The Broken Blade Read online

  But after the fourth round of drinks, Larocque decided to make his “course,” as he called it, more challenging. He piled fresh wood on the roaring fire and waited until the flames were crackling high. Then he leaped. He singed his leggings a bit, but others were quick to accept the new challenge.

  When La Londe took his turn, Pierre asked Charbonneau, “Why does La Londe have such white hair? He doesn’t look that old.”

  “He isn’t. All I can say for sure,” Charbonneau said, “is that it happened one summer about ten years back. He left for the English River with hair the same sort of blond as yours, and when he came back, his head was pure white.”

  “He wouldn’t say what happened?”

  “It wasn’t my place to ask. But I met a fellow once who was up on the English that summer. There was an accident. He claimed a north canoe capsized in a rapids just after the ice melted. Seven men drowned. La Londe was the only one to survive. But there’s no telling for sure.”

  Just then there was a shout. Pierre turned to see Jean Beloît trip La Londe as he leaped out over the fire. His body twisted sideways, and he landed on his shoulder in the coals. A roll set him clear. His leather shirt saved his back, and Emile and Bellegarde saved his hair by throwing a blanket over his head while he lay, half stunned, in the sand.

  Bellegarde brushed La Londe off and helped him to his feet. Then, before anyone could blink, La Londe yelled, “You dog,” and leaped for Beloît’s throat. La Londe’s hair was still smoking as the two men went down. They grappled and punched with a fury that looked certain to end in death.

  A circle formed, and everyone cheered his favorite. “Beloît will kill him,” Emile said. By his tone Pierre could tell he was disappointed that the reverse wasn’t true.

  “Come on La Londe, get him,” Pierre yelled, fearing this good-humored fellow would get hurt. Pierre clenched his fist and swung at the air. He wished he could pummel the evil Beloît himself.

  The crewmen alternately cheered and sipped their brandy. A man offered to fill Pierre’s cup, but he shook his head. Pierre already felt dizzy from the strong drink, and when he tried to focus on the grappling fighters, their faces blurred together. Twice La Londe and Beloît rolled dangerously close to the fire, but Bellegarde rolled them away. When it was clear neither man could gain an advantage, Charbonneau said, “Let’s give Beloît a dram of his own poison.”

  “A little singe will do him good,” Bellegarde agreed.

  The next time Beloît rolled toward the fire, everyone stepped aside. It took Beloît a while to realize his moccasin was on fire. When the pain finally hit him, he let out a shout and rolled his opponent into the brush.

  Bellowing like a wounded bull, he kicked off his smoking moccasin and leaped feetfirst into the shallows.

  Pierre expected Beloît to return with a knife, but the man was grinning when he came back from the river. He walked up to La Londe and shook his hand. “Well fought, hivernant,” he said.

  La Londe returned the compliment. “You gave me more than I wanted, Jean.”

  They embraced, and while Beloît sat down in the sand and wrapped his burned foot in his red cap, La Londe poured his opponent a drink.

  “Is it like this all the time?” Pierre asked Charbonneau.

  “Sometimes”—he smiled—“but it’s the first few nights mainly that get so wild. When the tension of waiting all winter to get back at their paddles mixes with the brandy”—he waved toward La Londe and Beloît sitting side by side—“there you have it.”

  A few men had already crawled under the nearest canoe and retired for the night, so Charbonneau and Pierre decided to do the same. “It’s best we take a good place,” the veteran advised. “The air gets chilly in the open this time of the year.”

  They found a Montréal a few paces from the campfire and laid their blankets under the hull. Pierre was exhausted, but sleep did not come easily. The ground was lumpy, and every turn forced his hip or elbow against a rock. Even worse, Charbonneau was already snoring on one side, while Beloît and La Londe kept chatting just up the bank. Pierre suddenly had a terrible headache, too.

  “You know that island,” Beloît said, “the one just this side of the rapids?”

  “What about it?”

  “When I was down there on the bank, staring out into the moonlight, I swore I was looking on Massacre Island—the one up on Rainy River where the priest and eighteen of La Verendrye’s men were murdered. My old partner Joseph Le Clair was in the party that found ’em. It was plenty ugly. He said the bodies were spread out on buffalo robes in a circle with their heads—most of ’em scalped—piled up in the middle. Some had knife cuts in patterns all over their backs. Others had porcupine quills stuck in their legs. They left the priest in the center with his right hand stuck straight up in the air and an arrow in his side. His head was split clear open.”

  La Londe whistled softly, and then it was quiet.

  A short while later La Londe crawled under the far end of the canoe, and Beloît lay right down on the open ground. They both began snoring immediately.

  Pierre turned over again and again, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  When he finally drifted off, he dreamed that his father and mother and his sisters were lying in a circle on a huge buffalo robe with their arms over their heads. Their faces were smiling as bravely as they had this morning when they said goodbye. But next to a silver hatchet in the center of the circle lay Beloît’s cap, heaped to the top with severed thumbs.

  CHAPTER 6

  First Light

  IN THE BACK of his mind Pierre heard a low growling, then the sound of claws digging into tree bark. I must be dreaming, he thought, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. His head ached even worse than it had the night before. He was just drifting back to sleep when a second growl came.

  A bear.

  Pierre’s eyes flashed opened. Crouched at the base of a pine was André Bellegarde, scratching the bark with his bear claw necklace.

  “Ha, Ha,” Beloît cackled from behind. He trotted to Pierre’s side and leaned directly over his face. “Portage time,” he croaked, his black eyes glittering. “Say goodbye to your pretty dreams.”

  Beloit’s breath smelled of stale liquor, and his mutilated nose was even uglier than Pierre remembered it.

  “Go away,” Pierre said, but Beloît and Bellegarde picked up the canoe that had been Pierre’s shelter for the night. Pierre blinked as bits of leaves and sand fell onto his face.

  While the men carried the canoe away, Pierre focused his sleep-swollen eyes. It was still dark, but the canoes were all gone. The few men who remained in camp were picking up parcels from the pile at the end of the beach and starting up the trail.

  Pierre scrambled to his feet. He stuffed his blanket into his pack and hurried over to help with the work. His muscles were sore, and his right hand was raw and aching.

  “It’s time to work, Graybeard,” Beloît greeted him when he got to the pile of parcels. “We were ready to leave you for bear bait.”

  Mr. McKay said, “Good afternoon, lad. I hope you weren’t waiting for us to bring you breakfast in bed.” Pierre’s cheeks were hot. His head pounded. His lips felt dry and cracked, and his mouth tasted as if it were filled with sawdust.

  Beloît helped La Londe hoist his double packs in place. La Londe paused a moment to adjust his tumpline and wink at Pierre. He patted the boy on the shoulder and grinned. “It’s an easy carry, son,” he said, trotting off with his usual springy stride.

  “I think we start you with one pack today.” Beloît reached for a parcel. His hair was still plastered with bits of sand and leaves from sleeping on the ground. Pierre tried not to look at his face.

  “No, give me the same as everyone,” Pierre insisted, anxious to get away from Beloît as fast as he could.

  “Whatever you say.” Beloît heaved the first pack onto his back.

  The straps cut into Pierre’s shoulders and jerked him backward. He wheeled his arms to kee
p from falling.

  Beloît grinned. “Ready for another?”

  Pierre gasped as he tottered to maintain his balance, “I’ll come back for the other one.”

  “As you wish,” Beloît snickered, taking two packs for himself as Pierre started up the path.

  The trail was rugged. As Pierre stepped from one rock to the next, he tried not to imagine how embarrassing it would be to trip while carrying only a single pack.

  Before he was halfway up the ridge, La Petite passed him, stepping out into the bushes and back onto the trail without breaking stride. Three bundles were stacked on his back. Pierre multiplied three times ninety in his mind, and couldn’t believe La Petite carried that much weight without even slowing down. Beloît and another man, both portaging double packs, passed Pierre before he reached the crown of the spruce-covered hill.

  The straps cut into his shirt as if they were sharp metal bands, and there was no way to relieve the pain. If he leaned into the tumpline to take the weight off his back, his neck muscles burned and his body pitched forward. If he hooked his thumbs under the straps to relieve the weight, his blisters grated against the canvas.

  Thankful for his strong legs, Pierre barely felt the load on his lower body until he was well over the rise. But as he worked his way down the backside of the ridge, he suddenly wondered if he would make it. The muscles in his legs popped out with each step, and his calves burned.

  Knowing he was the last one on the trail, he thought for moment about tossing his pack into the brush. He could hike home in a day and be done with the pain for good.

  When Pierre noticed a mossy patch of ground ahead, he decided to rest a minute. But just then he saw a bright patch of blue through the underbrush. Water. He held his pace, knowing that if the path turned rough again he would never make it.

  The trail took a sharp turn to the left and suddenly got steeper. Pierre groaned. But there was no stopping now.

  Partway down the hill he looked up. The entire crew stood at attention below, facing him. Pierre heard taunts and jeers inside his head, yet the men just stared, strangely silent. As Pierre leaned into the tumpline, he saw La Petite whisper something to La Londe. Both men grinned.

  I’ll show them, he silently vowed. Throwing caution aside, he doubled his pace, risking a headlong tumble.

  His legs gave out as he reached the shore. La Petite caught him under the arms as the weight of Pierre’s pack twisted his body around and jerked him backward. His feet flew up, and he nearly rolled into the river.

  Suddenly the men cheered. La Petite helped Pierre out of his pack straps and onto his feet. Several men stepped forward and clapped him on the back. He was confused even more when Charbonneau stepped forward and shook his hand saying, “Fine carry, son.”

  “Good job, lad.” McKay tipped his hat.

  “You showed ’em,” La Londe said, and Emile, who had thrown his cap in the air, patted Pierre on the shoulder. Pierre’s head throbbed, and he was confused by all the attention.

  It wasn’t until Pierre saw Beloît toss a coin to La Petite that he finally figured things out. Pierre knelt to examine his pack. He lifted the flap, and a handful of musket balls rolled out.

  Someone had stuffed his pack with bags of lead shot. He wondered how many had bet against his making it. Pierre took one of the heavy balls in his hand and stood up. His knuckles went white as he squeezed the bullet in his palm. How stupid could he be?

  “A lucky carry,” Beloît said, spitting into the rocks at Pierre’s feet as he stepped toward the waiting canoes. “A man-sized portage would’ve flattened him.”

  “I told them you’d make it,” La Petite said, “but they refused to believe. Their doubt has cost them dearly.” He paused and rattled the newly won coins in his palm. “If that pack weighed an ounce, it weighed two hundred pounds.”

  The musket ball dropped from Pierre’s hand onto the black rocks. “You mean it weighs as much as a double pack?”

  “Without a doubt, my young voyageur.”

  “Young, I’ll believe,” Beloît snarled as he turned to climb in his canoe. “As for voyageur? We shall see.” But Pierre was looking at his pack, amazed at what he’d done.

  La Petite gave Pierre one more clap on the back and waded out to his canoe. The big man collected on a few more wagers after he had taken his place in the stern. He turned toward Pierre one last time, raising his leather coin pouch high and jingling it by its drawstrings. “See me at the next portage, Pierre,” he called. “I give you a share of the winnings.”

  “I’ve got a little something for you, too,” La Londe said, waving his paddle at Pierre. “We pick our ponies pretty well, eh, partner?” he bragged to the men in the other canoes. “If we get much luckier we’ll have to give up our voyaging and open a bank.”

  Despite the chorus of boos from middlemen who’d lost money in the betting, Charbonneau’s canoe was under way a moment later. As they started upriver, La Londe took up an old French folksong:

  Behold the fair Françoise,

  Behold the fair Françoise,

  She would wed if she may, maluron, lurette,

  She would wed if she may, maluron, lurette,

  Her love comes late a-calling,

  Her love comes …

  At the chorus Pierre joined in, pulling as hard on his paddle as his blisters would allow. He was glad to have his first portage behind him, but he was uneasy about the carries that lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Long Sault

  AN HOUR LATER the brigade reached a second rapids. They “tracked” this stretch of water, pulling each craft up the rapids with a sixty-yard line. One man stood in the bow and two in the stern, using setting poles to steady the canoe in the swift current. The rest of the crew danced from one slippery rock to the next, as they hauled their five-thousand-pound load upstream.

  Fed by ice fields in the north, the Ottawa ran deep and cold. Since Pierre was hot and sweaty from paddling, the chilly water felt good at first, but after only a few steps he lost the feeling in his feet, and the wet tracking rope cut into his right hand.

  Near the head of the rapids, just as La Londe and Charbonneau were poling hard to swing the long birch bark hull clear of a menacing boulder, Pierre slipped and wet himself to the waist. His high-pitched squeal gave the crew good reason to chuckle. As Pierre scrambled back to shore, Charbonneau called out in mock anger, “No swimming on company time, La Page. There’s work to be done.”

  “Be careful, Tadpole.” Bellegarde chortled from the bank. “There’s some hungry turtles in this stream.” The crew roared.

  Pierre scowled. He was freezing cold and feeling sorry for himself. He could easily have been swept downstream and drowned, yet they were laughing as if he were a circus clown. But when he saw La Londe grinning at him, Pierre looked down at his soaked pants and his skinny blue ankles. Realizing how silly he must look, he couldn’t help chuckling along.

  As they pushed out into a broad pool at the head of the rapids, Pierre studied the river bottom. White sand and bright, quartz-flecked pebbles glowed in the shallows; just where the bottom fell off into sudden blackness, he saw the speckled tail of a huge brook trout.

  As soon as they hit the open river, the paddlers fell into a stroke-a-second pace. Pierre’s sore hand began to ache. He tried hard to keep up, hearing his father’s words: “You’ll find no better friends than your canoe mates if you do your part.”

  * * *

  The day grew hot. Pierre’s skin itched as his pants dried in the sun. Blue flies, excited by the blood smell from Pierre’s hand, buzzed over the canoe.

  The heat made Pierre dizzy. He felt almost as sick as he had two winters ago, when an earache came on so suddenly that he cried. He was fine one minute. Then his head began to pound, and he felt as if someone was shoving a hot pin into his ear. He got so feverish that his eyes wouldn’t focus, and according to his mother, he started to say silly things, rambling on about his aunt Millie and a pig and a silver snuff
box. Though Mother and Camille bathed his forehead with cool rags all night, the pain didn’t go away until the middle of the next morning, when his eardrum burst. Though Mother was afraid he’d be deaf in that ear, his hearing gradually came back.

  Just then a deerfly bit Pierre between the fingers of his right hand, and he dropped his paddle to dig at the throbbing bite. “What’s the matter?” Beloît teased. “Does our puppy have fleas?”

  Pierre flushed, but he made no comment, as the crewmen on all sides had another laugh. Just once he wished he could dunk Beloît’s ugly face in the river. He tried not to scratch, but that made the itching more maddening. Pierre envied the older men their long hair, which kept the flies off their necks and shoulders.

  Luckily, there was more bull work this morning than paddling. If he was careful with the tracking lines, his cuts might start to heal.

  Just after they’d tracked their canoe up a tight chute bordered by lichen-covered rock ledges, Charbonneau gave Pierre advice that didn’t seem to make sense. “If the paddling seems hard, Pierre,” he said, “it is only because you make it so. To paddle properly you must forget you are paddling.”

  Pierre frowned as the steersman continued. “It may sound crazy, but it works.”

  “Tell these blisters they don’t hurt,” Pierre said. Charbonneau’s tone angered him. The man seemed to think that all it took was an order to make a thing happen.

  “The pain will pass!” Charbonneau snapped impatiently. “I must warn you. We hit the big water soon. To paddle fifteen hours a day, the head and the heart must be strong.”

  When they stopped to recoil their lines a little later, La Londe took Pierre aside. “Listen to your steersman,” he gently urged. “The truth is a strange dog sometimes, but work is only as hard as we make it. Focus on a special place—a Christmas long ago, the bonnet of a pretty girl—and your paddle becomes a small thing.”

  He admired La Londe’s calm. Pierre could tell the bowman encouraged him to try it for his own good, where Charbonneau only worried about how many miles the brigade could make. When they took up their paddles again, Pierre tried to follow his advice. He studied the pines along the riverbank, but his hands still hurt. He recalled his last time with Celeste, but even as he imagined her bright blue eyes, his ears burned at the memory of his awkwardness.