The Nor'Wester

by David Starr

  “I hope not,” Fraser says. “After all, you’ve become part of its history.”

  Gagnier and I leave for Fort Dunvegan the next morning. It’s far too late in the year to make it to Montreal before the rivers freeze, but with luck we’ll get as far as Red River. Despite my desire to find Libby, my heart races at the prospect of spending time with the Métis.

  We complete the long portage, return to Fort Misery, then make our way back to the Peace River. As we paddle east, my mind fills with plans. I’ll winter with Louise and then in the spring the two of us will leave together for England, find Libby and return to Red River. It’s a good plan, one that occupies my mind constantly as we push east through the mountains.

  We travel through the mountains and arrive at Fort Dunvegan ten days later. I’m thrilled to see Luc Lapointe, and despite being tired from the trip, we leave for Red River the very next day. Winter’s coming and speed is of the essence.

  The days are still bright and warm, but Lapointe packs his heaviest winter clothes, along with an extra coat for me. “We’ll be grateful for these before our trip is through,” he prophesies. “It’s a little late in the year to be making this voyage, but the Company needs to hear this news. I can’t imagine how Simon feels. He’s put a lot of stock in the river. His reputation is going to take a blow.”

  We travel quickly as the days shorten and the weeks pass by. Though morning frost soon lies thick on the ground, and the quiet back-eddies and oxbows of the rivers freeze, the main streams still run free. By late October, Red River is only a few days away.

  On the day we arrive, the first snowfall of winter hits hard, and we’re greatly relieved to see the Métis village. “Mes amis! Welcome!” cries the voice of Louis Desjarlais through the midday flurries. “Come and warm yourselves by the fire. It’s too cold to be on the water today!”

  The heat from Desjarlais’ hearth sweeps over us as we are escorted into his cabin, but a strange air hangs over the place. “Louis, are ye all right?” I ask as we enter the building.

  The large Métis man breaks into tears. “It’s Louise. Last winter she fell sick. At first I thought it was just a cold but she didn’t get better. Then she caught a terrible fever. No matter what we did, she lay in bed, growing weaker and weaker until she died in my arms.”

  I feel my legs buckle under me and would have fallen to the floor had Desjarlais not wrapped me tightly in a giant hug.

  “Her grave is out on the prairie she loved so much, Duncan. I’ll take you to it if you like.”

  Louise rests on the same hill where we’d spotted the buffalo. A small cross sits above her grave, the hard prairie wind pushing the falling snow up against the base of the wooden marker. “Take all the time you need,” says Desjarlais before he and Lapointe walk back to the settlement.

  I stand alone in front of the rough wooden cross, struggling to find the words. When I finally speak, I talk to Louise as if she were still alive. “I vowed to see ye again, Louise, but I’m afraid I can’t keep that promise. A dinnae ken if ye can hear me, but I would still like to tell ye about my adventures.”

  I take the medicine bag from my neck and talk for more than an hour, recounting everything that’s happened since leaving Red River. When I finish my story, a wave of grief sweeps over me, as powerful as when my parents died.

  I fall to my knees and cry, weeping for my mother and father, lost in a Glasgow fire. I cry for Francis and for the young boy I met in Liverpool, both dead in the dark Atlantic.

  I cry for the sick children of Kumsheen and I cry for Libby, alone somewhere in England. I cry for Louise as well. I barely knew her but felt a connection to her as deep and powerful as any I’ve experienced in my short life. “I will never forget ye, Louise,” I say, finally getting to my feet. I brush the snow off my legs, and then, without looking back, I walk towards the Métis village.

  When I return to the cabin, Desjarlais is waiting for me. He gives me a large tanned buffalo robe, thick with hair. “Louise made this for you before she fell sick,” he says. The robe’s decorated with beads and porcupine quills. Sewn into the skin is a needlework portrait of a man and woman riding on a large black horse against a prairie backdrop. Louise has captured perfectly our one day on the prairies together.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

  “A winter-kill buffalo robe will keep you warm on even the coldest nights,” says Desjarlais. “I knew my girl had talent but I’ve never seen the likes of this robe before.”

  I love the robe but I know too well the pain of losing a family member, so if I can give Desjarlais something to remember his daughter I’m glad to do it. “Would ye like to have it, Louis?” I ask.

  Desjarlais is aghast. “Don’t even suggest it! This is a gift of love; you must keep it.”

  “This fell out of the robe,” says Lapointe handing me a thin piece of fabric he’s picked up from the floor.

  It’s as if I see a ghost. “The embroidery. My mother made it in Scotland,” I say softly. “I gave it to Louise before I left.”

  “And she must have wanted you to have it back,” says Desjarlais.

  Our host excuses himself for the night. “What do you think?” asks Lapointe when we’re alone. “Do we stay here for the winter or try for Fort William?”

  Without Louise there’s nothing to hold me at Red River anymore. “I just want to go,” I say.

  “Bien, I agree. It’s cold but the rivers are still navigable. Besides, the news you carry is too important to sit on here. We’ll say our goodbyes and leave first thing in the morning. Who knows? With that robe, a bit of luck and a prayer or two to Sainte Anne and La Vieille, we just might make it to Fort William before we freeze to death.”

  Chapter 41

  The Green-Needled evergreens on the hills are washed out and faded, and the birch and cottonwood trees, stripped of their leaves, rise ghost-like above the icy banks of the river. The wind is constant, and we exist in a constant state of cold. Lapointe and I say little as we paddle, and during the long bitter nights, we huddle for warmth under our canoe, gratefully wrapped up together in Louise’s robe. There is no doubt that without it, the cold would claim us both.

  By the middle of December we reach the vast grey mass of Lake Superior. “Thank goodness,” says Lapointe. “Another two days, three at the most and we’d have been in real trouble. It’s a miracle we made it this far.”

  “Maybe those prayers we sent to Sainte Anne de Bellevue worked after all,” I say.

  “I hope Sainte Anne and La Vieille are still looking out for us, Duncan,” says Lapointe. “We still have to travel one hundred miles on the roughest lake in the world. It’s going to take both of their help to get us to Fort William alive.”

  We paddle safely for several days until a storm blows in. The wind picks up so we head to shore, build a fire and huddle round the flames as the flakes fall, slowly at first but with ever-increasing size and frequency until there’s nothing but a swirling tornado of white. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?” I say.

  “Oui,” replies Lapointe. “We need to get under the canoe and out of the storm’s way; God only knows when it will end.”

  For twelve hours the snow falls. The wind howls around us, and despite the shelter of the birchbark canoe and the thick buffalo robe, I feel as if I’m turning to ice myself. When the storm finally subsides, we climb out from under the canoe, brush ourselves off and paddle out onto the black water.

  “I’m hoping we reach the fort tonight,” says Lapointe, his beard frosted from his breath and the icy water that splashes over the gunwales. “The temperature’s dropping, and I’d rather not spend another night in the open if I can help it. The ice inside the canoe is very dangerous; it shifts our balance and we could tip over or even break in two with just the slightest wave.”

  “How cold do ye think it is?” I ask, the frigid air burning my lungs.

  “Cold enough to kill the both of us in a matter of seconds if we fall in, so stop talking and sav
e your energy for paddling; we’ll have plenty of opportunity to gossip when we reach Fort William. Mackay and the others will want to know what could possibly be so important as to make this insane trip!”

  The shadowy bulk of Fort William finally appears through the blowing snow. “Travellers!” the lookout cries in disbelief when we beach the canoe. Callum Mackay hears the shout and runs to the lakefront, his great red beard waving like a flag. It’s almost unprecedented for a canoe to arrive this late in the season, and never from the west.

  “My God!” he exclaims as we stagger onto the shore. “The pair o’ ye must be mad! It’s a miracle the wolves aren’t chewing on yer frozen corpses as we speak! What are ye doing back here this time o’ year?”

  Mackay walks us into the fort. Soon we sit wrapped in blankets, steaming cups of tea in our hands. In the great stone fireplace, the flames soar high, and warmth floods into the Great Hall. “Now what in blazes can be so important ye’d risk travelling in winter?” asks Mackay.

  I pass him Fraser’s journal, my frozen fingers finally warming up. “This is,” I say.

  Mackay reads in silence for the better part of fifteen minutes as he digests the contents of the report carefully. “Och! That is news, isn’t it? His lairdship won’t be happy fer sure. And that damned La Malice! I always knew he’d do something, but it’s an evil day when one o’ yer own turns to treason. Guid fer ye, though, lad! I knew ye had courage when I first laid eyes on ye.”

  “I wouldn’t call it bravery,” I say. “I was terrified.”

  Mackay slaps me on the back. “Son, courage is being scared half to death but doing the right thing anyway. The two of ye will winter here, of course, and leave fer Montreal as soon as the ice allows it to give his lairdship the message. It won’t be a holiday, though. There’s plenty o’ work I can find to keep ye busy, but tonight ye’ll have a hot meal and rest in a warm bed instead o’ sleeping underneath a canoe!”

  Chapter 42

  “’Tis a wee bit early fer a full brigade to travel east,” says Mackay as the watery March sun peeks through Fort William’s ice-frosted windows. It has been a long winter and Mackay has kept his word. We have been most busy doing chores around the fort.

  “However, the two of ye should be able to pick yer way to Montreal by now. There’s still snow on the ground, but ye’ll leave tomorrow anyway. McGillivray’s waited long enough fer this news.”

  With little ceremony save a crushing bear hug, we slip away from the wharf, heading east towards Lake Huron. In many places the rivers are still frozen and snow continues to fall well into April, but each day is warmer than the last, and we make good time. “La Grande Chaudière!” exclaims Lapointe more than a month after leaving Fort William, as a distant thunder rises on the early May wind. “We’ll be in Montreal in just a couple of days.”

  We quickly portage the waterfall, stop briefly to give thanks at Sainte Anne de Bellevue, and then continue almost immediately, excitement building with each paddle stroke. When a dour stone building comes into view on the banks of the river, I almost cry with joy.

  With Fraser’s report burning in my vest, there’s little time for visiting at Lachine, so we haul the canoe onto the shore and hurry down the wagon path to Montreal.

  Without bothering to knock, Lapointe throws open Henry Mackenzie’s office door. Mackenzie stands up from his desk, the same desk he’d been working at when I first saw him. “Luc Lapointe, this is a surprise! And who is this voyageur?” he adds, staring blankly at me. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “Sir, I’m Duncan Scott. Ye hired me, remember? Mr. McGillivray sent me west to New Caledonia.”

  Mackenzie slumps back into his chair, dumbfounded. “My goodness! You went out a boy and have come back a man!”

  “We’ve urgent news from Fraser,” says Lapointe. “Where can we find Mr. McGillivray?”

  “What news?” A deep voice asks from the doorway. “Tell me quickly: did you make it to the Pacific? Did you beat the Americans?”

  I hand over the confidential report and the letter from Fraser that I’ve carried since last summer. “Sir, we did reach the mouth of the river, but we didn’t find any Americans. The river isn’t the Columbia, ye see.”

  “Damnation!” McGillivray frowns. “That is bad news! But this new river?” he asks hopefully. “Do we have a new trade route to the Pacific?”

  “I’m afraid not. The river is far too wild fer commerce, and some of the people we encountered were less than hospitable. Read the report, Sir,” I say. “It sounds fantastic but I was there, and I can assure ye that every word in it is true.”

  Chapter 43

  “You’ve had quite the adventure, young man,” McGillivray says when I’m summoned to his office the following morning. “Simon seems to think you saved his life and, indeed, the very expedition. He calls you a hero for taking care of that traitor, La Malice.”

  I blush. “I wouldn’t say that, Sir.”

  “Well Fraser does, so I do as well. Simon also says you’ve some pressing business to attend to in England, but he doesn’t go into detail. What’s that all about?” McGillivray asks.

  “My sister, Sir,” I say with surprise. “We were separated in Liverpool. She didn’t make the ship. I want very much to go back and find her.”

  “Ah yes,” he replies. “She was mentioned on that poster as well, wasn’t she? I’m sorry I used your misfortune against you, young man, but I’m sure you can understand now the importance of the message. I needed someone I could trust to deliver it and that was you.”

  McGillivray reaches into a desk drawer and removes my wanted poster, now yellowing with age. He stands up, walks to the fireplace in the corner of the room and tosses the paper into the flames. I watch silently as it catches fire and is quickly consumed.

  “And now you need to go home. I understand completely. I would love for you to stay on with us, but you’ve certainly earned a break from the wilds. Go back to England with my blessing. No doubt it’s safe for you now, but would you mind doing one last job for me before you go? There’s another message I need delivered.”

  I shudder at the request. The last letter I carried for William McGillivray took two years of my life to deliver.

  “Anything, Mr. McGillivray. The Company’s been very guid to me,” I say, trying to keep my composure.

  McGillivray hands me a letter sealed with a red wax stamp. “Don’t worry,” he smiles. “You’re not going back to the Pacific. I need to send word to the Colonial Office in London. There’s more at stake in New Caledonia than just our business. The Empire has a vested interest in the territory, and the proper authorities will need to know about Fraser’s journey and our mistake about the Columbia. Can you do this?”

  “Aye!” I reply gladly. This is one letter I won’t mind at all delivering.

  McGillivray reaches into his desk drawer and withdraws a handful of silver coins. “There’s also the matter of your pay. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining the money you gave Henry for safe keeping before you headed west. I’ve also given you your wages — plus a little bonus for courage and exceptional service to the Company.”

  I can scarcely believe the small fortune on the desk belongs to me. “Thank ye, Sir,” I say gratefully. The money is certainly more than enough to get me home.

  McGillivray gives me an additional large gold coin and a folded piece of paper. “The paper identifies you as a North West Company messenger, named McTavish,” McGillivray says. “Just in case anyone is still looking for Duncan Scott. The gold is for your fare to England. Costs have gone up since you’ve been out west.”

  “Ye’re going to pay my passage to England?” The day is getting better and better.

  “You’re my envoy, lad!” smiles McGillivray. “Besides, with the war in Europe, passage on commercial ships has become almost impossible to find. What few berths there are would cost more than you have.”

  “What war?” I ask. “With who?”

  “The French of course,�
� he says. “Who else?”

  It’s a good point. England has been at war with the French since I was a small child. “So how am I to travel then?”

  “A cargo ship under contract with the Navy leaves for Liverpool tomorrow. I’ve made arrangements with her captain. Technically, you’re no longer a civilian. You are a representative of the Crown, travelling on a diplomatic mission. Be there at first light, the ship sails at dawn.”

  I’m overwhelmed at the news. “Thank ye, Sir, I promise I won’t let ye down.”

  “You told me that when I first hired you,” McGillivray says. “I believed it then, and I believe it now. Go to the Colonial Office in London. Tell them that you’re an emissary from Montreal and that you carry confidential news critical to the Empire. It’s to be given by you personally to the secretary of state for the colonies. No one else is to have it.”

  McGillivray shakes my hand warmly. “Good luck, Duncan Scott, and safe travelling. Should you ever return to Montreal there will always be a position waiting for you. After all — once a Nor’Wester always a Nor’Wester!”

  Chapter 44

  The Baltasara is bound for Liverpool, carrying white pine and oak for warship construction. Its captain studies me quizzically as I board, telling me that even with the letter of introduction from McGillivray, I seem far too young to be a diplomatic courier.

  “The trip will take the better part of two months through some of the roughest water on earth, lad. If the spring storms aren’t enough, Boney’s entire Atlantic fleet is out there waiting to sink us.”

  The wind freshens as he speaks, lines snapping sharply to attention in the breeze. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay in Montreal?” he asks. “Speak now: we’re leaving any moment, and once we clear the dock there’s no guarantee we’ll ever see home again.”