A large open gulf appears in the distance, shimmering silver in the mid-morning sun. “The sea!” shouts Waccan from the bow of the canoe. A large land mass, an island perhaps, looms in the west while to the north large snow-capped mountains, almost impressive as the Rockies, rise high into the blue sky.
“I don’t see an American fort. Maybe we got here first,” Gagnier says. I know that Fraser will have to tell the men the truth very soon, and I’m nervous about the outcome.
“They may not be Americans, but someone else is here,” Waccan says. “Look to the northern bank.” On the shore is a cluster of buildings in a grove of towering cedar trees. There is no one visible but smoke from a campfire curls lazily into the trees.
“It must be a Musqueam village,” says Fraser. “We’ll land and introduce ourselves before we go any further.”
The idea does not sit well with La Malice. “Are you insane? You’ve heard what these people are like; they’ll treat us as invaders. They are likely to shoot first. We need to show them that we can’t be intimidated.”
Fraser snaps back. “Our safety lies in openness, not skulking around like thieves. We’ll greet these people as if we’re guests.” Remembering how I felt about the English invasion of Scotland, I can’t help thinking that the Musqueam have a right to protect their land. After all, the Company would like to set up a fort on the Pacific. We paddle towards the shore as ordered, and when the canoe lands, Fraser asks Stuart, Quesnel and me to get out and walk up the gentle bank towards the longhouses. We do so but as I glance back, I see La Malice is heading off along the beach. Where is he going? I wonder. Seeing no one in the village, we cautiously approach the nearest cedar plank house in the clearing.
I slowly pull aside the fibre mat that covers the door and peer inside. At first I see nothing but darkness, but as my eyes adjust to the gloom, I make out a shape in the corner of the house.
Straining my eyes in the shadows, I make out the shape of an elderly woman. She advances towards me, looking at me solemnly, and I hazard a smile. She lifts her hand in return.
“There is a woman inside,” I say, emerging into the sunlight. “She didn’t seem hostile.”
Suddenly we hear a shot and we see La Malice running back to the canoe waving his pistol.
“What is the matter?” we shout, but La Malice continues running towards the canoe.
“The fool has fired his pistol at someone,” Stuart says. “We’ll have to show them that we mean them no harm.”
Fraser agrees and we return to the canoe to obtain some gifts. As we are searching the canoe, a great shout arises. Warriors, wearing coats of skins and brandishing spears, bows and wicked-looking wooden clubs, burst out of the undergrowth.
“There is no time for peace talks,” Fraser shouts.
“Push! Push for your lives!” screams La Malice.
As the warriors advance, Fraser aims his gun. The Musqueam drop to the ground and raise their wooden shields to their heads at the sight of the weapon, but they don’t react with terror. Instead, they advance cautiously towards us as we struggle with the canoe. These are clearly confident warriors.
With a mighty heave, the canoe slips free of the mud. We scramble in and plunge our paddles deep into the brown water of the river as spears splash into the water and arrows hiss angrily through the air around us. Several strike the canoe but with a few frantic paddle thrusts, we’re safely out of range of the warriors. “What do we do now?” I ask, my terror subsiding.
“Now, Mr. Scott,” replies Fraser, “we go home. The tide’s rising and that will help us paddle against the current. We will deal with La Malice’s stupidity later.”
“At least we’ve followed the Columbia to its mouth,” says D’Alaire. “That’s a feat no one has done before.”
La Certe agrees. “And the Americans haven’t arrived yet either.”
Fraser casts a knowing glance at me. “Men,” he begins solemnly, “you’ve demonstrated great courage in the face of adversity. Never in the history of the North West Company has a finer group of voyageurs been assembled, nor a nobler task undertaken.”
He pauses to let his words sink in. Fraser really is proud of the brigade, I can tell. Lesser men would have deserted weeks ago. “We set out on a mission to follow the Columbia to the sea in the name of King and Company, but through the use of our sextants I began to suspect a day or two ago that this river is not the Columbia. Today when we saw the sea, my fears were confirmed. There is no American fort because we are too far north. This is a different river altogether.”
Fraser’s revelation stuns the voyageurs. Some of their expressions are blank and unreadable while others are visibly angry. Waccan speaks first, laughing bitterly at the news. “You mean to say that all this time and through all those dangers, we were on the wrong river?”
“Yes, but not intentionally,” concedes Fraser. “I truly believed it to be the Columbia.”
That does not satisfy La Malice. He bursts out angrily, “The great Simon Fraser, chasing fame and fortune, risking our necks for nothing!” The worst part of La Malice’s taunt is that it’s true. If the river was a practical trade route, the journey would have been worth the dangers, but with the rapids and the unfriendly nature of some of its inhabitants, this river will not serve the North West Company or the Empire.
“We’ll make it back to Fort St. James,” Fraser vows. “And you’ll all be well rewarded for your efforts, I promise you.”
I see Fraser glance at La Malice and grit his teeth. I wonder what reward he has in mind for the man who set the Musqueam against us.
Gagnier’s eyes swivel downriver as several canoes full of armed and chanting warriors rapidly approach. “I hope you’re right because if we’re to see one penny we’ll have to outrun them.”