and his companion were unsuccessful in their attempt to find game, which didn’t help his sour disposition. He turned away from the fire now with a look of suspicion. “Monsieur, you say ‘hope.’ Do you not know where we are?”
Thompson waved his hand in the direction of the guide who was sitting away from the fire on a huge snow-covered boulder. “Thomas knows, and I trust him to show the way.”
Peter was uneasy. Only the night before Thompson had expressed for the first time some doubt in Thomas’s ability to find his way through the mountains. “He’s an honest man,” he had said to Boulard. “Even though the Iroquois have been here for nearly ten years, he doesn’t pretend to know every river. But we trust each other — I with my compass and Thomas with his instincts.”
The ice-encrusted Athabasca had become increasingly shallow as they penetrated deeper into the mountains. Fed here in the summer by trickling streams, the river was spread widely now around the snow-covered sandy mounds that jutted up from the riverbed. With Dog at his heels Peter stumbled along behind the sled, hardly believing his eyes whenever he glimpsed the glittering glaciers in the distance. There was snow enough everywhere, but the vast fields of ice crouching on the gigantic mountains appeared to threaten the dog train as it intruded farther into the river valley. Even Thompson’s calm assurance seemed to lessen each time he paused to survey another ice-choked stream connecting to the river they followed.
One night they camped early and found enough wood for a fire to burn all night. Thompson, as usual, left the camp to climb higher and take a sighting for his journal. Again one of the men found this behaviour strange.
“Here, by the warm fire, we have food and good talk, but our leader prefers the dark sky to our company.”
DuNord’s tone was angry. “He makes maps for other men to make this hellish journey.”
Hot words sprang to Peter’s lips, but Boulard spoke first. “He charts our journey to learn if it is easier and faster for trading than the old way up the Saskatchewan.”
Peter found himself scowling when DuNord’s fellow complainer, LeTendre, spat and said, “A good company man then, but not a friendly one.”
Again it was Boulard who responded. “Monsieur Thompson works hard for the company.” He turned to Peter. “Have you learned how he became a mapmaker?”
Staring into the fire, Peter shook his head. Boulard crossed his legs, clasped his hands on his knees, and began. “Me, I was at Fort Churchill on the cold Hudson Bay for two years when David arrived from England.” He gestured toward Peter. “He was of the same age as this one is now and away from his family for the first time, but no one ever heard him complain. Even from me, who knew the winters there, came plenty of complaining, I tell you. The walls of the room with his bed were as mine — thick with ice — and he had to walk up and down the trade room to keep warm even while wearing all his clothes.”
When Boulard paused to poke a stick into the fire and light his pipe, Peter became aware that the rest of the men had stopped muttering and were listening. Satisfied that his pipe was drawing well, Boulard continued. “The captain of a supply ship gave to our chief trader, Samuel Hearne, a copy of the map made by Captain Cook. One day he showed it to us. David saw it was only the coasts of this land that had been mapped — nothing of the rivers and mountains and prairies. It is then that he made the promise — he would be the one to find these rivers and mountains and place them on that map.”
Boulard paused again as if trying to remember, then said, “It is impossible for me to think of the name of the head clerk who found great amusement in this promise. He was a fellow full of himself. For this reason he was much upset when David found a mistake in his ledger. Thinking to even himself, he suggested that David greet an Indian warrior entering the trade room by shaking the man’s hand. In this way David might gain a good customer for the company. Suspecting nothing, David did so, and the Chippewa leaped back and pulled out his knife. It was fortunate for David that I ran to the trade room when I heard the shouting. It was difficult for me to persuade the Chippewa that David did not know that offering his right hand was a sign he wished to fight.”
Vallade nodded. “Our Monsieur Thompson, he might have been killed.”
“Certainement,” Boulard agreed. “It appears David gave this much thought, and that night he said to this clerk, ‘I do not know what I did to deserve your wrath, but it should not be enough to get me killed. To even us, I will turn my backside to you now so you can kick it.”
The listeners burst into laughter, including Peter. Boulard looked at him reprovingly. “Why do you laugh?” he asked with mock severity. “David received the kick, though after that they were friends.”
“Me, I did not see Fort Churchill,” one of the voyageurs said, “but I have heard it is a bad place.”
Boulard nodded. “Cold it is for much of the year and bare of trees. And there are big white bears that are always hungry.” He shuddered. “If in this world food could be found only at Fort Churchill, I would starve before I would go there.”
CHAPTER 11
The next day Peter heard a shout and saw that ahead of him the sled of a voyageur named Côté was tipping and the man was in danger of losing his load. Peter halted his own team and ran ahead to help right the sled only to see his own sled fly past him as his dogs raced to fight with Côté’s team.
As he helped untangle the yapping dogs, Côté spoke wearily. “Me, I believe it is not so much the difficulties of the trail that makes a night’s rest so welcome. It is these foolish events.”
Peter heartily agreed. A dozen times a day there were mishaps of one kind or another. Often a harness broke or a sled cracked on a rock or a dog rolled down a hill, and too often it was DuNord or one of his fellow complainers who made the others wait while they sat down to rest. Thompson was getting more impatient as the days went by, for the miles were passing slowly. Thus Peter’s scalp prickled with anxiety when the two teams started again only to find Thompson had left the head of the dog train and was coming toward them rapidly on his snowshoes.
Instead of being angry with the delay Thompson waved at them and called out cheerfully, “Make haste! Ahead is a small river that interests me.”
The river didn’t appear small to Peter. It was about forty yards wide, though it appeared to be as shallow as the Athabasca they had been following for so many days that he had lost count.
“We rest here for two nights,” Thompson announced. “Tomorrow Pareil and Côté may have better fortune hunting for meat. The rest of you will make camp, while Thomas and I follow this stream to see if it will allow us to pass between the fields of ice.”
Filled with a new energy born from hope, Peter knew he couldn’t wait until their return to learn if they had found a way through this everlasting ice and snow. “Please, sir, I’d like to go with you and Thomas.”
Thompson appeared surprised, then almost pleased. “Of course, Peter, but the climb won’t be easy.”
Peter felt a stab of resentment, wondering if Thompson — blind in one eye and with a bad leg — thought of him as less able. As though he had heard Peter’s thoughts, the mapmaker nodded and said, “We’ll be glad of your company.”
Hastily, Peter dropped a handful of pemmican at Dog’s feet and swallowed one himself before turning to scramble behind Thomas over the slippery
