by Ann Birch
From the bedchamber next to hers came muffled thumps and cries. The strange exhilaration of the day had evidently affected Mr. and Mrs. McMurray as well.
Later she awoke to see that the light through the window had changed from black to soft grey. They would soon embark. Three days’ journey and more. And three nights of communal sleep in the confines of a small tent. How would it all work out? She smiled. Nothing that might befall her could lessen the glory of her epiphany.
THIRTY-THREE
Anna leaned over the side of the bateau and strained to catch a last glimpse of the white spray of the rapids and the black dots of the fishing canoes. But the voyageurs—Masta, Content, LeBlanc and Fanchon—took to their oars with gusto, and soon they were into the main channel of the river, heading south east. The McMurrays seemed tired, and the two pretty Indian nieces had little to say.
In mid-afternoon they stopped for dinner near St. Joseph’s Island, where they climbed up to a rocky ledge overlooking the channel. Masta took the sail from the bateau, and Mr. and Mrs. McMurray threw it over some bushes to form an awning. No scrabbling for firewood this time. The crew did the work necessary to get the fire up and going. Then Masta fried some pork, and Fanchon made a galette, “a flat cake made of flour and water and dirt from the cook’s hands and fried in grease,” as Mr. McMurray described it.
They stayed close to the campfire to avoid the mosquitoes, and as they ate these delicacies topped off with some fresh-picked wortle-berries, Anna said, “It’s like an outdoor café in—”
“Why not just enjoy it all without the comparisons?” Mr. McMurray said.
“Actually, dear sir, I meant to say better than dining out in Vienna. No obsequious waiters. No stink of horse manure.”
After dinner, they got back into the bateau. A stiff wind enabled the voyageurs to put up their sail, and the boat moved with ease along the north shore of St. Joseph’s Island. At dusk they came to another rocky island where they pitched their little tent and had tea. The sunset was glorious, and the stars and the fireflies came out together. But the mosquitoes swarmed too.
“Into the tent,” Mr. McMurray said, grabbing a cedar bough, “and let the slaughter begin.” The passengers obeyed readily. Mrs. McMurray closed the curtain of the marquee, and her husband smacked the buzzing devils into silence with the bough. Then he shed his jacket and waistcoat while the women made do with some unbuttonings of bodices and loosening of stays, and they all lay down.
Anna positioned herself to the right of Mrs. McMurray. Her husband placed himself on the left side of his wife, and the two Indian girls lay crosswise at their feet. Notwithstanding the closeness of bodies about her, Anna found that the mats and blankets spread on the floor of the tent formed a comfortable communal bed.
She lay awake for a long time, thinking back on her descent of the falls and forward to her meeting with Sam. No such excitement seemed to disturb her friends, whose chorus of snores and deep breathing punctuated the stillness of the night. Just before dawn, there was a tremendous clap of thunder, then lightning blazed through the sides of the tent, and torrents of rain pounded down.
Beside her, Mrs. McMurray stirred and said softly, “You are awake, Mrs. Jameson? Don’t worry. These summer storms are over soon, and the men had the foresight to throw an oilcloth over the tent. We shall be safe and dry.”
The sun shone brightly the next morning, though the lake was still swelling and heaving from the recent storm. The bateau rode the waves into a bay, where they stopped for breakfast on a grassy little lawn surrounded by high trees. “Watch out for rattlesnakes,” Mr. McMurray warned as the passengers and crew dispersed for morning ablutions.
Anna took her small bag of necessaries with her as she walked along the lakeshore. She gripped her stiletto in her right hand. If she met a snake, she would deal with it in summary fashion. As for the mosquitoes, no battles were necessary. They had disappeared, dispersed by the early morning storm. Two hundred yards or so along the water, she came to a small creek running into the bushes, and there, feeling perfectly secure, she took off her clothes, washed, brushed her teeth, and arranged her hair.
She placed Ottilie’s vasa da notte on a fallen log, but when the time came to use it, she decided just to squat in the fragrant green junipers nearby.
Back at the breakfast fire, she took several minutes to make a rapid sketch of the scene before her. The voyageur Content was washing plates; LeBlanc and Masta were cooking fresh-caught fish; and the Indian girls had just spread a tablecloth on the grass. Under a tree sat Mrs. McMurray, the very image of the Madonna in “Repose in Egypt”. Nearby, Mr. McMurray had wedged his shaving glass between two branches of a pine tree, and was in the process of scraping off the stubble on his chin while he sang an air from Le Nozze di Figaro in a loud, slightly off-key baritone.
“I have never before seen such a strange combination of the graceful, the wild and the comic,” Anna said to Mrs. McMurray as she drew close to the campfire.
“I suppose you include my husband’s singing with the comic. But when I hear him happy in this way, I’m happy too, even though my ears are assaulted.”
“My friend, I hope you intend no rebuke, because I intended no slight. I am envious of you and your husband.”
They set off again after breakfast, and as the channel widened, the wind moaned, and the waves rose higher. Anna began to be sorry she had eaten so much for breakfast. She was not alone, evidently, in her uneasiness. As they crossed a wide, open expanse of about twenty miles, all her fellow passengers became gradually silent. Then, their faces pale and contorted, they vomited their breakfast over the side of the boat. Only the voyageurs remained well. They increased the volume of their singing, so that the retching of their passengers could not be heard over the splashing of the waves.
“Rattlesnake Islands coming up soon,” Mr. McMurray said as he clutched his stomach. “We’ll be protected there from the swell of the main lake, and things will be better. Hang on, mateys,” he added, trying to smile.
He was right. The roiling waves subsided, and they were able to land on a mass of rock, where the crew lighted a fire under the pines and sycamores. “We must eat something,” Mrs. McMurray said, “or we’ll feel worse in the long run.”
So her husband heated port wine and water, into which he broke some biscuits, and they all drank it from the same slop basin. But it had its effect, and soon Anna and the others felt better. Before embarking again, they took what Mr. McMurray called a “bush break”. This time Anna did not bother looking for her vasa da notte. It seemed easier just to find a quiet corner and do the necessary without fuss.
The afternoon voyage was better, with a fresh, fair wind and no huge waves. At dusk, they beached the boat at a small Indian settlement. Anna felt well enough to take out her notebook. “By evening,” she wrote, “we entered the Missasagua River”—she would check the spelling later—“which means ‘river with two mouths’. Here we found a small tribe of Indians belonging to the Chippewa nation. Most of them had gone down to the Manitoulin Island for the gift-giving, but some poor wretches remained inside three or four filthy bark wigwams. The settlement is in the service of a fur company, and it is not surprising to encounter—”
“Drunkenness, poverty, degradation.” She turned to find Mr. McMurray looking over her shoulder. “That will complete your sentence, Mrs. Jameson. It’s what I have waged war against in my mission at the Sault. But when I come to villages like this one, I feel that the battle is hopeless.”
Nevertheless, the inhabitants were friendly and invited them to take their night’s lodging with them, but the wigwams were so abominably dirty that they all preferred the shore. When they pitched the marquee, Anna stood for some time watching the antics of a little Indian boy in a canoe about eight feet in length. The craft seemed alive beneath him, as he shot backwards and forwards, made circles and whirled himself round and round in pirouettes. “What fun,” she said to Mrs. McMurray. “He’s like one of the boys I was go
verness to long ago. He used to play just as many tricks with his pony.”
Given the surroundings, it seemed almost inevitable that their dinner that night was doomed. The voyageurs had prepared a large piece of fresh whitefish (“sturgeon, ma’am,” one of the Indian girls said, correcting her) and suspended it over the fire by a cord affixed to three sticks. As the smell wafted into Anna’s nostrils, making her realize that her earlier malaise was over, there was a shout from Content and Fanchon. One of the mangy curs from the Indian encampment pounced into the flames, grabbed the piece of fish, and ran off into the forest. “I hope its toes are well cooked,” Fanchon said in his French dialect.
In addition to the meal manqué, the mosquitoes had by this time descended in great buzzing clouds, so they retreated to their tent, chased the winged incumbents out with boughs, closed the curtain, and passed around the dry biscuits that Mr. McMurray rummaged from his satchel. They also shared a small bottle of port wine left over from lunch, passing the bottle from mouth to mouth. “It’s rather like the celebration of the Eucharist,” Anna said, “without the prayers.”
“I’ll spare you those,” Mr. McMurray assured her.
Their third day of travel presented no difficulties, only an endlessly beautiful passage through countless islands of all shapes and sizes. They made eighteen miles before stopping at one of these islands for breakfast, and as Anna sat on a rock to eat some fresh-caught fish, Fanchon came towards her carrying a vase of pretty wildflowers.
“Pour vous, madame,” he said, setting the container of bergamot and daisies next to her on the rock.
“Merci, Fanchon. How lovely.” Then she took another look. “And where did you get this beautiful vase, my lad?”
He giggled. “I found it near the lake the morning after the storm. Perhaps you know who it belongs to, madame?”
Anna blushed, than laughed. “It’s yours to keep, Fanchon. Make good use of it.” Then she looked at the McMurrays, who were smiling.
At five o’clock they saw in the east the high ridge called the mountains of La Cloche. “Just a fast bush break at La Cloche, then we take off again,” Mr. McMurray said. “I have no intention of lingering.”
“Why not?” Anna asked, seeing a large log house come into view, surrounded by sundry small dwellings.
“It’s a fur traders’ post. Bigotry is rampant here. I want nothing to do with them.”
They landed a good distance away from the settlement. Nevertheless, when Anna emerged from the forest, she saw a man talking to Mr. McMurray.
“Do stop a while and visit us, sir,” she heard him say as she came close. “Have your meal with us and spend the night in comfort. Your half-breeds,” he gestured at the four voyageurs, “can hobnob with their like down in one of the huts on the shore. And the squaws,” here he pointed to the Indian girls, “no doubt will find one or two of the men in the factory keen to give them a night’s pleasure.” The man turned to Anna. “And this is your wife, sir?”
“My friend. Here is my wife.” And he gestured towards Mrs. McMurray, who had just come from her part of the bush.
There was a long pause, during which the trader appeared to be absorbing the fact of Mrs. McMurray’s Indian heritage. “Good day, ma’am,” he said finally.
“We cannot stay longer, I thank you.” Mr. McMurray nodded at the man. “We must press on while the crew is willing. There is so much daylight yet, and time is valuable. As for my nieces, they will not be taking a night’s pleasure—do I have the correct phrase?— with anyone here.”
“Apologies, sir, profoundest apologies. I fear I have given offence.”
Mr. McMurray gave a perfunctory glance at his pocket watch. “We must be off.”
The fur trader bowed and headed in the direction of the log house. Anna’s entourage got into the bateau. But Masta had evidently met someone he knew and was deep in conversation on the shoreline. “We’ll wait,” Mrs. McMurray said. “I know how pleasant it is to meet a friend in this remote wilderness.”
So they waited, and eventually Masta said goodbye to his friend and resumed his place at the oars. As they were about to push off, the trader rushed towards them. In his hands he held a large packet covered with newsprint. “Broiled fish,” he said, “and cornmeal bread. And two bottles of wine. Take them with my good wishes.” He thrust the lot into Mr. McMurray’s arms, bowed and ran back up the shore.
In a few minutes they had pushed off in the bateau. Out in the bay, the voyageurs shipped their oars, and passengers and crew alike ate the viands with their fingers, passing them up and down the length of the craft until every bit of fish and every crumb of bread had disappeared.
“All this should stick in my craw,” Anna’s host said, “but it doesn’t. I relish it, knowing that for once a fur trader made an apology for his rudeness and tried to atone for it.”
Just after sunset, they reached an island which sloped up from the shore in successive ledges of rock, fringed with trees and bushes and a species of grey lichen, nearly a foot deep. While the voyageurs made their campfire and put up an awning, and the McMurrays pitched the tent, Anna gathered a quantity of lichen and spread it under the mats to make a comfortable pillow on the rocky surface. Then, utterly conquered by fatigue, she slept in peace.
Daylight had just crept up the sky when they set out again to the southeast on the last leg of their journey. In a very few minutes, they saw the dim outline of Manitoulin Island. As they rowed in its direction, they could just discern a huge black hull, with masts and spars rising against the sky. It proved to be a great heavy-built schooner in progress up the lake against wind and current. They soon overtook it and saw a man in the bow waving an immense oar at them.
“What news?” Mr. McMurray called.
“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!” came the answer from the bow.
“Is the Governor at Manitoulin, or did he have to leave?”
“Gone back to Toronto for memorial services!”
“And the gift-giving ceremonies?”
“Today! The chief officer of the Indian Department is in charge!”
So, very soon, she would see Sam again. And without the surveillance of the Governor. That would be pleasant. As for the new Queen—Anna strove to recall what she knew about her. Only eighteen years of age! Her father had painted a miniature of her two years before, and she remembered wide-set eyes, an underslung chin, and a lace handerchief clutched in a small hand.
“Do you think this queen will care about our land?” Mrs. McMurray asked her.
“I believe that her youth and gender are absolutely in our favour. If she has a true heart, the quick perceptions and kind instincts of a woman, and a fine moral sense, she will do better for our world than the officials who run it now.”
“Like Sir Francis Bond Head and others of his ilk,” Mr. McMurray said with a downturned lip.
The bateau had at that moment entered a little bay within a bay. Here the water was perfectly calm. The shores sloped upwards from the margin of the lake, like an ampitheatre, and here the Indians had set up their wigwams amid the trees. Smoke from bonfires curled into the air. Beyond the dwellings, a tall pine forest crowned the settlement. Some hundred or more canoes darted about on the water or glided along the shore, and a beautiful schooner lay against the green bank, its white sails half furled, and half gracefully drooping.
The voyageurs pulled the boat up upon the shore. Anna stepped out.
“Bojou, Wah, sah, ge, wah, no, qua,” came the cry from the Indians who had watched the landing. A crowd of them swarmed down to the water’s edge. She saw Camudwa emerge from his wigwam to join the group.
“Bojou,” she replied as she clasped the hands of her greeters and found herself in the warm embrace of Camudwa’s arms.
“And I too shall say ‘Good morning, Mrs. Jameson.’” It was Sam, emerging from behind the tall warriors. “Or should I call you Lady of the Bright Foam? Your fame has preceded you.”
Anna looked over her should
er. The McMurrays and the girls were a few paces behind. “I would love to hear you call me ‘Anna’,” she said in a low voice.
Sam smiled and moved forward to greet the rest of her party. “Welcome to Manitoulin, which my Indian friends tell me means ‘dwelling of the spirits’. I hope you will be happy here and find kindred spirits among us. We have a busy schedule planned. Please, all of you, join in the fun and come to the ceremonies afterwards.” He turned back to Anna. “I have waited for this day,” he said quietly.
“I, too. Here I am in Paradise.”
THIRTY-FOUR
As Sam greeted Anna and the McMurrays, he noticed that the lady’s blue eyes were as bright as ever, but two or three red blotches had appeared on the beautiful white complexion.
“I see you have met our winged scourge.”
“I have come to accept the mosquito as part of the Canadian experience. In fact I have devoted an entire page of my journal to a description of its proboscis—”
“Its what?”
“Proboscis. Like an awl, I say, and it bores into your veins and pumps the life-blood out of you. But I am fortunate to be still alive to enjoy this island and my time with you.”
“We can put you up in the government log house at the top of the hill,” Sam said to the McMurrays, “but it will take a while to make things ready. Perhaps you would like to pitch your tent here in the meantime? And while you are doing that, I shall take Mrs. Jameson to look at the wigwams and meet some of the folk here. We’ll have breakfast on the way.”
Sam offered his arm to Anna, and they set off for the encampment. They had gone three or four paces when Jacob Snake opened the flap of his tent and hailed them.
“Join us, Jacob,” Sam said. “No doubt Mrs. Jameson is hungry, and you can persuade one of your friends to let us have some porridge.”
So the three of them walked up the hill among the wigwams, stopping from time to time at the campfires, where the Indians filled wooden spoons with their porridge and passed it to their visitors.
