As we push towards our goal, a place far to the west called Fort St. James, the grasslands disappear as we enter a landscape carpeted with trees, rivers, lakes and swamps. We continue west through the forest along the great inland highway of the fur trade, the Saskatchewan River, dropping off men, canoes and supplies at Cumberland House, La Loch, Fort Vermilion, Fort Chipewyan and a host of other isolated North West Company outposts.
Two months after leaving Red River, and now paddling on the Peace River, a majestic range of mountains comes into view, their snow-capped peaks so large that the little piles of heath and stone I knew back in Scotland hardly seem worthy of the same name.
“The Rocky Mountains they’re called. We will traverse them to the north,” says Lapointe. “We’ve almost made it, mon ami. Fort St. James and Simon Fraser are less than three weeks away.”
We reach Fort Dunvegan, a small post on the banks of the Peace River. Ever mindful of the importance of our mission we stay just two days, then say our goodbyes as Lapointe and I leave in one lone canoe. The other voyageurs remain at Fort Dunvegan, needed for the local fur trade.
We enter the mountains. I feel claustrophobic as we fight against the increasing current of the river, following it into a deep mountain pass. We make many portages around logjams and rapids, each one more difficult than the last.
Even though our load has been much reduced along the way, our canoe still carries nearly three hundred pounds of supplies: supplies that need to be packed on our backs at each portage.
A week from Fort Dunvegan, and with the western flanks of the mountain behind us, the river widens, slows down and deposits us on the shores of a large lake. Not far from the river mouth is an abandoned collection of log cabins. The door of the largest building hangs limp, partially ripped off its hinges. Judging by the mess inside, a bear or some other large animal has made the place its home, and the destruction mystifies Lapointe.
“This place is called Fort Misery,” says Lapointe.
“I can see why,” I reply, looking at the wreckage around me.
“The name is more than appropriate in the middle of the winter,” agrees Lapointe, “but in the summer it has always been a decent enough place to rest before the final push to Fort St. James. This is valuable fur country; there should be men at this post trading with the local people. I don’t for the life of me understand what happened.”
Lapointe looks unsettled. “Usually we’d stay and rest here for a day or two, but we’ll leave at first light tomorrow. There’s no point in lingering in these ruins.”
The abandoned fort marks the start of the longest portage on the journey. A trail has been blazed through the woods to guide the few fur traders that venture this far west, but off the narrow path the wilderness is dark and oppressive. We keep our guns close by.
After three long days of portaging, we reach the banks of a large river. Grateful to be out of the forest, we stop for just a short break before Lapointe orders us onto the water. “Fort St. James is just a few hours upstream. We’ll reach it by nightfall if we put our backs into it. Allez! I’m tired of sleeping in these cursed woods!”
Just before dusk, the canoe enters a large lake surrounded by low rolling mountains. I scan the lakeshore and see a handful of small log cabins with the North West Company’s flag fluttering above them. People stand on the beach, and a chorus of shouts fills the air as our canoe crunches loudly on the gravel. Within seconds we’re surrounded by a smiling and shouting crowd.
“They are the Carrier people,” says Lapointe, exchanging a few strange guttural words with a smiling man. “Fraser named the place Fort St. James, but these people call it Nak’azdli.”
“Let me through!” A powerful voice shouts from beyond the circle of well-wishers, and the man I’ve crossed a continent to see strides purposely through the crowd.
Simon Fraser is a short, compact man with large auburn sideburns that reach down to his prominent chin. I’m surprised at his age. Fraser is barely in his thirties by the looks of things, and though I’d not consider the explorer a handsome man, there’s something captivating about him. Simon Fraser is a man to be reckoned with, I can tell.
“It’s good to see you again, Simon,” grins Lapointe. “We missed you at the Rendezvous.”
“Luc! It’s always a pleasure to see you.” I’m taken aback by Fraser’s voice. With the Scottish name, I’d expected a strong Highland lilt but he speaks with a strange nasal accent. Then his sharp eyes rest firmly on me.
“You have a youngster with you I don’t know. What’s your name, boy, and what brings you to New Caledonia?”
I reach into my jacket for the precious oilskin-covered package. “My name’s Duncan Scott, Sir. Mr. McGillivray sent me to give ye this letter — and to help ye.”
As Fraser takes the letter, a short, wiry man with a close-cropped black beard and eyes that shine like coal steps forward, leering in a way that makes me shudder.
“Help us? You hardly look old enough to dress yourself!” The man edges closer. This isn’t the greeting I’d expected, and my cheeks turn red in anger.
“That’s enough, La Malice,” Fraser says, stuffing the letter in his vest. “You’d do well to watch your tongue.”
“My apologies, Monsieur,” this La Malice says, voice dripping with sarcasm on the word “Monsieur.” “I’m certain our new helper has a wealth of experience in the bush. I’m more than happy to defer to his wisdom.”
Fraser chooses to ignore the comment and instead turns his attention to me. “Well Mr. Scott, since you’re here to help, you may as well start by unloading the supplies you have so graciously brought.”
Eager to impress, I lift a heavy bale of supplies from the canoe, well aware that the eyes of every voyageur are on me. I struggle with the bale, and as I do, I slip on a wet rock, lose my balance and fall into the cold water of the lake. Cheeks burning with embarrassment I scramble to my feet and heave the wet bale to shore, my ears stinging with La Malice’s laughter.
“What did I tell you?” he says. “The little whelp can’t even carry a bale from the canoe!”
My temper flares and without thinking I pick up a paddle and splash the mocking voyageur. The crowd erupts in cheers, but La Malice’s eyes glitter with hate. “You’ll pay for that, boy,” the voyageur hisses, his fists clenched.
I easily sidestep the attack. Not expecting me to move so fast, La Malice stumbles and lands heavily in the lake himself. “Who’s the drowned rat now?” I shout.
“I’ll show you what happens to whelps who don’t know their place!” La Malice shouts, climbing quickly to his feet, lunging towards me as his hand moves purposefully towards the large knife in his belt.
Fraser steps between us. “Hold your hand and your tongue, La Malice. You got no more than you deserved. Leave the lad alone and get back to work.”
Venom shooting from his eyes, the voyageur splashes out of the water. “You’ll regret that, boy,” he whispers as he passes by, his breath hot on my cheek.
Simon Fraser slaps me heartily on the back. “You certainly know how to make an introduction, my hot-headed friend. You’ve won yourself a place with the men, no doubt, but I’d watch out for La Malice if I were you. He’s not exactly known for his sense of humour. Now help finish unloading the canoe. Then put on some dry clothes. And this time,” Fraser laughs, “try to keep my supplies out of the lake.”
As I’m escorted from the beach, Fraser turns to a tall man standing beside him. “After a day or two, Mr. Stuart, once Luc’s rested up, ask him to return to Fort Dunvegan with one of the other voyageurs for the winter. Also, bring La Malice to my cabin in half an hour,” he adds in a lower tone of voice. “I’ll have a stern conversation with him, but first I need a moment’s peace to read the letter from Montreal.”
Fraser holds the unopened oilskin before his eyes and struggles to control his excitement. “If this says what I hope it does, we’ll have far bigger things on our plates than a surly voyageur.”