West to Grande Portage

by Joan Donadlson-Yarmey

  There were some men who did not gamble. They huddled under spruce boughs draped over bushes. Pierre saw that Phillippe did not join any of the games. He spent the day sitting and watching as the men played, joked, bet, yelled, and fought. When he tired of watching one group, he moved to another.

  “I finally caught you cheating,” one man yelled.

  “You caught me doing nothing,” a second one shouted back.

  Pierre glanced over at the shelter. He was in no hurry to interfere. This was not the first time someone had called another a cheat during the day. Usually, they squabbled a bit and then settled down. He sighed when he saw one of the men was Florian. That man enjoyed causing trouble.

  “I saw you palm that ace,” Florian said.

  Bernard held his hands out, palms up. “I have nothing.”

  “That is because you already got rid of it.”

  Bernard laughed. “I am not that fast. You have drank too much. You are hallucinating.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Florian tried to stand up in the shelter. He fell against one of the canvas walls and pulled it down.

  “Hey, stop!”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The other men tried to prop up the rest of the shelter but it collapsed around them.

  “Damned you, Florian.”

  They fought their way out from under the canvas. They had taken off their oilskins and were now standing in the rain

  Florian stood up and staggered over to Bernard. “You cheated.” He swung his fist falling to his knees.

  Bernard was just as drunk. He stepped back and fell over backwards

  Pierre grinned. He had been part of that scene many times. Now seeing it from a distance he realized how funny it looked. He donned his oilskins, walked out into the rain and over to the men.

  “Get your oilskins on,” he told them. “I do not need any of you men getting sick. And put that shelter back up.”

  The men stumbled around trying to obey his orders. They finally managed to set a lopsided covering and went back to their game.

  At the end of the day, the men ate and went to bed. Most were drunk, some wealthier, some poorer than when they had gotten up.

  Pierre was happy when he woke to stars in the sky. Even though it was still dark, he rousted the men. “We do not have time to waste,” he yelled. “We need to make up for the day lost.”

  They crossed broad stretches of open water. During those crossings Pierre kept his eyes on the horizon. If another storm caught them far from the land the voyageurs would be hard pressed to keep the canoes from breaking and their sharp noses from going under a wave. But luck was with them.

  The men were happy. The wind was behind them. At their smoke breaks they threw bits of tobacco into the air.

  “To La Vieille, the old woman of the wind,” Pierre said. “Bless our voyage across this lake and keep blowing.”

  “Blow, blow, old woman,” the men chorus.

  After the breakfast stop they erected makeshift sails out of oilskins or tarpaulins and let the wind take them along the lakeshore. The forward man and steersman still had to watch the water but the paddlers sat back and slept or smoked.

  * * *

  Phillippe was surprised when Pierre directed the brigade to pull over to shore. They had already eaten breakfast and the weather was good. When the canoes were moored, the men jumped out.

  “What are we doing?” Phillippe asked.

  “Our last portage is the nine miles of land between this lake and Grande Portage on Pigeon River,” the man behind him said. “It is time to clean up to impress the women when we get there.”

  Phillippe could not believe that they had already made the 450 mile trip across Lake Superior and were almost at the end of their journey. He rummaged through his bag and dug out the soap given him by Ira Levington. He smiled. Ira had been so happy to give him something that would make sure he was attractive to the native women. He stripped down and plunged into the cold water along with most of the other men. They washed for the first time since leaving Montreal.

  Phillippe dried then put on his clean shirt and second set of leggings. His hair had grown. He tied it back and put on his cap again. Some of the men who had grown beards shaved them off while others left theirs. Phillippe touched his chin. There was not even a stubble of a beard.

  He stared down into the still water to see his reflection and was happy with what he saw. He looked just like the voyageurs he had been watching for so many years.

  After the portage with many poses they climbed back into the canoes. With voices raised in song they paddled to Grande Portage. Phillippe felt a sense of pride as they neared the post. He had survived his first trip west. He was truly a voyageur.

  With great skill they maneuvered to the shore and the men jumped out. The men from the post ran down the hill to the river. They welcomed the newcomers with hugs and back slapping and much hollering.

  Phillippe looked up at the post. This was where they would be doing the trading with the Indians who had come from the west or with Northmen who had gone west to find the furs.

  * * *

  Marguerite’s family was in the room with her. Marie sat on the bed and held Marguerite’s hand. Etienne stood beside his wife and watched his daughter. Jeanne knelt on the other side of the bed and stared at her sister. She had never felt so helpless.

  Her Aunt Bridget, Uncle Louis, and cousin Jean-Luc sat on chairs nearby. Bridget and Louis looked sad, Jean-Luc seemed uncomfortable. She did not blame him. This was not a good place for someone so young.

  The doctor came in and checked Marguerite. He just glanced at the family, bowed his head, and left. There was nothing for him to do or to say.

  The priest arrived and administered last rites. Marie silently began to cry. He made the sign of the cross before leaving. Everyone waited. The only noise in the room was Marguerite’s breathing

  Suddenly, Marguerite opened her eyes. She looked at her family. Bridget and Louis rushed over to the bed.

  “Tell Phillippe goodbye,” she whispered.

  “We will,” Marie said. “We will.”

  Marguerite smiled. “I will see you in heaven.”

  Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed and finally, with a soft gasp, stopped.

  The room was still. No one really comprehended what had happened. Just a few moments ago Marguerite had woken and spoke to them and now she was gone.

  Louis put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. Etienne did not take his eyes off his daughter as he reached up and patted the hand.

  “We will leave you,” Louis said.

  “We will set up a lunch at your home,” Bridget said. “Come when you are ready.”

  Marie and Etienne gave no indication that they had heard.

  “Thank you.” Jeanne stood. She hugged her aunt and uncle and just nodded at Jean-Luc. She knew he would not appreciate a hug from his cousin.

  Jeanne and her parents stayed with Marguerite until her body was cold. They had to make plans for her funeral but not right now. Now, they just wanted to be with her a little longer.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pierre oversaw the unloading the goods for the final time. This time the men carried them up the hill to a storage room in the post. When the bundles and packs were stored and the canoes upside down on the bank some of the men began building a huge fire in preparation for the evening party. Others who had Indian wives and families went to visit them.

  Pierre went to one of the teepees at the Indian village. The rumors that circulated in Montreal were true. He did have a wife and two children here. He had met her on one of his trips north and she now came to Grande Portage with her family to see him each summer.

  He opened the flap of the teepee. His wife, Willow Bud, looked up from where she was stirring a pot over a small fire. His heart filled with love when he saw the look of surprise and happiness on her face. She leaped up and ran to his welcoming arms. Her parents, who were lyin
g on their mats, stood and discreetly left.

  “Father.”

  Two sets of arms wrapped around his waist. Pierre reluctantly let go of his wife and hugged his sons. They had been born before the wars with the British and for those years he had not seen them. The memory he had had of them were of toddlers and when he had returned he had been shocked at how much they had grown. Now seeing them every year, the surprise was not as big.

  As he let them go he heard a noise. He looked around and saw a moving bundle of deer skins. He looked at Willow Bud and saw the shy smile on her face. She went over and picked up the bundle. It began to cry.

  “Your daughter,” she said to him.

  Pierre could hardly believe the news. He loved his sons but he had always wanted a daughter. Now he had one.

  He took the baby from Willow Bud. She immediately stopped crying and looked up at him.

  “Does she have a name yet?”

  Willow Bud shook her head. “I wanted to wait until you came to decide.”

  He looked down into his daughter’s wide, brown eyes. They were so innocent. “We will name her, Doe Eyes.”

  “I like that,” Willow Bud said.

  * * *

  That night beer and wine were brought out and the celebrations began. The men who stayed at the post all winter, the Northmen and natives who had come from the west, and the paddlers of the canoe brigades ate, drank, and danced to fiddle music. They exchanged news of family and friends in Montreal and in the west.

  The voyageurs brought their Indian families. Phillippe saw Pierre and some native people enter. He wondered if they were his wife and their children, and some of her relatives. He went over to his uncle. It was time to get to know his aunt and cousins.

  “Phillippe I would like you to meet my wife, Willow Bud, and our sons, Daniel and Denis.”

  “Nice to meet you Aunt Willow Bud,” Phillippe said. He held out his hand to shake the boys’ hands. “Cousin Daniel and Cousin Denis.”

  “And this is our daughter, Doe Eyes.”

  Willow Bed turned so he could see the baby wrapped in the child carrier strapped on her back.

  “Oh, she is so cute,” Phillippe reached up and rubbed her cheek. She smiled at him. “Are you going to bring them back to meet our family?”

  “I have asked but Willow Bud wants to stay with her family.”

  “It must be hard to leave them in the fall,” Phillippe said.

  Pierre sobered. “It is.”

  “Hey, Phillippe,” Claude called. “Come have a drink.”

  Phillippe looked over to where Jerome and Claude sat with some young maidens. He carried his cup to one of the kegs of beer and filled it. He still did not like the taste but the three of them were so glad they had survived the trip that they had decided to celebrate with everyone else. They had made it to Grande Portage and now, were not only voyageurs, but real men. They had been drinking since the party started.

  “You should dance with Jacqueline or Bernadette,” Claude said.

  “Jacqueline? Bernadette?” Phillippe asked.

  “Their fathers named them. They also have Indian names but I do not know what they are.”

  Phillippe got up and danced with Jacqueline. He was feeling the effects of the beer. But he did not care. His life was turning out as he wanted it.

  The dancing and drinking was still going on when he finally did stagger away to find his blanket and a place to curl up for the night.

  * * *

  When Phillippe woke the next morning he did not feel like a man. He felt like a sick child and he wished his mother was there to look after him like she had throughout his childhood. His stomach rebelled every time he tried to move and his head pounded. He knew he had to start going through the bundles today but he could not even get up from the ground where he had made his bed. He wondered how Claude and Jerome were feeling. They had still been drinking when he left the party.

  He groaned as he lifted his head to look around. Men were spread out on the grass. Some had managed to find their blankets before lying down. Others had just dropped where they passed out.

  He was terribly thirsty. His stomach coiled as he slowly stood. He swallowed a few times to keep the bile down then reeled down to the river. He started to wade out into it but lost his footing, falling face first into the cool water. He came up sputtering and gulping. He sat on the rocky bottom and rubbed the water from his face. He was now totally awake and almost sober. He cupped his hands for a drink.

  Phillippe sloshed out of the river and shuffled up the hill to the post. He had thought the trading would begin as soon as the goods were unloaded and organized. But Pierre had told him that the natives were smart. They would wait for more brigades to arrive. The more traders, the more competition there would be. This would drive up the prices for their furs.

  His stomach would not let him eat. So, as much as he hated to, Phillippe had to get the ledgers out of Andrew’s box and look at them. He found the box by his bag and carried it away from the grassy area. He settled under a tree and slowly opened the lid. Inside was the ledger listing all the trade goods in the bundles and packs. In one corner was the handkerchief that Jeanne had given Andrew, neatly folded. Under it were the letters Andrew had written to Jeanne. In another corner were the feather, the pressed pink flower, and the sparkling rock that Andrew had shown him. Since then he had added a piece of deer antler, and a pine cone.

  A sadness overwhelmed him. He did not like intruding on Andrew's treasures. Phillippe picked up the ledger and closed the lid. He scanned the pages of names and the quantity of each. He knew that Andrew and William had checked and rechecked the amounts of each item before packing them, but he himself needed to make sure. He read down the list. There were 430 blankets from cradle to 3-Point size, 765 moltons, which were blanket cloths, 2000 needles, eighty-five silk handkerchiefs, thirty-seven scissors, two hundred axes, one hundred knives, six guns, 3500 flints, and so on. Thankfully, William had written on each bundle what was in it and how many. He would count when he opened each one and record it against the list.

  He was not sure if this was the way that it was supposed to be done, but he hoped it would work. If it did not then he did not know what he would do.

  There was also a list of what trade good was equivalent to how many made beaver, the fur trade name for the beaver pelt. One blanket was equal to six made beaver, twenty flints for one made beaver, one hatchet for one-half made beaver and so on. There was just so many items and so many numbers. Phillippe was not sure if he could handle the pressure to get it right.

  * * *

  Jeanne wiped a tear from her eye as she walked in the warm sunshine. It had been a week since they buried Marguerite. She missed her sister so much. It was not fair that she had died so young without ever realizing her desire to go to France. She had not wanted much. Just to be a nun and to help people. And now she would never be able to do it. Her life had been so short and so tragic.

  There were two things that usually brought her out of her sadness — the thought of her upcoming marriage to Andrew and the baby Antoinette was expecting. She was on her way to see her cousin now. Sometimes Antoinette did not feel well and she went there to help her.

  She climbed the stairs and let herself in the apartment. Antoinette was lying on the sofa. She went over and knelt beside her.

  “How are you doing today?”

  “I was sick again this morning.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Jeanne lit a small fire in the fireplace so that it would not heat up the already warm apartment. She set out cups and saucers on the table. When the water was hot she poured it over the tea leaves. She helped Antoinette sit up and over to the table. She poured them each a cup.

  “Do you think I should start planning my wedding or wait until Andrew returns?” Jeanne asked, as they sipped their tea.

  “That is a tough question. I know William was not all that enthused with h
elping me. His mind was always on his work and he agreed with whatever I said. I do not think he heard half the things I mentioned to him.”

  “They are different men. I have the feeling that Andrew will want to have some say in what we do and who is or is not invited.”

  “Like Uncle Pierre,” Antoinette grinned.

  “Yes, I imagine Uncle Pierre will not be on his list. But it will be hard for me to ignore him. After all he is my uncle.”

  “Maybe they will be friends by the time they get back.”

  “I wonder if Andrew will want to get married quickly once he is here or if he will want to wait.”

  “He did not give you any time for the two of you to discuss it, did he?”

  Jeanne shook her head.

  “What do you want?” Antoinette asked.

  “I want to get married as soon as he gets back,” Jeanne said with a smile. “I want to have a baby immediately. I want lots of babies. I want them to play with your children. I want them grow up with your children.”

  Antoinette grinned. “I would like that, too. But I do not like the idea of being pregnant as your bridesmaid.”

  “I never thought about that. We will have to wait until after your baby is born. That may also give us time to send invitations to his family in England.”

  “If you need the names and addresses of those relatives, I have them.”

  “Mother wants to make my dress,” Jeanne said.

  “Well, that is certainly something you can get done now without waiting for Andrew’s opinion.”

  “That is what I thought. We are going to the dressmakers to buy the material tomorrow.”