cut through Peter’s sorrow, and he sat up, leaning on his elbow the better to see Thompson. “What do you mean, ‘another way’?”
For a moment the mapmaker didn’t reply. Then, as though choosing his words carefully, he said, “At Spokane House I received letters from the east. I found one from Montreal that informed me they had news of a schooner bound for Boston that went down in a storm more than two years past. Three of the crew, still alive, were picked up by an American ship.”
Peter wet his lips and spoke past the knot in his throat. “It was the Windrover.”
“Aye, and one of the men said they had carried two passengers — a man and his son.”
“I tried to find my father, but the first mate pulled me away. He said he was gone, and I heard the mast cracking. I woke up in a boat.” Peter blinked, his heart hurting as well as his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Perhaps I erred, Peter, but I thought it best to wait until our journey’s end and try then to bring back your memory slowly. I thought first to mention the name Barrett to see if that would help you win it back, and if not, I would add the little I knew. Perhaps I was wrong. I hoped to save you from a great shock.”
Wearily, Peter said, “Thank you, sir. I think I’d like to sleep now.”
When he awoke, it was late afternoon and the cabin was empty. Even Dog had disappeared, and so had much of the pain in his head. Despite the sadness in his heart, he was hungry. He lay still, thinking. Peter would mourn his father for a very long while, but right now he must think of the days ahead. It was time to ask Thompson about the possibility of gaining employment with the North West Company at a post somewhere. He knew it couldn’t be Montreal, for only very senior company men worked there. Peter would miss the men he had spent the past year with, especially Boulard, but he had no other choice. He was a man now and must look after himself.
Ignoring a stab of pain, Peter steadied himself against the wall and rose to his feet. At the same moment the door opened, and Thompson walked in, followed by Boulard. With hurried steps they reached his side and grabbed an arm to lead him to the table. “Best be careful, lad,” the mapmaker said. “I feel certain that head of yours won’t welcome another fall.”
Boulard looked down at Peter sympathetically. “Ah, my young friend, I fear now to see you leave my sight else you do more damage to your head.”
Peter tried to grin, then swallowed hard, telling himself it was time to be bold and speak as a man. “Sir, now that we’re at the end of our journey I have a great favour to ask you.” He swallowed again. “I must find work. If you have need of a man in one of your posts, would you consider me?”
The two men glanced at each, their eyes twinkling. It was Thompson who replied. “Boulard and I have been discussing that very thing. However, we don’t think a post on the prairie is suitable for someone who’s been a voyageur.”
“You don’t?” Peter was puzzled by the mapmaker’s light tone.
Thompson chuckled. “To be serious, Peter, I should tell you that while we were at Boat Encampment both Boulard and I were impressed with the ease with which you managed to teach letters and a beginning of reading to some of our voyageurs. We’re certain you have the makings of a fine schoolmaster, and if you wish, we’ll see that you become one.”
Peter’s heart leaped. A schoolmaster! “It … it’s what my father wished for me. It’s why we left England. He thought in the New World …” He was overwhelmed and couldn’t continue.
Thompson glanced at Boulard, who grinned. “I take it he agrees. Here’s our plan. You and Boulard will go on to Montreal with the next brigade heading east. I’ll give you a letter for Mr. Fraser. He’ll help you to find a school to finish your education, and you and Boulard will live on the farm I purchased three years earlier. My family and I will join you next year.”
Peter turned his back until he thought it safe to speak. The silence was broken by Boulard. “It has a good sound, this name Adam Barrett, but for me I believe always he will be Peter.”
Scrubbing the moisture from his eyes, Peter looked up. “Then I’ll no longer be Peter No-Name. I’ll be Peter Three-Names — Peter Adam Barrett.”
David Thompson smiled his agreement. “Aye, and later to have a fourth — Peter Adam Barrett, Schoolmaster.”
For Laurie, Gus, Denette, and Bruce
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, my thanks to my husband, Hank Bayle, for enthusiastic help with my research. Thanks also to Neil Colvin for the loan of his five-volume set of The Collected Writings of Louis Riel and to Lois Patterson for sharing books, documents, and news clippings concerning the Canadian military during the North-West Rebellion.
I also owe thanks to the impressive Hudson’s Bay Archives in Winnipeg for the detailed accounts of the lives of some of those involved in the events leading to the 1885 conflict. And I certainly must express my appreciation for the wealth of information at Saskatchewan’s Duck Lake Historical Museum, and also for the splendid reconstruction of the Fort Carlton Hudson’s Bay trading post. Thanks, too, to the friendly staff in Calgary’s Glenbow Museum for their help in locating pictures of the players in the bitter struggle at Batoche.
This book would not have been written were it not for the impressive Batoche National Historic Park. It is a quiet landscape of rolling hills covered with dry, waving grass where wagon ruts still mark the Carlton Trail and indentations pit the earth where desperate men defended their land. The information centre there is superb, and the staff are friendly and helpful.
ONE
Ben Muldoon trudged head down through the shallow ravine, not caring that his footsteps had splintered the silence of the sun-dappled forest all the way to the river. As he tugged at the reins of the tall black horse plodding behind him, he wished he hadn’t left the main trail to follow this game track. He slapped at a cloud of tiny insects in front of his face and considered climbing back on his horse again, though each time he did, the low branches of spruce and cottonwood knocked off his flatcrowned black hat and scraped his face. No matter. He would be at the river soon enough.
Rounding a sharp turn in the trail, he froze as a blast from a gun reverberated in the stillness. In the same instant a bullet whistled past his ear. Dropping to his knees, Ben released his hold on the reins and, with shaking hands, steadied his rifle. He peered into the forest around him, his heart hammering and the inside of his mouth suddenly as dry as yesterday’s bannock. A twig snapped, but he turned too late. With the shove from behind, he lost his grip on his rifle. When he sprawled face forward, a brown hand reached for the gun. Fear galvanized Ben as he leaped up and lunged at his assailant. Dry branches of brush snapped as the two boys grappled and fell to the ground. In a moment it was over.
It was almost too easy, but as Ben looked down, he realized the Indian pinned to the ground was probably no older than himself and about twenty pounds lighter. He got to his feet slowly and backed away a few steps before bending to pick up his rifle. His eyes on his captive, he worked the lever to send a cartridge into the breech. “Get up.”
