Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  3 It occurs to me now that hazel does indeed change from green to brown and back again as the seasons change; this is not fickleness but merely its nature. That might be read as a parable of my brother-in-law Alan, of whom at that early stage I knew nothing, except that he was implicated as deeply as he could be in the matter that had brought me here, and that I required to know not only all that he had to tell me, but whether or not I could trust him, in word or deed, or in any way at all.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘HO, MARK? WAKE UP, MAN! I'M HERE TO TALK TO YOU!’ ’I wasn't sleeping.’ No point in telling this new brother of mine that I'd gathered the silence to myself, for my heart was troubled, and I felt far from Friends, and far from God also, if the truth be told. I opened my eyes.

  Alan was taking off his coat. ‘It's hot out there. It's past noon, you know. I trust you're rested.’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Well, we have some time now. I'm sorry to have hurried you away from the Sault like that, but this was urgent. I've delivered my message now. We leave at nightfall.’

  ‘Why does thee travel by night?’

  ‘Ah . . . These waters are less safe than you know, brother Mark. There was a North West brigade – just five years ago this was – and the Yankee soldiers fired on them as they were coming up the Mackinac Straits. This in peacetime, in a land where trade is supposed to be free.’

  ‘I read in the English newspapers that we've done the same thing to American ships on the high seas.’

  ‘Are you a bloody Jacobin, or what?’

  ‘I'm a peaceable man, friend. I merely made an observation. Is it normal in these parts for Canadian traders to travel only in darkness?’

  ‘Ah well, there are reasons . . . is this what you wished to talk to me about, brother Mark?’

  I sighed. ‘I wish that thee and I would talk in friendship, Alan.’

  ‘Then maybe we should leave the politics out of it.’

  ‘I don't wish to speak of politics. But even if I'm nothing more than a piece of luggage on this journey, I can't help being luggage with eyes in my head.’

  ’Touché, brother Mark. Now it's my turn to ask you. You came all the way from Cumberland? How did you trace me?’

  He listened intently to my story, and said, ‘Rachel told me she had a big brother who'd always got her out of scrapes. But I think it's beyond you, or any man, to effect a rescue now.’ He paused. “T was not for want of trying, you know.’

  ‘I believe thee.’

  ‘You want me to tell you about her? About what happened?’ I was noticing as he talked to me the lilt in his voice, as if all his words were poetry. Hugh Chisholm had it too, but not so marked. Alan's English was good; in fact he didn't sound at all like the Scotchmen who come south to sell their cattle at our fairs. But those men are not Highlanders, and that is why I heard such a difference in him.

  ‘Ay. And to make amends, maybe.’

  ‘Amends?’ He looked at me quizzically, but I saw that he was wary. ‘So what penance have you prepared for me, brother Mark?’

  ‘I'm not the judge of that. I mean only to say that if she's alive, and in this world, I intend to find her, and I can't do that without thee. I don't know the country. Will thee come with me, Alan? Will thee show me the way?’

  He flung himself down on the chair opposite me: I'd been enjoying the clean calm of the empty sitting room, and wondering who these Askins were, who lived in this benighted place like Christian Englishmen. ‘Are you mad?’ demanded Alan. ‘Do you think I haven't searched? That I wouldn't have searched the world over, if such a thing were possible? I wouldn't have harmed a hair of her head! There was nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Not a sign. Do you think I haven't been over all this ground before, again and again? Would we ever have come away if there were any sign at all? I tell you there was none. None!’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, wishing that he would be calm. ‘Perhaps there are no signs. But I have to read that for myself. Perhaps a fresh eye will see more. It can happen.’

  ‘You're mad. You don't know the country. Besides, there's a war on. It's way over in Yankee territory. Man, you know nothing at all. What the devil do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I expect thee to take me to the place where she was lost.’ I saw I was getting nowhere with him, and tried to be more persuasive. ‘Surely, friend, our hopes are the same. Can't we put our minds together, as brothers should do, and search together?’

  ‘Brothers!’ He stared at the window. The glass was thick and greenish, and the sun made patterns in it that cast a streaky light between us. ‘I thought you'd be out for my blood. I wouldn't let you kill me, but in fairness – because I admit there are amends to be made – you note that? – I thought in fairness I should let you try, if you desired it.’

  ‘I seek no man's blood. What would it profit me to harm thee? I simply ask thee to help me find Rachel.’

  ‘You couldn't harm me anyway.’

  This time I was silent because I was struggling with myself. I could floor him in half a minute if I put my mind to it. There is a great arrogance in men who bear arms, and sometimes I've had to resist the temptation that affords.

  ‘It's out of the question,’ said Alan suddenly, as if I'd spoken. ‘This war's about to break; you can't go wandering off into the Michigan Territory. The Indians are dangerous – and I mean that. There's been drought two summers running. The corn harvest failed last year and is like to do again. People are starving down there. You didn't know that, did you? And the Yankee law says the Indians aren't allowed to trade with us any more. If you don't get scalped because you're a white man, and the cause of all their troubles, you'll as likely as not be picked up by the Yankees and shot for a spy. You can't do it.’

  ‘I thought the Indians were thy allies?’

  ‘Yes and no. The Indian is his own man. He's fighting a war that's not quite the same as our war. There's ways our interests are the same. The fact is you can't go into Michigan. But I can take you with me to Mackinac. Then you'll see for yourself.’

  ‘I have a letter for thee,’ I said, watching him, ‘from William McGillivray of the North West Company.’

  ‘From McGillivray! Why the devil didn't you say so before? Where is it?’

  I took it from my pocket. ‘Thee gave me no chance to be private with thee till now.’ He held out his hand for it, but I said, ‘William McGillivray gave me his word that this letter had naught to do with wars or strife or fighting with outward weapons for any end whatsoever. I wouldn't have brought it to thee otherwise.’

  ‘I see. Fair enough. May I have my letter?’

  I watched him glance at the seal before breaking it. He unfolded the single page and read. His face gave away nothing, which seemed to me unnatural, for I'd noticed that he had a very expressive cast of countenance. He must have read it all at least twice, or else been a singularly poor scholar, which last I did not believe. Eventually he folded up the paper, and slipped it into his haversack, where it lay on the bench beside him.

  ‘So!’ he said, as one giving his attention to a new subject. ‘Brother Mark! What do you want to do now?’ His hostility had evaporated; suddenly he was all animation. ‘You're crazy, but I realise you mean what you say. Perhaps I dismissed your plan too quickly, and if I did I'm sorry for it. Remember it's more than two years since I had anything to do with you Quakers.’ He paused, ‘It's two years since I lost her.’

  He was staring at the little bright patch of window again. I waited for him to go on. ‘I agree I owe it to you to tell you about it. Is that what you want me to do? To tell you?’

  ‘Ay.’

  We sat for some minutes. I hoped that the silence might speak to him, and sure enough, presently he began his story.

  ‘Where to start? I don't feel obliged to tell you how she was won, only how she was lost. You seem to be a gentleman. I wish I could say the same for all your people. It's their fault, not mine, that she was cast out. What do you call it? Disowned. That seems a terri
ble, cold-hearted notion to me, sir. I'd never disown my sister: not if she ran off with a tinker, or brought home a child to whom she could name no father at all. Not, you understand, that either of these things is in the least likely to happen to my sisters. I'm only saying that my kin are my kin whatever they may say or do, and this disowning seems to me a savage custom. I offered Rachel marriage, and when she was mine I dealt honourably with her. If you, or her father, or any sensible man had been there, I'd have asked for her hand in form. There was no man to ask. I offered her no insult. She was innocent when she agreed to come with me, and so she remained, regarding what I might have been, or done. If your people let women wander the world without protection, leaving them to the mercies of their own ignorance, then you must abide the consequences. I don't have to apologise to you for that.

  ‘When I met her I'd only just arrived at the Sault myself. Before that I was in the north-west. When I got back to Fort William in ‘09 the partners called me to the Council Chamber. I was hoping it would be to offer me a post of my own, and Montreal leave before that – a winter sleeping in a bed with sheets on it, and the newspapers in a coffee house by a coal fire of a winter morning. I'm no Corinthian; I don't ask much. As it is, I've never been near a Beaver Club dinner, but . . . well, I'm young yet. However, I was partly right: they did offer me promotion, but I didn't get the post I'd hoped for. They were sending me to the Mackinac Company – no mention of Montreal – I was to take up my new post right away. We needed to strengthen our presence at Mackinac – that's just politics you don't want to hear all that. I'd had to deal with some trouble with the Bay up north – I guess I've learned to talk my way out of things, or into things when necessary. I was flattered they'd picked me for a job that might be a little delicate.

  ‘I laid eyes on your sister a few weeks after I'd started at Mackinac. I come up from Mackinac to the Sault every couple of months or so: I carry the messages between the company posts, you see. You notice my winged heels? I even go up in winter sometimes, when the ice is safe.

  ‘I was walking on the canal towpath with Mr Ermatinger. He came to the Sault the year before I started at Mackinac. I liked him as soon as I met him. He's not in the Company any more, but he's a good man to know. He and his wife keep an open house for folk like me. Ermatinger was telling me about a plan to put another sloop on the upper lake – nothing larger than a bateau can get through the canal; there's still a hell of a lot of portaging – but never mind that, except it was because we'd been speaking of sloops that we went to look at the one that had just come into the jetty below the rapids. It was the Francis – she's often hereabouts – and there was a high old commotion going on around her: a huddle of folk, and a lot of screams and yelling. I know a fight when I see one. My own voyageurs were down there by the canoe. So I upped and ran, with Ermatinger panting after me.

  ‘I pushed through the crowd. Men were struggling for space to use their fists, and women were screaming to get out. A man hurtled on top of me, and I fell against Ermatinger. As the man fought free I saw he was a black fellow, bareheaded and barefoot. That's a rare sight in these parts. He pushed me off as I struggled to get my footing, then shot off like a ragged demon out of hell. A child went flying and began to shriek. The black fellow was away down the towpath. A sailor started after him, but I saw an old Indian fellow stick out his foot, and the sailor fell full length. The black man fled past the sawmill, then leapt off the towpath and vanished behind the fence.

  ‘Ermatinger yelled for order. I pulled a couple of fellows apart and got the jetty cleared. The petty officer was swearing at someone – I heard the words – “And you – you interfering bitch! Clear off! And be damned to you!” I shoved the sailors aside to see who was causing the trouble.

  ‘You know your own sister, I suppose. When I first saw her she'd been in a fight. You can say she'd not used her fists, but she'd bruised her knuckles all right. Her cap was torn off and her hair falling down. Dark hair, with a bit of a curl in it. The collar of her grey gown was ripped open. There was a big red mark on her cheek. She was trying to catch her breath. Her hands were curled into fists, and she was biting her lip, staring at the spot where the black fellow had vanished.

  ‘I was a lost man, brother Mark, from that moment. It was Ermatinger who took charge. “What's this?” he was saying. “Who's the black fellow? Did he assault the lady? What's been happening?”

  ‘A babble of voices answered him in French, Ojibwa and English. He called to a voyageur. “Pierre – you – were you here? Tell me what happened! The rest of you: silence!”

  ‘"No,” Pierre told us. “It was not like that at all, M'sieu Ermatinger. The black fellow was on the sloop, had been hiding, you must understand, on the sloop. Was down below deck, hidden on the sloop. Had come aboard, in secret, at Fort Detroit maybe, from down south in any case. From the United States. Had come aboard, you understand, without permission, without the knowledge of the captain. The black fellow was apprehended just now, half an hour ago maybe. Had been seen coming ashore, jumping down from the gangplank when he thought there was no guard. And the sailors had come running at once, but the young lady . . . People from the village had been listening, you understand, to the young lady. She was speaking in English. Some understood, and some had come to watch anyway. She spoke with the elders of the tribe, and this was pleasing to them. A small crowd had gathered, and there was some speech and some silence. It was in the silence that the black fellow leapt down from the gangway and began to run. Then the sailors ran after him. The young lady jumped up and flung herself into the fight. She would not let go, and while the one man tried to throw her off, the black fellow fought to be free of the other. Everyone crowded round, to help the one or the other – I know not which – and the rest you saw.”

  ‘I was watching Rachel while Pierre spoke. She was getting her breath back. She tucked her torn collar back into the neck of her gown, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. When Pierre stopped she looked directly at Ermatinger and said, “Friend, it is as he says, only I did not fight. I held the sailor merely, so that the man could run away.”

  ‘She said that. She's your sister, but it wasn't just a black eye she had afterwards. She'd skinned her knuckles too. I think none the worse of her, either for what she did or what she said. I just wondered why it mattered to her enough to lie. I watched the way she pushed her hair back from her face; her cap was gone and she had nothing to tie it with. I was glad when Ermatinger asked her to come back to his house. I didn't want to let her out of my sight.

  ‘"I will come with thee,” she said to him. “I have to find my aunt. We're staying at Thomas Nolan's, on the other side,” and she pointed across the strait. “Thee seems to have some authority here. If the stowaway is found, what will happen to him?”

  ‘"This is British territory,” Ermatinger said. “And I'm a magistrate here. If the man's a civilian, as I guess he is, there's no reason for anyone to detain him, unless the captain of the Francis would like his passage money paid.”1

  ‘"If he is found, will thee protect him? And if the captain wants money, will thee recompense him, out of the kindness of thy heart?”

  ‘Ermatinger raised his brows. “I thought you might be about to offer to pay his fare, since he got off scot-free through your agency?”

  ‘"Perhaps it's thy opportunity to welcome him. If he hears thee's paid his fare, perhaps he'll dare to come into the open. Then thee can give him work and lodging with thy Company.”

  ‘Her audacity took my breath away. I wished I could tie back her unruly hair for her. Ermatinger's house is not half a mile from the Huron jetty. By the time we reached it I was already committed to maybe the worst – certainly the most foolish – decision of my life.’

  I did not respond directly, but let the silence fill the space between us for a little while. Then I asked him, ‘What did happen to the black fellow, does thee know?’

  He was astonished. ‘Is that all you have to ask? As it happens, I do know. H
e married an Ojibwa girl and he lives with her people at Mishipikwadina. In the summer he comes back to work at the portaging at the Sault. Ermatinger takes an interest in him.’

  We were silent for a while.

  ‘Time is going by, brother Mark. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘Ay, if thee pleases.’

  ‘I tell it to please you. Very well. When they crossed the Sault I crossed too. I escorted them back to Nolan's house, and I stayed with my friends, the Johnstons. I saw her again. She wanted me to find out what happened to the black fellow, and I did, and put in a good word for him too. That pleased her. She said we couldn't meet again after that – that there was nothing more for us to speak about. But then . . . but I said I wouldn't tell you how she was won. ‘Tis naught to do with any but her and me. Suffice it to say we did meet again . . . several times. By now it was halfway through September. It was all my post was worth to stay away from Mackinac any longer. There was a schooner at the Sault, and Mrs Scott had arranged their passage back to Penetanguishine, late in the season as it was.

  ‘Oh, yes, I'll admit I did all I could to persuade her. She refused to decide until the last moment. She was packed and ready, but she still didn't say whither she meant to go. It was the evening before she and Mrs Scott were to cross the straits that she finally gave me her word. My voyageurs were camped on the beach. The moon was dark, so we had to wait for the first dawn light. Then we were off – back to Mackinac.

  ‘And then . . . what can I tell you? This was September of ‘09. The baby was born early in April. The midwife said he couldn't live; I sent a boy to fetch Dr Mitchell but by the time he came it was all over. The midwife called in our neighbour – a devout Catholic woman – and she christened him. I wanted my son christened – a Papist rite was better than none – and Rachel let it be done; I thought she was too ill to care. When Madame blessed the water we thought Rachel was not conscious, but she stirred a little and said, “I want thee to call him Mark.” So he was named Mark Alan, and a little after that he died.’