Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  3 This I will erase, lest any child – my unborn grandchildren, perhaps – should ever peruse my manuscript.

  4 When I got home I tried the same experiment on the Bowder Stone, but it hath not the same quality.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE NORTHWEST COMPANY FACTORY LIES AT THE foot of the rapids, called the sault, of St Mary, on the north bank of the St Mary's River. Hugh was in the Company office less than half an hour, and then our brigade was ready to go through the canal. For at the Sault the company have built a canal over a mile long, and there was no tracking to be done either. Instead the canoes, one by one, were harnessed to a pair of stout oxen, and our voyageurs had naught to do but keep the canoes from bumping the sides – the canal is nine feet wide, big enough for the bateaux that ply the lakes as well as the canoes – and to enjoy the ride, which our own crew did, smoking their pipes and calling out last farewells to me, telling me ’vous comportez en homme d'honneur parmi les belles femmes de l'Ojibwa!‘ At the height of the canal there is actually a lock. No man who had not witnessed all the portages of the Outaouais and Mattawa could appreciate the improvement this little lock – for it is but thirty-eight feet long, and rises only nine feet – represents for the men who must work the canoes. After our brigade went in a gate was lowered behind it. Then the water was allowed to pour in from the Superior end, and when it was level with the higher reach, a folding gate slowly opened at the top of the lock, and the canoes could proceed on their way. I was vastly interested in the whole procedure.1

  I walked by my canoe as it went through the canal, picking my way over the boards of the towpath, for they were slippery with ox dung. Then I took the shore road, parallel to the canoe course, as my friends set to paddling again. As they drew away the brigade looked very small, for all it had loomed so large in my life. Lake Superior was smooth as a beaver's pelt, with mere kittens’ paws wrinkling its surface. I hadn't realised how fast we'd travelled in the canoes, until I found myself ashore and running to keep up. Soon they out-paddled me, and I stood on a point of land while they receded into the wilds of the great Lake Superior. I think I saw a flicker of white, which was Hugh waving his handkerchief to me, being the only man in our canoe with a free hand. He'd have to make do with Alban's services now, until they reached Fort William.

  I stopped in the middle of the road, breathing hard, and was suddenly aware of the wilderness at my back.

  I'd not been alone for four weeks. I felt bereft, for I'd grown to like my voyageurs very well, but at the same time excitement rose in my chest. Here I was, on a summer afternoon, at one of the farthest outposts of the North American continent, my own man again, on solid land, with an adventure before me that would take me I knew not whither. I was quite alone, as I say, and in a sudden excess of feeling I flisked and ran along that empty road like an unbridled colt, kicking stones and laughing out loud for the sheer joy of being alive.

  When I came in sight of the houses I walked more soberly. I picked up my knapsack at the Company office and asked for directions. Thomas Nolan, the man mentioned in Judith's letter, apparently lived on the south side of the rapids. The clerk took me to the factory gate and pointed across the river. On the farther shore, a good mile away, I could make out the specks of houses. The clerk found a man to ferry me over. We crossed above the rapids, so close I felt quite nervous in a frail ten-foot canoe. The whole of Lake Superior seemed to be pouring out around us in a huge stream as wide as the Solway estuary. I could see canoes bobbing in the white water below us. But we got across without mishap, and so it was I first set foot in the United States of America, but if I'd not been told so I'd never have known the difference.

  I was directed to a solid two-storey log house set within a high cedar fence. There were cows and chickens in the paddock, and beyond them an enclosed garden. An Ojibwa servant took me in to Mr Nolan. To my surprise I was led into a finely furnished library, where Mr Nolan sat writing at a mahogany desk. He stood up at once, and shook me by the hand. He was something of a dandy, with his embroidered waistcoat and elaborately tied cravat. I must have looked as startled as he did at sight of me. I explained who I was, thinking all the while that this fine fellow seemed an unlikely friend for Rachel and Judith. As if he'd heard my thought, he said, ‘You're welcome, sir. ‘Twas a sad story altogether. It was my wife who . . . in short, I could not be persuaded by their religious enthusiasm, but my wife was much moved, and would have it that they must stay with us. Indeed, your aunt and sister were no trouble to us . . . apart, of course, from the unfortunate episode of the young lady's elopement.’

  ‘Did thee know Alan Mackenzie?’ I asked him.

  ‘I met him. A very resty gentleman. But the ladies liked him well. In fact my daughter Maddie . . . ‘Twas a bad business altogether. But if I can be of assistance, sir, you have only to mention it. You'll stay with us, of course. Let me find my wife.’

  To my astonishment – for Nolan was unquestionably a gentleman – his wife was an Ojibwa woman. He introduced her to me without a trace of consciousness. It was if the ground had suddenly grown unstable under my feet, like the heaving and rocking when I stood upon the solid earth at Quebec, that such things could be.

  Although Mary Nolan's dress was more or less European, it was embroidered and bedecked with beads in a manner that would have drawn all eyes to her in England, although in this wild place it seemed to me not wholly unattractive. She gave me a bedroom to myself, an extraordinary luxury in those wild parts. It turned out that Thomas Nolan was a Montreal fur trader who'd been at the Sault upwards of twenty years. That evening – and indeed every evening thereafter for the week I stayed there – he talked a great deal about old days in Montreal, and the books he had sent from there, and the friends with whom he corresponded. It was a bad time for trade, he said, since the American embargo last year. He spent most of his time in his study.

  His daughter Maddie had been to boarding school in Montreal, and was anxious to let me know it. She wore a white muslin gown, most unsuitable for that country – and for her complexion too – or so it seemed to me, and cut so low in the bosom I had much ado to keep my eyes elsewhere. In the evenings we listened to her playing on her harpsichord (which at home we would have thought ungodly, but I recognised some of the voyageur tunes, and those I liked). She sang well enough – she had learned the art of it at school, but each time she took a deep breath I thought she might burst out of her gown, and that distracted me somewhat from the music. When she was not playing to us, Thomas Nolan read aloud. Only Mary – his wife – was willing to talk to me about Rachel and Judith.

  ‘I am very sorry for you,’ she told me. ‘I tried to tell your aunt how it was. The young man came here. He said very little, but he looked all the time at your sister. Me, I could see the love between them. But your aunt, she saw it not. I wished to warn her, but she was angry. No one would listen. I could see that Rachel was in great distress of mind, though she tried very much to hide it. Her heart was torn in two, I think. For Rachel . . . I think she is one who feels everything with a great passion. Never would she show a cold heart. Poor girl. I think it was very hard for her. But I was not her mother . . . I was not her kin. What could I do for her? I wish I could tell you where she has gone. But I know not. I have never heard anything more about her.’

  Mary Nolan asked me many questions about the Religious Society of Friends. She told me that Rachel and Judith had held a Meeting with her, and she wished that we might do the same. It was the first Meeting I'd attended since I left Yonge Street, and for all that I was the only Member, and only the two of us present, I was comforted by it. It was Mary who looked after the little farm. She kept cows, pigs, chickens and a good vegetable garden. It was good to get my hands in honest soil – I weeded the whole garden in the week I was there, and indeed it needed it. I liked Mary Nolan better than I liked her daughter, which made it hard for me when she said to me, could I perhaps find it in me to love her daughter? For Maddie was hard to please, and wished for no
thing more than to go back east. A common fur trader would not do for her, and certainly not an Ojibwa, but an Englishman maybe . . . And then perhaps Maddie would learn the ways of my Society, and set her heart upon less worldly matters.

  I explained how I could not marry outside the Society, and when she set about thinking how Maddie might be drawn into Membership, I told her the plain truth, that I could not love her daughter.

  ‘Do you love another girl, then, Mark?’

  A lie can be easier than the truth. However, I just said to her plainly, ‘No.’ I knew she wasn't satisfied, and I was embarrassed. There seemed nothing more to learn about Rachel, so the next day I took my leave, and two of the Nolans’ servants ferried me across the Sault. A number of Ojibwa were fishing in the rapids. This time they were standing upright in their tossing canoes, and spearing the fish as they saw them – an incredible feat, it seemed to me. Though as a lad I knew how to guddle a trout (though I would scorn to do that now), I like to do my fishing from firm ground.

  When I asked for the South West Company, it turned out to be in the same building as the North West Factory. There my friend the clerk told me that the South West agent, Monsieur Pothier, had just arrived by a fast canoe from Montreal – in fact he'd come in from St Joseph's only the day before. He escorted me to a big office overlooking the canal. A young officer in a scarlet coat stood at the door, apparently taking his leave of somebody within. I heard a voice speaking English in a marked French accent: ‘And you will say to Captain Roberts that the Company at the Sault is now gathering its reserves. We hold ourselves in immediate readiness. The captain has but to say the words. Les voyageurs sont prêts. Il faut frotter ces gens là-bas, joliment. Dis-lui qu'on vient aussitôt qu'il nous appelle.‘

  The lad – for he looked to be a good deal younger than I – saluted smartly and stepped back heavily on to my foot. I made way for him quickly. He muttered something which might have been an apology, and strode away.

  Toussaint Pothier had an active, youthful air about him, but the expressions that chased one another across his face fell each one of them into deep lines engraved by at least four decades of habit, or so I judged. His desk was piled high with papers, and he received me with considerably less enthusiasm than he'd shown to the young soldier, until I mentioned Alan's name. Immediately I had his attention. I said, ‘I have an urgent message for Alan Mackenzie from Montreal. It's important that I find him as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ah, but this is fortunate! Monsieur McGillivray said that I should expect you also. Vous avez de la chance, monsieur. Monsieur Mackenzie is this instant at the Sault! This very morning we have met here. Mais il faut vous dépêcher – you must hurry. He returned two hours ago to the house of Monsieur Ermatinger, but already as we speak he may be departing. His canoe is at the causeway. Come, everything now is of urgency! Georges, revenez!’ – this was shouted down the corridor, and a lad appeared immediately – ’Prenez ce monsieur chez Monsieur Ermatinger aussi vite que possible! Georges will take you to the house of Monsieur Ermatinger, and there I hope you will still find Monsieur Mackenzie. If he has gone already, come back here. Then I will make arrangements for you to follow him directly to Mackinac. Eh bien, Monsieur, au revoir. Yes, yes, je vous en prie, but now you must go with Georges!’

  Georges and I fairly ran down a stony track for about half a mile, until we reached a log house where we pulled up, panting. An Indian woman in a short blue dress was in the garden, hoeing amidst high green corn. Chickens scratched in the dust around the door. There was a sweet smell of woodsmoke in the air, and I could hear the shrill voices of unseen children playing.

  Georges spoke to the woman in what I thought at first was French. Unhurriedly she laid down her hoe, and answered him. Georges turned to me. “M'sieu Ermatinger is within, and Alan Mackenzie also, she says.’

  ‘Will thee take me to him?’ My voice was steady, but there was a fluttering in my stomach, thinking that after all my travels my quarry was so very near.

  Georges nodded. I turned to follow him but to my surprise the woman suddenly spoke directly to me, in English. ‘You are the brother of Alan Mackenzie's wife, I think. Is this so?’

  I stared at her. ‘Thee knows Rachel? Thee knows where she is? Does thee know what happened to her?’

  She wasn't a young woman. I had no idea who she was; I assumed she must be a servant of the family. She said, and her accent was so soft I had to listen carefully to catch the words: ‘Rachel MacKenzie stayed with us in this house. After the baby died I was afraid for her. She had too many dreams. You've come from over the sea to look for her, have you not?’

  She had me mesmerised. ‘How did thee know I was her brother?’

  ‘You're of the people in grey, as she was. When I saw that, I looked at you closely. I see her eyes in yours, and much likeness about the mouth. She told me she had a brother, and I remembered. Then you spoke, and I was sure of it.’

  ‘Thee must have known her well.’ I could hardly grasp it, that a little something of my sister should so suddenly be vouchsafed to me from such a source. It was as if one of the fruit trees in the garden had spoken to me, or the big rock by the gate.

  ‘No, I did not know her well.’ She picked up her hoe. ‘Go and find Alan Mackenzie. I've told him he should not give up looking for her. No one else will tell him that.’

  ‘And thee is . . . ?’ It occurred to me I might want to find this woman again.

  The reply left me all amazed. ‘Charlotte Ermatinger.’

  I followed Georges, trying to marshal a welter of confused thoughts. A girl was chopping herbs at the table in the kitchen. She said her father had taken Mr Mackenzie to see the site for the new house. So Georges led me by an orchard and a cornfield, back to the river bank, where we could see the whole rapids spread out before us. There was no need to hurry now; Charles Ermatinger and his friend were expected back for supper.

  ‘Who is this Charles Ermatinger, Georges?’

  ‘M'sieu Ermatinger? He is . . .’ Georges waved his arms to express the impossibility of explanation. ‘He does not work for the Company any more. He is un marchand indépendent, he is his own company. And that is not so bad. He has cut down very many trees and made here the biggest farm in the Sault. And now he has so much money that he builds a great house. It is built with stones.’

  ‘Here? I've not seen a stone house.’

  ‘Not yet, m'sieu, not yet. At present it is built with paper and much talk. And now M'sieu Ermatinger arranges that we fight with the Americans. I, Georges, will fight also.’

  I looked at him sadly. He was dark, even for a Frenchman. His eyes were alight with an enthusiasm I would never share. The crazy thought flashed through my mind that if I'd come to bear arms by his side I could at this point shake his hand and call him brother, but as it was, a great gulf of misunderstanding would for ever divide us. ‘Why must thee fight, Georges? War will beget naught but war. Does thee not know the law of God: Thou shalt not kill?’

  ‘And doesn't thee know’ – he threw the word back at me mockingly – ‘that if we do not fight, the Americans will come here and burn our houses and rape our women, and kill even the little children? They will seize our Company and all the free territory of the west. Does thee not know that the Americans come to take away our hunting grounds? They drive us away from the lands where our fathers are buried. They force us from our homes on to land that is no good. Does thee not know that there is already a great war in the south, and that by this war our people will live or die, for ever and for ever? Does thee not know any of that? And if thee does not, I ask thee, what right has thee to speak so to me?’

  I looked at him in puzzlement. ‘Thee's right, friend, I'm just arrived here and I know very little. I only know that in no place on this earth can there ever be a good end to war. But – thee's not a Frenchman, then, Georges?’

  ‘Yes, I am French. I am Georges Beauclerc, junior clerk to M'sieu Pothier of the South West Company. And yes, I am not French. I am
Abeetung of Sisibakwatominiss, of the Ojibwa people.’

  ‘And the Ojibwa people are preparing to fight the Americans?’

  ‘It is not only the Ojibwa. You know of Tecumseh.’

  ‘No, what is it?’

  ’He is not it! Even thee must know that. Tecumseh is the great leader of the Shawnee people. Already he is fighting the Americans in Ohio. The Indians will fight together, you understand; otherwise the Americans will take our land and destroy our people, for ever and for ever. And thee – thee British – thee have promised to ally with us. So now does thee begin to understand why there must be war?’

  ‘I understand thee. But I too have my people, and our practice is always to seek the way which tends to the peace of all . . .’ My own words failed me so I quoted: ’All bloody principles and practices we do utterly deny, with all wars and strife and fighting with outward weapons, for any end whatsoever. There must be other ways to survive than by violent means, Georges. For God is merciful.’

  ‘If thee can swear to that, thee has not seen what I have seen. Now, I have said enough. We approach the new house of M'sieu Ermatinger.’

  Perhaps Georges had eyes that could see a house made only of ‘paper and much talk’, but I saw nothing but a flat stretch of river bank, and a thin shingle beach where the waves speedily chased each other into oblivion. Then I caught sight of two men standing side by side on the shore. They were holding a paper between them, and indeed all hands were necessary, for there was a smart breeze down here by the water's edge. One of them must be Alan. Again I felt that fluttering under my ribs. I had thought about finding him for so long. Oddly, now that I had, I was afraid.

  They looked up enquiringly as we approached. The short one with greying hair was obviously Charles Ermatinger. The other was a thin young man, very tanned, with a sprinkling of freckles from much sun. He was dressed in the wool coat and corduroy breeches that all Company clerks wear, even in the heat of summer, but his cravat was tied like a gentleman's, and instead of a cap he wore a high-crowned beaver. A hybrid, he seemed, something between a clerk and a Company partner. Certainly he held himself with the assurance of a gentleman, and if his face was weathered and his clothes well-worn, why, that was the way of it with all the Company men who over-winter in the west. I'd imagined him, because I knew he was a Scotchman, to be redhaired and rawboned, but not a bit of it. He was slight and dark, and even on that first meeting was aware of the pent energy in him, as if he could not stay still for long but must be doing.2