by David Starr
After ten minutes of what appears to be a heated discussion, the voyageurs signal us to join them. I look at La Malice, trying to guess what the outcome of the conversation has been, but his dark face seems carved from stone: cold, emotionless and unreadable. I listen breathlessly as Waccan speaks on the men’s behalf.
“Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, n’est-ce pas? You have our word that we’ll stay together, Monsieur Fraser. Besides,” Waccan adds, smiling at me, “if the youngest one among us has the courage to continue, it would look bad on the rest of us if we didn’t!”
Judging by the dark expressions on some of their faces the decision is by no means unanimous. While Fraser is obviously relieved, he needs additional assurances.
“I’m glad we’ve resolved not to separate during the rest of the voyage,” he says, “but I feel we should all take an oath to formalize this decision. If you truly mean what you have said, repeat after me: ‘I solemnly swear before almighty God, that I shall sooner perish than forsake in distress any of our crew during the present voyage.’”
The men look at each other hesitantly, then one by one with Waccan in the lead, they remove their hats and repeat the vow solemnly. All that is, except La Malice. Dragged along on a mission that has nearly cost him his life several times over, he has taken all he can, oath or not.
I watch La Malice stretch his left hand slowly behind his back to the pistol tucked in his sash. “Simon, watch out!” I cry. With a curse, La Malice pulls out the pistol, and as he cocks the hammer, I leap forward and slash at his hand.
The shot misses Fraser by several feet. La Malice drops the pistol from his bleeding hand and grabs hold of me instead. “I should have killed you on the cliff, whelp, but I’ll make up for that mistake now!”
We struggle, all the while edging closer and closer to the riverbank. La Malice is larger and stronger, and when he reaches hungrily for my knife, I fight back with desperate strength, knowing beyond any doubt what will happen if he gets his hand on it.
La Malice gains the upper hand. His fingers wrap around mine. He twists my hand and the blade so that they are slowly pushing towards my throat. “Die, boy!” he says, his eyes blazing with rage.
I feel his breath on my face, see through watering eyes the knife edge closer and closer as the larger, heavier man leans into me. I drop quickly to one knee, throw La Malice off balance and then, with all my strength, lower my shoulder and push hard against the voyageur.
La Malice curses, slipping on the wet gravel of the riverbank. He falls backwards, pulling me down on top of him, the knife wedged between our bodies.
“Duncan!” shouts Quesnel, hurrying to pull me off the voyageur. “Are you hurt? It happened so fast I couldn’t help!”
Quesnel lifts me up, and I’m horrified to see a dark patch of blood on my shirt. I forget all about La Malice until I hear him cough and see him stagger to his knees, blood flowing from his mouth, staining his black beard crimson.
La Malice struggles to his feet, standing and swaying at the river’s edge, a large red stain blossoming across his chest like a flower. He coughs, his lips moving as if he’s trying to speak. Then his head slumps and he collapses awkwardly, falling over backwards into the river. I watch in shock as he floats out into the main channel of the river and drifts away in the current.
The blood-stained weapon is still held tightly in my grasp, and I drop it as if it were a poisonous snake. “I didn’t mean to kill him! He fell on top of the knife!” My mind races back to Scotland, to an image of Sir Cecil Hamilton, lying still and bleeding on a Glasgow street. That rash attack forced me from my home and took my sister from me. Who knows what fate awaits me now that I’ve actually killed a man.
Instead, Fraser embraces me. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about, lad. You saved my life! The North West Company and I owe you a debt we can never hope to repay.” He claps me heartily on the shoulder as one by one the voyageurs shake my trembling hand.
“That’s how you deal with traitors, like La Malice,” says Waccan, spitting as he mentions the name, handing me back my knife. “I can’t believe he would do that.”
“Très courageux,” adds Gagnier with respect. Still numb from what happened, I fall to my knees, face ashen. Quesnel races over to my side and puts his arm around me.
“So what do we do now?” asks Gagnier. “We’re hundreds of miles from home, we’ve no food and are being chased by people who want to kill us.”
“Now,” replies Fraser, “we light a big fire, and find some clams or berries and whatever else we can. Lord knows what dangers we’ll encounter in the morning, but I’d much rather face them on a full belly and in the company of the bravest men I’ve ever known.”
Chapter 38
We leave the dugout canoe at Spuzzum, the villagers promising to return it to the Sto:lo. We stay the night then carry on by foot, travelling north.
Several days later, and with my guilt over La Malice starting to fade, I look nervously at the same wooden bridge from which I’d nearly fallen to my death. This time, however, despite several slips and close calls, we all cross safely over the chasm. At dusk we step off the trail, and fall asleep under the stars, too tired even to bother with a fire.
The next morning the mist and rain envelop the path, and our progress is slow, but by the afternoon of the following day we reach Kumsheen. Things are not as they should be at the village where the two rivers meet. “Our people are sick and we’ve been waiting for your return,” says a man as we approach. “The chief says you have powerful medicines. He hopes that you can help us.”
Fraser agrees at once. “The Nlaka’pamux have been very generous. We’ll repay your kindness as best we can.”
A shadow hangs over Kumsheen. The people who’d seemed so healthy just a short while ago now look terrible. Grey skin sags on emaciated frames, and people cough horribly, their chests heaving with wracking gasps.
“Bring the sick to me,” Fraser commands. Soon a long line of ill children and their worried mothers forms in front of him. Fraser takes a small glass bottle from his pack and applies a drop of dark liquid to the tongue and forehead of each child. Apparently it is all that remains after most of our medicines were lost when the bale fell into the canyon.
“What’s in the bottle?” I whisper.
“Laudanum,” says Quesnel. “It can’t cure them, but it will dull their pain for a little while. They will be able to rest and perhaps heal. It’s the least we can do, Duncan. These people were perfectly healthy before they encountered us. Now they’re deathly ill. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?”
I’m shocked at the suggestion. “Yer not saying we may well be responsible fer this, are ye? None of us were sick when we passed through here.”
“Not seriously, no,” Quesnel says, “but I’m sure at least one of us had a cold or a cough that we may have unknowingly passed along. These people have never been exposed to our diseases. What may have only been a slight discomfort for us could very well become a death sentence for them.”
It makes me feel absolutely terrible that I could be responsible for the misery around me. Then another, disturbing thought occurs. “And when they realize we can’t heal them, Jules?”
Quesnel replies grimly. “Then for our sakes we’d better be far from here when that happens.”
Chapter 39
“I must stay with my people,” Little Fellow tells us. “I am worried for them.”
Fraser hugs the small man tightly. “I can’t thank you enough. Without your help we would never have survived.” Over the weeks Little Fellow has become a trusted friend and companion, and we are sad to see him go.
“I’ll miss Little Fellow,” I say.
“We all will,” replies Fraser. “Some call these people ‘savages,’ and while it’s true they live a strange life by our European standards, they’re no different in their hearts from any of us. The colour of their skin may be different, but the same strengths and faults we fin
d in Montreal or London are here in the wilds.”
We say a sombre farewell to Kumsheen and continue on our way. The weather’s awful, the trail’s as slippery as ice. To compound our misery, sharp stones slice through the thin leather of our footwear as if it were paper. Every step is torture. To run the risk of infection and go lame in this country could very well mean our death.
We move slowly, stopping frequently to repair our shoes and rest our blistered and bleeding feet, so it’s with tremendous relief when, four days later, we reach our cached canoes.
“Things are looking up,” says Quesnel. “Our canoes are untouched, and although the current is fast, the river will soon be navigable again. Paddling, even against the current, is a much better option than walking, the shape we are in. We may just get home after all.”
Tired and aching, we soon reach Xats’ull. Xlo’sem is there to greet us. “I’ve looked forward to this day since we parted ways!” he beams.
Fraser heartily agrees. “It’s good to be back. We’ve had many adventures since you left our company. I’d be happy to tell you about them.”
If the chief remembers that he’d snuck out of camp in the dead of night without a word of farewell he doesn’t bring it up, and neither, diplomatically, does Fraser. “Of course we will hear your story,” Xlo’sem replies, “but first we eat. You look terrible and your feet are ready to fall off your legs! The people downriver must not have treated you as well as I did!”
We are indeed a sight. We’ve all lost so much weight that our clothes hang in rags around us. We haven’t shaved for weeks; even I have the beginnings of a sparse beard on my face. My hair is long and greasy, and I can’t remember the last time I bathed. It’s a very good thing we aren’t making first impressions.
We rest for a few hours then eat the best meal we’ve had in nearly a month as Fraser recounts our adventures. When he hears about our troubles with the Musqueam and Sto:lo, Xlo’sem leaps up and waves his knife in the air. “I would have ordered my men to war had you been harmed! But something did happen … You’re missing a companion, the one with the black beard and sour face.”
“Our only casualty, I’m afraid to say,” explains Fraser. “There was an accident downstream and he fell into the river.” None of the men say anything. The truth of course is very different, but there’s no point in speaking about it here.
We finish our dinner, excuse ourselves and finish setting up camp. “The rain’s stopped,” I say, staring into the sky. “It looks as if it’s going to be hot tomorrow. I’d wager Simon will want to get going as soon as possible.”
“I think you’re right,” replies Quesnel. “Some of the voyageurs want to stay here for a few days, but I know how badly Simon wants to return to Fort St. James. If we don’t get back soon it will be too late to send a message to Montreal.”
“What do ye think the Company will do?” I ask. “This is a huge setback, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps they’ll send Simon to search for the headwaters of the real Columbia,” Quesnel says. “Or maybe there’s another route altogether that we don’t know about. This is wild and unexplored country; I’m sure it has a lot of surprises left in store for us.”
The next morning there is indeed a surprise waiting for us, but it doesn’t come from the land. Despite Quesnel’s thoughts to the contrary, Fraser tells us that he’s agreed to stay with the Secwepemc for two more days.
“It’s a good idea,” says Quesnel. “This is the first true day of rest we’ve enjoyed in nearly six weeks. It will do us and our feet a world of good. Besides, we dodged one mutiny; I don’t think Simon wants to encourage another one.”
In all, we spend three days swimming in a quiet backwater of the river and lounging in the hot sun. We could have stayed for weeks, but despite the protestations of the chief to remain, Fraser is adamant we leave.
Xlo’sem bids us an emotional goodbye, making Fraser promise to return as soon as he can. The people give us food and an ample supply of leather moccasins, along with bear grease to treat the sores on our feet. With the chief and the rest of the Secwepemc people waving from the shore, we push off into the river and paddle north.
We travel steadily upstream for several days, and our food situation greatly improves when, to the delight of all, Waccan finally shoots a deer. We eat fresh venison and are surprised to discover that our salmon caches are intact as well. Remarkably, some of the fish is still edible.
“We passed Mackenzie’s trail yesterday. One more patch of rough water and it’s clear sailing to Fort George,” says Fraser.
“And about time, Simon,” says Stuart. “Your river may never see another North West Company canoe, but that doesn’t take away from what we’ve done. And who knows, perhaps it will prove useful after all. If that day comes, people will have the men of the North West Company to thank for it.”
“I’m not concerned about the gratitude of future generations,” says Waccan, chewing on a dry piece of salmon the colour of paper. “I never thought I’d say it but I just want to get back to Fort St. James.”
“Then we’d best get you back soon,” promises Fraser. “Ten days from now, this trip will be over and consigned to the history books.”
It’s a warm night. The campfire crackles and pops as I watch the embers spiral up into the sky. There have been times on the journey I felt certain that I’d die and never see Liverpool or any other place again. But I have to admit that travelling the river has been the most remarkable experience of my life.
I remember Louise, and my hand travels absently to the medicine bag resting against my chest. It’s almost full now. Inside the leather pouch are treasures, including a pebble from the shores of Stuart’s Lake, a piece of wood from the hanging bridge that almost cost me my life, a shell from the muddy banks of the estuary, and a Musqueam arrowhead I’d dug out of the canoe. These are my memories of an amazing adventure. I’m anxious to show them to Louise, and tell her the stories that accompany them.
“Two years,” I say to myself. “I wonder what else can possibly happen before I get home.”
But there’s no home anymore for me. Just Libby, somewhere back in England, and even if by some miracle I return, would I even recognize my sister? Probably, but she was little more than a girl at our parting in Liverpool. Now she would be a woman. Which makes me, I realize with a start, a man.
I run my hand over my face, feeling my moustache and thin beard. And would she know me? I hope to find out soon. I’ve more than completed the mission I was sent on by McGillivray, but have no idea when, or even if, Fraser plans to send me back to Montreal.
On the afternoon of the sixth of August, two months and a week after we left it, Fort George appears ahead in the distance. Several figures emerge from the small log cabin, waving and shouting excitedly as the canoes slide gently ashore. “You’re alive! I can’t believe it!” cries Hugh Faries. “I gave you up for dead weeks ago!”
“You should know it takes more than a little voyage to the sea to kill a Nor’Wester, Mr. Faries,” replies Fraser.
“So the Columbia does reach the Pacific just as you thought it would!” Faries is ecstatic at the news.
Fraser shakes his head. “The Columbia does indeed reach the sea but this river, I’m afraid, is not the Columbia. Now put the kettle on and make us some tea, Hugh. I have quite a story to tell you.”
Chapter 40
Days later, back at Fort St. James, I net and smoke salmon, chop firewood, and for the second time since arriving in New Caledonia, prepare the fort for the impending arrival of winter.
I’ve hardly seen the explorer in the two weeks we’ve been back, and as desperate as I am to go home to England, I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him about leaving — until he summons me one late August afternoon.
“I wanted to thank you again for saving my life,” says Fraser when I step into his cabin. “La Malice was a dangerous man. You could have been killed stepping in like that. It was a rash and impulsive act, but I’m
very glad you did it.”
“I’ve a tendency to act quickly and worry about the consequences later,” I say. “At least I did when I was younger. My sister used to spend a great deal of time getting me out of trouble.”
“It’s your sister I wanted to talk to you about,” he says. I’m taken aback. Although I’ve spoken briefly of my family to Jules Quesnel, nobody except for Louise has heard the full story.
“No need to be surprised,” Fraser reassures me. “Mr. Quesnel mentioned to me the other day that you have a sister in England who couldn’t come with you to Montreal.”
“Aye, that’s true,” I say warily, not knowing what else Fraser may know.
“Quesnel also told me that you want to return to England to see her. Is that correct?”
“Aye, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. McGillivray. The North West Company has been kind to me, and I’m in yer debt.”
Fraser hands me a thin book wrapped in an oilskin. “This is my account of our journey. I’m sending you to Montreal to deliver it to McGillivray personally. Both the Company and Empire need the information, disappointing though it is. Gagnier will take you to Fort Dunvegan with orders for Luc Lapointe to accompany you to Montreal.”
“Aye, Sir,” I reply, as a huge smile creases my face.
“Feel free to tell Lapointe about our adventure, and Callum Mackay as well when you reach Fort William, but say nothing to anyone else; the world doesn’t need to hear about my failure in the West quite yet.”
Fraser shakes my hand heartily. “I’m going to miss you, Duncan. It would be an honour to travel with you again.”
“Thank ye, Sir,” I say, struggling to control my emotions. “I’ll never forget ye — or this place.”
