For a little while a tumult of thoughts kept me awake, but I slept easily in those days. When I woke a shaft of sunlight had found its way through the tent flap, and there was no sound without but singing birds. I crawled out without waking Hugh. For once I was the first awake. The island was new washed in dew, its colours softened by last night's rain. The fireplace on the beach was a ring of black ashes. The lake shimmered.
My shirt was damp with sweat, and I felt sticky. It felt a long time since I was clean. The island was barely twenty yards wide. The canoes were beached on a stretch of white sand, opposite another pine-topped island fifty yards away. Just below our tent there was another little hidden beach. I jumped down the rocks, stripped and waded in. There were sharp clamshells underfoot; I plunged into icy water.
After the first shock the water felt smooth and milky. As I swam I sent ripples of light circling across the still water. I rounded the point, and heard shouts and piercing whistles from the rocks. My voyageurs had been less sound asleep than I reckoned. As I swam they scrambled over the rocks and watched. I'm a modest fellow, but the cold was getting to me, and I had perforce to walk mother-naked into their midst, for they were all standing round my clothes. They were not slow with ribald observations, which I understood better than I wished. I was still struggling, shivering, into my coat, feeling more like a performing bear in Penrith market place than anything else,1 when Hugh's furious shout came from above. ‘What's going on? ‘Tis past dawn and a day lost already! Allez-y, les gars!’
Marc prophesied that je m'enrhumerais, and told me that if men had been meant to swim they'd be born with webbed feet – les pattes palmés – but on the contrary, I was soon warm with paddling. A reservoir of joy welled up inside me, and if I had known how, I could have sung like a voyageur. It was as if God had spread a banquet before us, dazzling our eyes with all the beauty of created things. At the first pip I lay back on a bale, watching four eagles soaring over our heads in the blue arch of sky, and I said the verse over in my head: There be three things which are too wonderful for me: yea four, which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air, the way of a serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the midst of the sea and the way of a man with a maid.
Jean-Pierre cried out ‘'Allez allez allez.’‘ My thoughts scattered. I seized my paddle and fell into time as if my life depended on it, but the verse was lodged in my head, thrusting itself into the rhythm of my stroke and mocking me: which I know NOT; which I know NOT; which I know NOT.
The north shore, precipitous with small pines clinging to its crags, was closing in on us. We pulled in for breakfast on a long sandy spit on the south side of the river. I'd had an inkling something was up, and no sooner were Alban and I ashore than we were seized, and each one had a noggin of lake water tipped over our heads. ‘This is your baptism,’ Jean-Pierre said, ‘et maintenant vous devenez voyageur! But first Mark must swear – because he won't get to do it in les pays d'en haut – never to kiss a voyageur's wife without her permission!’
‘I will not swear,’ I said wiping the water out of my eyes. ‘But thee has my word that I shall not.’
’Est-ce qu'on le croît, les gars?‘ They were used to me by now, and I realised by their teasing I hadn't offended them. I was thankful, for I was getting to like them well. Hugh offered a régal on my behalf, telling me this was a custom that could in no wise be omitted. I reimbursed him a shilling; this is the first and last time in my life I ever exchanged coin for spirituous liquor. Long it lay upon my conscience; I think now that he who makes all forgives all, if so be they are sincerely repentant.
The days passed. So many things I remember . . . the dark figures of our voyageurs silhouetted by the fire at night. The scent of resin in the smoke. The pattern of pine branches overhead, and the stars between. Nights full of stars, and strange sounds carried across still water. I mind well how I first heard the call of the loon, and it sounded to me like a lost soul in the wilderness.2 I remember the howling of wolves in the night forest – but these I never saw until the winter came – and diverse rustlings in the undergrowth. I remember how the chipmunks came foraging right into our tent and even into my pockets, where one of the little pests ate up the last of the ginger biscuits that were my parting gift from William Mackenzie's wife. I remember fiery sunsets as we looked into the empty wilderness ahead of us. I mind pale dawns and pips, and the endless paddling through the long heat of summer days. I remember the practised haste of the voyageurs, jog-trotting uphill over rocks and roots with their immense burdens on their backs. I remember climbing to a bluff on the north shore, where Hugh and I looked out to a range of hills far south of us, and how happy I was to see out, for the river curves and climbs but offers no prospect beyond its own banks. I'm used to getting the height of land to see where I am, though there be nothing around me but an infinity of wilderness.
We came to the mouth of the Mattawa – la petite rivière – and, if I had thought the Outaouais rapids hard, I soon learned better. We did eleven portages in forty miles, for the Mattawa flows straight down from the watershed. It's a trickier river than the Outaouais altogether, fast-flowing and unpredictable. The country through which we passed reminded me of my native land, much more rugged and open than the featureless miles of forest. One evening we came to yet another portage, where the river ran between huge cliffs. Usually the men like to get the portage behind them, to have a clear start, but we'd been going fifteen hours, and Jean-Pierre called a halt. Le Talon, Marc told me, was the worst portage of all. Tomorrow would be soon enough. We beached by a deep brown pool, where we could hear the falls above us. As I ate my pease I watched the reflections of the ripples licking like flames across the bare rock opposite. Spruce and maple trees clung to the cliffs. I caught sight of movement up above. The next thing I knew, a brown body had hurtled into the water, vanishing in a great splash. I jumped to my feet. No one else moved. A sleek black head appeared, and swam to the far shore. A boy climbed out and scuttered away into the woods. There was another huge splash, as the next lad jumped. ‘Ah, les garçons!’ Marc held out his bowl for more porridge.
‘Who are they?’
‘Indians. Nippissings. Ils sont fous.‘
’Fous?‘
‘Mad,’ interpreted Hugh, with his mouth full.
‘Oh, but we used to do that,’ I said idly. ‘Our pool in Bannerdale has a cliff. Not near so high as that. Ours is twenty feet.’ I squinted at the rock opposite. A smaller lad was hovering on the brink. I heard shouts and jeers from the other boys hidden in the trees. ‘I reckon that'd be about forty feet.’
There was a buzz of talk. I paid no attention; I was thinking about the great shoulder of Blencathra behind Highside, and how if thee crosses the ridge and heads down into Bannerdale, about half a mile from our house, thee comes upon a rocky gorge with rowans clinging to its side. In the hollow of the gorge there's a pool below a waterfall. Thee can step over the beck at the top even when it's in spate – it's not very big – but even so the fall has worn itself a chute on the south bank, and at the top of the chute there's a flat rock to leap from. I've stood there often enough, summoning the courage to jump: the water's always as cold as ice, even in high summer. I've hovered there, looking across at the curve of overhanging rock carved by the beck, and the steep banks all grown over with ferns. I've never failed to jump. A rush of air, the icy plunge – it's deep water; thee can't touch bottom – and then the current catches thee before thee surfaces, and sweeps thee down to the boulders, which is the only place to climb out. The shallow end of the pool is where I learned to swim. I would have been about five.
My sister was forbidden to go near the Glendaramackin pool. Usually she did what she liked anyway, but she didn't dare defy my mother to the extent of going with the lads when they were stripped, and so she couldn't learn to swim. The pool was mine alone. Very occasionally in the height of summer the four of us – my father, my mother, Rachel and me – would walk to Meeting by way of the hill, over the shoulder
of Blencathra and down Bannerdale to Mungrisdale, where we picked up our usual road again. It was strange to be out on the hill all washed and brushed for First Day. We'd pass the pool, and it would be like meeting a friend in the road and going by without speaking.
So I lay watching the boys at Le Talon Falls, and thinking of my younger self. One of them could do a full somersault before he hit the water. I was getting to know which was which. The little fellow had jumped twice now, but he was scared. I felt sympathetic prickles of tension in my own chest. Jacques gave a piercing whistle, and made me jump. The voyageurs shouted and waved. The Indian boys halted. One jumped, vanished, then his dark head emerged within six feet of us. He grinned at us, treading water. A pantomime of gestures followed, and to my horror I caught the import, just as half a dozen hands grabbed me, took my bowl and spoon, and pulled me to my feet. The lad in the water shouted across to his friends, who burst into shrill catcalls. Hugh said drily, ‘I don't think you've much choice, Mark.’
I wouldn't have turned back if I could. Ever since I was a little fellow, and first realised that I was one of a peculiar people, I'd sometimes found it hard to be set apart. Times it seemed that folk thought me less than a man, just because I sought to do the will of God, and abide by the ancient Principles of our Society. I love the Society of Friends; I think it just and good, a Shining Light in an evil world, and I am ever thankful to God that this is my birthright. Never did I wish it otherwise. But times, because I would not fight, nor drink, nor swear, nor speak disrespectfully of women, I felt a belittlement in the eyes of worldly men, which often may not have been so, but only my imagining. But when I felt it, the old Adam would arise in me, as it did now.
I stripped to my drawers – in truth, I shrank more from undressing before them than from the deed itself – and dived into deep water. The Indian lad was already climbing on to the rocks opposite. I followed him into the cover of the trees. There was a little path between the pines. The lad was waiting for me; he beckoned, and led the way up. It was hotter here. Bright butterflies danced in shafts of evening sun. I was aware of my nakedness, the exposed whiteness of my skin, the touch of pine needles brushing against me as I passed. This side of the river was another place altogether. No voyageurs came here. My guide stood on a rock, waiting. He was lithe and dark, a part of this country, and quite at ease: everything, in short, that I was not. I scrambled carefully after him, skinning my knee. Never had I felt so vulnerable.
There were five of them at the top, all in their mid-teens, I guessed. They grinned at me. I smiled shyly back. They stood aside, and gestured for me to go ahead.
It was at least twice as far as the leap at Bannerdale. The crag was sheer, which was something, but there were nasty outcrops to right and left. The pool looked black in the shadows below, very far away. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the canoes, and the bright colours of the voyageurs like little toys. I walked directly to the edge and jumped. There was a rush of air: the plunge sounded right through my body. I breathed out into icy dark, and kicked my way upwards till I burst through into a shower of light.
Once done, I could have done it again – there's an exhilaration that I can't describe – but I let it be, for fear of vainglory. The voyageurs were excessive in their pride and praises, and indeed if there were anything in my strange habits still to be forgiven, the score was paid. The Indian lads called their farewells across the river and departed. I slept well.
After Le Talon the river grew narrower; the rapids got shallower and closer together. The forest turned to wide swamps fall of dead trees. By the end we were mostly wading thigh-deep, pushing the canoes through rushing water. One slip and a man could be swept away. We reached Trout Lake, the headwater of the Mattawa. Then came the miserable, mosquito-ridden Mud Portages (this I discovered to be the meaning of la vase). Portages is a polite usage: I would describe the place as upwards of five miles of stinking, slimy bog, where the canoes must be propelled among rushes and lily pads, or pushed between banks of willow that slap a man in the face as he passes, while frogs croak mockingly from the marshes round him. The open water, if one could call it that, is created by old beaver dams, but the beavers are gone, and now the voyageurs have to keep the dams in repair, in addition to their other miseries. I came out of La Vase with my face swelled like a fruit pudding with insect bites, and leech scars all down my calves. My boots were permanently soaked through – I didn't have Hugh's privilege of being carried on the shoulders of the voyageurs. I'd given up on stockings, but that was before I realised about the leeches. But the joy of La Vase, which I could not feel until we crossed the last portage and stood looking down on Lake Nippissing, is that it's the watershed. From here on it was downstream all the way.
We crossed Lake Nippissing among treacherous breezes and dancing waters, then fairly flew down the French Rive – all seventy miles of it – covering more ground in one day than we'd done in the entire haul up the Mattawa. We only portaged twice; everywhere else we ran the rapids. The first time I had my eyes shut, and clung to the gunwale while the canoe twisted about under me like an unbroken colt, and gouts of water hit me in the face. Five Mile Rapids felt like hurtling down an endless chute. Banks of white water crashed down from all sides, even backwards, for all we were meant to be going downstream. Sometimes I thought we were taking off like a bird. I shut my eyes, my stomach lurched and each time as we fell the water hit our underside with a great thump. I got used to the hurly-burly, our forty-foot canoe being tossed about like a shuttlecock, and the rocks sweeping past us like so many wicked teeth waiting to devour us. It was here I lost my broad-brimmed hat, for I had not a spare hand to save it, I was clinging on so tight. There were plenty of crosses along the banks to remind me that even voyageurs were not infallible.
The river ended in a lake of many islands. When we came into open water I gasped: for a moment I forgot all the maps I had seen, in the face of the evidence of my own eyes, and thought we had come through the great continent of North America and stood upon its farther shore. For what lay before me, its waves making endless patterns of light into the distant west, was indubitably an ocean, its waters boundless and bright as the blue sky above us. I said to Hugh, before I could stop myself, ‘What is it? Where has thee taken me? Is this Cook's Pacific Ocean?’
Hugh didn't laugh. ‘This is Lake Huron,’ he said, smiling a little. ‘Not even that. This is a little part of Lake Huron, that men name Georgian Bay.’
I shook my head in wonder. The canoe was beginning to dance in the waves, which splashed against its sides with hungry smacking sounds. A fresh wind ruffled my hair, but there was no salt in it. Hugh echoed my thought.
‘Smell that – no salt. These are lakes, not oceans. Seas of sweet water.’ He leaned over the side, dipped his cup in the next sparkling wave, and offered it to me. ‘Drink that! You see? Welcome to our sweetwater seas, Master Greenhorn!’
Just as the light began to fail we met with another brigade come up through Georgian Bay. We all camped in a natural grassy meadow. There was quite a party that night. To tell the truth I couldn't keep away; I'd watched the dancing so many nights I'd learned to like it. Marc and Alban seized me bodily and dragged me into the circle. I couldn't dance, but for an intoxicating moment I felt drawn in. This is an extraordinary thought – nay, blasphemous – but for a wild moment it was like walking into the gathered Meeting and being received.3 In this place I also encountered my first rattlesnake. I was walking away from the camp through long grass, when I heard a noise at my feet like shaken knucklebones. A great mottled-brown snake slithered past my boots before I had wit to move. I saw the yellowish rings on its tail – just as Marc had described – and I cried out for very terror. Luckily no one heard me but Hugh, who strolled over, pipe in the corner of his mouth, to ask what was the matter. When I told him he laughed, and advised me to take care where I squatted, for ‘twould be an undignified way out of the world, to say the least of it.
So the last days flowed by, while we
hugged the shore of the Lake Huron. The voyageurs had talked to me about la cloche for many miles, and I was expecting some sort of a clock, unlikely though it seemed, but in fact a cloche is a bell, and the wonder turned out to be a boulder much like the Bowder Stone in Borrowdale, only this one sounds a deep note when struck.4 As we crossed the lake many islands hove into sight to the south of us, then drew away behind us. Hugh told me they were called the Islands of the Spirits, and with a great leap of the heart I realised I was looking on the land to which the Lord had summoned Judith and Rachel, when they were in Yonge Street. Hugh said it was true, many displaced Indians had settled there, and it was more than likely they'd be close to starving in winter. As we drew nearer the Sault the weather worsened. To everyone's frustration we were dérangé by a little creek for two long days. I wasn't as impatient as the others; there was a confusion growing in my heart that was quite unexpected. In short, I was loath to leave them. I found myself wondering about the lake beyond this one, and the great rendezvous at Fort William, and all the rivers and lakes of the pays d'en haut beyond that.
The rain began just as we reached the first channel of the St Mary's River. The voyageurs cursed it, for they like to go ashore to wash and spruce themselves up before a rendezvous, but in this weather the last camp was a dismal, hurried business. As for me, the weather matched my mood. It troubled me not to be soaked to the skin as the rain drummed endless pockmarks into the water, while we paddled onwards into the mists.
1 I saw one such, when I was a little lad, and it gave me nightmares for many a long day after. The baiting of bears was finally banned four years ago, and indeed I think the law long overdue. We were put on this earth to be the guardians of the beasts of the field, and in no wise unnecessarily to torment them.
2 When I first saw this great black and white bird on Lake Nippissing, it looked to be not so different from our own Northern Diver, and from all that I could discover its habits seem to be much the same.
Voyageurs Page 15
