Voyageurs

by Margaret Elphinstone

  Loic took a stick and poked the embers into a last spurt of life. ‘You see? The story is in fact the same.’

  ‘Ay.’ I was strangely relieved, and yet perplexed. I thought of Rachel and Judith's concern to minister to the Indians, and of how I'd said to Rachel long ago in the hayloft – in another world, it seemed now – that if the Light was truly revealed to all, then ministry to the less enlightened was a redundancy. It had not occurred to me that the Light Within might prompt similar outward expressions among the heathen. Also, though I knew the first chapter of Genesis by heart, I knew nothing whatsoever of the idolatries and shibboleths of the Catholic faith. Either way, I knew not what to make of Loic's story. ‘There are differences,’ I said to Loic cautiously.

  ‘Of course. The same story is never told twice, not exactly.’

  ‘Unless it's written down,’ said Alan idly.

  Loic shrugged. A log shifted, and the little flame vanished. The dark crept in around us, and our talk was gone for that night, like a slate wiped clean.

  We had searched the waterways as far as we could, along the coast and inland, as far south as the Muskegon River. I assumed that Madeleine La Framboise would have kept her promise about sending word among the villages further south; Alan was scathing of my trust in her, but in any case we were running out of time. The summer villages were emptying. We met canoes with whole families aboard on their way north to their rice fields. Skeins of geese tracked across the sky, heading south. Slowly the trees began to lose their green. Loic said that after the rice was harvested the families would scatter to their winter hunting grounds. There had never been any real hope, and now I had to look defeat squarely in the face. At least I could comfort myself that I had tried.

  On our way north we stopped at a village at the mouth of a wide brown river. The inhabitants had mostly gone across Lake Michigan to the rice lakes, leaving only the frames of their wigwams. Half a dozen older people had stayed behind, waiting for their families to come back with the winter's supply of rice. They couldn't help us, but they had some furs to trade, which saved us going home empty-handed. We traded away the remnant of our beads and cloth, but refused to part with our last trap or the rest of the powder and shot. The evening was spent smoking the tobacco we'd given them. The men talked a little; Loic didn't bother to translate. We were all sleepy. There was an old woman in the company. She sat bent over the fire across from me. When I looked up I saw an ancient, wizened face, the cheeks fallen in over toothless gums. But her eyes were black and bright, and whenever my glance fell that way I saw her watching me. I don't think she spoke all evening.

  That night I dreamed of my great aunt Agnes Bristo, who died when she was a hundred and two years old, and I was a little lad of three. In waking life I'd forgotten that I knew her. Agnes Bristo was a weighty Friend of Mosedale Meeting and had never stirred further from Mungrisdale than Keswick in all the years of her life. But in my dream she walked with a great bear, her hand resting on its neck, as a child might walk with a big dog. And then it was I who was the child, still wet from the water, and my aunt Agnes leading us, and we were walking under the moon on the high dunes of South Manitou Island. Alan's voice spoke in my ear quite clearly, saying ‘I would not dare,’ and even as he spoke I saw the graves on their high poles, the tattered cloths that bound them streaming in the wind. And I knew that whatever Alan said we had no choice, and this I tried to explain to him. Alan was saying, ‘Mark? Mark! What the hell is it? What are you doing, for God's sake?’ That part was real. I was awake, and found I'd rolled right up against him, shoving him out from under the canoe.

  I was half asleep, and incoherent, but I know I said quite clearly, because they both told me so next morning, ‘Not the water. The island. She says go back to South Manitou Island.’

  1 These days I shoot my beasts through the brain before we butcher them. Most farmers I know still slit the throat in the old way, and so did we, when I was a lad. They say it spoils the flavour to shoot them dead, because the blood cannot run so free, but I think my way is the more merciful. Call me sentimental, if thee will. Death is all about us, in all its forms, and no man can escape it, but I do not believe God gave us dominion over the birds of the air and the beasts of the field in order for us to inflict any pain upon our fellow-creatures that might easily be avoided.

  2 I'd lived nearly all my life among a nation at war. I was used to the sight of redcoats on the street and Royal Naval ships patrolling our shores, from my earliest days. The difference was, I suppose, that I knew a redcoat in the streets of Carlisle was unlikely to fall upon me and slice off my scalp, or, indeed, do me any hurt at all. But then, when I think of the press-gang when I was a lad at Whitehaven, I think now I was in as much danger in my own country (for suppose Buonaparte had invaded in ‘03?) as I was beyond the settled frontier in the Michigan Territory. Even when no war is declared we are oppressed by the power of arms, for was not Peterloo a massacre perpetrated by our own civil magistrates in times of so-called peace? Perhaps it is only familiarity that gives us the illusion of peace, when there is no peace.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE MORNING AFTER WE REACHED OUR OLD CAMPSITE on South Manitou, I woke to find a glisky rime over everything in camp. The cold stung my bare feet when I walked down to the lake. There was an end, I thought, to a summer of swimming in the warmest water I'd ever known. I dipped the kettle, and watched the ripples spreading.

  When I came back, Alan, still tousled from sleep, was crawling out from under the canoe. Loic knelt by our old fireplace with a strike-a-light in his hand, where he'd made a little pyramid of birchbark among the ashes. I saw he'd laid out a lump of spruce gum resin on a mat, and the pot to melt it in. ‘Thee's going to mend the canoe?’

  ‘This morning. Then when we need to go . . . It's very late in the year to be here. We must be ready to get off as soon as we can.’

  ‘It was thee who insisted that we come.’

  ‘It was not I who took so long to listen.’ Loic stopped, as there came a sudden wild crying above us. We stood and watched as a long line of geese came out of the north in a straggling V. When they were right above us they broke ranks and circled down quite close. With much honking they vanished among the trees close to Nidon's village. ‘They must go to the wee loch,’ said Alan.

  ‘The mide’s lake, thee means?’ I asked.

  ‘Ay,’ said Alan. ‘Would you two care for a roast goose to your dinner?’

  ’Oui, only I must work on the canoe.’

  ‘Brother Mark? A little killing with outward weapons today, perhaps?’

  When Alan and I walked along the beach, our muskets, horns and gun bags slung over our shoulders, we found the marks of canoes and several prints of moccasins, but when we came to the village it was deserted. Only the sapling frames of the wigwams were still standing, and the empty racks where fish had been dried. A scattering of leaves had blown in over the cold hearths. A shudder ran down my back; the place seemed very empty. Alan was staring into the space between one of the empty frames. ‘Mark,’ he said quietly. ‘Look here.’

  The floor of the wigwam was clear of leaves, and the ashes between the stones were soft and white. Alan stepped through the door frame, squatted down and cautiously stirred them with his finger. ‘Warm.’

  ‘The canoes are gone.’

  ‘True.’ Alan stood up, and wiped his ashy hand on his breeches.

  ‘Let's go to the dunes first,’ I said. ‘If they left this morning we might still see them.’

  ‘And if we don't see them, either they left last night or not at all, or the sun was in our eyes,’ said Alan. ‘A fat goose would be more conclusive.’

  ‘I'd rather know we were alone before we fire a shot.’ I don't know why I felt so cautious; perhaps all the weeks of pent-up strife around us had come to a head in my imaginings.

  ‘We've already lit a fire,’ remarked Alan. ‘But I don't mind. The dunes it is, and let's hope the geese take a siesta after they dine.’

&n
bsp; It was warmer in the forest, but even so the air had the tang of autumn in it. We didn't find the same mushrooms that we're used to here, but there were baseberries, crackerberries, wild raisins, and many other berries that I knew not.1 There was a tangle of homely blackberries at the foot of the dunes, which Alan and I stopped to sample. Before we climbed up the sandy path Alan pulled me back. ‘Let me look first.’

  The sand was soft, and certainly messed about. Alan frowned. ‘There's no telling. Let's go on.’

  A sharp breeze met us at the top. I'd forgotten how many hillocks there were, covered by coarse grass and juniper. There was no clear view, either far or near. The lake was dazzling bright. ‘Can't see a damned thing,’ said Alan. He was getting edgy too: maybe he'd caught it from me.

  ‘Let's walk out to the bluff. We'll see the shore from there.’

  ‘We'll see a hundred yards of it,’ grumbled Alan. ‘No one in his right mind would land on this side anyway.’

  I led the way through the grasses. When I looked back, Alan had stopped and unslung his musket. I went back to him. ‘Did thee hear aught?’

  ‘No.’ Alan measured in powder, rammed the ball home, and primed the pan. Then he met my eyes. ‘Sorry, brother Mark. Maybe I've got the wind up. Call me a coward if you like. Pass me your musket.’

  I unslung the gun, and Alan took it out of my hands. ‘Take this.’

  I held his gun and watched him loading mine. ‘Alan, thee knows I will not . . .’

  ‘Ay, ay, don't tell me again. Just carry it, will you?’ He grinned suddenly. ‘We might find a sitting goose. You never know your luck.’

  I took the loaded gun. Alan carried his across his chest and followed me on to the bluff. We stood about three feet from the edge – the sand was too crumbly to go close – and looked down. There was nothing to be seen either on the sparkling lake or the thin strip of sand below. We turned to go back.

  Six warriors stood across our path, armed with knives and tomahawks. Dreadful swathes of human hair hung from their belts. Two wore eagle feathers, and they both had muskets, trained on us.

  Alan raised his musket. A shot cracked. Alan cried out. I lunged to save him, too late. I saw him fall. The ground shifted under my feet. I stumbled back, and a plume of sand flew upwards as the cornice gave way and slid down after him.

  All I could do was face my foes. The leader lowered his smoking musket. I had a loaded gun in my hand and unstable ground under my feet. I took two steps towards them, away from the cliff.

  The leader – he wore a plume of eagle feathers – spoke to me. It sounded like a command. ‘What is thee doing?’ I asked indignantly, and realised as I did so that I was trembling – not from fear, I think – for I was very angry, and sounded it – but from the shock of Alan's fall. I held myself rigid so he wouldn't see me shake. ‘We came here in peace.’

  The same command, only louder.

  ‘I came in peace,’ I said again. ‘Thee has no cause to hurt me.’

  They said nothing to each other, but as one man they came a little closer. They had me trapped, and meant, it seemed, to take me whole. I had a loaded gun in my hand, which I knew well how to use, but they heeded it not.

  The next moments seemed to pass very slowly: there was time for all the thoughts in the world to go through my head, of the life I had known, and the life that lies beyond all knowing in which I put my faith. But all this was thrust aside: a battle raged inside my head, as it were quite leisurely, although in truth it lasted less than two minutes – for they took their time, as if they were enjoying themselves. They torture their prisoners of war to death – All bloody principles and practices we do utterly deny – chop small pieces off them – with all outward war and strife – arms, legs, privates – and fightings with outward weapons – until there's nothing left but a torso – for any end whatsoever – insert slivers of wood under their fingernails – under any pretence whatsoever – or with the eyes – and this is our testimony . . . our testimony . . . our testimony . . .

  I half-cocked the gun, and laid it at my feet.

  They stood still, and so did I. I've never been so feart in all my life, but I showed it not. I met the eyes of the man who'd shot Alan, and held his gaze.

  Then he pointed to me, and said something to his warriors. All my linguistic skills had ebbed away from me, but he repeated the one word several times, addressing it to me. ‘Nigigwetagad. Nigigwetagad. Nigigwetagad.‘

  Suddenly they turned away. Before I had time to think they'd vanished into the dunes, and I saw no more of them.

  I sank down among the prickly grass, and shook like an aspen for the space of a fall minute. I didn't begin to make head or tail of it all; I just knew I was feart. But I had to find Alan. I shouldered the gun and began walking along the edge of the dunes, looking for a safe way down. I couldn't see the beach directly below; the overhang was too great. Presently I found a place where the sand sloped steeply, but not so vertically that I wasn't able to slither down. I tried it, and lost my footing almost at once, but the sand was soft, and I slid, as on a scree run, until I reached the bottom. I was standing on a beach full ten feet wide, of firm-packed sand. I didn't like the look of the crumbling slopes above me, but that couldn't be helped. I strode back the way I'd come, scanning the ground ahead.

  At first sight he looked like a bundle of clothes someone had dropped. I ran as fast as I could but I seemed so slow it was like a dream. I nearly tripped over his musket, which lay beside him, half buried in the sand. I stood over him. I thought he moved, but it was only my shadow that fell across him. He was all huddled up. I took him by the shoulder to pull him gently back, and felt my hand all sticky. I looked, and it was blood.

  Alan's shirt was open at the neck. I slipped my hand inside it; his skin was slippery wet. When I felt the regular beat of his heart I let out a long sigh, and rolled him gently over. Then I ripped his bloodstained shirt open from the neck to the seam, and pulled it off him. He'd been shot high up on his shoulder; it was a nasty hole, and bleeding freely. I bundled the shirt into a pad and held it hard against the wound. Minutes passed. I kept pressing down, and watched his face. He was ashen-pale, but at last his eyelids flickered.

  ‘Alan?’

  He moaned a little, which he would not do, I thought, if he were fully conscious.

  ‘Alan!’

  The bleeding was slowing down: some of the shirt was still white, and the bloodstains had stopped spreading. ‘Alan!’

  His eyelids flickered again, and he spoke quite clearly. ‘Where the devil d'you think you're going?’

  ‘I'm going nowhere,’ I said. I was taking the pressure off cautiously. He tried to move away from my hand. ‘Keep still!’

  ‘It's not there. It's my leg.’ He sounded like a petulant but sleepy child.

  I laid his hand over the blood-soaked dressing. ‘Alan! Hold that there, if thee can.’

  When I touched his left leg he cried out, and bit his lip. I cut away his breeches with my knife. There was no sign of injury, but the leg lay a little crooked. When I asked if he could move it the pain of trying made him gasp, and bite his lip till the blood came. I'd splinted a dog before, but never a man. I'd seen the barber from Ambleside do it though, when we picked up the fellow that fell over the Striding Edge in mist, the time I went to Grasmere to buy a tup and found myself dragged into a rescue party. I didn't think I'd live to be glad of that miserable day. I felt Alan brace himself, but when I straightened his leg he fainted again, which made it easier. I looked round for a splint. There was nothing on that empty beach which I could use. I picked up my musket and cautiously extracted the ball with my knife. I laid the ramrod alongside Alan's leg and strapped it firmly with my belt and his. Then I packed up the sand as tightly as I could around my handiwork. He was coming round again, and beginning to shiver. I had naught to cover him but my own shirt and breeches, which I took off and tucked around him as best I could.

  ‘Alan! Is thee listening?’

  His hands were
deadly cold. The beach faced west. I glanced up. The sun wouldn't strike him for hours yet. ‘Alan. I have to leave thee. I'll bring Loic and the canoe. Thee mustn't move. Does thee hear me?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He stirred a little, and said thickly, ‘Brother Mark.’

  I rubbed his cold hands, and let go. ‘I'll be as quick as I can.’

  For all my haste it was well into the afternoon when we came back. When I came panting into the camp, half-naked and too short of breath to speak, the first thing I saw was Loic bent over the canoe, his hands red with resin putty, and a hole almost a foot square where he'd taken off the damaged birchbark. I never saw a patch put on so fast, but the resin had no time to set. ‘It may come off,’ said Loic, ‘but we'll be close to shore. We'll have to risk it.’

  I tied all three blankets in a bundle round the spare paddle. We took the two poles that went under the cargo. I pulled on my other shirt, and tied it round my middle with twine; I had only the one pair of breeks so I couldn't remedy that. We set off, paddling fast, rounding the north coast, and moving slowly – oh so slowly – south under the lowering dunes. I began to think we'd missed him. The distance round the island was vastly longer than the walk across it. At least the sun would be on him now. At last I saw the bluff with its little topknot of twisted pines. We pulled in close. If I hadn't recognised the bluff we'd never have found him; I'd packed the sand close round him till he was hardly visible. He was still flat on his back the way I'd left him, his arms folded across his bloodstained chest. It looked like a bier. I heard Loic's intake of breath. We crouched one on each side of him. Loic made some signs over him that might have been pagan or Popish; I know not. I took Alan's cold hand between my warm ones. ‘Alan? Alan?’