by David Starr
A décharge is a calculated risk; unladen canoes are sent through the rapids under the control of the best paddlers, while the goods are carried by the rest of the men. A décharge takes less time than a portage. It ensures the safety of the provisions, but empty or not, the precious canoes can still be damaged in the rough water.
Fraser agrees and I soon see why La Malice has been brought along, despite his temperament. “Mr. Stuart, La Malice, Baptiste and Boucher will each ride a canoe,” Fraser says, “and La Malice will lead them through the cataracts. The rest of us will walk.”
Plan established, the chosen paddlers push out into water. With La Malice at the front, they quickly float downstream. “Well then, men,” says Fraser, “put on your tumplines, it’s time to earn your pay.”
“Those four are the finest paddlers in the Company, and La Malice is the best by far,” says Quesnel, as I watch the canoes bob and weave through the rapids. “He’ll pick a route through the torrent and keep the others safe. He may be a most unpalatable fellow, but if La Malice can’t navigate a river, nobody can.”
The canoes disappear and I ready my sash for the heavy load. Bales on our backs, we follow an animal track along the edge of the canyon above the river. The path is steep and slippery, and it’s with great relief when, nearly nine hundred paces later, the trail leads back down to the river where we rejoin our companions who laze on a gravel bank in the afternoon sun.
“Did you get lost?” jokes Boucher as we stagger up to the canoes. “We’d have cooked dinner except you have the food!” Boucher, nicknamed Waccan, is a young, strongly built blackeyed Métis with a scraggly moustache and short black beard. Waccan is greatly respected, and slightly feared by his peers. With his hands as adept at fighting as paddling, he has found few in the wilderness who dare cross him.
We make camp and resume our voyage early the next morning. For several days we encounter neither rapids nor people, and we travel without incident until the monotony of the river is broken by an excited shout from Fraser.
“Look to the western bank!” he yells. Not seeing what has animated our leader, we paddle towards shore. I strain my eyes but can see nothing extraordinary at all. “That tree! The one with the blaze marks on it! Do you see it?” he asks.
The tree in question is a giant grey cottonwood with a faded axe scar on its side. As we approach I see the initials “A.M.” cut into its side. A small but well-travelled path heads into the bush beside it. “That’s Mackenzie’s mark!” Fraser exclaims. “It must have been here that he abandoned the river and headed west overland. He made his own way to the Pacific through dense forest and razor-sharp mountain ridges meant only for goats. A fantastic journey but utterly impractical. Now it’s up to us to find a commercial route to the ocean and show the courage Mackenzie lacked.”
“Was Mackenzie really without courage?” asks La Malice. “Or do you think the Scotsman knew something we don’t?”
As we sit in our canoes on the river, a sudden movement on the trail catches my eye, and Waccan’s hand slowly travels to the long knife at his belt as a man emerges from the trees. “I don’t know,” he replies. “But I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Chapter 23
A dozen more people come out of the forest, waving and shouting at us. The mood in the canoes grows tense as an armed man riding a large dappled horse approaches the shore, a bow in his hand, arrow notched. “The Secwepemc people,” says Duyunun. “I don’t think they mean us harm but we need to be careful.”
“Beach the canoes,” says Fraser. “And whatever you do, take care not to make any sudden moves.”
We do so, paddling cautiously until we glide up onto the shore. With knees shaking, we watch apprehensively as Fraser and Duyunun approach the waiting people, carrying with them a roll of colourful cloth and a handful of knives.
Fraser offers the gifts to the man on horseback and thanks him for allowing us passage through their country. Duyunun translates and as soon as the people are convinced we mean them no harm, the horseman dismounts, slings his long bow over his shoulders and takes the presents.
We aren’t the first Nor’Westers these people have encountered. The Secwepemc remember Alexander Mackenzie. Some even guided him on his voyage, we learn, when an older man proudly shows us a knife he’d been given by the famous explorer.
“If you’re following his path you need to leave the river and follow the grease trail west,” says the horseman. He’s very impressive: tall and strongly built with buckskin leggings and a caribou-hide robe. His bow is covered in snakeskin and the arrows that fill his quiver are straight and long and tipped with deadly sharp flint. Clearly this is not a man to anger.
“I know,” says Fraser diplomatically, “but our intention is to travel down this river.” Translated, his words are greeted with waves of laughter by the Secwepemc.
“There are rapids downstream that can swallow a canoe and the men within it whole,” the tall man says. “If you want to go to the sea I suggest you travel overland, though I’d leave your Dakelh companion here if you want to keep your heads. His people are not held in high esteem by our Tsilhqot’in neighbours.”
“I value your advice and thank you for it,” replies Fraser, “but we follow this river, no matter what the risks.”
The horseman shakes his head and smiles as if he were speaking to a child. “If you’re determined to continue then you’ll need all the help you can get. Xats’ull, our village, is just a few hours downriver. I’m sure our chief Xlo’sem will help you. I will ride ahead and let him know you are coming.”
“Thank you,” says Fraser. “You’ve been most gracious.”
The man points to Gagnier, who stands leaning on his musket. “That’s one of your weapons that make a great noise and smoke, isn’t it? I’d like to see how such a thing works.”
“It would be my pleasure,” says Fraser. “Gagnier! Get the swivel gun from the canoe! Our new friends would like a demonstration of our firepower. We’ll show them the biggest one we have!”
The swivel gun is something between a small cannon and a very big musket. It’s too large for a man to shoulder and is fired while supported by a metal pole. It’s the most powerful weapon we have, and Fraser intends to use it to full effect.
“Watch closely, Duncan,” whispers Quesnel. “I’ve no idea how these people will react but it will be something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives, I guarantee you that.”
With his audience assembled, Fraser is ready to put on the show. “Now Gagnier, if you would be so kind as to shoot.” Gagnier loads the weapon and aims it at a spindly pine, expecting to blow the tree to pieces, but when he pulls the trigger something goes terribly wrong. Instead of hitting its target, the barrel of the gun explodes, sending hot metal fragments whizzing through the air.
I feel a sharp, stinging pain on my face. I cry out in pain and shock and fall to my knees. I put my hand to my face and discover that my cheek is wet and sticky with warm blood where a piece of the shrapnel has cut me, but my injury is minor. I’m much more concerned for Gagnier, lying on the ground a few feet from me, his hands covering his head, blood everywhere.
I get up and rush over towards Gagnier, and am greatly relieved to discover that despite the blood he isn’t seriously hurt either. Several jagged chunks of metal have cut his arms and scalp, but his wounds aren’t deep and, like me, he’s more shocked than injured. As the others gather around, Quesnel and I pull Gagnier to his feet, and when Stuart bandages him up, the voyageur offers profuse apologies.
“Pardonnez-moi! I only used a light load of powder! I have no idea why it misfired!”
“The gun was old and the barrel thin,” says Fraser, relieved Gagnier is still alive. “The important thing is that no one was seriously injured. Had we hurt one of these people, the consequences might have been fatal — for us.”
The horseman quickly recovers his composure, and when he speaks, the rest of his people laugh long and hard.
&n
bsp; “What did he say?” asks a sheepish Gagnier.
“He said you should learn how to use a bow and arrow!” replies Duyunun, chuckling as well. “While your weapon sounds impressive, it isn’t much good if the only people it harms are its owners!”
Chapter 24
A few miles south of Mackenzie’s tree, a furious stretch of water appears, much more turbulent than anything we’ve yet seen. Fraser orders the canoes into a calm back eddy where he takes a reading of the sun’s position with his sextant.
Measurement taken, Fraser adds the stretch of the river to his oilskin map and then addresses us. “We’ve only travelled twelve miles since leaving our new friends, and as much as I’d like to stay on the water it seems that we must walk, for a little while at least.”
The men groan but I don’t mind. The day’s warm but not uncomfortably so, and the scent of wildflowers and sage rises pleasantly on the warm breeze. The countryside is much different from that around Fort St. James. Grasslands have replaced the thick forests of the north, bees buzz amid the mass of flowers, and eagles and other raptors search for prey, riding the thermals high above the ground.
Tree-covered mountains aside, this place reminds me of Red River and I half expect a herd of buffalo to appear on the horizon. I think of Louise and smile, hoping someday to see her again. “That’s quite a grin,” says Quesnel. “It’s that Métis girl you told me about, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Unconsciously my hand strays to the medicine bag that Louise gave me and is now hanging around my neck.
“A medicine bag’s a very special gift. You must have left quite the impression on her!” says Quesnel.
My cheeks redden and I quickly tuck the bag back under my shirt. “Louise told me to put things in it, to help me remember the trip.”
“I don’t know if the bag will be large enough. We’ve a long way to go before we reach the sea. There’ll be many more memories to collect yet.” My smile fades. Jules Quesnel is right. Months lie ahead before I can even contemplate returning to Red River, let alone begin my search for my sister.
But there are more pressing things to worry about right now, and one of them is the churlish voyageur with the dark beard walking alongside Waccan at the rear of the group. “He might be a good paddler but La Malice does nothing but complain,” I say. “He hates me, thinks this journey is a waste of time, and he doesn’t seem to care fer Mr. Fraser much either.”
“He’ll do his duty and keep us safe on the river — if we ever get back on it. In the meantime there are better things to occupy your thoughts. Louise, for instance, I’m sure she has a much prettier face than our grumpy voyageur!”
A few hours of walking brings us to Xats’ull, a large collection of pit houses on the edge of a plain overlooking the river. The entire community has assembled and waits expectantly for us to arrive. The horseman we’d met upstream stands beside his mount and nods as we approach.
The Secwepemc at Xats’ull are a fierce looking people, coloured with red ochre and dressed in leather leggings and deerskin robes. I’m more than a little nervous when their chief Xlo’sem, an old man with steel-grey hair, dressed in leathers and flanked by warriors, approaches.
“I travel this river to the sea,” Fraser explains, “and your people told me that you would help us.”
Xlo’sem motions to a middle-aged man. “My slave’s from the sea. What do you want to know?”
“How long will it take to get there, and what is the river like ahead?” Fraser asks.
The man speaks, Duyunun translates, and although I don’t understand a word of the response, the sour expression on the slave’s face makes it quite clear that the answer won’t please Simon Fraser.
“The sea is just three weeks downstream,” explains Duyunun. That part of the response is met with grunts of approval; a short trip to the Pacific Ocean is a much better option than a six-month trek to Montreal.
“But only if we live to complete the journey. Not four days’ travel from here, the river is alive with rapids so terrible no canoe can travel through them safely, and if we try to paddle on the water we will most certainly die.”
Mutters of discontent rise from the voyageurs. “The river is the least of our worries,” Duyunun continues. “The people who live along its southern reaches near the sea are called the Musqueam. They have often been invaded by warriors from the north, and now they are suspicious of any strangers. They are dangerous warriors and might either enslave us or kill us if they thought we were enemies. It was the Musqueam who stole the slave from his people then traded him up the river until he ended up here. He says he knows every inch of it between here and the sea, and that only madmen or fools would want to continue much further south.”
Tensions rise, and I wonder just what Fraser will say to convince the men to continue, but before he can respond, Xlo’sem gives a long and flowing speech that draws gasps from his people, especially from the slave.
“The chief says that if we’re determined to reach the sea, then he and his slave will go with us,” Duyunun says in surprise. “He asks nothing in return, but wishes to have one of our guns for hunting on our return. He has influence all along the river and promises that his presence will ensure our safety.”
With this proclamation, the crisis is averted. People bring us food, and we enjoy the best meal we’ve had in days.
While we eat, Xlo’sem holds court around the fire, chatting animatedly about the trip ahead, but the same can’t be said for the slave who sits scowling in the shadows, an unhappy look on his face.
“I wonder why he’s so worried?” I say. “If the river’s too fast we’ll just portage around it. And as fer the Musqueam — whoever they are — we’ve got guns. We’re more than capable of looking after ourselves.”
“Maybe the slave knows something else,” replies Quesnel. “Perhaps it is not only the rapids or the Musqueam he fears, but something, or someone else.”
Chapter 25
“Do your people travel this stretch often?” Fraser asks, eyeing the river as it constricts and froths in the narrow canyon ahead. The slave was right, I have to admit it. Although we’ve been on the water for only five or so hours since leaving Xats’ull, the rapids ahead are some of the roughest I’ve ever seen, even worse than when we had to décharge.
Xlo’sem’s eyes twinkle. “No, but I can’t imagine it could stop people like you.” The challenge is not unexpected, and I can tell by the look on Fraser’s face that he is considering ordering the canoes forward, but when he signals the brigade to the shore, it is obvious that he has chosen not to rise to the bait. For now.
Several hours of daylight remain but we’re tired and wet. A warm fire and a bowl of soup will be very welcome before tackling the rapids. Exhausted paddlers, even skilled ones, can make fatal mistakes.
Not long after we land, a small group of people appear on the canyon’s edge high above the riverbank, and I watch with apprehension as the visitors make their way down the steep path towards us. “Don’t worry. These are my people and they are coming to welcome us,” says Xlo’sem.
The newcomers are very cordial. Gifts are exchanged and the people look at their chief with renewed respect. His people seem to think he leads our company and are pleased to see us, much to my relief — and Xlo’sem’s satisfaction.
When the sun slips below the western bank, our guests take their leave, vanishing into the fading light, promising to return the next day. We post a watch but receive no nighttime visitors. It isn’t until a little after sunrise when I see that the chief’s people have returned on the cliffs over the river, this time in even greater numbers. Word has spread, it seems, of the white men who ride the river, and many people have come to watch us.
John Stuart, Simon Fraser and I scramble up the steep slope to inspect the river ahead. From this vantage point above the river, what we see in the canyon far below fills Stuart with trepidation.
“Simon, we can’t take loaded canoes through this chasm. At best we�
��d lose our provisions. At worst? We risk drowning the men and wrecking the boats.”
“Or maybe they aim to do that themselves,” says Fraser, looking at the growing crowd just one hundred yards or so downstream. “These people seem friendly enough, but it could be an act. They could easily roll boulders onto the canoes as they pass below and smash them to pieces. It wouldn’t be the first time men have been ambushed, killed and robbed in the wild by people pretending to be friends. We don’t know what their true intentions may be. We carry valuable supplies after all, highly coveted by these people.”
I can’t help thinking that Fraser is being overly suspicious, for the people seem friendly. But then I remember Tinker and what he did to us, and I realize it is right to be cautious.
Stuart’s more concerned about the dangers of the rapids. He says, “Safety is our first priority. I know you want to put on a show, Simon, to impress Xlo’sem’s people, but it’s madness to travel this water with fully laden canoes without testing it first. Let’s send an empty canoe through with two paddlers to try the river first. If they feel it is passable then we can send the loaded canoes through.”
Stuart has every right to be concerned. As far as we can see ahead the river tumbles and twists through a canyon scarcely forty yards wide, spraying white and green foam high into the air. “Do you have your pistol?” Fraser asks.
“Two,” replies Stuart, “and a full bag of powder.”
“Good. You and the Scott lad will stand guard over the canoe as it passes below and keep an eye on our audience.”
Once Fraser has returned to camp, Stuart passes me a large flintlock pistol, a powder horn and a leather pouch. “Do you know how to shoot?” he asks.
