The Nor'Wester

by David Starr

  With a nod from the captain, a sailor opens the hatch. “It reeks!” he cries. “May God have mercy on them!”

  In the misery of the hold, the storm has taken a terrible toll. For two days the migrants have gone without food or water, the buckets used as toilets have spilled and just as Francis prophesied, illness has found its way on board. Four people, three of them babies, died during the storm, the other, a young woman.

  The funeral for the migrants, and for Francis as well, is a simple affair. For Francis, whose body was swept overboard in the storm, there is a prayer. For the migrants, Captain Smith reads the few words of committal, then the crew and passengers sing a hymn as the canvas-wrapped bodies, weighted down with ballast stones, are tossed overboard.

  A painful memory of my parents sweeps over me. Despite myself I start to cry. “Save your tears,” says Tom as the bundles hit the water with hardly a splash. “More will die before this crossing is over.”

  Tom is right. At least a dozen men, women and children lie wracked with fever down below. The surgeon can do little with such a fever; there’s nothing anyone can do. Within the week, eight more shroud-covered bodies slide silently into the deep.

  Two weeks after the last funeral, an island appears. At least I think it’s an island until the ship creeps closer to the large mass, and I realize it isn’t land at all but ice, a floating mountain of ice that towers above the ship. Soon there are more, some no bigger than a rowboat but many others that dwarf the Sylph.

  “Icebergs. They break free from the northern sea and float south with the current this time of year,” says Tom. “We try to stay as far away from them as possible. They’ve sunk many ships in these waters, but the storm blew us off our regular course so the cap’n’s got no choice but to pick our way slowly through them.”

  On a quiet evening several days after the encounter with the icebergs, the lookout shouts triumphantly from high above the deck of the ship. Land, he cries, pointing at a distant purple mass on the horizon. We’ve been expecting the sighting. Shore-clinging seabirds flew overhead earlier in the day, and a small fishing sloop sailed past us just a few hours ago.

  “Thank goodness we’re here,” says Tom. “There were times during that storm I doubted we’d ever see land again.”

  “Is the ship returning to England soon?” I ask.

  Tom laughs. “We’ve not even docked in Quebec, and you want to cross the Atlantic again? After all you’ve been through? Why?”

  “My sister. She needs my help.” It’s been six weeks since I’ve seen Libby, and I am consumed with worry for her.

  “Not for a while, I’m afraid. We’ll be picking up a load of timber in Quebec and taking it to Jamaica where the cap’n will find a load of sugar or rum bound for England. It could be six months or more until we see Liverpool again.”

  “Do ye think the captain would take me on until we sail back home?” A delayed passage to England is better than none at all, I tell myself.

  Tom shakes his head. “You can’t go back to Liverpool yet, Duncan. You’re still a wanted man, and I can guarantee that one of the men on board would betray you as soon as we docked in Liverpool. Five guineas is a fortune for a sailor; not many men could say no to it. You need to stay here, let people forget about you.”

  “So I’m stuck?” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check.

  “Don’t worry, Duncan. I’m sure by next year it’ll be safer for you to return home and look for your sister.”

  “Home?” I say bitterly. “I don’t have a home — all I have is Libby, and she needs my help now. If I don’t get back to Liverpool soon, I’m afraid I’m never going to see her again.”

  Chapter 10

  The shore closes in as we sail past a large island full of tall trees, high cliffs and beautiful sand-filled beaches. It still feels like the sea to me, but we’re now sailing into the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, Tom says.

  Fishing boats and British warships — their sides bristling with cannons — patrol the river, while small farms, neat and orderly strips of land thick with the green growth of late spring, line the bank.

  As the sun sets, the Sylph enters a large bay, and Captain Smith orders the anchor dropped for the night. River or not, the St. Lawrence is still a dangerous waterway, and he isn’t about to risk grounding his vessel this close to our destination.

  “Can ye tell me more about Quebec?” I ask the next morning as the ship carries on its way. “I had never heard of the place until I came on board.”

  “Quebec is a city in Lower Canada, one of our colonies, Duncan, and though we lost the last war with the Americans we managed to beat the French — not that you’d know it. Almost fifty years later, Quebec is still more French than English, although you Scots are doing your best to change that.”

  The Sylph approaches a small island and ties up at a dock. On the shoreline sits a collection of brick and wooden buildings, a cluster of naval cannons and a church.

  “This is Grosse Île,” says Tom. “Doctors come on board to inspect the passengers and crew. The authorities won’t let anyone with typhus, cholera or consumption enter the city. They’re quarantined here until they recover or …” Tom doesn’t need to finish his sentence and instead points to a large church graveyard, several fresh piles of dirt clearly visible.

  At the captain’s orders, Irish migrants and sailors alike line up for inspection. Several doctors board the ship, accompanied by a few masked soldiers, and I stiffen as they approach. The doctors inspect the passengers and crew, and although most are allowed to remain on the ship, twelve Irish migrants are tearfully gathered up, placed under guard, and marched down the gangway. As my turn approaches, I pray the soldiers don’t know who I am and that the doctors won’t find some reason for me to join the sick.

  “Your breath sounds laboured, boy — don’t have consumption, do you?” a doctor queries.

  I lift up my shirt. “Nae, Sir. There was a storm at sea and I got hurt.” The doctor studies my bruised chest and sides and after a few seconds steps away, satisfied.

  A dozen passengers lighter, the Sylph continues its journey, and as the sun starts to dip, we reach Quebec. The city seems small compared to Glasgow. It is a compact place of brick and wood buildings, houses and church spires packed tightly together on narrow streets, nestled between the river and a large hill. “Would you like one last piece of advice before you go?” asks Tom as the ship docks.

  “Please,” I say gratefully.

  “Don’t stay in Quebec City,” he tells me. “Go upriver to Montreal instead. Montreal’s a bigger place and it’s full of Scots. I’ve a mate with a river boat and he’d be glad to take you, I’m sure. And who knows, he may even be looking to hire someone who knows his way around a ship. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”

  Tom walks me towards another boat tied up a hundred yards or so downriver. It’s called the Montcalm, a sturdy river freighter that plies the waters between Quebec City and the city of Montreal, explains Tom. As we walk down the dock, John Davis, its master, a tall dark-haired Scotsman greets us warmly.

  “Going upriver are ye, lad?” he asks, after Tom makes introductions and tells him I’m looking for passage. “Well, any friend of Tom’s is a friend of mine. I’ll gladly take ye. We sail as soon as my crew load up the cargo, so why don’t ye head to the boat and give them a hand.”

  “I don’t think he’s up to much heavy lifting, John,” says Tom. “He saved my life on board and took a nasty thrashing to his ribs for his troubles.”

  “Och! So this brave young man is a hero, is he?” grins Davis.

  I blush. “Nae, Sir. We were caught in a storm and I did what anyone else would do in that situation.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” says Tom. “The lad risked his life for mine and I owe him a debt. This crossing was the worst I’ve experienced yet.”

  “’Tis been bad on the sea of late,” Davis agrees. “The Sylph’s a guid ship and she can ride out most gales, but there were
others not as lucky as ye. Another Liverpool ship, this one bound fer Boston, went down with all hands in the same storm that caught you.”

  “What was it called?” I ask as a sick feeling grows in my stomach.

  “The Leopard, I think,” says Davis. “Why?”

  The Leopard. Five minutes quicker and I’d have been on board. I think immediately of the young boy who’d dreamed of a new life with his family, now lost at sea.

  “Are ye all right, lad?” asks Davis. “Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost.” When I tell the story, Davis lets out a long soft whistle. “Well now, it seems ye have a guardian angel. Say a few prayers fer those poor souls if ye must, but count yer lucky stars and move on. Life is hard. Ye can’t enjoy the present if ye wallow in the past.”

  The Montcalm’s cargo consists of supplies destined for the North West Company, and I’m very curious to know what sort of business needs such an eclectic assortment of blankets, tools, buttons and a crate that contains some rather odd-looking metallic jaws.

  “They’re traps fer catching beaver and other such furry animals,” says Davis. “The North West Company’s in the furtrading business. They’ve a network of posts that reach more than a thousand miles into the western wilds.”

  “Have ye been out west, Mr. Davis?” I ask.

  “Gracious nae! Montreal’s as remote a place as I want to go. Only the voyageurs travel that far into the bush. Each one o’ them’s crazier than the next!”

  “Voyageurs? Who are the voyageurs?” The strange word rolls uncomfortably off my tongue.

  “I don’t have the words to describe them, lad,” laughs Davis. “When we get to Montreal ye can see fer yerself.” Davis shows me a small rise above the city. “’Tis the Plains of Abraham, where General Wolfe defeated General Montcalm in the battle fer Quebec.”

  “Why would ye name this boat after a French general?” I ask. “Aren’t they our enemy?”

  “Not any longer here in the new world. Now we work alongside them. Besides, many of my customers are French so it makes guid business sense. And don’t forget I am a Scot; I bear no love fer the English.” The sentiment is one I can sympathize with. Hamilton, Tinker and the soldier who took my sister were English.

  “Right, lad,” says Davis motioning to the boat. “Say yer goodbyes. ’Tis time to head upriver. It’s not as dangerous a trip as across the Atlantic, but it’s still no easy matter to get to Montreal.”

  Tom shakes my hand warmly. “Good luck, Duncan. Things will work out, I know it. Thanks again for saving my life. I’ll never be able to repay you, but consider this a start.” Before we sail Tom hands me a familiar leather pouch.

  “The cap’n said to give you back your money, plus half a pound extra: payment for your services on the ship. Do you still have the knife I gave you?” he asks.

  “Aye,” I reply, showing him the weapon.

  “Good,” Tom says from the dock. “You’ll need it. Canada is a bit of a wild place.”

  Chapter 11

  The trip upriver to Montreal is uneventful. I try to take a turn on the oars, but my ribs quickly beg me to stop, so for the most part I nestle in a comfortable pile of sacks, alone with my thoughts.

  It is now seven weeks since I left Liverpool. I have no idea what’s happened to Libby. Every time I think about her, I am worried sick. Tom’s warning aside, I need to earn enough money to go home as soon as I can. The thought of waiting a year is simply unbearable.

  Three days later the Montcalm slips into a Montreal dock. “Do ye have any prospects?” asks Davis. “I’d offer ye a job myself, but I don’t have any openings at the moment.”

  “Nae, I don’t.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Tom thought I might get on with ye.”

  “I still may be able to help,” says Davis. “We’re at the North West Company’s pier; their office is just up the riverbank. The Company may be looking fer new employees. Come with me and I’ll put in a guid word fer ye.”

  We walk up the dock where I see some of the wildest looking men I could imagine. They have long hair and beards, and are dressed in a combination of animal skins and brightly coloured sashes wrapped around their waists. “Voyageurs?”

  Davis laughs. “Aye. I said ye’d have to see them with yer own eyes, didn’t I? Normally they’re upcountry this time of year, but there’s always a few hanging about headquarters. I’m going to introduce ye to Henry Mackenzie. He’s the chief clerk of the Montreal headquarters, and he’ll decide if ye have a future with the Nor’Westers or not.”

  We enter a large office and walk up to a bespectacled man with a bushy moustache who sits writing in a book behind a large desk. “Guid evening, Mr. Mackenzie,” Davis says, passing the man a piece of paper. “Your shipment from Quebec is here.”

  Henry Mackenzie looks up from his ledger. “Ah, Mr. Davis. On time as usual, I see.”

  “Do ye want to inspect the cargo before ye sign the bill of lading, Sir?”

  “Not necessary, Mr. Davis,” he says, signing the paper with a quill. “In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never been short a nail.” Mackenzie unlocks a drawer in the desk and withdraws a handful of silver coins. “Payment in full. Who’s the lad?” Mackenzie asks, looking sharply at me.

  “Duncan Scott. Just in from the Old Country and looking fer a job. I was hoping ye’d have something.” When Davis mentions my name I flinch, wishing I’d had the opportunity to come up with an alias. Goodness knows who is looking for me, even across the Atlantic.

  “We can always use a good strong back in the warehouse,” says Mackenzie. “Not sick are you? Didn’t catch cholera on the crossing?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “Nae, Sir, I’m in guid shape except fer my ribs. They took a hit during a storm.”

  “The lad’s being modest, Henry,” says Davis. “He earned those cracked ribs saving a sailor’s life.”

  Mackenzie nods approvingly. “So where’s your family, lad? You seem a wee bit young to come over by yourself.”

  “I’m sixteen,” I say, more defensively than I’d planned. “I’m here by myself; my parents are dead.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, son,” he says sympathetically. “You look as if you need a break, so if Mr. McGillivray approves, you’re in. Normally he leaves the hiring to me, but he does like to meet potential employees when he has the opportunity.”

  Henry Mackenzie snaps his fingers, and a boy of about my age runs into the office. “Bring Mr. McGillivray,” says Mackenzie. The boy turns and scampers away as quickly as he’d entered at the command. “Well, my lad, we’ll soon find out if you’ve got a future with the North West Company, won’t we?”

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” whispers Davis. “Laird William’s in charge of the whole Company. He’s the most powerful man in Montreal. His influence extends west to the Pacific Ocean and east to London so ye’d best impress him.”

  A tall and powerful-looking man with long sideburns and red hair strides purposely into the office. “What is it, Mackenzie?”

  “This young man’s named Duncan Scott. He’s been recommended to us by Davis, the shipper, Sir.”

  “Mr. Davis, how are you?” asks McGillivray warmly, shaking the riverman’s hand. “Do you vouch for this boy?”

  “Aye, Sir. I’d hire him myself if I had a position.”

  “You’re Scottish so that bodes well,” says McGillivray turning to look closely at me, “and you seem strong, but Montreal’s full of strong men. Tell me, what can you offer the Company they can’t?”

  I answer quickly. “Sir, I can read and write so I’d be able to keep records, copy letters, whatever ye need me to do.”

  “Splendid!” booms McGillivray. “We need men in this operation who can do more than load a bale of furs in a canoe. Welcome to the North West Company!”

  “Thank ye, Sir,” I say solemnly, shaking McGillivray’s offered hand. “I promise I won’t let ye down.”

  “I certainly hope not, lad. Now come with me — you
have a lot to learn.”

  Chapter 12

  The North West Company exists because of hats, I learn soon enough — hats made from the exquisite soft inner fur of the beaver pelt, hats wealthy gentlemen across Europe are prepared to pay great sums of money to possess. Vast fortunes are to be made supplying this demand and the Nor’Westers, the men of the North West Company, work hard to ensure they belong to them and not their arch-enemy, the Hudson’s Bay Company.

  By law, the Hudson’s Bay Company owns the vast inland sea they’ve taken their name from, and in an attempt to squeeze out the competition, the Bay men strictly prohibit the Nor’Westers from sailing into it. The move has outraged the North West Company who must travel twice as far overland as the Bay men because of it. The two companies are engaged in a vicious struggle for control of the fur trade, and violence between them, I discover, is not uncommon.

  I learn this and many other things through the spring and summer. I’m taught how to organize a warehouse, value beaver, muskrat and mink skins. I study the Company’s map, committing to memory the names and locations of our far-flung trading posts.

  The months pass slowly and as the maple and oak trees turn brilliant shades of orange and red, a wave of dismay sweeps over me. By mid-November I’ve managed to save barely half the money required for passage back to England, and when the last ship to England sails without me, I feel more helpless and alone than ever before. I’m stuck for at least another six months in Montreal, with no way to find my sister.

  Winter arrives and brings with it cold and snow unlike anything I ever experienced in Scotland. Nevertheless, the huge snowdrifts that build up along the streets of Montreal are little more than curiosities. I waste precious little time on the weather. I work diligently, but shut in because of the cold, with little distraction, I find that one thought begins to trouble me: Libby, surrounded by soldiers on the dock while I hid in the boat.