by David Starr
Surrounded by armed warriors, the chief of the village greets us cautiously. “You are the first Whites to visit us from up the river, but we know all about your people. What do you want?”
“We’re travelling to the sea. We would like to purchase some canoes from you,” says Fraser, waiting for Little Fellow and Duyunun to translate. To our dismay, however, the Sto:lo prove to be quite reluctant to part with their boats.
The canoes are huge and very valuable crafts, made from the hollowed trunks of trees. It would have taken a great amount of effort and time to make them, and I understand their reluctance to trade them for the few cheap pots and buttons we still possess.
After much negotiation, an agreement is reached, although Fraser isn’t happy about it. The Sto:lo agree to lend us one canoe at the cost of almost all our remaining goods, but only on the condition that some of their people come along to keep an eye on the dugout craft.
Deal done, the Sto:lo return to their homes. We’re not invited to dinner, so we set up camp on the outskirts of the village. We eat a sparse meal of half-rotted salmon. As night falls we set a watch and huddle around the fire, cold, hungry and nervous. When sleep finally comes, it is fitful and short as we anxiously wait for dawn.
Chapter 34
Judging by the warriors who stand between us and the canoe, their spears pointed, bows at the ready, the chief has changed his mind about lending us it. Things escalate when one of the Sto:lo takes a jacket belonging to La Malice from the top of our pile of gear and waves it triumphantly to his friends, as if it were a trophy. Before anyone can stop him, the dark-bearded voyageur tackles the thief and points his pistol at his chest. “That’s mine!” he yells. “I’ll kill you for that!”
Fraser is horrified. “La Malice! Stop! We’re dead men if you shoot. Protect the canoe and the gear, but don’t pull that trigger!” Reluctantly, La Malice steps back, allowing the warrior to scramble to his feet, forgetting all about the jacket.
We walk towards the canoe in a semi-circle, our pistols aimed at the warriors. “You promised we could borrow this canoe. I took you at your word,” says Fraser. “Where I come from a man stands by his obligations.”
Little Fellow and Duyunun quickly translate, and with two dozen guns aimed at him, the chief takes the opportunity to reconsider the situation. “The canoe is yours,” he says sourly, to a howl of protest from his warriors.
“To borrow,” he adds, brushing aside the complaints of his men. “The Musqueam are fierce warriors and may kill you, but if you survive you’ll give the canoe back and leave our land forever.” Decision made, the chief leaves the riverbank with his upset people following.
“You must go on without me,” Little Fellow says. “I’ll stay here and await your return. There’s bad blood between my people and the Musqueam. My presence would only endanger you.”
Fraser clasps the small man’s hand warmly. “In that case we’ll be back shortly,” he promises. “Please be careful while we’re gone. I don’t trust these people.”
As soon as we push out into the river, the long, heavy dugout moves quickly downstream away from the Sto:lo village. “Those are strange-looking otters,” says D’Alaire a short while later, looking at several black creatures poking their whiskered noses out of the water.
“Those aren’t otters,” exclaims Gagnier. “They’re seals! We must be nearly at the sea!” Our excitement at almost reaching our destination is short-lived. Our supply of salmon is gone. What hasn’t been eaten is completely rotted. With no friendly locals to feed us, we have little choice but to make camp and scrounge for berries and shellfish along the riverbank.
Night falls. We light a fire, post guards, and while the men prepare for bed, Stuart comes up to me. “Simon would like to talk to you and Jules. Quietly,” he adds.
Together we walk down the beach. When we have gone a short distance from the camp, Quesnel and I watch in silence as Stuart checks his sextant against the stars several times.
“Simon, we’re still more than two hundred miles north of the known latitude of the Columbia’s mouth,” he says finally, “but the ocean can’t be more than a few hours away. It’s time to admit that —”
Fraser completes Stuart’s sentence. “That we’ve been risking our lives on the wrong river for weeks? The stars don’t lie and so I’m left with two inescapable conclusions: this is not the Columbia and I’m a failure on a grand scale. I wonder what Mackenzie will say when he hears this story.”
Confused, I look at Quesnel. “The wrong river?” I ask. Quesnel nods, and then I understand. Since Kumsheen at least, Fraser and Stuart have suspected this, an outcome confirmed today with the last measurement.
“Sir, this may not be the Columbia,” I tell Fraser, trying to cheer him up, “but this is still an historic discovery. Ye’ve found a new river and followed it from the heart of the wilderness to the sea. Even if we have walked part of the way. Who knows what the Company may do with it? They could ferry furs and supplies fer some of the trip and transfer the rest by horse.”
“Going indirectly was not the object of our undertaking, Mr. Scott,” replies Fraser dejectedly. “I’d hardly consider this river any good for trade. Besides, how does it help the Empire if the Americans are sitting unmolested on the banks of the real Columbia, far to the south? We’ve failed in both our missions.”
“When will you tell the men?” asks Stuart. “They won’t be pleased, but they still must be told.”
Fraser reluctantly agrees. “Tomorrow, I suppose. We’ll stay on course until we reach the Pacific, then return to Fort St. James immediately afterward so I can report our failure to Montreal.”
“I just hope we’ll be able to send word to McGillivray,” Stuart says. “We’ve yet to run into these Musqueam. If they’re as dangerous as everyone says, I’ll consider this voyage a success if we make it back alive, no matter what river this may be.”
Chapter 35
A large open gulf appears in the distance, shimmering silver in the mid-morning sun. “The sea!” shouts Waccan from the bow of the canoe. A large land mass, an island perhaps, looms in the west while to the north large snow-capped mountains, almost impressive as the Rockies, rise high into the blue sky.
“I don’t see an American fort. Maybe we got here first,” Gagnier says. I know that Fraser will have to tell the men the truth very soon, and I’m nervous about the outcome.
“They may not be Americans, but someone else is here,” Waccan says. “Look to the northern bank.” On the shore is a cluster of buildings in a grove of towering cedar trees. There is no one visible but smoke from a campfire curls lazily into the trees.
“It must be a Musqueam village,” says Fraser. “We’ll land and introduce ourselves before we go any further.”
The idea does not sit well with La Malice. “Are you insane? You’ve heard what these people are like; they’ll treat us as invaders. They are likely to shoot first. We need to show them that we can’t be intimidated.”
Fraser snaps back. “Our safety lies in openness, not skulking around like thieves. We’ll greet these people as if we’re guests.” Remembering how I felt about the English invasion of Scotland, I can’t help thinking that the Musqueam have a right to protect their land. After all, the Company would like to set up a fort on the Pacific. We paddle towards the shore as ordered, and when the canoe lands, Fraser asks Stuart, Quesnel and me to get out and walk up the gentle bank towards the longhouses. We do so but as I glance back, I see La Malice is heading off along the beach. Where is he going? I wonder. Seeing no one in the village, we cautiously approach the nearest cedar plank house in the clearing.
I slowly pull aside the fibre mat that covers the door and peer inside. At first I see nothing but darkness, but as my eyes adjust to the gloom, I make out a shape in the corner of the house.
Straining my eyes in the shadows, I make out the shape of an elderly woman. She advances towards me, looking at me solemnly, and I hazard a smile. She lifts her hand in return.
“There is a woman inside,” I say, emerging into the sunlight. “She didn’t seem hostile.”
Suddenly we hear a shot and we see La Malice running back to the canoe waving his pistol.
“What is the matter?” we shout, but La Malice continues running towards the canoe.
“The fool has fired his pistol at someone,” Stuart says. “We’ll have to show them that we mean them no harm.”
Fraser agrees and we return to the canoe to obtain some gifts. As we are searching the canoe, a great shout arises. Warriors, wearing coats of skins and brandishing spears, bows and wicked-looking wooden clubs, burst out of the undergrowth.
“There is no time for peace talks,” Fraser shouts.
“Push! Push for your lives!” screams La Malice.
As the warriors advance, Fraser aims his gun. The Musqueam drop to the ground and raise their wooden shields to their heads at the sight of the weapon, but they don’t react with terror. Instead, they advance cautiously towards us as we struggle with the canoe. These are clearly confident warriors.
With a mighty heave, the canoe slips free of the mud. We scramble in and plunge our paddles deep into the brown water of the river as spears splash into the water and arrows hiss angrily through the air around us. Several strike the canoe but with a few frantic paddle thrusts, we’re safely out of range of the warriors. “What do we do now?” I ask, my terror subsiding.
“Now, Mr. Scott,” replies Fraser, “we go home. The tide’s rising and that will help us paddle against the current. We will deal with La Malice’s stupidity later.”
“At least we’ve followed the Columbia to its mouth,” says D’Alaire. “That’s a feat no one has done before.”
La Certe agrees. “And the Americans haven’t arrived yet either.”
Fraser casts a knowing glance at me. “Men,” he begins solemnly, “you’ve demonstrated great courage in the face of adversity. Never in the history of the North West Company has a finer group of voyageurs been assembled, nor a nobler task undertaken.”
He pauses to let his words sink in. Fraser really is proud of the brigade, I can tell. Lesser men would have deserted weeks ago. “We set out on a mission to follow the Columbia to the sea in the name of King and Company, but through the use of our sextants I began to suspect a day or two ago that this river is not the Columbia. Today when we saw the sea, my fears were confirmed. There is no American fort because we are too far north. This is a different river altogether.”
Fraser’s revelation stuns the voyageurs. Some of their expressions are blank and unreadable while others are visibly angry. Waccan speaks first, laughing bitterly at the news. “You mean to say that all this time and through all those dangers, we were on the wrong river?”
“Yes, but not intentionally,” concedes Fraser. “I truly believed it to be the Columbia.”
That does not satisfy La Malice. He bursts out angrily, “The great Simon Fraser, chasing fame and fortune, risking our necks for nothing!” The worst part of La Malice’s taunt is that it’s true. If the river was a practical trade route, the journey would have been worth the dangers, but with the rapids and the unfriendly nature of some of its inhabitants, this river will not serve the North West Company or the Empire.
“We’ll make it back to Fort St. James,” Fraser vows. “And you’ll all be well rewarded for your efforts, I promise you.”
I see Fraser glance at La Malice and grit his teeth. I wonder what reward he has in mind for the man who set the Musqueam against us.
Gagnier’s eyes swivel downriver as several canoes full of armed and chanting warriors rapidly approach. “I hope you’re right because if we’re to see one penny we’ll have to outrun them.”
Chapter 36
“Scare them away!” commands Fraser. A warrior stands in the lead Musqueam canoe, closing quickly on us, a long spear held high over his head. At the command, I pull out my pistol and, with a shaking hand, pull the trigger, aiming low. The ball thuds into the canoe by the warrior’s leg. The man howls in surprise and drops the spear.
Several others fire as well, shooting into the river. The reports echo across the water, and clouds of acrid smoke cover both us and the Musqueam. When the air clears, we see the warriors have backed off and are slowly drifting away.
“That scared them,” says Stuart.
“Oui! After them! We’ve more than enough firepower to chase them back to their village!” cries Waccan, not one to let a challenge go unanswered.
But Fraser will have none of it. “No! Let them go and keep paddling upstream!” The current is strong, but aided by the rising tide we make good progress. Soon after, the sun sets, and the Musqueam are nowhere in sight, but still we paddle, anxious to put as much distance between us and our pursuers as possible.
The river is wide and illuminated by the full moon that hangs large and silver in the sky. We paddle through the night, and by dawn reach the outskirts of the Sto:lo village where we’d left Little Fellow the day before.
We see our friend and two Sto:lo warriors at the river’s edge. Very quickly I can see that something is wrong. Little Fellow’s face and arms are bruised and cut, and the men at his side act more like guards than companions.
The two Sto:lo warriors see us coming, yell an alarm and run towards their chief’s longhouse. “Flee!” shouts Little Fellow from the bank. “It isn’t safe!”
“What happened to you?” Fraser calls back.
“They turned on me. They were about to kill me when the chief changed his mind. Now I am his slave. They also planned to kill you if you returned. They didn’t like your taking their canoe. Don’t stop for me, keep going and save yourselves.”
“We’ll not abandon a friend,” says Fraser, as the canoe crunches ashore. The explorer hops out and wraps his arm around Little Fellow’s shoulders. “We’ll leave this place together or not at all.”
Before we can push back onto the river, a band of heavily armed men marches up to us. “You live,” the chief says, surprise evident in his voice. “I will have my canoe back.”
Since the dugout canoe is our only means of escape, Fraser has no plans to return it. At his command, we arrange ourselves defensively around the canoe, our backs to the river, guns and knives drawn.
A Sto:lo warrior raises his spear and as he does Fraser screams at the top of his lungs, waving his hands and shouting in a strange mixture of French, English and gibberish. The man, so brave just a second ago, flees in terror. From a safe distance the chief stares at Fraser, confusion and fear on his face. “Are you Raven?” he asks in awe. “Are you the Trickster?”
With no time to ask what the man means, Fraser pulls Little Fellow into the canoe, we all jump in, and begin hastily paddling away from the village. Before we gain speed, Fraser grabs a blanket and some other goods and throws them onto the shore. “Payment for the loan of the canoe!” he shouts. “We’re not thieves. You’ll have it back soon enough.”
No one follows us. With the strong tide pushing us upriver, the Sto:lo village soon disappears. “Simon, what on earth possessed you to act like that?” asks Stuart. “I almost thought you really were crazy.”
“I don’t know,” Fraser says sheepishly. “I was angry and I wanted to scare them, I suppose. It just came out. And what was the chief talking about, Little Fellow? Who is this Trickster?”
“The People of the River believe that Raven can transform himself into many forms, even into a man,” Little Fellow explains. “Raven is a cunning creature who tricks people into giving him what he wants. I think perhaps the Sto:lo believed you were not a man, but a spirit.”
Stuart laughs. “We all know you have a high opinion of yourself, Simon. It seems you’ve finally met people who agree with you!”
For the second day in a row we travel through the night, Fraser urging us forward with every ounce of energy we possess. I paddle on, shoulders and arms as numb as that night on the Sylph when I manned the pumps. It isn’t until morning that Fraser orders us ash
ore to rest, but no sooner does the canoe grind against the gravel beach when La Malice leaps out and pulls his pistol out from his belt.
“Enough!” he screams, aiming the gun at Fraser’s head. “I’ve had enough of this voyage, I’ve had enough of this cursed river, and I’ve had enough of you!” Then La Malice issues the challenge that has been building for weeks.
“Who’s with me? I know many of you feel the same as I. Now’s our chance to leave these damned clerks to their fates. I’m for heading home overland, so think carefully: this could be your last chance to save yourselves.”
Chapter 37
Slowly we step out onto the shore, the voyageurs shuffling uncomfortably together. I know some are already on La Malice’s side and that others are seriously considering his proposal. A mutiny is imminent. Quesnel and Stuart flank our commander with pistols drawn. I curse myself that I left my pistol in the canoe, and so with my heart pounding, I pull out my knife and take my place beside Fraser.
Fraser remains calm. “I don’t blame you for feeling this way, men. Your lives have been in jeopardy many times, but through it all you’ve demonstrated more courage and loyalty than I could ever have expected. There’s no guarantee we’ll make it back alive, but we stand a much better chance if we stick together.”
He looks searchingly at each of them, men like Gagnier whom he’s known for years. “The Company was built upon friendship, loyalty and courage. Are you willing to toss all that aside? Besides, what chance would you have, travelling alone cross-country in this land? If we go our separate ways we’re dead for sure.”
Waccan approaches. “Let us men talk alone, Simon. We will come to a decision soon.”
“La Malice would put a bullet in my back right now if he could,” says Fraser as we walk down the sand bar, away from the voyageurs who begin talking animatedly to one other. “But I’m hoping that Waccan, Gagnier and D’Alaire will convince the others that what I said is true. We wouldn’t last a week in this country if we split up. Our strength lies in our numbers.”
