Who would replace him? He scanned the men in the canoes. He knew all the veteran paddlers. None of them had any schooling that he had heard about. Did any of the recruits? His eyes fell on Phillippe. He remembered Louis scoffing at Bridget for teaching their children the alphabet, numbers, and how to print. Did he learn enough to take over for Andrew?
Pierre made sure their canoe was away from the one that Florian was in, then called for a smoke break.
“We have another rapids to run up ahead,” he said. “No one goes into the water this time either to grab something or to save someone. Everyone pay attention to the forward man and lean as he directs. We will have no more accidents on this trip.”
“It was not an accident,” Phillippe said angrily. “Florian deliberately provoked Andrew to jump into the water.”
“He made the decision, not me,” Florian answered.
“There will be no more talk about this,” Pierre shouted. “We have more important things to worry about right now.”
After running one more rapids and doing a short portage around a small waterfall, Pierre directed the brigade into a small, rocky beach to camp.
“Phillippe, I want to talk with you,” he said as the men began to remove the bundles and packs. They walked up on the grass out of the way of the working men.
“First, never jump out of a canoe when running a rapids. If someone falls in they will have to fight for themselves.”
“But I thought…”
“Do not even think about it. If you had gone in we would have had two burials. Now promise me you will never do it.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now I need someone to take Andrew’s place as clerk,” Pierre said. “I know your mother taught you some schooling. I would like you to look at his ledgers and see if you can do his work.”
“I did not learn much,” Phillippe said.
“I think it is more than anyone else.”
“I will try.”
They went to the piles of goods on the beach and sorted through until they found Andrew’s box, tent, and bedding.
Pierre handed Phillippe the box.
“What are you going to do with his things?” Phillippe asked.
Pierre looked down at them. “Do you want them?”
“I will not sleep in the tent.”
Pierre nodded in understanding. “We will take them back to William.”
Phillippe found a tree to sit under. He held Andrew’s box feeling like he would be invading Andrew’s privacy if he opened it. He still could not believe that Andrew was dead. He knew that Florian was right in that Andrew did not have to jump in the water after his hat. But everyone knew how he felt about it. Florian had just taken advantage of those feelings.
Could he have saved Andrew? Phillippe wondered. If had jumped into the water could he have gotten to him before he hit that big rock? Or would both he and Andrew have died like his uncle said. He would never know. Was he destined to have this rest heavily on his conscience for the remainder of his life? He hoped not.
Phillippe let his mind drift back to the day the brigade had left Montreal, Andrew asking Jeanne to marry him, Jeanne running into the water to kiss him. How happy they both had looked.
Phillippe wanted that kind of love and happiness in his life. He set the box down and went back over to his uncle.
“Uncle Pierre, may I talk with you?” Phillippe said.
“Yes.” They fell in step together away from the men. “Now what did you want to talk about?”
“I think I love Marguerite and I want to marry her. Is it wrong for me to love a girl who wants to be a nun?”
Pierre laughed out loud as he clamped Phillippe on his shoulder. “I did not take you for a man who would fall in love so young. I thought you would have plenty of women before finding a wife.”
“I do not want anyone but Marguerite.”
“Then do not be afraid to tell her when we get back.”
Phillippe’s heart was elated as he went back to Andrew’s box. He did not want to ruin his good feelings by opening it. He would look in it sometime later on the trip.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jeanne arrived home after kissing her sister goodbye and hugging her mother who was taking over the watch at the hospital. She unharnessed the horse and led him to the stables where she gave him some hay and oats. Her father was in the smithy.
“There is no change,” she said to him. This was their standard exchange in the morning.
He nodded and she went into the house.
Jeanne did not feel like eating so she climbed the stairs. She was finding it very hard to stay awake at night and sleep during the day. Since Marguerite had gone into the hospital and Jeanne began her nighttime vigil, she seemed to be tired all the time. In her bedroom she closed the thick drapes over the window to keep out the brightness of the sunlight. Maybe if she thought it was night she would sleep better.
Jeanne disrobed and climbed into bed. It felt good to know she could relax. Even when she lay beside Marguerite at the hospital, she could not rest. Marguerite’s breathing was always labored, sometimes ragged at other sometimes shallow. Jeanne was always scared that her sister would quit breathing while she was asleep and she would not be with her during her final moments.
Jeanne was just drifting to sleep when she thought she smelled smoke. Sometimes, when her father stoked the fire in the smithy she could smell it upstairs, but this was different. This was wood smoke.
Was there a fire somewhere?
Jeanne jumped out of bed and quickly dressed again. She dashed down the stairs and checked the house. No ember had escaped the fireplace and landed on the wood floor. Jeanne went outside. The smell was stronger. It was coming on the swirling wind and she could not tell from which direction.
She entered the smithy and saw her father, his leather apron wrapped around his stomach, intently bent over the forge. She looked around the building. No flicker of flame. Jeanne went up to her father and tapped him. He jumped and turned quickly.
“Is it Marguerite?” His voice sounded fearful.
Jeanne shook her head. “I smell something burning.”
Etienne set his tools down and they hurried outside. The smell was stronger and smoke wafted towards them from down the street.
A bell began to ring. Every neighborhood had a bell that was to alert the residents to come out and help fight the blaze. This was for their benefit as it might save their own homes.
“Oh my god,” Etienne exclaimed. “Go get the bucket and axe. I will find out whose house is on fire.”
Jeanne rushed into the house and grabbed their wooden bucket and axe which they kept close to the back door. She went out to the street and joined the men, women and even children streaming out of the houses with their buckets and axes. Everyone was headed to the middle of the block. Jeanne saw that it was Ira Levington’s house on fire. Flames were already flickering from the upstairs windows. Her first thought was that the ashes he had taken upstairs to make soap may have had live embers in them.
She saw her father try the knob on the front door. When he opened it, wisps of smoke emanated. She saw he still had on his apron. It would protect him from the heat. He tied his handkerchief over his face then rushed into the house. Two other men followed. Jeanne held her breath. People had been known to die trying to rescue someone from a house fire.
There was a clanging of bells. A horse and cart careened around the corner, the driver whipping at the horse. People jumped out of the way as the horse galloped up the street. The driver reined in the horse in front of Ira’s house. Hands grabbed the buckets, axes, shovels, long ladder, and battering ram from the back of the cart.
Jeanne watched the house for her father and the other men to come out. What was taking so long? Had something happened to them? She headed to the door where the smoke had increased. She had to know.
The inside was hazy. She was in the common room and could barely make out the furniture. The smoke made h
er cough. She picked up the hem of her dress and held it over her face. The fire crackled above.
“Father?” she called. “Father, where are you?”
Part of the ceiling crashed to the floor in the far corner scattering burning pieces of wood around the room.
She heard rushing footsteps above and the clomping of shoes on the stairs. Three figures emerged from the haze. She recognized her father’s apron. He was carrying someone in his arms. She could see two more shadows behind him. They were coughing and one supported other.
“This way,” Jeanne called as she hurried to the door. “Follow my voice.”
Etienne rushed out the door. The other two were slower. Jeanne saw that the one man could barely walk. She went over and wrapped his other arm around her shoulder and put her hand around his waist. They stumbled their way out the door and to the street. The man dropped to the ground moaning. Jeanne saw that his leg was scraped and bleeding.
She turned to where her father had lain the person he carried on the grass. She gasped when she saw that it was Jacques, Ira’s grandson. He was not moving. Jeanne knelt down beside him and bent her ear to his nose and mouth. She did not hear anything or did she feel any breath on his cheek. Jacques was dead.
Where were Ira and his daughter?
Jeanne looked at the house. Flames had burst out of the roof and the ground floor windows. Two lines of a bucket brigade had been set up to the nearby river. The empty buckets were sent down one and the full ones came up the other.
The ladder was against the house and buckets were being sent up to the man at the top. Everyone was working hard and fast but soon the roof collapsed. The men scrambled down the ladder and pulled it away from the wall.
Sparks flew in the air. The wind picked them up and blew them onto the roofs of the house next to Ira’s and the one beyond. The houses in this neighbor had been constructed before the new ordinances. Their roofs were made of wood.
Men grabbed the long ladder and leaned it against the first house. They stationed themselves on the ladder as the bucket brigade sent the buckets of water up to them. The man at the top carried water and dumped it on one fire but there were four more growing. The second bucket did not put out the next flame. Nor did the third. The roof was ablaze.
A second horse and cart arrived with the buckets, axes, shovels, ladder and ram from a different district. More people came and another bucket brigade was set up. It went to the third house whose roof was already engulfed in flame.
Water was carried into the second house and up the stairs. It was thrown onto the walls and floors to try and prevent them from starting on fire when the roof fell in. The owners of the house gathered what they could of their downstairs possessions.
Jeanne was in line and passed the buckets as they came to her. As much as she hated to admit it, she was glad the fire was going in the opposite direction from their house. She also knew that the wind could shift at any time and take the fire towards their side of the block. For the first time since Marguerite had gone to the hospital, Jeanne was glad that she was there.
Women from nearby neighborhoods brought food to feed the men, women and children fighting the fires. More people came from other areas as did the buckets and axes and ladders. Jeanne was exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before but she would not quit. She knew others would do the same if it was her house burning.
They were getting spread thinly as more houses started burning. The fighters went to the house at the end of the block and began dousing it with water. If they could contain it to this part of the block they would be able to concentrate on putting it out. It looked like the idea was going to work until someone noticed a tree burning in a yard across the street.
It was a long day that went into the night. The fire burned twenty-three houses to the ground and eighteen partially. Ira and his daughter died in Ira’s house. Two firefighters lost their lives trying to rescue a woman who could not walk on her own from her burning house. She also died. One man fell off a ladder and was taken to the hospital where he later expired. A fifth person had to drop out of the bucket brigade because of pains in his chest. He went home and when his wife got there after the fires were out, she found him dead in their bed.
There were many families who had no house to live in afterwards. Some moved in with family or friends. Some tried to live in their partially burnt homes, hoping to repair them, while others ended up on the streets.
Jeanne was so grateful to return to her parent’s home with her father.
“I do not feel like resting right now,” he said. “I will be in the smithy”.
Jeanne went inside the house. She was utterly exhausted. Her whole body was sore. She had passed buckets, held ladders, and shoveled dirt onto the burning remains of destroyed houses. Her hands were blistered and black with soot. She had scratches and scrapes on her arms and legs. Her dress was torn and smudged with dirt. She went to the wash stand and looked in the mirror. Her hair was straggly and her face was streaked with blood and soot and tears.
Jeanne wearily put some water on to heat. As tired as she was, she needed to clean up before climbing into bed. She slept for a full day before going to the hospital and continuing her nightly vigil at her sister’s bedside.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marguerite had been coughing up mucous tinged with blood for over a week and the doctor had been in every day to check on her. Jeanne usually left before he came and had to wait to talk with her mother the next morning to find out what he thought.
One morning Jeanne did not go home when her mother arrived. She waited for the doctor’s visit. During the night Marguerite had coughed up bubbly, bloody mucous. Marguerite’s condition was worsening.
“I do not believe that she will live much longer,” the doctor said after he examined her. “She will probably die today or tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Marie cried. She looked at Jeanne with stricken eyes.
Jeanne wrapped her arms around her mother. There were no words that could console her. And Jeanne herself was unable to speak. She had known the time would come when the doctor would tell them that but still hearing those words was a shock. They had not yet gotten over fire that had killed Ira, his daughter and grandson, and five other people, and had razed much of their neighborhood.
“I will go get father,” Jeanne said.
Marie nodded and wiped her eyes. She looked over at Marguerite, who was so small and pale in the bed, then at back at Jeanne. “Hurry.”
Jeanne nodded and rushed out of the room. She had always thought her sister would recover and return to the happy, fun-loving girl she had been less than two years ago. It had become clear since Phillippe left that that might not happen. And now the doctor’s news. This was the day she had dreaded since Marguerite entered the hospital.
At their house Jeanne climbed down from the caleche and rushed into the smithy. “Father.”
The tone of her voice made him drop the bellows he was using. Etienne turned to her. She nodded. He removed his apron and dashed out of the smithy and to the house. He washed quickly and changed his shirt.
“You take the caleche,” she said to her father. “I will let Antoinette and William know.”
Jeanne hurried to the Macleod Merchant House. She was not sure if Antoinette would be resting in their apartment or be down with William. When she opened the door she found William alone.
He must have read the distress on her face. “Antoinette is upstairs. I will go with you.”
They climbed the outside stairs. Antoinette was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea. She, too, knew the instant she saw Jeanne.
“You take Jeanne to the hospital,” William said to Antoinette. “I will ride to the farm and let your parents know.”
* * *
The canoe brigade dashed down the remaining wild sections of the French River to Georgian Bay, the men taking delight in guiding their fragile crafts through the foaming rapids when Pierre would let them. Pierre smiled whe
n he saw that Phillippe always crossed himself before they ran them.
Then they reached Lake Superior. Pierre had a healthy respect for this large inland sea. He knew that it could fool the novice traveler. One minute it would be calm with gentle winds and the next a quick and violent squall would appear. An unexpected storm could attack the unwary.
For the first two days he kept the canoes close to the hard, dramatic shoreline whenever possible. Most of it was rock with only a few places to pull in to camp for the night.
The third morning, rain and wind woke them up. The men quickly donned their oilskins to stay dry. Pierre looked at the dark, overcast sky. He made the decision to stay camped where they were. This would keep the bundles dry and possibly keep everyone safe. The fire under the cooking peas had gone out and the cook could not to ignite the wood in the rain. Finally, the men ate their breakfast cold.
Up until now, the men had had only a few minutes in the evening to relax and they had spent that time singing or telling stories. Now they had a full day of no paddling. Some of the men cut branches from the trees and stuck them in the ground while others found the tarpaulins and canvas. They quickly made makeshift roofs by throwing the tarpaulins and canvases over the branch supports.
“Do we get a keg?” Florian asked.
Pierre knew the men needed a release after the weeks of hard paddling. He nodded.
The men whooped and ran to the canoe covering the kegs of liquor. They grabbed one and set it up on a rock. One got the spigot and pounded it in the hole. Everyone who wanted a drink found his cup and waited in line. With liquor in hand, the dice and cards came out and men started gambling, betting the wages they had not yet collected.
All the years he had been in the trade, Pierre was one of the first to grab a cup of liquor and the cards. He played long and hard and in the end usually won money. But he was now in charge of the brigade. He had to remain apart in case there was a fight that he had break up. He removed his oilskin and sat under a tree out of the rain. He had to change position often to ease the pain in his back.
West to Grande Portage Page 16
