Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘This is the island of Bois Blanc. We won't be long here. Then I'll take you visiting.’

  Once everything was put away Alan led me away along another track. It was getting light. We startled a little herd of white-tailed deer, who bounded away into the forest. Birds were starting to sing in the trees about us; some of their calls had grown familiar to me, but I knew few by name. A dozen questions burned on my tongue, but I uttered none of them. No doubt Alan would speak when he chose. When we came back to the shore the rising sun was glinting on the lake, but we were in shadow, facing north-west. We ducked back under the trees, and came on a clearing sheltered from the shore by barely twenty yards of forest. I saw a hayfield, ripe – more than ripe – for harvesting. Beyond it was a log cabin with many additions built on, and a fenced garden behind. A coil of smoke rose from the chimney. Some mongrel hens and a pig foraged in the mud between the cabin and the shore. On the beach below a canoe lay half in, half out of the water. It looked very like the one that had brought us from the Sault. There was another island across a narrow strait, similar to the one we were on, low-lying and thickly wooded. The place seemed a little haven of habitation in the midst of the waters and the wilderness.

  ‘This is the house of Martin Kerners.’

  I followed Alan to the door without replying. He lifted the latch and walked in, and held the door for me to follow.

  The cabin was warm and crowded. Three walls were hung with tools and baskets. The usual meats and fishes and herbs hung from the rafters. There were low boxes covered with furs and trade blankets to sit on, and opposite the hearth there was a deal table with benches on each side. Loic was there at the table, and the four voyageurs who'd paddled our canoe from the Sault, all discussing a hearty meal of the inevitable whitefish. Two young Indian women squatted at the hearth, busy cooking bannocks on a griddle.

  Loic stood up. ‘Bienvenus! Biindigen! Welcome to my house, m'sieu. Please, will you sit down? Alan, you also. You must be hungry.’ He turned to the young women. ‘Pakané, biidaw gondag niniwag waa-kizhebaa ‘miijiwaad!‘

  The voyageurs moved up to make room for us at the table. One of the young women set out bowls of steaming fish in front of us – ‘It is whitefish,’ said Loic. ‘C'est bon. You will drink? Water? Is that all? Waase'aaban, nibi biidaw!‘

  The younger girl brought a pitcher of water. She said not a word, but I could not help noting her. For all her dark skin, she seemed to me the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She couldn't have been above fifteen. She was very slight, her movements quiet and graceful. Like her sister, she wore a trade shirt tied at the waist with a voyageur sash. Her short woollen skirt and coloured leggings were entirely savage, however, and much embroidered with braiding and coloured ribbons, which matched the ribbon in her braided hair. She was all hung about with bead necklaces and earrings. I felt my senses reel – that is the plain truth; I never knew what the expression signified until that moment.

  As I sat, outwardly unmoved, I tried to steady my mind. I tried to remind myself that these people were nothing to do with me. I thought of Sarah and Clemency in their grey gowns, and bleached caps and pinafores. With that memory came a sudden vision of red hair brighter than any beads or ribbons, and for no reason at all I was filled with a confusion I could not fathom, as if the blood had rushed to my brain and heated it above the temperature of reasoned thought,

  ‘Thank thee, friend,’ I said to the girl, as she set a pitcher of water on the table. She glanced at me, gave a small smile, and looked across at Loic.

  ‘M'sieu, it is the sister of my wife, Waase'aaban. The other, she is my wife. Pakané, maa bi-izhaan! M'sieu Mark, you would like to see my son also? He sleeps, but he is here! Look!’

  I had seen the flat cradleboards on the backs of women at the Sault, but never so close as this one propped against the stone chimney breast. It looked cruelly hard compared to a cradle, but the small brown face within seemed peaceful enough. A rosary hung from the board, and some woven beads and feathers. The baby already had a fringe of black hair. I knew not what to say – I was not used to a man inviting me to admire his infant – but it was no matter. Loic said, ‘His name is Martin; he is called Biinoojii. Is he not beautiful; do you not think so?’

  ‘Ay.’ I said, but I wasn't telling the exact truth. I thought Loic's wife infinitely more beautiful than her little smudge of a child. She seemed very young – she couldn't have been more than a year or two older than her sister. She was just as gaudily dressed, and just as lissom. I hadn't thought to find anything so exotic in this out of the way homestead, or indeed in Loic's family. I knew not what to make of it, or of myself. Luckily no one took any notice of me. I recovered my complexion and made a hearty meal. By the time I'd finished the voyageurs had departed, to sleep, Loic said. I was feeling quite sleepy myself when the door opened again, and an old white man with a strong look of Loic appeared. His hair was grey, and there were deep wrinkles round his eyes and mouth.

  Alan stood up. ’Monsieur Kerners, je suis content de vous voir. Je vous présente Mark Greenhow; c'est le frère de ma femme Rachel. Brother Mark, this is Martin Kerners.’

  Martin Kerners shook my hand civilly, but he, Alan and Loic obviously had other matters to discuss. Plates and mugs were pushed aside, and Alan took some papers out of his haversack. Loic wiped the table with the hem of his shirt, and Alan unfolded his documents and spread them out. I was forgotten for the moment, so I left the house to answer a call of nature. There was no outhouse, only the forest all around. Others had been there before me, and I went further afield, and so it was that some little time elapsed before I returned.

  There was no one left in the room but Loic's sister-in-law. She was sitting on her heels by the fire stitching a piece of leather with a length of rawhide, while a big iron kettle simmered over the logs in front of her. She smiled when I came in. I knew not where to sit, but courageously opted for a deerskin-covered box on the other side of the fire. As there seemed to be time, I took off my wet boots and stockings and laid them out to dry, not too close to the heat. My bare feet looked wrinkled and sodden from being damp so long. I began to rub a little life back into my poor toes. The girl seemed as comfortable with silence as I was, and indeed so far as I knew we had no common language. I was wrong about that, for after some minutes had elapsed, she held up her work, and said to me, ‘Ne serait-il pas mieux de porter des mocassins, m'sieu?‘

  ‘Ay, – oui – mais je n'ai pas des mocassins, malheureusement.’ I thought for a moment. ’Mes pieds sont trop grands, mademoiselle.’ And I stretched them out to the fire so she could see what I meant.

  She seemed to find that funny, for she laughed softly, and went back to her stitching. Her dark head was bent over her work, so I was able to watch her freely. Presently I felt thirsty and went to the table to fetch myself water. Alan had left one of his papers there. It did not look to be a letter, or any private thing. Sometimes to this day I question myself whether it were a wrong thing to do or no, and still I cannot be certain. I couldn't help being curious, and naturally certain questions, ay, and possible answers too, were circling in my brain. But there the thing was, no personal letter but some kind of a list, unfolded on the table for anyone to see. I had not given Alan my word that I would not look about me. I glanced at the girl; she had her back to me. And so I read:

  Manifesto of the cargo of four canoes the property of the subscriber bound to the River Missouri and navigated by six men – Viz:

  No 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9

  10,11,12,13,14 14 bales dry goods

  15,16 2 barrels sugar

  17 1 case guns

  18 1 do. iron goods

  19 1 do. pipes

  20,21 2 do. soap

  22,23 2 barrels salt

  24,25,26,27,28,29 6 bales tobacco

  30 1 keg spirits

  31,32 2 barrels do.

  33 1 nest tin kettles

  34,35 2 kegs nails

  36,37 2 do.
liquor

  38,39,40,41,42,43 6 do. high wine

  44,45 2 baskets traps

  46,47,48,49,50 5 bags shot

  51,52 2 cases do.

  53 1 keg butter

  54 1 keg pork

  55,56,57,58 4 kegs gunpowder

  59 1 trunk

  Fifty-nine articles of entry and the necessary Provisions, Sea Stores and Agrés for the voyage. Bois Blanc Island, 9th July, 1812. Martin Kerners.

  July 9th – that was the ninth day of Seventh Month: three days from now. I hadn't thought Martin Kerners rich enough to own the four canoes. I went back to my place at the hearth, and stared into the fire for a long time, thinking. Waase'aaban was the most undemanding companion possible, yet I was preternaturally aware of her presence. The silence between us grew into one of contentment, the kind a man would like to find at his own hearth. When Pakané came and joined us, and began to suckle Loic's baby, she did nothing to disturb our peace. The two sisters talked a little, and presently Waase'aaban laid down her work, and went out to fetch more wood. When she came back Martin Kerners was with her.

  ’Vous ne dormez pas? – you sleep not? Alan, Loic – all sleep. You sleep not?’

  ‘No.’

  Martin sat down. ‘You like Waase'aaban? C'est la sœur de ma belle-fille. Elle est toujours fille non mariée, vous savez.’ He pointed at Waase'aaban. ‘No man. She has not yet a man.’

  Waase'aaban looked at me and smiled a little. Pakané said something in their own language, and a sharp discussion ensued, in which all three took part. I said firmly, ‘Where is Alan Mackenzie? I too would like to sleep now, please.’

  ‘Sleep?’ Martin spoke sharply to Waase'aaban, who got to her feet.

  ‘Venez, m'sieu.‘

  I followed her cautiously. She led me into another room – the various additions to the cabin had made it like a warren inside – where there was a raised platform covered with a guddle of furs and blankets. My brother-in-law was curled in a blanket, his head resting on a rolled up beaver pelt. In sleep he looked remarkably innocent, his shirt open at the neck and his dark hair ruffled. The other heap of blankets I took to be Loic. Waase'aaban pointed to the bed, smiled again, and left me. I made myself a little space between Alan and Loic, pulled a spare blanket from under Loic, curled up and closed my eyes.

  I woke to Alan's voice. ‘Brother Mark. Mark! By God, the fellow sleeps like the dead! Mark!’

  I sat up. ‘Ay?’

  ‘Time to go!’

  I rubbed my eyes. There was a little square window of oiled paper sawn out of the wall. As far as I could tell, outside it was still broad day.

  ‘We travel in daylight, do we? Like honest men?’

  It was a moment before he answered me. ‘Touché, brother Mark.’ It was said without his usual insouciance. I realised I'd touched him on the raw, and noted it. We spoke no more to each other, but said farewell to the Kerners family and repaired to the beach. Our voyageurs already had the canoe afloat. There was no sign of Loic's sister-in-law, or of his wife and son. It was hardly my place to mention them, but when we pushed off I felt a little twinge of regret. I wondered if I would ever come back to Bois Blanc again.

  I had all the leg room I could desire this time, and instead of vague shapes in the dark I could see land all round: Bois Blanc behind us, the wooded island across the little strait, and the distinctive humped island dead ahead, which I'd caught a glimpse of under last night's moon. It wasn't far off at all. Alan sat beside me, saying he wanted to see my paddling skills for himself. I was not to be drawn on that subject, so he began telling me what we could see. I wasn't surprised when he pointed to the hump ahead and said, ‘Mackinac.’

  ‘Is that a Scottish name?’

  He laughed. ‘No, it's Ojibwa. Michilimackinac: the Island of the Great Turtle. If I have it correctly the Great Turtle was brought up from the depths of the lake by Gitchi Manitou to become a little island.2 A blessed little island, on the crossroads of the greatest trade routes in North America. You know of Gitchi Manitou? You shake your head, but I think you do. Better than I do, brother. Your George Fox would have recognised him at once, I believe. You see I've learned something of your sect. But that by the by: you ask me of Mackinac, and as a sober senior clerk of the South West Trading Company, I should keep mum about the Great Turtle, and tell you that Mackinac is a trading post and a military fort. Just now it's in bad trouble. Since the American embargo last year, trade's at a standstill. All the incoming trade used to come by Montreal. Now the border's closed they have to come up from the United States, but that's a tortuous route, and you just can't get the goods.’

  ‘An American military fort?’

  ‘The Yankees have it now, yes indeed. They never took it, mark you. It was built by the British and held by the British, until Jay's Treaty – which betrayed us all – handed it to the Yankees on a plate, along with every other fort we had inside American territory. That was in ‘96 – before you or I ever set foot in this benighted country. So, as far as we're concerned, yes, it's an American military fort.’ Alan chuckled softly. ‘Until the war, brother, until the war. Then – well, anything could happen then.’

  ‘Is that the fort?’ I asked presently, for a patch of grey wall was now visible at the southern end of the island, atop the hill.

  ‘None other. When you can see the stars and stripes flying over it, you'll know it's less than an hour till dinner time.’

  We came ashore on a crowded beach, skirted the Indian village that lines the shore, and walked up to the fort, which stood at the top of a bluff a hundred and fifty feet above the village. The excise office, to which we repaired immediately, was below the cliff. Customs were no mere formality. When we arrived the clerk fetched a senior official, whom Alan introduced to me as a Mr Abbott, and I was thoroughly grilled as to my status, my journey and my reason for travelling. I had naught to fear, for I told him the simple truth. My sister's story was clearly known to him; I think he knew within five minutes that I was exactly what I said I was, but he had the world-weary air of a man used to all kinds of deviations from simplicity and truth.

  When Samuel Abbott had done with me he pushed a piece of written paper across the desk to Alan, who knew the form, for he proceeded at once to make a copy in his own hand on a blank sheet of foolscap. That was the third time I'd seen Alan's fair copperplate; he's something of a calligrapher, and prides himself on the aesthetics of all his records, both personal and clerkly. On this occasion, as I sat beside him, I was more struck by the content:

  I do solemnly and sincerely swear that the report and manifest now delivered by me to the Collector of the District of Michilimackinac contains a full and true account of all the Cargo which was on board of a canoe at the time of its arrival at the Port of the District aforesaid, and that I know of no smuggling or fraud of any kind respecting the said cargo since its departure from Sainte Marie du Sault. I further swear that there are not to the best of my knowledge and belief m board of the said canoe any goods, wares or merchandise the importation of which into the United States or the Territories thereof is prohibited by law. And I do further swear that if I shall hereafter discover or know of any such goods, wares or merchandise, I will immediately and without delay report the same to the Collector of this District. So help me God.

  Alan Mackenzie

  Sworn before me this 7th day of July, 1812

  Alan pushed the note back across the desk, and the excise officer added his signature: Samuel Abbott, Collector

  Alan took the letter back, drew a curly line with a flourish at each end, and wrote on the second half of the paper:

  Manifesto of a canoe the property of the South West Company, navigated by six men, bound to Mackinac from Sainte Marie du Sault, and having on board the following cargo—

  Remainder of the necessary Provisions, Sea Stores and Agrés for the return voyage to the Sault. Private letters to be delivered to South West Company officials.

  Mackinac 7th July, 1812

&nbs
p; Alan Mackenzie

  ‘Very well, Mr Mackenzie. I'll find you at McGulpin's house as usual, if I need you?’

  ‘Ay, if I'm not at the factory.’

  Our business was then concluded, and we stepped outside. Alan turned to me with an easy smile. ‘You must be famished, brother Mark. We'll go to the Company factory – you'll need to buy some dollars – and tonight we'll eat at the tavern. You've no objection to that?’

  As we walked, I tried to gather my wits and realise I was in another country. There were quite a few American soldiers around to remind me, besides the stars and stripes flapping in the breeze above the fort. (In the eyes of the Lord who made us all no doubt one flag is much the same as another, but I, who had never walked under any foreign flag in all my life, found myself overly aware of the difference.) I had always thought of soldiers in terms of red, but these fellows had blue coats with red collars, and cuffs trimmed with yellow. Like our own soldiers, they had shakoes with polished badges. Some had muskets slung over their shoulders. Besides the soldiers there were voyageurs in scarlet caps and sashes, fur traders in many-caped coats and tall beaver hats, Indians in motley garb – the men in anything from deerskins to discarded uniforms and broad-brimmed beavers, the women in short bright-coloured dresses with embroidered leggings, reminding me of Pakané and Waase'aaban on Bois Blanc. I saw the first white women I'd encountered since Montreal – two young ladies in low-necked gowns and be-ribboned bonnets, carrying parasols. I was very hungry.

  McGulpin's house lay to the north of the fort, close under the bluff, beyond some neatly tended vegetable plots. Its own yard was rank and overgrown; foxgloves and nettles almost hid the square windows. The house was usually let to seasonal traders, and normally in the summer it would be fully occupied. This year, Alan said, he had the place to himself, a mark of the strange times we lived in. I had not much expectation of good housekeeping, but the kitchen into which we stepped was swept clean, the fire was laid, and the dresser was laden with a cask of ale, a bread barrel, and a goodly array of pewter vessels, enough to serve a dozen at one time, and indeed the big table and long benches could have accommodated such a number. Two bedrooms opened off the kitchen, and a stair led to a long bedloft. We were but two, and had each our own bedroom downstairs. I found no sheets, but made up my bed with a couple of trade blankets that looked to be moderately clean.