in Peter’s head and vanished so quickly that he wondered if he had imagined it. He shook his head and listened to Vallade, who was speaking now. “I also have shared a dugout with this mapmaker. He is a good man and fair, though we must listen to him read from his Bible at the end of each day.” Vallade glanced at Boulard. “I do not think Monsieur Thompson will be pleased to learn the company wants him to cross the mountains again instead of going to Montreal.”
Boulard chuckled knowingly. “David will be pleased. All the while we were at Kootenay House he had to do what is expected of a partner of the company and build more houses to trade for furs. He never had time to search for the big river — the Columbia.”
“Then how did he know it was there?” Peter asked.
“It has been spoken of many times by the men in the ships with big sails who passed the place where it smashes into the Pacific Ocean. Me, I have not seen that. Yet.”
Vallade laughed. “You have caught the fever for searching for this river of mystery from Monsieur Thompson.”
Boulard grew serious. “It is Madame Charlotte Thompson who will be unhappy about this news. And Fanny.” He tapped his pipe on the side of the boat and put it into his vest pocket. “Fanny has only nine years. Our mapmaker wishes to place her in school in Montreal. David now has a farm nearby where they would live for one year to be certain she will be happy. I, Boulard, agreed to travel ahead to arrange for this school, and this I did often by dogsled, for much of the rivers were covered with ice.” He shrugged. “But I think now David’s family will not see Montreal this year.”
Except for the clouds of black flies that often hovered over their boats, Peter found the trip exciting. They travelled north up the Ottawa River to the Mattawa River, down that river to Lake Nipissing, then a little south along the French River and into Lake Huron’s Georgian Bay and from there into the vastness of a beautiful lake called Superior. Most of the time the paddlers sang as they dipped their oars in the water. Peter marvelled at the voyageurs’ strength every time it was necessary to unload the boats and carry them and each ninety-pound pack of goods overland during one of the many portages. They never seemed to complain. Peter didn’t complain, either — not aloud. But when weeks passed with no sign of a fort or anything except a few Indian camps, he began to wonder if the post at Rainy Lake — their destination — really existed.
As they rinsed their cups and plates one cold morning, Vallade spoke his thoughts. “It is my hope that Monsieur Thompson will greet us at Grand Portage tomorrow night.”
Boulard playfully punched his companion in the chest. “It is too early for the festivities,mon ami. I am not certain he will wait for them to arrive.”
Vallade appeared disappointed. “It is now June and the ice has left the rivers. It is certain the brigades carrying the provisions are following us, and those from the north will be swiftly descending to Grand Portage with the current. Thus we will meet and celebrate.”
Boulard shook his head. “I have lost track of the days, but you forget that our small canoes that are carrying only mail for Grand Portage and goods for the Rainy Lake post are much faster than the big ones. We will arrive too soon for the celebrations.”
Vallade sighed and looked at Peter. “There is great feasting and dancing in the nights when the brigades from the north and west meet those from the east.”
Peter glanced at Boulard, who explained. “The brigades — as many as thirty perhaps — from the north and the west carry the furs our Indian friends bring to them in winter, and those from the east bring supplies and trade goods for the next winter. These arrive in Montreal on the great ships, and the great ships take back the furs across the ocean to England.”
Peter nodded, thinking that this arrangement was very sensible. He had seen heavily laden canoes arrive in Montreal and wondered from whence they came.
Shortly before the voyageurs reached their destination, they swung their eight canoes into shore. Then, with much joking and laughing, the paddlers put on red-tasseled caps and bright sashes, but Vallade didn’t get his wish. There were only a few canoes at Grand Portage when they arrived, though there was a small celebration nevertheless. Peter and his new friends were treated to a bountiful meal of potatoes, beef, and fish. He found it a welcome change from their daily fare of pork, pemmican, and maize. There was no word of David Thompson, and in the morning they were off again.
Although the post at Rainy Lake wasn’t large, the small wharf was crowded with dozens of wide birchbark canoes. “It is the flotilla from the west,” Boulard said, a broad smile lighting his eyes. “Monsieur Thompson will be with that one.”
Peter’s stomach flip-flopped. After leaving Grand Portage, Boulard had revealed his plan. “Observe, Peter. I, Boulard, have been thinking. When we encounter Monsieur Thompson, I will request you lodge with us in Rocky Mountain House for the winter where you will learn to be a company man. In the spring when we go back to the mountains to find this mysterious river, maybe you will accompany us. Though perhaps you will choose to be a clerk at the post. I, myself, will present you to David.”
Even though Peter had still found himself more than a little bewildered by the change in his life since he had met Boulard, he had nodded agreement. After all, he trusted his new friend. Besides, what choice did he have?
Now, determined to make a good impression, his heart thumping, he climbed from the rocking craft and fell face forward onto the muddy shore. He scrambled to his feet, afraid to look up for fear everyone on the landing had witnessed his clumsiness. Apparently, no one had except for the family being greeted by Boulard.
A squarely built, solemn-faced man glanced down at Peter once, then ripped open one of the letters Boulard had handed to him. Peter groaned. This must be David Thompson, with his wife and two of his children! He tried to brush off the mud clinging to his breeches, but only succeeded in rubbing it into the cloth. Worrying that he might have mud on his face, as well, he stood back and waited to be presented, but Boulard appeared to have forgotten him. He watched the explorer scan the document in his hand.
Finally, the man’s face broke into a smile, and he clapped Boulard on the shoulder. “At last, old friend, those blockheads in Parliament have realized it is time to claim the land beyond the mountains before the Americans take it for themselves. We’ll return to the Columbia district immediately — this time to find the great river to the west and, I pray, a good safe passage to the Pacific Ocean.”
He turned to his wife. “Think of it, Charlotte. You recall while at Kootenay House we learned that farther west the furs are richer and more plentiful. Our company could double in size and profit if we establish trading places along that great passage. Our ships from London could round this continent and take the furs on to China. Men who sailed with Captain Cook reported furs fetching astonishing prices in the Far East.”
“This great river,” the small woman said softly, “is the one you spoke of that Alexander Mackenzie and Simon Fraser couldn’t find?”
“True,” Thompson said, smiling at his wife. “But they didn’t have the good sextant and compass I now have. Nor, and I’m not boasting, are they my equals as surveyors. I’m convinced they were too far north, and though they did find rivers to the sea, they were impossible for use with loaded canoes.”
“And if you find this great river, then you will finish your map.” It was a statement, not a question, and her voice was full of hope.
As they talked, Peter studied the family. The boy clinging to his mother Peter surmised to be Samuel. Standing erectly was a girl who was the image of her mother. He decided this
