Boulard and the explorer returned from their discussion with McCalfie, and the last bit of cargo was carefully placed in a canoe. The paddlers lifted their oars and began to sing. Peter was oddly comforted when he saw Fanny being held closely in the arms of plump Mrs. McCalfie. When the last canoe disappeared from sight, Boulard motioned for Peter to wait when he followed Thompson into the log building.
An elderly Cree woman stood near Charlotte holding an infant and shushing a toddler while Fanny’s mother stared at the river. These two children, Boulard had told Peter, were John and Emma, Thompson’s other offspring. Taking a deep breath, Peter approached the group. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’d be obliged if you’d accept this.” He held out the sketch he had made of Fanny.
Charlotte looked at him blankly, then peered at the drawing. With a gasp she snatched the paper and studied the face of her daughter. Glancing up at Peter, then back at the picture, she sobbed once and stepped forward to hug him.
Not knowing what to do, Peter put his arms around her awkwardly and let her cry. Over her shoulder he saw Thompson striding toward them, his face darkened by a scowl.
Peter released his hold on the explorer’s wife, but before he could explain his arm was grasped roughly and Thompson growled, “What is this? What …”
Smiling through her tears, Charlotte said, “David, look. Look at the gift this young man gave me.” As she spoke, she thrust the drawing in front of her husband’s eyes. “It’s a picture.”
“Picture?” Thompson barked. “A picture of what?”
“Of our Fan. Look.”
Releasing Peter, Thompson took the paper and stared at it for a long moment before he handed it to Boulard. “You have proved me wrong, my friend. This young man may be useful, after all. It would save me much time if he could draw the plants and animals in my journals, thus freeing me of the task of describing them in detail.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes twinkled when he added, “Perhaps it’s just as well that my wife will stay east of the mountains.”
“David, no!” Charlotte protested.
Her husband nodded. “It must be so. There will be little time to rest on this journey over the mountains. Also, you’re with child again. It will be better for you, Samuel, Emma, John, and the new baby to rest with your brother and mother at Whitemud House.”
When Thompson led his family into the trade room, Peter turned to Boulard and tried to thank him for his help. The voyageur’s eyes were troubled. “There is much I did not know, Peter. I thought to have you aid Monsieur Thompson in his making of maps in a warm cabin in the long days of winter, which will arrive soon enough. Today I learn he does not wish to wait for next spring to cross the mountains.”
Peter was silent and confused. Finally, he asked, “What does that mean, Boulard? Am I to return to Montreal now?”
Boulard shrugged. “If that is your wish. There will be other brigades with cargo to bring to the east in which I can arrange for you to travel. I have no fear the chief trader here will find work for you to do while you wait.”
Peter’s heartbeat quickened as he pondered his dilemma. He would be alone again — no friends, no family. If he continued with Boulard and Thompson, he wouldn’t be alone, but he would be far from Montreal when the name of the ship that had sunk and from whence it had come was discovered. Still, he shook his head and whispered, “I don’t want to go back.”
Boulard grinned hugely and clapped Peter on the shoulder. Taking a large red kerchief from his pocket, he dusted a corner of the wharf before seating himself, then motioned for Peter to sit beside him. “Before you are certain of your decision, you must be told of the dangers and hardships of the journey.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Vallade said the Peigans are Indians who live far to the west in the foothills of the great mountains and that they’re fierce warriors and collectors of horses.”
“That is true. It is my opinion that they often try to collect the horse even while one is seated on it.”
“Then there’s danger from the Peigans?”
Boulard shook his head. “Not so much all Peigans, though we are careful not to offend them. With Monsieur Thompson I once wintered with them. We are friends with the paramount chief, who is much respected by his people. It is not so with the war chief, who is now unhappy with us. He learns we take guns over the mountains, so their rivals the Kootenays can hunt and defend themselves.”
Hesitantly, Peter asked, “Will we see this war chief?”
Boulard shrugged. “Perhaps. We load up at Rocky Mountain House as always. We paddle fifty miles upriver to Howse Pass through the mountains where the North Saskatchewan River begins. Many Peigans trade with us at Rocky Mountain House, and they camp not far from this river. They know when traders go to the mountains, but until now they have not tried to stop us before we reach the pass. This has been true for three years. Praise God it will always be so.”
Peter’s throat was dry, and his voice squeaked as he said, “You told me I must be able to fire a musket, but I don’t think I ever have.”
“Yes, you must learn much. It will not be as I thought. You will not have many months to learn our ways. I do not agree with my friend David when he chooses to begin our journey as soon as we are prepared. It is possible we will cross the big mountains when they are covered with snow and ice.” He peered into Peter’s eyes. “You have not felt cold such as we will experience, nor venture on trails so formidable. I will see that you are dressed as we ourselves will be, but still you will find your hands and feet so cold they will be without feeling.”
Peter closed his eyes as a flash of memory shot into his head and he felt himself running down an icy path while his feet burned with the cold. The image disappeared quickly, but he kept his eyes shut, hoping more would appear. However, there was nothing. Biting his lip, he opened his eyes and darted a glance at Boulard.
“Do you recall something,mon ami?” the voyageur asked.
Peter stood and squared his shoulders. “No, but I’m not giving up on remembering how I got here. It won’t matter where I am when that happens. I feel grateful that you and Mr. Thompson are willing to take me with you.”
“Bien,” Boulard said, rising to his feet. “Now we will inform Monsieur Thompson and prepare for the long trip up these waters.”
CHAPTER 3
Boulard wasn’t joking about the long journey. It took weeks to reach Whitemud House. Most of the trip was without incident except for a violent storm as they passed along the shores of Lake Winnipeg. True to his word, Boulard pointed the nose of their canoe to the shore, and the rest of the boat brigade followed. They camped until noon the next day when the fury of the wind and rain lessened. A week later they were painfully peppered with hail when they portaged at the Narrows.
Although the days passed slowly, they were broken almost daily by encounters with huge fur-laden canoes travelling downstream to Grand Portage. At these times the vessels would turn toward shore and news would be exchanged by the voyageurs without leaving their boats. Thompson kept these intervals short, for it was plain to see he was impatient to reach Whitemud House.
Boulard was never too busy steering their craft around the rocks in the river to answer Peter’s questions about the ever-changing landscape and the wild creatures they saw. Huge flocks of geese rose in clouds when they were disturbed by the songs of the paddlers, and ducks flapped overhead as did high-flying cranes, identified only by their throaty cries. It was the long-legged antlered creatures that interested Peter most, for he was certain he had never seen them before. Once a half-dozen dog-like creatures darted from their drinking spot when the canoes appeared. Boulard called them prairie wolves.
About the time Peter began to yearn for the wretched straw