The Broken Blade Read online

  Finally he said, “I can paddle hard. I really can. My father, Charles La Page, has worked for the North West since he was twelve.”

  “That’s all well and good,” McKay replied without looking up, “but it’s steersmen we need, lad. We’ve middlemen enough to paddle us clear to China.”

  Pierre thought of little Claire and the hard winter his family would face without Father’s wages. He had to think of something. But before he could speak again, a voice spoke up. “Pardon me, Mr. McKay.” A thin, light-skinned man with gray eyes strolled up to Pierre. “Did you say you were Charles La Page’s son?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Stepping closer to Pierre, the man stopped and stared. Suddenly he made a fist and touched it to the tip of Pierre’s chin. His rock-hard knuckles tilted Pierre’s head back.

  The fellow grinned and clapped Pierre on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “That blond hair could’ve fooled me, but you got Charlie’s firm jaw—square-like, with that little hollow. Can you take a punch like your pa?” The man held up his fist again and grinned.

  McKay looked up. “You and this La Page fellow mates, Charbonneau?”

  “We wintered together up in Athabasca. If he’s Charlie’s son I’ll vouch for him.”

  “You sure?”

  “I could use one more middleman in my canoe.”

  “That’s fine with me, but you see it through.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charbonneau touched his cap. “I will, sir.”

  Though Pierre was grateful to Charbonneau for helping, the man’s pushy, military manner made Pierre nervous. Pierre’s father made fun of soldiers—he called them “silly saluters who love to play dress-up”—and Charbonneau seemed to be that type.

  Without another word, McKay drew out an official-looking piece of parchment. He lifted the glass stopper from his inkwell and dipped in his goose-quill pen. Writing in bold script, McKay filled in Pierre’s engagement papers with the date—May 11, 1800—and his full name.

  McKay then handed the pen to Pierre. When Pierre signed his name to the contract and didn’t just make an X like most of the men, McKay said, “What do you think of that, Charbonneau? Any lad who writes such a strong hand should be a fine paddler.”

  Charbonneau made no comment. He frowned at the fancy writing on the contract.

  Next, while McKay checked each item off on a list, Charbonneau issued Pierre the standard North West Company supplies: a blanket, a shirt, a pair of trousers, two handkerchiefs, and a two-pound twist of carrot tobacco. When Charbonneau counted out the one-third advance on a year’s salary, Pierre felt proud, knowing he’d done the right thing.

  McKay then concluded Pierre’s engagement by shaking his hand and saying, “Just make sure you stay clear of those Hudson’s Bay rascals.”

  Knowing how much the North West men hated their archrival, the Hudson’s Bay Company, Pierre quickly said, “I will, sir.”

  McKay then turned to Charbonneau. “Have him work with La Petite today. That should keep him busy.”

  Charbonneau nodded with a wry smile and marched around the table toward a log storehouse. Charbonneau was long-legged and lean compared to the other voyageurs. His quick movements reminded Pierre of Monsieur Marolt, a man who owned a combined livery stable and funeral parlor in Lachine. Charbonneau had the same sort of thin face, all sharp points and angles.

  Pierre had to walk fast to keep up. He wondered what sort of a fellow this little La Petite might be. Just before they passed through the low doorway of the storehouse, McKay called after them, “Make sure La Petite has secured that last Montreal canoe.”

  Charbonneau turned and acknowledged McKay’s command. “Aye, sir.”

  “And tell him to make sure she’s caulked tight. The last we hired from that scoundrel Langlois leaked like a rotten thatch job.”

  With one last “Aye,” Charbonneau led Pierre into the storeroom. The only light inside was cast by an oil lamp. Pierre had never seen such vast piles of goods. Bolts of calico cloth and ribbon, and crates crammed with bells and colored beads and mirrors and sewing materials, were piled on shelves that lined either wall. Stacked around the room were other boxes that held spears, ice chisels, and gaff hooks for trapping beaver during the winter. Kegs and nested copper kettles were stacked near the entry. The thought of hauling all these trade goods the length of the Great Lakes suddenly made Pierre uneasy. Anyone can sign his name and pocket his salary, he thought, but what about portaging cooking pots and musket balls and thirty-five-foot lake canoes?

  “La Petite?” Charbonneau called, squinting into the half dark. “Where’s that fellow gone now?” he mumbled.

  “La Petite?” Charbonneau tried again, stepping forward and calling twice as loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, Pierre thought he saw a dim shadow, but before he could turn, two hands seized his ankles from behind and suddenly jerked his feet out from under him.

  “Eeee …” Pierre threw out his hands to keep his face from smashing into the dirt floor. An instant later he was swinging upside down, staring at the largest pair of moccasins he had ever seen.

  “Let me go!” Pierre yelled.

  Someone laughed uproariously. “So what have you brought me, Charbonneau? Something to shelve or to stick in a nice little keg?”

  Charbonneau laughed as La Petite swung Pierre up toward the rafters and let go of his ankles. Pierre squealed again, thinking for a moment that this giant intended to kill him. But La Petite caught the boy by his armpits just as he began to fall and set him back down.

  “That’s a good one, La Petite,” Charbonneau chortled. “Hiding in the dark. You do know how to spook a fellow. Meet your helper for the day, Pierre La Page.”

  This fellow they called La Petite was the biggest and the blackest Frenchman Pierre had ever seen. His frizzy black hair brushed the log tie beams overhead. His pants and shirt were deerskin and smelled as if they’d been tanned with pig brains and smoke.

  When La Petite reached out his hand, Pierre took a step back and trampled Charbonneau’s foot. “Stand still, boy,” Charbonneau ordered, pushing him forward again. Pierre braced himself, afraid to imagine what this giant would do to him next.

  “Please pardon my behavior, monsieur,” La Petite said, bowing at the waist and pretending to remove a cap from his bare head, “had I known you were my assistant, I would not have treated you so rudely.” He then let out a deep chuckle and tousled Pierre’s hair.

  “To work now,” he added, and started toward the rear of the building, expecting Pierre to follow.

  And Pierre did follow, all morning and all afternoon without stopping. Accustomed to the calm of school, Pierre was amazed at the frantic pace La Petite maintained. They sorted trade goods. They hauled supplies to another warehouse on a big flatbed wagon. They inspected the new Montreal canoe at the boat works.

  Pierre learned a lot about fur trade merchandise, and he was glad to discover that the giant La Petite was a gentle and fair fellow. La Petite explained each job to Pierre and was patient with Pierre’s questions. Unlike the intense Charbonneau, he walked with a relaxed stride, whistling or humming as he worked.

  The big man even took Pierre’s side late that afternoon when an evil-looking character confronted Pierre just after they’d returned from the boat works. “Who’s your little lady friend, La Petite?” the man said, sneering at Pierre with the black, unblinking eyes of a snake.

  “Leave my grandpa alone, Beloit,” La Petite said, wagging a finger in his face. “He’s a good worker.”

  Unafraid of La Petite’s warning, Beloît spat in the dust at Pierre’s feet and said, “Send him to the dressmaker.”

  Pierre couldn’t help staring at Beloît. He wore a soiled shirt, open at the neck, and his chest was covered with matted black hair. His ragged beard and stooped shoulders made him look more like a bear than a man. But the thing that startled Pierre most was his nose—the right half had been ripped off.

  Beloît scowled one last time and walked away grumb
ling to himself. As soon as he was out of earshot, Pierre asked La Petite, “What happened to him?”

  “That’s quite a nose, ain’t it?” La Petite chuckled. “Why, he’s a fighter, Grandpa. He just loves to scrap. One day a fellow with very big teeth bit the starboard side of his nose clean off.” La Petite grinned at the shock on Pierre’s face.

  “I’m meeting all the pretty ones today, aren’t I?” Pierre said good-naturedly.

  “That you are.” La Petite clapped him on the back and turned to board his wagon.

  So now Pierre had a nickname. These voyageurs, who loved to call the tallest man in their brigade by the French word for Shorty would name a smooth-faced boy such as him Grandpa.

  CHAPTER 3

  Adieu

  PIERRE WAS IN no hurry to get home. All his life he’d been a thinker, not a doer, a boy who considered every possibility before making a decision. Today was the first time he’d ever done anything this impulsive. Now he was scared. If only he’d talked it over with his parents. He knew his father would be proud of his enrolling, but he was afraid even to think of facing his mother.

  Pierre paused by the company storehouse to look downriver. The lonely laughter of a loon echoed across the dark water. The loons traveled north and would be leaving, like him, any day now. And leaving with Pierre would be a lifetime of his mother’s dreams.

  On the way home Pierre passed Dr. Guilliard’s house and hung his head. He was still ashamed at how he had handled the accident.

  It was nearly dark by the time Pierre arrived at his cabin. When Pierre finally opened the cabin door, he spotted his parents sitting at the kitchen table having tea. Except for the bandaged hand that he rested on the table, Father looked strong.

  “You’re home at last.” Mother rose to greet Pierre but stopped when she saw the paper and the long twist of tobacco in his hands. Every spring Father marched proudly through the door with these same articles. Every long summer Mother waited for his brigade to return home.

  She stood stock-still, pressing one finger to her temple as she stared at her son. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes showed disappointment.

  Pierre placed his engagement papers and tobacco ration on the plank table. Father stared at the document before him. He slowly began to grin. “You’ve signed on?” He rose from the table and embraced Pierre. “My son the voyageur!” he said proudly.

  When Pierre pulled out his salary advance and presented it to his mother, tears welled up in her eyes. “No,” she protested, “you must keep some for yourself.”

  Pierre only shook his head, knowing if he tried to speak he would cry too.

  * * *

  Later that evening, while they sat before the fire, Pierre’s father asked his son about the men he’d met. He praised Charbonneau and La Petite as fair and dependable, frowning only when he heard the name of Beloît, the fellow who’d teased Pierre. “Jean Beloît is a scoundrel,” Father said, “though as good a bowman as you’ll find.”

  “But no matter who you’re paired with,” Father added, “be sure to pull your own weight, and most important of all, don’t complain. There’s no place for laggers or winners among canoemen. Never forget, either, that patience is your best friend in the North. You’ll save many a carry by thinking your course through to the end. To the voyageur, the route is everything.”

  Father paused then and pulled deeply on his little clay pipe. Pierre listened carefully.

  “I want you to know it is a good life if you make it so. When I was your age I met a man at the fort in Sault Sainte Marie who claimed fifty years of service to the Hudson’s Bay Company. One evening he said to me, ‘Charles, my whole life has been the canoes. Every river, every portage, every wife and song and sled dog that I knew was a pleasure, perfect in itself. Were all my days given back to me, I would make no other choice than to be a voyageur.’”

  Pierre nodded, firm in his decision and ready for the adventure.

  * * *

  Long after Pierre had gone to bed, his mind whirled with pictures of the day: the giant, La Petite; the laughing faces of Charbonneau and Bellegarde; the evil sneer of Jean Beloît.

  When sleep came, Pierre dreamed he was paddling alone up a narrow, rocky river. The current was so swift he used all his strength to keep the canoe from being swept downstream. He pulled hard until he came around a sharp bend. There, along the bank as far as he could see, stood his classmates from school. Sister Marguerite’s voice was in the background, saying, “A true gift for learning is rare, my boy. Think what you could have become—a scholar, a lawyer, a …”

  Just then there was a thunderous roar. A wall of water hit the bow, catapulting him into the river.

  “Ahhhhhh …,” Pierre yelled as the water swept over him, pushing him down, down. His body cartwheeled in the blackness. The icy water churned over him as he struggled to find a footing on the slippery rocks.

  When Pierre woke up, he was tangled in his blankets, and his heart was hammering in his throat.

  A moment later, the leather-hinged door of his parents’ bedroom creaked. Pierre lay still.

  Mother whispered, “Are you all right?”

  He coughed. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” She stepped forward to touch his forehead. “I thought I heard something.”

  “I’m all right.” He fought to calm himself. His heart still pounded hard from his nightmare.

  Pierre lay awake for a long time after Mother left. Out his bedroom window, upstream, the sky was a wilderness of stars. He was floating in blue-black light, lost in the depths of a dark river. Pierre tried to think of gentler things, but he was haunted by his dream. And every time he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were lying at the bottom of a watery grave.

  CHAPTER 4

  Departure

  ON WEDNESDAY PIERRE stopped by the school to say goodbye. It was recess, and he was the center of attention.

  “Whose brigade are you in?”

  “When do you leave?”

  “How many miles will you paddle?”

  As Pierre answered the questions, his eyes searched the schoolyard for Celeste Guilliard.

  When Pierre finally saw her, standing at the rear entrance with her friends, recess was nearly over. As he stepped away from the boys, Celeste waved.

  By the time Pierre crossed the school yard and reached her side, Sister Marguerite was ringing the bell. Celeste’s two friends giggled a moment, then left them alone.

  “So I hear you’re headed north,” she said.

  Pierre wanted to say something clever—something she would remember during the long summer while he was gone—but all he could manage was “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that an awfully long paddle?”

  “It’s twenty-four hundred miles,” Pierre replied. He wanted to say more. But the yard was nearly empty, and she was turning to leave. Pierre the thinker, Pierre the bookworm, was mumbling away his last chance.

  “You know how Sister is about tardiness,” Celeste said as she started up the steps.

  This was his last chance. Pierre reached out to touch her hand, and when she turned, he decided to risk it. If he had the courage to sign up for a two-thousand-mile canoe trip, he should have the nerve to kiss a pretty girl.

  His aim wasn’t perfect, but he managed to graze her lips. Then, to his surprise, she gave him a quick kiss in return.

  Celeste’s eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed as she ran up the steps, calling out one last “Goodbye.” For a moment Pierre stood alone in the empty yard, almost wishing he could step back into the comfortable world of readings and recitations.

  “Be good,” Mother said as she leaned forward and gave her son a quick peck on the cheek. Pierre nodded and took one last look at his little sister, who was nestled in Camille’s arms half asleep. “You take care of your sister,” Pierre whispered, tickling Claire’s chin until she smiled.

  Then Pierre turned to shake his father’s hand one last time. Without thinking, Father clapp
ed Pierre on the back with his injured hand and cursed at the sudden pain.

  Pierre looked concerned, but Father laughed and waved his bandage toward Mother. “Don’t worry. Your mother will take care of me. You watch your backside and keep your powder dry.”

  Up and down the shore of the St. Lawrence, families gathered as all five Montreal canoes were checked one last time. Pierre was sorry La Petite wasn’t one of his fourteen canoe mates, but his father’s old friend Charbonneau was the steersman, and a grinning, white-haired man they called La Londe manned the bow. Pierre recognized one of his fellow middlemen, a young man named Emile Duval who had left school only last year. Pierre was glad to see the scarred man, Bellegarde, walk toward another canoe.

  The voyageurs paraded in their finest breechclouts, shirts, and sashes. They all wore new moccasins and elegantly plumed red caps. The forty-foot canoes were moored in the shallows, already loaded with a winter’s worth of trade goods. The gunwales of each birch bark craft were painted with bright stripes, and NORTH WEST COMPANY decorated each bow. Flags hung from the stern poles, and vermilion-tipped paddles stood propped in each craft.

  McKay, dressed in buckskin like an ordinary crewman, nodded to Charbonneau, and the boarding began.

  As Beloît stepped past McKay, he pointed to Pierre and said, “If that puppy is coming with us, I hope you checked to see that he’s housebroken.”

  A few men chuckled as Beloît cackled and slapped his thigh.

  Pierre’s ears burned. He hoped his father hadn’t heard. He waded into the icy water up to his knees and stepped carefully into the canoe he would be paddling for the next twelve weeks.

  He knew from his father how fragile these Montreal canoes were. Though they carried two and a half tons of freight, their birch bark skin demanded care in boarding and required the men to sit still as they paddled. Too much shifting of weight strained the laced-root and gummed construction. Once the trade goods were delivered to the fort in Grand Portage, the company sometimes purchased new canoes to carry their valuable cargo of furs home at summer’s end.