Boulard’s eyes followed the man and his wife as they walked upstream along the river. Dripping water, the big voyageur trotted after them when they disappeared around a sharp bend about a half-mile away. Peter, meanwhile, sat with the rest of the group staring upward at the sheer face of the hill they had to climb. It appeared to be impossible. For a moment even the mapmaker looked defeated, but his face changed quickly when Boulard reappeared, calling his name. ”David, there is a way. The man and his woman followed a trail made by animals.”
“A trail for animals, not men, to be sure,” Côté grumbled as they struggled up the zigzag path, sometimes pulling, sometimes carrying the canoe.
Boulard heard and replied with in an exaggerated tone of hurt, “Me, I am very happy I have the great intelligence to find this trail. Perhaps you would prefer to fly in the canoe over the water?”
As the two men bantered back and forth, Peter’s feelings of admiration came to the fore again. When Thompson agreed they would portage on that trail, Boulard had been the first to jump hip-deep into the river to push the heavy canoe along the shore while Côté had snatched the bow rope to pull. They had managed to get their craft upstream again to the beginning of the trail where each, including Peter, made two trips uphill and downhill until they crossed the land above the rocks, carrying bales and boxes of goods and the hindquarter of a horse, the last of their food.
The work was heavy, but no one stopped to rest. The man and woman who had disappeared might be blameless, but then again they could have hurried to tell their village of the big canoe and what it carried. If the village was large, the brigade could be hopelessly outnumbered.
CHAPTER 16
The mapmaker had no way of communicating with the few Indians they saw in the next two days, but from their gestures he thought there might be some falls and carrying places ahead. He was right, much to Peter’s relief, for it was beyond tiring to sit all day in the canoe and brush mosquitoes away from his face and off Dog’s nose. Surprisingly, she didn’t snap or growl when he did so, leaving Peter to believe the tiny bugs bothered her plenty, too.
Their canoe reached a series of low cascades studded by huge rocks that didn’t discourage the voyageurs at all.“Allez!” Charles shouted, and the canoe shot over the first drop to dip its bow into the white foam and back up again, darting and weaving between the rocks. Clutching Dog’s rope and drenched with spray, Peter laughed. He envied Charles and vowed that someday he, too, would steer through rapids.
More rapids appeared, but this time Thompson was watching for them. In spite of his men’s entreaties, the mapmaker ordered the voyageurs to pull for shore.
“Regard the small distance through which we must go,” Boulard coaxed. “It is better for these men than unloading, carrying, and loading again.”
With the cries of agreement from the rest of the paddlers, Thompson finally consented. “First, however, I’ll remove my instruments and goods.” He nodded to Peter. “I’m not an oarsman, nor are you. Get your goods and come ashore.” As an afterthought, he added, “And be sure not to leave behind the drawings you’ve made for me.”
Peter, too, had been doubtful about running the rapids ahead. Not only were there rocks, but a large island in the middle of the river narrowed it into two channels, each with huge trees leaning almost horizontally to the middle of the water.
It was one of the trees, not a rock, that caused the trouble.
With Dog at his heels Peter trailed after Thompson downstream, planting each foot carefully on the slippery rocks and crawling around the trees overhanging both water and shore. The men in the boat had to rearrange the cargo to redistribute the weight, thus Peter and Thompson had almost reached the shore at the end of the rapids where calm water flowed before the men pushed back into midstream. The rushing water was too noisy for Peter to hear the cries of the men until they were almost opposite him, but he saw that they seemed to be trying to turn the canoe. At the same moment Thompson dropped his box of instruments and pulled off his boots. Seconds later he was in the water, hanging on to the branches of a huge cedar stretched across the surface.
Peter stood transfixed, watching as the mapmaker released his grip on the tree and flung himself farther into the river, only to whirl helplessly in the cascade until his arms again struck the cedar. Thompson grasped a leafless branch and clung to it as what appeared to be a bundle of clothes floated almost out of his reach. The explorer lunged into the current once more and grabbed the coat on the body bobbing toward him, giving it a mighty tug and hauling it back to the tree. Shocked, Peter saw that the bundle was Pareil. Gasping and coughing, the two men worked their way along the trunk of the tree until they reached the shore. The canoe landed downstream a few yards, and Boulard raced up to help the two men to a warm spot on a large boulder.
While Boulard and the paddlers aided the two drenched men in stripping off their clothes, Peter left the rocks with Dog to search for twigs. He returned with a small pile to start a fire under a fat log of driftwood. “Good lad,” Thompson gasped as he struggled for breath. “We’ll camp here tonight, and by morning our trousers should be dry.”
Peter retreated to sit away from the men and savour the mapmaker’s unexpected praise. He felt uncommonly lighthearted, so much so that he had to put a hand over his mouth to hide his grin when he saw the stocky Thompson climb a hill in his long underwear and look west through his telescope.
Returning to the fire, Thompson stood with his hands outstretched to warm them and spoke the words Peter had been waiting for ever since they had started down the river. “I believe I can see Point Vancouver,” he said plainly, trying to conceal his excitement. “More than once I’ve read Captain Vancouver’s account of surveying the river this far. Tomorrow we may see the Pacific Ocean.”
Thompson was mistaken by one day. It took two days to reach Tongue Point and a view of the Pacific. The explorer seemed astonished when all the men voiced their disappointment.
“Me, I see Lake Winnipeg with waves much larger,” Vallade declared, and the rest agreed.
“Think of it, men,” Thompson said. “The country of Japan is opposite where we stand. It’s five thousand miles across that water.”
“For this we have come so far?” Pareil lamented. “I am sad.”
Thompson scowled and was about to speak when he observed the twinkle in Pareil’s eyes. “Wait until we reach the very end of this river,” he told the voyageur. “Your thoughts will change.”
They returned to the canoe, and after paddling about two miles, they spotted a cluster of four low cabins. On a short pole fluttered the American flag, with another banner below it displaying lettering they couldn’t read. Without expression Thompson said, “I believe that to be John Jacob Astor’s fur-trading post.”
Peter looked up quickly to see if Thompson was disappointed that the Americans had beaten them to the ocean, but his features showed nothing.
There were no tents, but a half-dozen men who appeared to be Indians were hauling wood, and two men emerged from one of the buildings to welcome their visitors. Peter started in surprise. He recognized the men — Duncan McDougall and David Stuart. They had been working in the office of the North West Company when he left Montreal with Boulard, and now they seemed to be employed by the Pacific Fur Company.
If Thompson bore any resentment for these men deserting his own company in favour of Astor’s, he kept it to himself. Instead he smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure for me and my companions to be here at last and to present you with this letter.”
It