Judging by the warriors who stand between us and the canoe, their spears pointed, bows at the ready, the chief has changed his mind about lending us it. Things escalate when one of the Sto:lo takes a jacket belonging to La Malice from the top of our pile of gear and waves it triumphantly to his friends, as if it were a trophy. Before anyone can stop him, the dark-bearded voyageur tackles the thief and points his pistol at his chest. “That’s mine!” he yells. “I’ll kill you for that!”
Fraser is horrified. “La Malice! Stop! We’re dead men if you shoot. Protect the canoe and the gear, but don’t pull that trigger!” Reluctantly, La Malice steps back, allowing the warrior to scramble to his feet, forgetting all about the jacket.
We walk towards the canoe in a semi-circle, our pistols aimed at the warriors. “You promised we could borrow this canoe. I took you at your word,” says Fraser. “Where I come from a man stands by his obligations.”
Little Fellow and Duyunun quickly translate, and with two dozen guns aimed at him, the chief takes the opportunity to reconsider the situation. “The canoe is yours,” he says sourly, to a howl of protest from his warriors.
“To borrow,” he adds, brushing aside the complaints of his men. “The Musqueam are fierce warriors and may kill you, but if you survive you’ll give the canoe back and leave our land forever.” Decision made, the chief leaves the riverbank with his upset people following.
“You must go on without me,” Little Fellow says. “I’ll stay here and await your return. There’s bad blood between my people and the Musqueam. My presence would only endanger you.”
Fraser clasps the small man’s hand warmly. “In that case we’ll be back shortly,” he promises. “Please be careful while we’re gone. I don’t trust these people.”
As soon as we push out into the river, the long, heavy dugout moves quickly downstream away from the Sto:lo village. “Those are strange-looking otters,” says D’Alaire a short while later, looking at several black creatures poking their whiskered noses out of the water.
“Those aren’t otters,” exclaims Gagnier. “They’re seals! We must be nearly at the sea!” Our excitement at almost reaching our destination is short-lived. Our supply of salmon is gone. What hasn’t been eaten is completely rotted. With no friendly locals to feed us, we have little choice but to make camp and scrounge for berries and shellfish along the riverbank.
Night falls. We light a fire, post guards, and while the men prepare for bed, Stuart comes up to me. “Simon would like to talk to you and Jules. Quietly,” he adds.
Together we walk down the beach. When we have gone a short distance from the camp, Quesnel and I watch in silence as Stuart checks his sextant against the stars several times.
“Simon, we’re still more than two hundred miles north of the known latitude of the Columbia’s mouth,” he says finally, “but the ocean can’t be more than a few hours away. It’s time to admit that —”
Fraser completes Stuart’s sentence. “That we’ve been risking our lives on the wrong river for weeks? The stars don’t lie and so I’m left with two inescapable conclusions: this is not the Columbia and I’m a failure on a grand scale. I wonder what Mackenzie will say when he hears this story.”
Confused, I look at Quesnel. “The wrong river?” I ask. Quesnel nods, and then I understand. Since Kumsheen at least, Fraser and Stuart have suspected this, an outcome confirmed today with the last measurement.
“Sir, this may not be the Columbia,” I tell Fraser, trying to cheer him up, “but this is still an historic discovery. Ye’ve found a new river and followed it from the heart of the wilderness to the sea. Even if we have walked part of the way. Who knows what the Company may do with it? They could ferry furs and supplies fer some of the trip and transfer the rest by horse.”
“Going indirectly was not the object of our undertaking, Mr. Scott,” replies Fraser dejectedly. “I’d hardly consider this river any good for trade. Besides, how does it help the Empire if the Americans are sitting unmolested on the banks of the real Columbia, far to the south? We’ve failed in both our missions.”
“When will you tell the men?” asks Stuart. “They won’t be pleased, but they still must be told.”
Fraser reluctantly agrees. “Tomorrow, I suppose. We’ll stay on course until we reach the Pacific, then return to Fort St. James immediately afterward so I can report our failure to Montreal.”
“I just hope we’ll be able to send word to McGillivray,” Stuart says. “We’ve yet to run into these Musqueam. If they’re as dangerous as everyone says, I’ll consider this voyage a success if we make it back alive, no matter what river this may be.”