‘Thee thinks she's dead?’
Madeleine La Framboise crossed herself in the Papist fashion. ‘God rest her soul if she is. ‘Twas not what I said to you, though. I said I'd have heard if she were among the southern Ottawa. They're my own people. And perhaps I cared more what had happened to her than her husband did. Who can tell?’
‘Thee's saying he could have made more search?’
‘I say nothing of that, Mr Greenhow. Mackenzie searched from July until the ice came, but that winter he came back to Mackinac. For two years now he's been wholly taken up with espionage, I believe, against my own people.’
‘Against the Ottawa?’
‘I'm an American citizen, Mr Greenhow.’
‘Thee rented a cabin to Alan all the same?’
‘I had a cabin to rent, and I rented it. We're in the same trade. I'm an independent, and Mackenzie's allegiance is to the Canadian North West Company – the South West is naught but a temporary alliance between Mr Astor and the Canadians.’
‘Temporary? Thee thinks it can't last?’
‘Have you heard of the Columbia River?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, well.’ She shrugged in a gesture wholly French. ‘The war between the far companies won't be fought here, Mr Greenhow. It's happening already on the Pacific Coast. That's where it'll be resolved, for good or ill. But that needn't concern us. My business is on Lake Michigan, and so, it seems, is yours.’ Her tone suddenly changed. ‘I only met your sister once before I left for Grand River. Mackenzie brought her here when they arranged to take the cabin. I came back in the spring. She was with child by then. When I saw her again she had that glamour on her that sometimes comes with pregnancy, if a woman is very happy. When she went into labour it was too soon. I went to see what could be done. It was past preventing. He was a boy: I took one look and saw he couldn't live. I baptised the child: I could do naught else for him, and it was his father's wish. Rachel wasn't fully conscious. She would have died too, but I brought in a medi – a skilled woman. Dr Mitchell came – Alan sent for him – but I could have told him Mitchell could do nothing – the baby was already dead, and white men's medicine would soon have sent the mother after him. I cared for Rachel, Mr Greenhow, little though I knew her. I persuaded the medi to come to a white man's cabin. Rachel has a look of my own daughter, whom I greatly miss.’
‘Thy daughter . . . she is not. . . ?’
‘Josette is alive and well.’ Madeleine La Framboise crossed herself again. ‘She's at school in Montreal. My son also. It wasn't loneliness that led me to befriend Rachel. You're like her in some ways, you know. Not in others.’
‘So I'm told. When thee says she's not among the Ottawa – is there anywhere else she could be?’
‘The world is wide, Mr Greenhow. I'm no prophet; how can I tell where she may be? On the shores of Lake Michigan you have the Ojibwa, the Menominee, the Potawatomi . . . you have also the fur traders, American, British and native, who travel as far as the Mississippi and possibly even into the Pacific regions by that route. You have also American soldiers, who have been known to patrol the waters of the lake. As I say, Mr Greenhow, the world is very wide.’
‘Ay, thee makes it seem so.’
‘You give up?’
‘No.’ I tried to explain to her. ‘The world is wide, and if it were like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay, without any clue or guide, then I'd agree it couldn't be done. But I have had clues all along my way. One brought me to thee this day. And I have a guide, the Lord God who is our Father in heaven. He said that not one sparrow would fall to the earth but that he would take heed of it. The very hairs of thy head are numbered. If Rachel is on this earth, then God is with her, and knows where she is. The same God knows my purpose, and if he wills that I find her, he will be my guide.’
‘According to your faith be it unto you, Mr Greenhow. But what if it's not the will of God that you should find her?’
‘Then I'll have to say, “so be it.” I've not reached the end of my road yet.’
I sat with Madeleine La Framboise for over an hour. She said that when she went to her trading post that winter, she'd enquire about Rachel again. That way, she said, I could concentrate on the lands farther north, around South Manitou, and next spring we could meet again, and see what we each had been able to find out. I believed her, I thought her sincere in her care for Rachel, and more direct in her dealings than any I had yet enquired of.
I hadn't expected Alan to approve, but he was more vehement than I expected. ‘The two-faced bitch! Oh, yes, she did help when the baby died. Yes, she was good to Rachel, I'll grant you that, but only because Rachel reminded her of Josette. If Rachel had . . . had . . .’ – he sought for a comparison – ‘had red hair and freckles, do you think she'd have given a damn! Not she! That woman doesn't act out of charity, Mark. She's a tight-fisted twister, that's what she is. Oh, yes, she pours money into her church. She's given St Anne's more money than your Society has probably ever dreamed of’ – he was most certainly wrong about that – ‘she talks of nothing but building a new church, and bringing back the bloody Jesuits – even you must know what that means – and everyone's supposed to think she's some kind of saint. Well, I'll tell you this, Brother Abstinence Mark, she woos her precious Ottawa with all kinds of watered-down liquor. She don't care if they drink themselves to death, and she don't care if it's against the law either! She's notorious for it. How do you think a woman like that manages to snatch up all the Michigan trade from under our very noses? Oh, no, she don't keep the rules, not by a long way.’
‘I'm not familiar with thy rules. She was compassionate to Rachel, which is what matters to me.’
‘Oh, ay, have it your own way. But she's got her knife into me, ever since Rachel's been gone. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to bear that in mind, seeing that we're kin, brother.’
‘Ay,’ I said, for it was quite true that I bore all this in mind, along with many other things.
It was clear that Alan would give our journey no more thought until he'd dealt with the pressing business that kept him out until all hours. While I waited, I spent my days exploring the island, and talking to anyone who was inclined to pass the time of day – which was most people, because trade was at a standstill, and myself an object of curiosity. Many spoke to me of Rachel, which was my object, but none could tell me anything that might lead me further. During these trips I covered the length and breadth of the island: I reckoned it was little more than a mile or two square. The village and the fort occupied only the southern tip, as I realised on my first day, when I climbed the highest hill, which lay behind the fort. Inland there were a few farms, and groves of pine, maple and basswood. The bluff on which the fort was built circled almost the whole island, and there were many curious rock forms and arches in the limestone cliffs. I was told that some of these places were sacred to the Manitous of the place, and indeed I came upon diverse signs – wreaths, bones and suchlike – that the pagan religions were not wholly abandoned in these parts.
One day I wandered to the far north of the island, where I found a sizeable farm. A wooden farmhouse stood amid fields of maize and wheat, all surrounded by post and rail fences. Though the soil was poor and sandy it had been well dunged. Apart from the view of the lake over the distant trees, I might have been back in Yonge Street. The farmer was on his round; he saw me and came over.
‘Michael Dousman.’ He held out his hand. ‘You must be the Quaker fellow – Mackenzie's brother-in-law.’
I spent a pleasant hour or two in his snug kitchen, and found much in common with him. Like the Friends in Yonge Street, he came from Pennsylvania. He'd come to Mackinac when the Americans got the fort in ‘96 – which was agreed upon, he said, in ‘83, but, saving my presence, the English were the arch-procrastinators of the civilised world – and he'd invested in land immediately. It was true about the soil, he agreed, but there were many advantages to being on an island, in terms of ‘predators of every kind, four-foot a
nd two-foot’.
‘But now?’ I asked him boldly. ‘Will there: be war in Mackinac now, does thee think?’
He frowned. ‘Ay, I think it. I don't want it. I'm not the man for bloodshed. I'm a captain in our militia; I'll defend my home if I have to. But if there were any other way, I'd say take it. All folk here want is to get on with our lives. We have all sorts here – Americans, Indians, British – all tribes and conditions of men – all come to trade. Give us back our trade, I say, and don't drag us into any war. But it's too late for that.’
‘But isn't the war about this very trade – about the border?’
‘Nay, Greenhow. This war was started in London. This war began when your British navy started commandeering American ships and seamen. It started when your government said our country couldn't trade with Europe, except through a British port. In fact, to be honest, this war began in 1776 and hasn't left off yet. It'll end, I guess, when England agrees to treat the United States as a free and independent country. And it'll only end when that day comes.’
I thought of William Mackenzie, and an argument almost rose to my lips. I silenced it, seeing that these were worldly factions with which I had naught to do, the kind of words that led to deeds with outward weapons such as I did utterly deny. And yet it was hard to hear my own country reviled, and I so far away from it. Michael Dousman let the silence be for a while, then he said, ‘What breed of cattle do you have then, if your farm is high up in the hills?’
So it was that we parted in charity. Presently I strolled back to the village. My path led through a tall grove of basswood, and the leaves cast a freckled carpet of sun and shadow before my feet. Bright red birds were singing in the trees. In the shade, the noon-day heat was comfortable. My mind had been drifting, but I was suddenly aware there was a tune in my head, and moreover, I was humming it out loud:
En roulant ma boule roulant
En roulant ma boule.
En roulant ma boule roulant.
En roulant ma boule.
I'd never caught myself doing such a thing before. I stopped in the middle of the track and thought about it. I felt in no way degenerate, but, on the contrary, filled with the peace of God as manifested in the beauty of his creation. I examined my mind quite carefully, questioning myself as if I were an elder from my Meeting. There was nothing amiss. I began to walk slowly on, and the words drifted to and fro in the dappled sunshine like a benediction: there is nothing amiss; there is nothing amiss.
That evening I wrote a long letter to my parents, trusting in God that it might find its way to them somehow. If it went back to Montreal with the voyageurs in August, it could reach Cumberland before I did, assuming it ever crossed the border to the Sault. When I'd sealed it I sat back and sighed. I still had another sheet of paper, for I'd bought two at the American Fur Company Store that morning. Presently I pulled it towards me and wrote:
McGulpin's House
Mackinac
15th day of Seventh Month, 1812
To my Friend in Christ, Clemency,
I wrote nothing more for a long time, but sat staring out of the window. Marching footsteps tramped along the baked earth of the lane. A couple of soldiers passed the window; I'd got used to them patrolling the streets by now. I dipped my pen.
I write to thee from Mackinac, in the United States, thy own country. Since I left Yonge Street I have met no Friends. Indeed at times I seem very far from all that I . . .
I paused again. I was tempted to scratch out the last sentence, for it was not my intent to whine to her.
. . . that I am accustomed to. Since I have left thee I have learned well how to a paddle a canoe . . .
(I was wrong about that: to be a spare milieu is not to know how to paddle a canoe.)
. . . and that pleases me. With thee it must now be approaching harvest; I pray that the Lord may bless thy labours with abundance. It is my hope also that Coltsfoot had an easy travail, and that the calf was a heifer.
When I left Montreal, we headed north-west up the Outaouais River . . .
My pen began to flow more easily. (How I should think that Clemency would be interested in portages, rapids, and canal locks I do not know, but I was a young fellow, grasping at straws in the dark, for all this territory was new to me.) I covered the sheet, but had naught to say that was worth crossing my lines for, so I finished,
Ever thy Friend, in peace,
Mark Greenhow
After I'd sealed it I bethought me that Thomas and Sarah, and indeed the Meeting at Yonge Street, should have been added to my expressions of goodwill, but there was but one stick of sealing wax in the house, and that not mine, so I thought it better to leave things as they were.
1 As to this matter of secular writing, I have thought a great deal about it, and at diverse times the elders have seen fit to caution me on the matter. After my sojourn abroad, it occurred to me that I had long known men considered in the world to be great poets, but never read a line of what they wrote. I went into the bookshop in Keswick shortly after my return, and bought a leatherbound volume by William Wordsworth. (Out of loyalty I would have begun with Robert Southey, but this was the Laker season, and they were out of stock). Contrary to Friendly persuasions, poetry is often more plain and direct than common speech: indeed, at its best, simplicity shines through. I opened the volume in the bookshop, and I read:
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
I was much moved. The following First Day I got up and gave those lines as Ministry. ‘T is the only Ministry I ever gave in all my life, and the elders, knowing not the source, were pleased to approve it. To my lifelong shame I didn't acknowledge my debt; it seemed more politic to be silent. A bad poet is indeed the enemy of plain speech, being obscure and convoluted, seeking to disguise the simple truth merely to impress the credulous with his tricks, but I account William Wordsworth a good poet. He knows his country. My mother was very unhappy when I started bringing secular writings into the house, but agreed to it in the end, so long as I never bought any novels, which are narratives woven with untruths and vain inventions, to which I agreed, and I have kept my word.
CHAPTER 15
TWO DAYS LATER I SAW MICHAEL DOUSMAN AGAIN. I'd spent another solitary evening (for Alan had been gone since the previous night), this time reading volume the second of Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (this being the only volume in the house). The heresies of the early Christian churches were quite new to me; I had never heard of all these emperors, martyrs and bishops, nor had I ever conceived that there were so many unverifiable creeds to quarrel about. In fact my brain was all of a whirl, but not unpleasantly. I read until the candles guttered. There was still no sign of Alan, so I went to bed. I woke suddenly, aware of someone standing in the room.
‘Is anyone there?’
I recognised Dousman's voice, and was wide awake at once. ‘Ay,’ I said.
‘Greenhow! Of course.’ I could just make out where he was standing at the door.
‘Listen, man. The British are here! Don't say anything – you know my still-house on the south shore?’
‘Ay.’
‘Go there now! Everyone else has gone. Otherwise – the British army's mostly Indians. You mustn't be found here, if they take the island. You know what scalping is? Then go!’
I was scrambling into my breeches. ‘Ay. But the American garrison . . . the fort . . .’
‘They're not to know. Go quietly. No one will harm you.’
‘But . . . Dousman, I don't . . . Thee's American?’ For some reason my heart sank within me, to think this man a traitor. And yet, what was it to me?
/>
‘Ay.’ He came a little nearer. ‘There's no time to explain . . . yet I wouldn't wish . . . Greenhow!’
‘Ay.’
‘Listen, then, quickly! I went over to St Joseph's yesterday. Hanks – the commander at the fort – sent me. Find out what's going on, he said. He's had no orders from Detroit – we've heard nothing. I'm a trader; there's a consignment from Lake Superior I had to see about – that's the truth. Anyway, I can cross the border. So I took my canoe and went last night. We – my man and I – we'd only got to Goose Island – fifteen miles or so from here – it was dark by then – when we ran straight into the British flotilla. I was taken aboard the Caledonia to Captain Roberts. I've known those men for years, Greenhow: Pothier, Askin, Johnson, Roberts, Ermatinger. They told me we're at war. Since June 19th, it seems. Pothier brought the news back from Montreal two weeks ago. It's the Indian allies. You understand me? If the British take the fort, there'll be a massacre. I gave my word not to alert the garrison – they told me to come back to warn the village – get everyone to safety. You're the last, Greenhow – I didn't begin at the British agent's house! So go! And fast!’
I was lacing my boots. ‘Where's Alan?’
‘Mackenzie? Where do you think? That's why Hanks sent me off yesterday – Mackenzie's canoe had gone. They keep a pretty tight watch on that fellow. Now go!’
I was at the door, Dousman close behind me. ‘Where's the British army now?’
‘Go, I said! Very well . . . at my farm. We landed up north, on my own beach. Two hours ago – you're the last house I've roused. They'll have the cannon brought up by now. Run, Greenhow! To the still-house, mind. If you value your life – and mine – go!’
He slipped past me and vanished down the street. Outside there was a faint glimmer of the dawn to come. Everything was very quiet. Even the birds weren't awake yet. I walked under the lee of the silent fort and into Market Street. There were footsteps behind me: I retreated quietly under the eaves of the Company factory. A family hurried past me – I'd seen the woman before. She and her man were each carrying a child huddled in a shawl. A dog, evidently thinking this was a game, frisked at their heels. They didn't see me; they were hurrying for the still-house. I thought about what it would be like in there, waiting, unable to hear or see, dreading to hear war cries without, and not knowing anything. I heard a child crying, and pattering footsteps. Two women passed me, holding hands with half a dozen running children, all half-dressed. The smallest child was crying as it was pulled along. If I went to the still-house, I'd most likely be the only single man in the place. I could see more people, some weighted with bundles, hurrying through the gloom. The light was growing fast.
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