft righted.

  But they had been so beat about that all agreed they should find some projection of land behind which to shelter, and as night approached they spotted a cove protected by spindly trees, and when they neared the shore they saw that another craft, less fortunate than theirs, had been swamped by the storm and thrown upon the rocks, a shattered wreck.

  ‘No one can be alive,’ Luton said as he surveyed the mournful scene, but when they drew closer they saw one lone figure standing beside the wreckage, signaling frantically, and as the prow of the Afton beached itself, Philip uttered a joyous cry: ‘It’s the girl from Dakota!’ and he leaped ashore to rush toward her as she stood shivering in her drenched uniform. Distraught, she did not recognize him, but realizing that he had come to save her, she threw herself into his arms.

  When Lord Luton gently took her away, she told in sobs and whimpers of the disaster that had overtaken their craft: ‘Two long days ago … fearful storm … worse than today … Steno guided well but we didn’t know … When the boat started to break up their first shout was “Save Irina” and they threw me ashore … none of them made it …’ Her voice trailed off, and despite the fact that Luton was trying to hold her, she slipped through his arms and onto the beach, all fortitude gone.

  Harry took charge, washing her stained face with lake water while she was still unconscious, then drying her forehead with his sleeve. He directed the others to search the beach to see if any bodies or gear had washed ashore, but there were none. Even before she revived he had the others considering what garments of their own they could lend this castaway, and by the time he had gently slapped her back into consciousness he had arranged for her rejuvenation. When she saw the gifts and realized that she was indeed saved, she broke into tears and asked: ‘How can I dress?’ and she indicated the five men clustered about her, and Harry said in a fatherly voice: ‘I’m married. I have a daughter. I’ll ask the others to go over there,’ and he helped her slip into dry clothing.

  When she moved to the beach fire that Fogarty had started, she clasped with two pale hands the mug of tea Trevor Blythe prepared and told her pitiful story: ‘Little money, great hopes. Farming in Dakota poor, poor. A ton of gold … We saw it in the paper and went crazy …’

  ‘And you ended up,’ Luton asked, interrupting, ‘on the beach alone for two nights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And nothing … nothing washed ashore?’

  ‘Terrible storm. Everything lost, you can see that.’

  ‘How did you get to Edmonton in the first place?’ Harry asked, but she avoided the question: ‘At Athabasca those four nice Germans. We hadn’t much money, but they let us have a boat. Not a big one. None of us had ever sailed a boat before, they gave us lessons, and they sold it to us for almost nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘One of the Germans begged me not to go. Said it would be too rough. Told me to go back home, and as we sailed away he crossed himself.’

  ‘What did you do when you first realized your plight?’ Luton asked, always concerned with human response to disaster, and she said: ‘I cried, I prayed for Steno. I became aware that I had no dry clothes, no food … was completely alone.’

  ‘I mean, what did you do then?’ and she replied with that solidity of character Philip had noticed that first night when he saw her steel-set eyes: ‘I told myself “Don’t panic. Either they’ll find you or they won’t.” And I jumped up and down trying to keep warm.’

  ‘Did you panic?’

  ‘About dawn today. Night didn’t scare me, but when I saw daylight and realized that no one knew where I was, I thought maybe I’d go crazy … nobody … nobody.’

  Lord Luton, as head of his expedition, was capable of making swift decisions, and without consulting the others, said: ‘We must move forward before the ice catches us. You can join us, but not stay with us. We’ll try to intercept a trading boat heading south and send you to safety.’

  ‘What will I do?’

  ‘In Edmonton, I’m sure they’ll find a way to get you back to Dakota.’

  They were astounded by what she said next: ‘No! I came to find gold and I’ll find it,’ and Luton was so appalled by such a statement at such a time that he confronted her fiercely: ‘We’ll have none of that. You escaped death only because we came along. Next time it’ll find you.’ When she lamented the loss of her dreams, Carpenter comforted her, but Luton put a stop: ‘Ma’am, you’ll be on your way back on the first riverboat we intercept, and now I would be obliged if my nephew would utter a brief prayer of thanks for our salvation from the dreadful storm and your rescue from a certain death.’

  The storm-tossed gold-seekers bowed their heads as Philip whispered: ‘Dear God, like Peter whom You saved from that storm on the Sea of Galilee, we give thanks for Thy saving us on Great Slave.’ He hesitated: ‘And we give special thanks for saving Thy heroic daughter Irina who survived only because of Thy miracle. Guide us to the safety of the Mackenzie.’

  After the amens, Carpenter lifted the young woman into the Sweet Afton, which proceeded without further incident to the exit from the lake. As soon as they were upon the river again, the condition that Philip had alluded to in his prayer took effect: they felt safe and once more in proper hands.

  Irina Kozlok remained with them for several troublesome days. Because Lord Luton was determined to forge ahead against the coming of winter, they traveled continuously, and this presented problems about tending to their needs with a woman aboard. Previously the men had adopted simple, sanitary systems, and now they were inhibited, but the ice was broken by Fogarty, who, after he could control himself no longer, finally blurted out: ‘Madam, will you please look the other way?’ and with the quiet ease of a duchess she replied: ‘Gentlemen, I’ve been married. I have brothers. This is no problem,’ and then she added, flashing the first smile since the wreck of her boat: ‘And I’ll expect the same courtesy from you.’

  Philip was mortified by this discussion, for like any young romantic he had to believe that it had been more than accident that Irina saved his life in Edmonton, for that is how he now thought of her caution against the overland route, while he had saved hers on the shore of the Great Slave. To himself he mumbled: ‘It was fate,’ and the more he saw of her courageous resolve, and the handsome appearance she made when her uniform was dried and she could wear it again, the more he was reminded of his reaction on that night of their first meeting in Edmonton: Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a wife like that …? and by the end of the second day with her he found himself a confused mixture of pity, admiration and deep attraction. In his infatuation he interpreted her slightest gesture of politeness as reciprocation of his feelings.

  The first of the other four team members to recognize that young Philip was falling in love with a woman much older than himself was Lord Luton, and like a true Bradcombe he stiffened, summoning all the traditions of his ancient and distinguished family. The Bradcombes had survived when many other families had crumbled, he reminded himself, because through the centuries they had consistently protected their young men from the snares of attractive French women, and English commoners, and pert Irish lassies and, in recent decades, from the daughters of aspiring American millionaire families. With unerring rectitude they had allowed marriages only with the safest young women from the best English families, and although Luton himself was not yet married, he felt certain that when the time came the elders of his family would identify some young woman of impeccable qualification. He never visualized himself as ‘falling in love,’ but only as ‘getting married’ in the pattern established long ago by the cautious men of his family.

  In this context Irina Kozlok was a threat, an uneducated girl … from where
was it? He did not care to remember a name like North Dakota. And it was his inherited obligation to see that his nephew, a Bradcombe, did not become entangled with her to any degree more complicated than unlucky chance had already provided. The boy must be prevented from repeating the grave mistake his mother had made. Since Harry was also more or less a Bradcombe, being married to one, Luton enlisted him in his schemes: ‘Harry, we’ve got to get that woman off this boat. To protect young Philip.’

  ‘Highly sensible, Evelyn. You’ve spotted a real danger.’

  ‘How far is it to the next settlement … of any kind?’

  ‘If I recall, Fort Norman. We might make it before the freeze.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘Seems obvious. We’d be stuck with her through the winter.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  And that afternoon they had real cause for worry, because they heard Irina tell Philip: ‘Those are handsome boots, really, but with that polish they’re more suited for an expensive fishing trip than for mucking about in the arctic.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ he asked, all eagerness to please, and she said: ‘Indeed I do. What you need are heavy leather boots like mine,’ and when, some time later, he asked his uncle and Carpenter: ‘D’ya think that perhaps I ought to wear leather boots?’ they could scarcely hide their irritation, for back in Edmonton they had lectured him on this very matter and he hadn’t listened. Now this American girl was delivering the same caution but with a smile, and the ninny was beside himself.