Where the River Takes Me

by Julie Lawson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Fort Edmonton, Saskatchewan District

  August 1849

  September 1849

  October 1849

  November 1849

  December 1849

  June 1850

  July 1850

  August 1850

  September 1850

  October 1850

  November 1850

  December 1850

  January 1851

  February 1851

  March 1851

  April 1851

  May 1851

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Fort Edmonton,

  Saskatchewan District

  August 1849

  Friday, August 31st, 1849

  I begin with an Adventure!

  This morning Suzanne and I walked out to the lake where her cousins were fishing, and made off with their ponies!

  Oh, mon dieu, already I am guilty of Exaggeration, for we did not take the ponies, but did sneak up on them with great stealth and daring to see if we could touch them without the boys noticing — and we succeeded! If we were not forbidden to ride the ponies, we could have ridden them anywhere! (And if we knew how.)

  The boys were so engaged in their fishing we then succeeded in sneaking up on them — but ran off before their embarrassment at having been caught unawares turned to anger.

  Off we ran to untie our imaginary ponies. Then we galloped like mischief across the wide-open prairie, our hair flying in the wind and our voices bursting forth with wild whoops of victory!

  And now I am thinking, if only we had broken the rule and taken the boys’ ponies, even to sit on one for a moment, for I may never have another chance — because Aunt Grace is getting married and we are moving to another Fort!

  Mon dieu, what an extraordinary day. An Adventure (of sorts) followed by two surprising announcements.

  I have been waiting for such a day, when something happens beyond the usual chores, activities and pastimes, the comings and goings of buffalo, Indians, brigades, missionaries and visitors — and now that the day has finally arrived, I have started my brand new Journal. Except mine will be different from the Official Post Journal that is sent to London each year, because instead of writing the Daily Accounts of weather, crops, livestock, provisions, etc., I’m going to write about Adventures.

  It’s hard to believe that it is almost a year since I found this Journal, when I was sorting through Father’s things. At the time I was too shaken by his death to even think of writing, and I should have given it to Aunt Grace, what with paper being so scarce, but the Journal seemed to cry out, “I’ve been put aside for you, Jenna.” Father knew I loved to write, and I think he would have been pleased that the opening pages mark not a sad ending but a new beginning.

  Aunt Grace would not approve of my keeping it without asking her permission. In her view it would be akin to stealing — a Misdemeanor of the Gravest Sort — but as she is presently out walking with her husband-to-be, it is safe for me to write without fear of being discovered. I do not want her to mark another Misdemeanor against my name — though perhaps she will clear the slate in celebration of her marriage.

  I am wandering off the track (another Misdemeanor), so back to the day’s events.

  Suzanne and I returned to the Fort in time for Dinner, and spent most of the afternoon in the Home Guard camp helping Nokum and the other women make pemmican. I love being there, close to Nokum, listening to all the gossip and stories. Sometimes the women lower their voices to keep the girls from hearing, but it only makes us listen harder!

  Aunt Grace is fortunate that she’s able to teach to earn her keep, for she would hate making pemmican. She claims that the slightest whiff of melted fat and dried buffalo meat makes her nauseous. It makes me hungry!

  When I returned to our quarters to wash for Supper, Aunt took me by the shoulders, her eyes sparkling — yes, sparkling — and said, “Jenna, I am going to marry Mr. Kennedy!”

  “Mr. Kennedy the blacksmith?” I was astounded. My uppity aunt, marrying a tradesman? Why would she settle for less than a high-ranking officer?

  “The very one!” she says.

  “When?”

  “In five days!” she says.

  “Five days?”

  “Aye, Jenna!” By then her brogue was getting stronger, a sure sign she was in a state of high excitement. I teased her about it, the way Father used to do, and she laughed and said that if “dear Robbie” had heard the news, his brogue would have been impossible to understand.

  True enough! I can imagine him saying, “Nae, Lassie, it canna be! Your aunt’s finally found a husband to her liking?”

  I remember the times he’d introduce her to a suitable bachelor, but there was always some fault. Too vulgar! Too homely! Too fond of drink! And Father would laugh and say, “She’ll only have an Orkney-man like her brother — handsome, hard-working, thrifty and usually sober.”

  Now she has her Orkneyman, and does not seem to mind that he is stout and bowlegged. Poor Mr. Kennedy. Does he know about her List of Misdemeanors? Perhaps she will make one for husbands!

  Aunt Grace’s second big announcement is that we are moving.

  “Moving?”

  “Aye, lass,” she says, and tells me to close my gap before the flies move in.

  Well, it turns out that Mr. Kennedy has been posted to Fort Colvile. Aunt says it’s a good ways away, and our journey will require many weeks of travel. I am certain that each day will bring an Adventure, fit to be recorded in my Journal.

  And now I must close, for night has fallen and there is movement afoot in the corridor.

  September 1849

  Saturday, September 1st

  This morning — even before the clanging of the wake-up bell — I went with Nokum to pick the last of the saskatoon berries.

  As we were starting out she said, “This is the last time I walk out on the prairie.”

  “You say that every time,” I teased. But almost at once my laughter gave way to sadness, for I was thinking, How can I leave my grandmother?

  We found a few patches of late berries and began to fill our bags. Nokum was quiet, but I chattered away about everything — ponies, buffalo, berries, Aunt’s wedding — anything to avoid telling her about the move to Fort Colvile, for fear I would cry.

  My bag was almost full when Nokum told me how much I reminded her of my mother. She too was a “little squirrel,” never restful, always in a hurry, always talking — the only time she was silent was when she was eating or thinking or sleeping — and sometimes, not even then. It made me think that Nokum was not talking about my mother, but telling me, in a roundabout way, to give her some peace.

  On the way back, she drew a pair of moccasins from her pouch and handed them to me, saying that my mother had made them when she was my age. She had embroidered them too, not with glass beads from the Trade Store but with porcupine quills she had dyed herself. “She had to concentrate,” Nokum said, and added with a chuckle, “It was a quiet time.”

  I hugged the moccasins and could no longer hold back the tears. Nokum told me that she knew I was going away — I should have suspected as much, from her quiet manner — and, as she was wiping the tears from my cheeks, she made me promise not to worry. (A promise I will not be able to keep.) She assured me she was content in the Home Guard camp, living with her sister and her family and having so many o
ther relatives and friends close by. And though her “twitchy joints and achy old bones” had long ago told her she could no longer follow the buffalo with the rest of her family, she could still go out on the prairie. “But not after today,” she said. “Too bad it was the last time.”

  She said it to make me smile and I did, but only on the outside.

  I didn’t ask how she knew about our move. Likely she’d heard wind of it, for nothing that goes on in the Fort stays secret for long. Aunt’s face at Supper last night was proof enough that something was afoot. And she scolds me for showing my feelings too openly.

  Sunday, September 2nd

  I have been thinking of Nokum and how much I will miss her. When she came to live with the Home Guard Cree after Mother died I was only three and, since then, I have been closer to her than to anyone. Thank Heaven Father did not mind my spending so much time with her — as long as I obeyed Aunt Grace in all other matters. But before she got here, oh, those wonderful years — being cared for by Suzanne’s maman and treated as one of the family, visiting Nokum and, when Father was home, having him all to myself. No wonder I did not take to Aunt Grace!

  If she had had her way, Father would have been like most of the other officers — Lizzie’s father, for instance. Poor Lizzie cannot take a single step outside the stockade. If Father had been like that, I may never have known my grandmother or her relatives, or Suzanne’s aunt and cousins — at least the ones who are with the Home Guard and not following the buffalo.

  Nokum says she came back because of her aching bones, but I think it was because of me. That will make it even harder for me to go away.

  Tuesday, September 4th

  I was walking to the dining hall with Aunt Grace and she was talking about Mr. Kennedy’s many virtues — his good-natured and easy manner, his kindness, his ability to make her laugh and his likeness to my father. “Not in looks,” she says, “but in personality.”

  She then surprised me by saying something personal. She said she would have preferred a husband of some rank within the Company — a Clerk or a Chief Trader like Father — but “Fate would have it otherwise.” And though a blacksmith is not an officer and cannot be considered a gentleman, Mr. Kennedy is a skilled tradesman and his rank is above that of a common worker, or what the Company calls a servant or engagé — and she hopes I am not disappointed, or feel that Father would have disapproved.

  I assured her that that was not the case, that even if Father had cared, he would still have been happy for her. (Tho’ given the number of officers he introduced to Aunt Grace over the years, he may well have been disappointed.) As for me — tête de cheval — it is the last thing I care about!

  Aunt Grace must have felt relieved to express her feelings, having no women friends to confide in, because later on she brought up the subject again. She said that in all likelihood, my father would have disapproved, but had he lived, she may not have been drawn to Mr. Kennedy in the first place. “He’s the only one who can make me laugh the way Robbie did,” she said.

  I was honoured that she had confided in me, but glad that she did not go on any longer, for what do I know about such things? Except that she’s right about Father. He could have made a porcupine laugh.

  Wednesday, September 5th

  The Wedding Day!

  Aunt Grace is now Mrs. Kennedy, and Mr. Kennedy (who I am to call Uncle Rory) has moved into our quarters.

  Mr. Rowand married them since there isn’t a Protestant missionary now that Rev. Rundle has gone back to England, only Father Thibault at the Catholic mission, and Aunt was in no mind to wait for a minister of her liking. They signed a contract promising to have the marriage performed by a clergyman at the first available opportunity, so maybe we’ll have another wedding at Fort Colvile.

  Mr. Kennedy — I mean Uncle Rory — must have been relieved that the ceremony was short and to the point. He was nervous enough! He can shoe a cantankerous horse with his eyes closed, but when it came to the ring (a simple gold band from the Company Store), and putting it on Aunt’s finger, he could scarcely hold his hand steady.

  Once the ring was in place, the hall was cleared for dancing. The fiddler played jigs and reels and everyone had a grand time (and a dram of rum, thanks to Uncle Rory), but no one looked as happy as my radiant aunt.

  Mon dieu! I cannot believe I described Aunt Grace as radiant.

  Friday, September 7th

  Evening

  Have just returned from a walk with Suzanne. We talked about my move to Fort Colvile — a six-week journey from here — and I told her what Uncle Rory told Aunt Grace and me, that Fort Colvile used to be in the Columbia District, but the border got settled between the United States and British Territory and now Fort Colvile is in the United States.

  Suzanne pouted and said, “I don’t care where it is, it’s still too far away.”

  I wish she were coming so we could share the Adventure, and she said the same. I made her promise to write with news of the Fort and especially of Nokum, but she hates reading and writing, even in French, and as for English! Aunt Grace tried to teach her (and so did I) but mon dieu, it was hopeless. So I reminded her that since the mail does not go out very often, her promise would not be very hard to keep. And if she really had trouble, she could ask Lizzie to help her.

  In return, she made me promise to write short letters en français with simple words so that reading them would not be a chore, either for her or for Lizzie, since Lizzie would end up helping no matter what.

  We talked about Aunt Grace’s lessons, and how she used to scold Suzanne, saying that teaching her was worse than skinning a buffalo. (Not that she would ever dream of doing such a thing.) We had a good laugh about that. To be fair, it was good of Aunt to teach Suzanne on occasion. She did so for my sake, I think, since her lessons were only for the officers’ children.

  Suzanne is lucky. She has so many friends and cousins, plus eight brothers and sisters, I don’t think she’ll miss me as much as I will miss her. Who will I have for a friend at Fort Colvile? No one like Suzanne. We are as close as twins, being only five weeks apart.

  I am less thrilled about the move than I was at first, torn between feelings of excitement and dread.

  Saturday, September 8th

  It is but three days since Uncle Rory has moved out of the men’s bunkhouse and into our quarters. He is such a big, hearty, boisterous fellow, he engulfs our small room. His laughter shakes the walls, and as for his snoring! It is akin to the snorting of buffalo!

  I do not complain, however, for he is kind and good-natured and the nights are not long. During the day he works at the smithy and takes his meals with the men, the same as always, and spends the evenings strolling on the prairie with his radiant bride.

  Will I be radiant on my wedding day? Will I be as fussy as Aunt Grace in my choice of husband? Perhaps, if he is homely or bowlegged, but I would not mind a dashing canadien like one of Suzanne’s brothers, provided he takes me on his Adventures.

  Tuesday, September 11th

  Suzanne and I walked out on the prairie today — a little farther than usual, since it will be my last time. We are leaving with a small party on Saturday.

  We saw a herd of buffalo in the distance — the dust from their hooves rising above the plain — and we lay down on the grass and imagined we could feel the earth shaking, the way we could when we were little, when the herds were hundreds of times bigger. Right then it hit me, that it has been almost a year since Father died, a week’s journey from home. I mentioned this to Suzanne, and she told me how angry she’d been with her papa that day, the way he’d rushed back to the Fort ahead of the brigade and pushed right past her to speak to me. And how dreadful she’d felt afterwards, when she learned that he’d come to tell me about Father’s accident.

  How clearly I remember that day. The moment Papa Jacques told me the news, I felt as though I’d fallen through a crack in the ice — one minute the ice was solid, and I was looking forward to Father’s return.
The next minute, the ice had given way and I was drowning. Aunt Grace told me that “time would heal my wounds.” I did not believe her, but she was right — at least the hurt is a little less sharp than before.

  “Your papa was brave,” Suzanne said, and it’s true. Brave and adventurous, to shoot and wound a buffalo and follow it as it dragged itself into the bush. The men who saw what happened said it was something they’d all done from time to time. No one expected the buffalo to suddenly rear up and charge Father’s horse, causing him to fall and be trampled. But I bear no grudge against the buffalo.

  On the way back, Suzanne said, “Are there buffalo in Fort Colvile?”

  “No,” I said. “Uncle Rory says it’s on the other side of the mountains.”

  The thought of no buffalo makes me sad.

  Wednesday, September 12th

  Aunt has written a packing list and has been after me to do the same, but I have already packed. Most of my clothing is in Aunt’s trunk and the rest of my belongings are stowed inside Father’s old carrying case, except for my Journal and writing tools. I’ll put them inside his little cassette at the last minute, so they’ll be at the top and easy to get at.

  I have a different sort of list.

  What I will Miss on Leaving Fort Edmonton and the Saskatchewan District:

  Nokum

  Suzanne (and her sisters and cousins)

  Maman Thérèse and Papa Jacques

  Suzanne’s brothers (especially Emile and François)

  Buffalo herds, large or small

  Smell of pine gum and wood chips in the boat-building yard

  Mr. Rowand (when he’s in a happy mood)

  Mr. Rowand’s horse races

  Spring break-up when the ice goes floating down the river and the brigades leave for York Factory, and the return of the brigades in the Fall when they’re loaded with new provisions and mail (tho’ Fort Colvile will have brigades too)

  Snowshoeing with Nokum to help her set traps

  Sleigh-riding