you here last year. It may take much time, but it is certain the company will learn the name of the vessel you were on before you were rescued. Then perhaps the mystery will be revealed.”
Peter nodded. “That’s why I haven’t tried to find better work. I hoped travellers stopping at the inn might have word of a missing ship. It’s been eight months now.” He pushed away his plate and stood. “I thank you kindly for the food, but I best be going.”
“Non, non!” the two Vallades chorused. “You will sleep here tonight, and in the morning we will see.”
“Me, I have been thinking,” Boulard said, tapping his forehead. He turned to Peter. “You care for the horses. Can you do more?”
At first Peter wasn’t certain what was meant by the question. “I feed the chickens and pick up the eggs at the inn …” Frowning a little, Boulard shook his head, then Peter suddenly understood. “I can read and write and do sums, and I like to draw things when I can get the paper, but I guess there’s no need here for that.”
Boulard threw up his hands. “Read and write and do sums! Now I am certain we will find a place for you.”
“He is too long in his legs to be a voyageur,” Vallade said, “and his arms resemble twigs.”
With one meaty hand Boulard waved away Vallade’s words. “Certainement, but he would make a fine clerk.”
“We were told only today there are more clerks in Montreal for the North West Company than they have use for,” Vallade reminded his friend.
Boulard stroked his beard and pursed his lips. “I have more ambitious thoughts. Peter will travel with us to Rainy Lake. It is there I am to bring letters to Monsieur Thompson. If those at the post have no need for a clerk, our mapmaker will know what to do with our young friend.”
Peter was having trouble following the conversation. “Who … who’s Monsieur Thompson?”
Boulard pretended astonishment. “Is it possible you have not heard of David Thompson, the famous explorer?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then I must inform you.” With Vallade interrupting now and then, Boulard explained that he had been in Fort Churchill twenty-six years ago when a small pale-faced boy named David Thompson was brought from England by a Hudson’s Bay ship and deposited on the cold, rocky shore. Weeks later Boulard had watched as the lad stared after the departing ship until its sails were out of sight, then wiped his eyes and was never seen to cry again.
“He was, I think, even younger than you,” Boulard said to Peter, “and I only two years more than that …”
Peter’s stomach was full, and the room was warm. Feeling his head begin to nod, he straightened his shoulders and blinked, hoping no one had noticed. Apparently, no one had, for Boulard’s voice droned on.
Peter was only vaguely aware when Boulard’s voice stopped. He opened his eyes briefly as he was helped to a pallet of robes in a corner by the fireplace, but he still heard Boulard speaking to Vallade. “We must begin early in the morning. The brigade leaves at midday, and for the trip our young friend must have pantaloons and a blouse without holes.”
Vallade spoke more slowly. “Have you considered that Monsieur Thompson might feel disagreeable when he learns he must return to the mountains? He might be filled with anger and not wish to give attention to young Peter.”
At that moment Peter slid into a sound sleep and didn’t hear the reply.
The next morning passed in a blur. Permission for Peter to travel with the brigade had to be secured from the office of the North West Company, which was easily accomplished when Boulard casually mentioned David Thompson. However, it wasn’t as easy to get the company clerk to let Peter purchase on credit. When the clerk finally agreed, Boulard helped Peter buy two pairs of heavy dark blue trousers, two coarse cotton shirts, and a pair of moccasin boots.
Peter’s euphoria, which had come with the knowledge he would no longer be at the beck and call of the innkeeper or be teased by his sons, began to fade as he stood beside Boulard on the narrow wharf in front of the North West Company’s two-storied wooden warehouse. Below, on the river, bobbed eight wide canoes. They were being loaded by men who looked much like Vallade and Boulard — short in the legs but broad in the chest and heavy in the arms. All had dark beards and hair partly hidden by what to Peter seemed to be stockings. As he watched the men, Peter began to doubt the wisdom of agreeing to a journey of several days. What if word arrived in Montreal of a ship lost at sea? Would anyone remember its name or from whence it came by the time he returned? And there was something about these boats. And the water. His stomach started to churn.
As though reading his thoughts, Boulard touched Peter’s shoulder. “Me, I have left word with all houses that do business with ships. They promise to ask the questions you would ask yourself if you were in Montreal.”
Peter smiled guiltily, reminding himself to be grateful that he had found a friend like Boulard. For the first time since the sailors who had rescued him had left Montreal, someone seemed to care about what happened to him. Straightening his shoulders, Peter pointed at the North West Company sign. “Last night you said you and Mr. Thompson were with the Hudson’s Bay Company.” He had heard talk of the fighting between the two companies.
Boulard grinned. “Do you not recall I told you the Hudson’s Bay Company had agreed that Monsieur Thompson would no longer trade furs but instead find new rivers and mountains and make maps?”
Peter nodded.
“When they did not keep that promise, Monsieur Thompson packed his instruments, and we paid a visit to the North West Company. They were happy to see us, I can tell you.”
“Time!” shouted the burly, hard-faced man who was directing the loading of the canoes.
Peter followed Boulard and Vallade to the edge of the water, his eyes sweeping over the river. The wind had come up, and small waves were rocking the heavily loaded craft in front of him. Closing his eyes, he imagined hanging on to a rail as a mountain of water poured over him. With that thought he grew cold and his legs buckled slightly.
As Vallade hopped into the canoe, the steersman laughed at Peter and asked, “Why do you wait? Does your lordship fear the river?”
The steersman would have said more, but the expression on Boulard’s face silenced him. Putting a hand on Peter’s back, Boulard gently eased him forward and whispered in his ear, “Me, I have never seen the ocean,mon ami, but I know it has much power, more than this river. If we encounter a storm, though, we make for shore pretty quick, I tell you.”
The men waiting in the boats stared at Peter. He swallowed hard and reached for the hand Vallade held out to him.
CHAPTER 2
Even while paddling against the strong current, the voyageurs sang and made jokes. And when the wind blew in their favour, they hoisted sails and sat back to smoke their pipes. They hadn’t travelled more than a few miles before Peter relaxed and began to enjoy himself. Sometimes the paddlers were silent and listened as intently as Peter when Boulard described the adventures he had shared with David Thompson when they journeyed over the prairies and woodlands, forever pushing north or west and building forts to trade for furs. Always Thompson made his maps of rivers, hills, and valleys.
