Dreams and Promises: Love, Loss and Redemption in a Land of Infinite Promise

by Anna Markland

  “I’ll wait for the winterers,” she replied.

  Olivier shrugged. “Will you take the baby to meet him when he comes?”

  It was a question she’d asked herself many times. “I have no choice. I can’t leave him alone.”

  “Your maman won’t take care of him?”

  “She’ll be busy collecting spruce roots for sewing new bark on damaged canoes.”

  A wave of heat swamped the confined space when he opened the oven. With the help of the long-handled paddle, he quickly removed the latest batch of loaves one by one. “Do you even remember what your voyageur looks like?” he asked.

  She feared her face must be as red as his. She remembered the pain of their coupling, the sweaty smell of Henri’s clothing, and the panic of suffocating when he collapsed on top of her. She well recalled the haste with which he fastened his pantaloons and left her alone in the dark forest behind the Native encampment.

  But she had to admit she couldn’t quite recall his face, though she had no intention of revealing that to anyone. “Of course.”

  Olivier deftly manoeuvred the paddle beneath the first of the loaves lined up ready for the oven. “It’s a long, hard journey from the west. First thing he’ll want is a bath and a shave. Or mayhap a physician if he’s fallen prey to a painful hernia. Most do, you know. Too much weight in the packs. Too many portages.”

  Olivier was a kindly man who was simply trying to prepare her for disappointment, but she had to cling to the hope Henri would recognise her and be happy he’d fathered a child.

  ~~*~~

  The excitement grew as canoe after canoe arrived, most of them from Montreal, along with a few from the west.

  The dock, idle for eight months of the year, became a scene of frenzied activity. Voyageurs unloaded trading goods and provisions, hivernants the furs they’d trapped or traded for during a winter spent in the west.

  Ian and the other clerks were responsible for tallying the cargo and making sure everything was conveyed to the appropriate building—the Dry Goods Store, the bakery, the hospital, the Provisions Store, and so on.

  The pelts were sent to the three fur warehouses to be sorted according to quality. There they were cleaned, then repacked. At the end of the rendezvous the ninety-pound packs would be loaded onto the canoes headed back to Montreal. From there, they’d be shipped to England to be fashioned into the highly-prized beaver top hats.

  Before returning to the west, the winterers would buy whatever supplies they needed from the trading post.

  Ian’s frock-coat and top hat made his labors unnecessarily taxing, but after the chilly spring spent auditing ledgers in the draughty Counting House, he relished the hubbub. Cultures met and mingled, some speaking French, others English, Cree, Ojibwa.

  As vital to the existence of the fort as the canoes, schooners arrived from Detroit with their cargo of flour, corn, pork, lumber and farm animals.

  Pandemonium seemed the order of the day, yet it was organised chaos. Ian and the other clerks dealt with it all efficiently and were rewarded each night with a hearty meal in the Great Hall, the centrepiece of the fort’s main square and the only painted building in the entire settlement.

  However, as he celebrated with his fellows, all he could think of was the disappointment etched deeply on Nindaanis’s lovely face when her babe’s father wasn’t among the most recent arrivals. He caught her eye once or twice and smiled sympathetically, but she simply blushed and hurried away. He longed to offer comfort, but what could he say?

  I hope he doesn’t come.

  On the first official day of the Rendezvous, Ian arrived at the dock filled with nervous apprehension. He was to be among the welcoming party assigned to greet Duncan and William McGillivray, senior partners of the North West Company. The legendary brothers had journeyed more than a thousand miles to preside over the Annual General Meeting. It would be the first time Ian had met his father’s cousins, though it was they who had secured his position and paid his passage to Canada.

  An Ojibwa canoe carrying tribal elders escorted the McGillivray party along the last stretch of the wide river.

  A team of native drummers sat cross-legged around a huge ceremonial drum, chanting a traditional welcome. The earthy beat thrummed through Ian’s body, reminding him of ceilidhs back home. Tapping his foot, he held on to his hat, his head bobbing in time with the rhythmic dance of smiling native men and women in colorful and elaborately beaded costumes. The men wore an array of magnificent eagle feathers atop their heads. He thought a feather would look jaunty tucked into the brim of his hat, but his superiors wouldn’t approve of that idea. Row upon row of delicately crafted tin cones sewn into the women’s outfits jingled merrily like bells.

  As the McGillivrays’ canoe came alongside the dock, a clerk proudly struck up The Piper’s Welcome on his bagpipes, a treasure brought from the Highlands.

  The dignitaries were assisted out of the canoe and exchanged greetings with various other partners who’d arrived before. They seemed stiff and unfriendly, but then they had traveled a great distance in less than ideal conditions. When his turn came to be introduced, Ian removed his top hat, tucked it under his arm, and stepped forward to greet his benefactors.

  William clapped a hand on his shoulder, apparently aware of who he was. “Our cousin’s son,” he explained to his brother. “Ian Donaldson.”

  Duncan eyed him, then seemed to remember. “Aye. Of course. Getting used to life here on the frontier?” he asked.

  Ian must have babbled some polite response as they shook hands, but as the McGillivrays walked on to smoke a pipe of peace with the tribal elders, his attention wandered. Further along the dock, Nindaanis watched a group of hivernants who had just arrived, a hopeful smile on her face, Gabriel in her arms. Jealousy stabbed him in the gut. The man whose return she’d longed for must be among the bearded wretches unloading the canot du nord.

  She nigh on twitched with nervous anticipation as she approached the group. Ian gritted his teeth. He hadn’t anticipated his rival would be a Guide, his status confirmed by the ostentatious long feather he wore in his beaver hat. Unlike the voyageurs and hivernants, guides were allowed to sleep within the palisades, some of them in Ian’s own Bell Bunkhouse. It partially explained how Nindaanis had come into contact with him in the first place, and perhaps why she’d trusted him.

  The man paused and bent his head to listen to her. He glanced briefly at Gabriel, then shrugged and walked away from the docks with his crew.

  Ian clenched his fists, filled with an urge to rush over and kiss away the desolation on Nindaanis’s face.

  ~~*~~

  Nindaanis kissed the top of Gabriel's head, heartbroken that he was probably destined to grow up without a father’s love. Henri’s tight-lipped response to meeting his son—he doesn’t look like me—had quickly crushed any faint hope that he would acknowledge the boy.

  For herself, she had to admit Henri wasn’t as handsome, nor as young as she recalled, though the stink of his body after the strenuous journey had transported her back to that fateful night in the woods.

  The knot in her stomach tightened. She’d been a fool to expect anything from him. Her moccasined feet itched to run to her mother’s summer teepee where she could weep in peace. However, she dared not tarry overlong away from the canteen. She was supposed to be handing out régales to the new arrivals. All hands were needed to make sure every man got his brandy, loaf and butter, but no more than his due.

  Sweat trickled down her spine by the time she arrived at the overcrowded canteen. Gabriel was crying, but his cradleboard was back in the native encampment. She’d foolishly expected Henri to carry him. The rank odor of too many sweaty men in a confined space swamped her senses. She struggled to make her way through the noisy throng, fearing her trembling legs might buckle.

  Suddenly, the child’s weight was lifted from her arms. Alarmed, she looked up at Ian Donaldson, and her heart careened around her rib cage.

  “Let
me take the bairn,” he said softly, cradling Gabriel. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

  His actions made her wary. The privileged clerks didn’t do favors for Métis women, unless they expected something in return. But all she saw in his green eyes was concern. He seemed unperturbed by the curious stares of several onlookers. Eyes fixed on his new bearer, Gabriel had stopped screaming, probably as confused as she was. She hoped the costly frock-coat would survive unsoiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Donaldson,” she murmured, left with no choice but to trust him.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with a broad smile, his deep voice sending tiny winged creatures aflutter in her belly. “And my name is Ian.”

  ~~*~~

  It wasn’t the first time Ian had held a babe, but they were normally yanked from his grasp by solicitous cousins as soon as they began to fret.

  It dawned on him as tears welled in Gabriel's brown eyes that caring for a bairn was an awesome undertaking. His admiration for Nindaanis grew, as did his anger towards the selfish man who’d taken advantage and left her alone to raise the lad.

  If he had a son…

  But if he pursued Nindaanis, Gabriel would become his responsibility. Could he love another man’s bairn?

  “What’s your opinion, Gabriel?” he whispered.

  When the tears turned to a toothless grin, Ian’s heart swelled. He had his answer.

  Worried the din was too loud, he walked outside. An Ojibwa woman he recognised as the boy’s grandmother was approaching the canteen. She eyed him curiously, then turned, motioning for him to put Gabriel in the cradleboard strapped to her back.

  He came close to refusing, feeling the babe was just getting used to him, but he didn’t wish to alienate Nindaanis’s mother by causing a scene. Her frown betrayed puzzlement at coming across her grandson in the arms of a white gentleman.

  Considering he was new to the task, Ian thought he did a creditable job of nestling Gabriel into the carrier. Once the boy was safely ensconced and gurgling contentedly, Ian decided to take a chance. He looked the woman in the eye. “I care for Nindaanis,” he said slowly, wishing he’d taken the time to learn more of her language.

  She simply stared at him, giving no indication that she’d understood. Perhaps she didn’t speak English, though most of the native women knew enough to get by. Then she wagged a finger. “Henri. Bad man.”

  Without further ado, she strode into the noisy canteen. He followed and watched her seek out her daughter. They exchanged a few words. Nindaanis glanced over at Ian, her pale skin flushed—but the heat and excitement might explain that.

  He smiled and nodded, hoping her mother had passed on his feelings.

  However, one thing yet stood in his way. When he caught sight of the long feathers of several hats bobbing about at the far end of the canteen, he resolved to settle the matter of Henri once and for all.

  ~~*~~

  When three Guides left the canteen with their régales Ian trailed after them. He didn’t speak much French, but it quickly became clear they were friends who hadn’t seen each other since the last Rendezvous. They were in good spirits, exchanging jests and tales of events on the journey. He’d gotten only a brief glimpse of Henri, but was fairly sure the wretch was one of the three. It was no surprise they made their way outside the palisades and headed for Boucher’s House, no doubt to buy liquor and tobacco, and to enjoy a good hot meal. Inside the fort they’d be served only the voyageurs’ usual diet of corn and grease until the evening when guides were allowed to eat in the Great Hall.

  He hesitated on the dusty path when they went inside. Clerks and gentlemen didn’t frequent Boucher’s, but he wouldn’t get a better chance to confront Henri, and the hivernant might decide one night to take advantage of Nindaanis’s vulnerability. That prospect had him clenching his jaw and gritting his teeth as he strode over the threshold.

  It took a moment for his eyes to get used to the dark interior after the bright sunlight, but it gradually became clear conversation had ceased and everyone was staring at him. “I need to speak with the hivernant guide Henri,” he declared with as much authority as he could muster.

  Two of the three frowning guides lumbered to their feet, one short and fat, the other the man he now recognised. “You, sir,” he said with a slight nod, grateful his hat didn’t slide off his sweating head.

  As expected, Henri followed him out. He braced his legs, clasped his hands behind his back, and said. “I’d like to know your intentions regarding Nindaanis.”

  Henri gaped at him, scratching his head. “Quoi?”

  Ian plucked up his courage and poked him in the chest. “Vous! Nindaanis.”

  Henri shrugged and looked back at the door of Boucher’s House.

  Exasperated, Ian meshed his fingers together and moved his arms in imitation of rocking a baby. “Vous! Papa! Baby.”

  Understanding flickered in Henri’s black eyes, but he frowned, probably wondering why a company clerk was concerned about his fathering a child. “I ’ave many children,” he replied, holding up a hand, then counting on his fingers. “Un, deux, trois, quatre…oui…quatre enfants. A l’Ouest. In the west.”

  Ian clenched his fists at his side lest he be tempted to punch the moron in the nose. “So you won’t marry Nindaanis?”

  Henri laughed. “Mariage? Non! J’ai une femme. I ’ave a wife. A Cree woman. She wouldn’t like it if I married another.” He puffed out his cheeks and patted his paunch. “Cinq…five, come soon.”

  Ian was torn. He’d an urge to jump up and down with glee, but honor demanded he knee the bastard in the bollocks. He inhaled deeply to moderate his contempt. “Merci, monsieur. That’s all I need to know.”

  Henri made a lewd gesture with his fist at his groin. “You want to fuck Nindaanis yourself, eh? Be patient until I go. Till then she is mine, and so is le petit.”

  With enormous effort, Ian kept his outrage in check. Involvement in a brawl would bring censure from the gentlemen partners on whose goodwill he was dependent. “Stay away from her,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Va au diable,” Henri spat over his shoulder as he walked back into Boucher’s.

  “Nay,” Ian muttered. “It’ll be you going to the devil if you touch her.”

  He walked away, plotting a means to avenge the callous abuse Henri had wrought on Nindaanis.

  ~~*~~

  Few people got any sleep during the Great Rendezvous. Everyone celebrated. For the local native folk the annual gathering provided an opportunity to earn money by preparing food, serving the gentlemen partners, and working in the canoe repair sheds. The voyageurs and hivernants made the most of what the relative civilization of the fort offered before embarking once more on long, hazardous journeys either to east or west. They were braggarts who loved to boast loudly of their exploits. They sang, danced, drank, and ate heartily.

  Violence was inevitable when rough men drank too much, and the doctor was kept busy tending broken bones and bruised heads.

  The previous summer Nindaanis had been enthralled by the music, the dancing, the excitement of the festivities, and failed to listen to her mother’s warnings about men and their male urges.

  She’d been flattered that an adventurer like Henri had paid attention to her.

  This year she intended to give the traders a wide berth. For the most part it would be easy. Only the guides were allowed inside the palisades, and though it was possible Henri might appear for the evening meal in the Great Hall, there would be enough servers besides herself that she could avoid him.

  The canteen seemed strangely empty once the paddlers had left with their régales. Nindaanis fidgeted with the end of her braid, nervous that she would have to detour to the native encampment by the river before reporting for her duties in the Great Hall. Her mother had taken care of Gabriel all afternoon, though she herself would be tired from preparing spruce roots. The isolated path to the encampment was where Henri had seduced her last year.

  To her
surprise, Ian Donaldson was waiting outside the canteen. He tipped his hat, a polite gesture no gentleman had afforded her before. “May I escort you to the hall?” he asked.

  She caught herself almost preening with delight at the expression of regard. She cautiously recalled Henri’s amorous advances, but sensed Ian’s concern for her was genuine. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to be too trusting. “I thank you, but I must check on Gabriel first. In the encampment.”

  “I’ll accompany you,” he replied.

  Her mouth fell open as she stared at him. Gentlemen rarely went outside the palisades, except to go to the docks, and certainly never ventured to the teepees on the banks of the Kaministiqua.

  He must have sensed her consternation. “I’m sure you’ll protect me should the need arise.”

  She frowned then realized from his cheeky grin that he was teasing. A peculiar warmth surged through her body, a sensual excitement she’d never felt before. “Of course.”

  She was taken aback when he proffered his arm. “Shall we?” he said.

  She could only nod and accept his offer, awed by his solid strength as she curled her hand around a muscular bicep.

  They drew many an eye as they walked out of the fort and took the path to the river. No doubt folk thought they were bound for a romantic tryst. Was it foolish to wish they were?

  As the trail wound its way through thick hawthorn bushes, young poplar and tangled brambles, she stopped abruptly when she smelled an all too familiar odor on the wind. Gooseflesh marched up her spine.

  Ian sensed her fear. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  There was no need to explain when Henri stepped out of the trees and blocked their way. “Viens ici,” he beckoned. “Come to me, little one. I want to see my son.”

  She had longed to hear the words, but the scowl on his face didn’t speak of love.

  “I had a feeling this would happen,” Ian said. “Stay behind me.”

  Heart fluttering, she obeyed.

  “Bugger off,” he shouted to Henri.