The shore closes in as we sail past a large island full of tall trees, high cliffs and beautiful sand-filled beaches. It still feels like the sea to me, but we’re now sailing into the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, Tom says.
Fishing boats and British warships — their sides bristling with cannons — patrol the river, while small farms, neat and orderly strips of land thick with the green growth of late spring, line the bank.
As the sun sets, the Sylph enters a large bay, and Captain Smith orders the anchor dropped for the night. River or not, the St. Lawrence is still a dangerous waterway, and he isn’t about to risk grounding his vessel this close to our destination.
“Can ye tell me more about Quebec?” I ask the next morning as the ship carries on its way. “I had never heard of the place until I came on board.”
“Quebec is a city in Lower Canada, one of our colonies, Duncan, and though we lost the last war with the Americans we managed to beat the French — not that you’d know it. Almost fifty years later, Quebec is still more French than English, although you Scots are doing your best to change that.”
The Sylph approaches a small island and ties up at a dock. On the shoreline sits a collection of brick and wooden buildings, a cluster of naval cannons and a church.
“This is Grosse Île,” says Tom. “Doctors come on board to inspect the passengers and crew. The authorities won’t let anyone with typhus, cholera or consumption enter the city. They’re quarantined here until they recover or …” Tom doesn’t need to finish his sentence and instead points to a large church graveyard, several fresh piles of dirt clearly visible.
At the captain’s orders, Irish migrants and sailors alike line up for inspection. Several doctors board the ship, accompanied by a few masked soldiers, and I stiffen as they approach. The doctors inspect the passengers and crew, and although most are allowed to remain on the ship, twelve Irish migrants are tearfully gathered up, placed under guard, and marched down the gangway. As my turn approaches, I pray the soldiers don’t know who I am and that the doctors won’t find some reason for me to join the sick.
“Your breath sounds laboured, boy — don’t have consumption, do you?” a doctor queries.
I lift up my shirt. “Nae, Sir. There was a storm at sea and I got hurt.” The doctor studies my bruised chest and sides and after a few seconds steps away, satisfied.
A dozen passengers lighter, the Sylph continues its journey, and as the sun starts to dip, we reach Quebec. The city seems small compared to Glasgow. It is a compact place of brick and wood buildings, houses and church spires packed tightly together on narrow streets, nestled between the river and a large hill. “Would you like one last piece of advice before you go?” asks Tom as the ship docks.
“Please,” I say gratefully.
“Don’t stay in Quebec City,” he tells me. “Go upriver to Montreal instead. Montreal’s a bigger place and it’s full of Scots. I’ve a mate with a river boat and he’d be glad to take you, I’m sure. And who knows, he may even be looking to hire someone who knows his way around a ship. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”
Tom walks me towards another boat tied up a hundred yards or so downriver. It’s called the Montcalm, a sturdy river freighter that plies the waters between Quebec City and the city of Montreal, explains Tom. As we walk down the dock, John Davis, its master, a tall dark-haired Scotsman greets us warmly.
“Going upriver are ye, lad?” he asks, after Tom makes introductions and tells him I’m looking for passage. “Well, any friend of Tom’s is a friend of mine. I’ll gladly take ye. We sail as soon as my crew load up the cargo, so why don’t ye head to the boat and give them a hand.”
“I don’t think he’s up to much heavy lifting, John,” says Tom. “He saved my life on board and took a nasty thrashing to his ribs for his troubles.”
“Och! So this brave young man is a hero, is he?” grins Davis.
I blush. “Nae, Sir. We were caught in a storm and I did what anyone else would do in that situation.”
“Don’t listen to him,” says Tom. “The lad risked his life for mine and I owe him a debt. This crossing was the worst I’ve experienced yet.”
“’Tis been bad on the sea of late,” Davis agrees. “The Sylph’s a guid ship and she can ride out most gales, but there were others not as lucky as ye. Another Liverpool ship, this one bound fer Boston, went down with all hands in the same storm that caught you.”
“What was it called?” I ask as a sick feeling grows in my stomach.
“The Leopard, I think,” says Davis. “Why?”
The Leopard. Five minutes quicker and I’d have been on board. I think immediately of the young boy who’d dreamed of a new life with his family, now lost at sea.
“Are ye all right, lad?” asks Davis. “Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost.” When I tell the story, Davis lets out a long soft whistle. “Well now, it seems ye have a guardian angel. Say a few prayers fer those poor souls if ye must, but count yer lucky stars and move on. Life is hard. Ye can’t enjoy the present if ye wallow in the past.”
The Montcalm’s cargo consists of supplies destined for the North West Company, and I’m very curious to know what sort of business needs such an eclectic assortment of blankets, tools, buttons and a crate that contains some rather odd-looking metallic jaws.
“They’re traps fer catching beaver and other such furry animals,” says Davis. “The North West Company’s in the furtrading business. They’ve a network of posts that reach more than a thousand miles into the western wilds.”
“Have ye been out west, Mr. Davis?” I ask.
“Gracious nae! Montreal’s as remote a place as I want to go. Only the voyageurs travel that far into the bush. Each one o’ them’s crazier than the next!”
“Voyageurs? Who are the voyageurs?” The strange word rolls uncomfortably off my tongue.
“I don’t have the words to describe them, lad,” laughs Davis. “When we get to Montreal ye can see fer yerself.” Davis shows me a small rise above the city. “’Tis the Plains of Abraham, where General Wolfe defeated General Montcalm in the battle fer Quebec.”
“Why would ye name this boat after a French general?” I ask. “Aren’t they our enemy?”
“Not any longer here in the new world. Now we work alongside them. Besides, many of my customers are French so it makes guid business sense. And don’t forget I am a Scot; I bear no love fer the English.” The sentiment is one I can sympathize with. Hamilton, Tinker and the soldier who took my sister were English.
“Right, lad,” says Davis motioning to the boat. “Say yer goodbyes. ’Tis time to head upriver. It’s not as dangerous a trip as across the Atlantic, but it’s still no easy matter to get to Montreal.”
Tom shakes my hand warmly. “Good luck, Duncan. Things will work out, I know it. Thanks again for saving my life. I’ll never be able to repay you, but consider this a start.” Before we sail Tom hands me a familiar leather pouch.
“The cap’n said to give you back your money, plus half a pound extra: payment for your services on the ship. Do you still have the knife I gave you?” he asks.
“Aye,” I reply, showing him the weapon.
“Good,” Tom says from the dock. “You’ll need it. Canada is a bit of a wild place.”