Warbird Page 2

  “Allons-nous-en,” rang out the voice of thunder.

  The vessel gave a sickening lurch as they set off.

  “First new moon of the season,” the man who had carried him commented.

  “There will be council fires tonight,” the other added.

  “As long as they are not councils of war,” the first murmured.

  “God bless you,” Father Lejeune called down from the bluff. He held his wooden crucifix out to them and made the sign of the cross.

  The canoe glided forward. When it met the current, it swerved. Etienne gripped the sides, his knuckles as white as his face. He hunched in the greyness as the canoe rocked, too afraid to shift. He watched the men dip and lift the dripping paddles without a sound, dreading the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. Before long, Etienne threw his head over the side and vomited.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he noticed the chickens buried deep into their wings, asleep. Exhausted, he pulled the cap over his eyes and laid his head on the cage.

  When he woke, Etienne found himself passing shores dense with trees. He looked back expecting to see hillsides of budding orchards, but they were gone.

  “Nothing is gained by looking back,” the man in the bow said. His loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck, exposed tufts of wiry black hair. He pressed his warm calloused hand into Etienne’s. “I am Médard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers,” he said.

  “Chouart,” Etienne repeated, staring at the man’s deerskin pants and coat. They shared a family name. Etienne just knew he had voyageur blood coursing through his veins. “My name,” he said, “is Etienne.” But then he stopped. He dared not use his last name.

  “This is Pierre.” Médard said, nodding to the man in the stern. “He comes along as clerk, hoping to get rich like his uncle.”

  Pierre Leroux had pale green eyes. His brown hair fell in long curls about his shoulders. He wore a thin mustache over his small delicate mouth. In true French fashion, his shirt sleeves gaped to show off his expensive linen. Knots of ribbon tied his breeches at the knee. Around his waist he wore a scarlet sash. This clean-shaven, well-dressed man bore little resemblance to Groseilliers with his full beard, deerskin jacket and beaded pouch.

  “How far have we travelled?” Etienne asked.

  “Not far,” Médard responded. “We still have a good day’s journey ahead of us.”

  Perched between them, Etienne studied the canoe’s interior. Packages and provisions balanced over poles fitted across the bottom. The two ears at the top of the cloth sacks where they were tied reminded Etienne of the litter of pigs about to arrive on the farm.

  The St. Lawrence River, swollen by the melted snows, sparkled with late sunlight.

  Pierre shook his long loose hair in the breeze, sending out a whiff of pomade. He turned to Etienne, smiled, and in a voice as clear as the mission bell, sang out, “En roulant ma boule roulant, en roulant ma boule.” Pierre’s song set the rhythm for paddling. The men joined in unison, marking time with their paddles.

  The little canoe bounced gently across the waves until Médard raised his arm to signal them to stop. He used his long paddle to hold the canoe still. Less than a league away, a deer moved along the edge of the woods. Etienne heard the creak of the bow as Pierre drew the notched arrow back on the string. The deer gazed directly at them, its eyes curious. The arrow flew, and the deer collapsed into the water.

  Médard signalled to the men behind.

  “We will have fresh meat for dinner,” Pierre said gleefully as the larger canoes moved in to claim the prize.

  For hours, Etienne watched the waves, the clouds, and the sky pass with little change. When Pierre stopped singing, they paddled to the sounds of the birds along the shore. One beautiful melodious song caused Etienne to seek out a bird that had black feathers like a hooded cloak over its white body. The red triangle on its chest looked like a melting heart.

  Etienne passed the time naming trees of maple, poplar and beech. Just as the sun set, he spotted a tall pine, missing all of its branches, but for a small tuft at the top. “Look at that,” he said as he pointed. “What a strange tree.”

  “Good eye,” Médard responded. “That marks our camp.”

  The canoes passed cliffs where roots of trees clung to the rocks like claws. Rounding the bend, a pine-sheltered nook came into view directly below the tufted pine. The men saluted the strange pine and gave three cheers.

  In a flash, Médard and Pierre jumped into the water and waded through the weeds.

  Etienne watched them convey the goods to the grassy shore. Pierre’s look told him he would not get a ride this time. With a clumsy leap, he went over the side. He whimpered as his aching legs met the icy water.

  Médard and Pierre carried the canoe from the water and set it on its side. Its large painted eye stared upward to the heavens.

  Soon the sweet smell of roasting venison curled about their nostrils. “Souper!” someone called out, and the men gathered in a circle tearing meat from the bone as fast as they could.

  By the light of the noisy, crackling fire, Etienne inspected the contents of his brown sack. The largest item was a bedroll with a red woollen blanket. A stained leather apron lay inside a grey wool cloak. There was a cloth pouch that turned out to be a sewing kit. He examined the pair of scissors and spool of hemp. Opening a small tin, he found several horn buttons, three iron needles, two metal pins and a thimble. Etienne unfolded a lace-edged handkerchief of fine linen to discover an embossed silver case with a mirrored lid. Lastly he removed a soft woollen bundle. As the mound of half-finished knitting tumbled from the two wooden rods, a huge spark from the fire landed on the coarse wool. Etienne jumped up and shook it off.

  “Brought your knitting, have you?” one of the voyageurs called out. His merry eyes shone in the light of the fire. A huge roar of laughter came from those around.

  Etienne stuffed the items back into the sack, his face the colour of a berry. That boy’s mother must have been a seamstress. What did his father do?

  Before he settled beneath his canoe roof, Etienne studied the faces of his fellow travellers in the firelight. The smoke from their pipes lay above their heads like a storm cloud. Amid their tang of sweat and tobacco and loud belches, they boasted of trades and troubles. These men of the woods were nothing like what he had expected.

  Neither is this journey, he thought, bitten by bugs, scorched by the sun, and sick from the motion.

  The evening wind rustled the trees and the waves slapped against the shore.

  Etienne watched a man add handfuls of dried peas to the large tin kettle hanging over the fire. As the voices died out, frogs croaked in their place.

  He wrapped his arms around his huddled knees and put his head down. Loneliness burned inside him like the embers of the fire. A thickness rose in the back of his throat. He realized he had nothing of his parents or of his home but the chickens.

  FOUR

  Portage

  Levez-vous, levez-vous, nos gens!” resounded through the camp before the first glimmer of light. The long route lay up the wide St. Lawrence River to its meeting with the great northern river. In the cold, clammy air of a grey morning, they paddled upriver. Scarcely an hour had gone by when mist enveloped them. Etienne pulled out the cloak.

  The water murmured as it swirled over protruding rocks. Again and again, Médard turned the canoe aside in less than a second with a single stroke of his paddle to avoid sunken rocks. From ahead came a great roar. Everyone leaped from the canoes and hauled their freight over the sides. Médard yelled above the roar. “You are in charge of all you own.”

  “Where are we going?” Etienne yelled back, but his voice was lost in the thunder of the rapids. He had no choice but to gather his things and plunge into the icy water.

  Amable, the man in the beaver hat, tied a pack onto straps dangling from a leather collar. He slung it over his neck and pulled it up to his forehead. He turned to the man called Henri, who placed a
second pack on top of the first. Amable picked up a bundle in each hand. Others did the same. They left half-running, slightly bent, up the steep path.

  Those remaining threw the canoes up onto their shoulders and followed.

  Etienne stumbled along carrying the chicken cage, his drawstring sack and a heavy burlap bag Médard pressed into his arms. They followed the well-trodden portage route along the gorge. The effort of clambering up the steep side of the falls made Etienne’s head swim. At the top, he was breathless and soaked with spray.

  But they did not rest. On they went, through deep mud, littered with fallen branches and exposed roots. Branches smacked him in the face. Clouds of black flies, thick as dust, took large chunks of skin, making his blood run.

  Etienne tripped on the heavy, wet cloak, wrenched his ankle and fell into a pile of rotting branches. He dragged the cloak off and threw it to the ground. With a handful of damp grass, he wiped the blood from the cut on his leg. Why had he let that boy trick him into this?

  When they reached the lake, and climbed back into the canoes, there was a crash of thunder, and a great wall of rain swept across them. Etienne watched the storm lash the water’s surface into waves of green. His cap was plastered to his head. The cold pierced his very bones.

  Médard pulled off his deerskin jacket and stuffed it into his pouch. Etienne watched the cold rain course down his bare muscular back. Médard didn’t seem to notice. “Vite,” he urged them as they paddled along the shore to the next camp.

  Etienne copied the others, taking off his clothes, wringing them out and hanging them over the rocks. Naked, they unrolled blankets and bolts of cloth and laid them across the great bushes to dry. Everyone huddled about the roaring fire.

  As his aching body tried to claim sleep, the bushes reminded Etienne of his socks and shirts flapping on his mother’s clothesline. That boy is probably wearing them right now, he thought in anger. Why didn’t I bring them with me?

  Day after day they forged ahead. They paddled for hours before stopping to rest. Then the voyageurs laid their paddles across their laps and rested their shoulders against the freight. They passed around a common dish of pea and pork mash. How Etienne craved a slice of his mother’s tourtière. The tin at his side held nothing but bits of dried peas and grain for the chickens. Why did I leave? he asked himself again and again, but he knew the answer.

  Etienne would never forget the day his father had invited the habitant into their home. The man’s pox-marked face, scarred nostril, and black, broken teeth had forced Etienne to leave the table. But his tales came alive as Etienne stared into the red flames of the hearth, listening. Even though the hero of every adventure was himself, the trader told tales of people who wore animal skins, danced to drums, and lived in houses built like caves. That night, Etienne made up his mind not to become a farmer like his father. His destiny, he thought, was to be that of a great explorer like Samuel de Champlain.

  They worked the canoes up the rivers and down roaring canyons. They poled across smooth water and battled frothing rapids. Each night they unloaded in the water, carried the canoes ashore, ate and slept.

  Pierre taught Etienne to build a bed of pine boughs to cushion the hard earth. Even though it was spring, the nights were cold. Etienne huddled under his blanket, wishing he had not cast away the cloak in anger.

  “We could always roast the fowl,” one of the men suggested when they learned the last of the salt pork was gone.

  Etienne threw his blanket over the chickens’ cage. Afraid of crying, he tried to laugh. “You will have to answer to the Father of the Mission,” he said in what he hoped would be a threatening voice. But it came out like a whine.

  The twisted trees made the forest look frightening. In the distance they heard the howls of wolves. Sometimes there were rustling sounds nearby. Once, Etienne saw a pair of eyes gleaming in the dark. It would be easy for a hungry animal to take the chickens. Cringing at the thought, he prayed that no forest creature would visit their camp.

  Some voyageurs settled to sleep under their blankets on the shore, while others talked in the firelight. Snippets of conversation drifted about.

  “I’m planning on getting a few pelts,” one of them said.

  “Those natives are always warring amongst themselves,” said another.

  One morning, through the silver sheen of mist over the water, Etienne watched a tall bird stalk through the reeds. With lightning speed, it speared a fish and swallowed it whole.

  Médard waded into the water. The heron pulled its head into a flat s-shaped loop, lifted its legs and flew off.

  “There’s a sign for you,” Médard called to Etienne.

  Etienne looked up, puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “When you see a heron,” Médard said, “it is a reminder that you don’t need great, thick legs to stand firm. Even on one thin leg, you can stand tall.”

  Etienne gave a sunburned scowl. Stones had become boulders. Bushes were the size of trees and the water colder than he had ever known. He had trouble moving about on two feet, much less one.

  They hugged the shore of the next lake and soon entered yet another river. A short, dark animal sprang from the reeds and dove into the water right in the path of their canoe.

  Médard pointed at the dark head and furry back that swam a few paces ahead of the bow.

  “Watch what happens when he catches our smell,” he told Etienne.

  The animal swam down the side of the canoe. Suddenly it dove with a great splash.

  Etienne brushed drops of water from his arm. “What happened?” he asked.

  Instead of replying, Médard put his finger to his lips. From around the next bend in the river came a loud sound. Etienne ducked his head under his arms.

  “Sounds like a rifle, eh?” Pierre said. “That beaver is warning his family.”

  “The beaver?” Etienne said, looking behind them. “He made that noise?”

  Médard pointed to a pile of small saplings, stripped clean of bark and branches. “He was eating there.”

  Etienne fixed his eyes to the shore, looking at one pile then another. Médard stood in the canoe for a moment and gazed downriver. Then he gave Pierre the signal to slow down, and they stopped where a small stream joined the river. At its mouth sat a third pile of white, shining branches.

  “Time for a walk,” Médard said with a smile. “You would like that, eh?”

  Pierre held the canoe to shore with his long red paddle.

  Médard and Etienne leapt from the canoe and walked along the brook. The soft mud soothed Etienne’s aching feet.

  They came to a wall of sticks woven together and plastered with mud and moss. About fifty paces long, it was as high as Etienne’s shoulders. A few heavy stones paraded along the top.

  “Did the natives make this?” Etienne asked in awe.

  Médard shook his head. Again he put his finger to his lip. Then he lowered it and pointed.

  Behind the wall of sticks lay a small shining pond. Etienne’s eyes travelled across its smooth surface. Then he saw a ripple. A dark brown head like the one in the river headed towards the mound of earth in the centre of the pond. It seemed to be pushing a bundle of grass. Then the head and the bundle disappeared.

  The reflection of the silver poplars in the dark surface mesmerized Etienne, and the gurgle of the stream running through small holes in the wall made him sleepy. He felt he could sit in this peaceful place forever.

  Médard took Etienne’s arm, indicating it was time to return.

  Pierre was waiting with his rifle across his lap. Their canoe slipped back into the current. Along the river, sharp black spruce jutted from the bank. Looking up, Etienne spotted a huge square-shouldered eagle. Its snowy crown feathers drooped in long points onto its rusty black shoulders. The chickens stirred and squawked. “You are safe with me,” Etienne whispered.

  As they rounded a bend, they saw a great animal standing chest deep in the water. The moose raised his
head at their approach and stared as streams of water poured from his face and neck. Then he turned and lumbered to the shore. Etienne heard the sounds of breaking branches as he crashed through the underbrush.

  “Do all animals carry meaning?” he asked.

  “You catch on quickly,” Médard said with a smile. “Nature speaks to us every day, but many do not bother to pay attention.”

  “What does the moose tell us?” Etienne asked.

  “The moose and the deer are of the same family,” Médard told him. “They both mean friendship. But the moose also means a long, good life. You can travel twice as far and twice as fast after a meal of moose meat.”

  The four large boats carried on across the lake amid shouts of farewell.

  “They are leaving us?” Etienne asked.

  “Pierre and I will catch up with them at the next camp,” Médard said. “First, we must take you to the priests.”

  Their small boat of bark followed the narrowing shoreline. Etienne watched the massive canoes become small dots upon the horizon.

  “Onywatenro,” Médard called out as he hailed another canoe in the distance. As it grew nearer, Etienne could see it was like theirs. It was painted yellow and had a large red sun on its curved bow. A man sat in the stern, steering. The woman with him adjusted the animal skin that tied a dark-haired baby to her body.

  Etienne could only stare at their dark brown faces and coarse black hair. The woman’s thick braids fell to her waist. Leather strings bound the ends. The man’s hair hung past his shoulders. A leather band bound his forehead.

  Pierre repeated these unfamiliar sounds.

  “Say it,” Médard insisted. “Onywatenro,” he repeated. “It means we are friends.”

  Etienne mumbled the strange words as the family glided past.

  They entered a small bay. A great wall of pointed stakes appeared on the hill above them and the large wooden cross of the mission of Sainte-Marie loomed above their heads.