“I must stay with my people,” Little Fellow tells us. “I am worried for them.”
Fraser hugs the small man tightly. “I can’t thank you enough. Without your help we would never have survived.” Over the weeks Little Fellow has become a trusted friend and companion, and we are sad to see him go.
“I’ll miss Little Fellow,” I say.
“We all will,” replies Fraser. “Some call these people ‘savages,’ and while it’s true they live a strange life by our European standards, they’re no different in their hearts from any of us. The colour of their skin may be different, but the same strengths and faults we find in Montreal or London are here in the wilds.”
We say a sombre farewell to Kumsheen and continue on our way. The weather’s awful, the trail’s as slippery as ice. To compound our misery, sharp stones slice through the thin leather of our footwear as if it were paper. Every step is torture. To run the risk of infection and go lame in this country could very well mean our death.
We move slowly, stopping frequently to repair our shoes and rest our blistered and bleeding feet, so it’s with tremendous relief when, four days later, we reach our cached canoes.
“Things are looking up,” says Quesnel. “Our canoes are untouched, and although the current is fast, the river will soon be navigable again. Paddling, even against the current, is a much better option than walking, the shape we are in. We may just get home after all.”
Tired and aching, we soon reach Xats’ull. Xlo’sem is there to greet us. “I’ve looked forward to this day since we parted ways!” he beams.
Fraser heartily agrees. “It’s good to be back. We’ve had many adventures since you left our company. I’d be happy to tell you about them.”
If the chief remembers that he’d snuck out of camp in the dead of night without a word of farewell he doesn’t bring it up, and neither, diplomatically, does Fraser. “Of course we will hear your story,” Xlo’sem replies, “but first we eat. You look terrible and your feet are ready to fall off your legs! The people downriver must not have treated you as well as I did!”
We are indeed a sight. We’ve all lost so much weight that our clothes hang in rags around us. We haven’t shaved for weeks; even I have the beginnings of a sparse beard on my face. My hair is long and greasy, and I can’t remember the last time I bathed. It’s a very good thing we aren’t making first impressions.
We rest for a few hours then eat the best meal we’ve had in nearly a month as Fraser recounts our adventures. When he hears about our troubles with the Musqueam and Sto:lo, Xlo’sem leaps up and waves his knife in the air. “I would have ordered my men to war had you been harmed! But something did happen … You’re missing a companion, the one with the black beard and sour face.”
“Our only casualty, I’m afraid to say,” explains Fraser. “There was an accident downstream and he fell into the river.” None of the men say anything. The truth of course is very different, but there’s no point in speaking about it here.
We finish our dinner, excuse ourselves and finish setting up camp. “The rain’s stopped,” I say, staring into the sky. “It looks as if it’s going to be hot tomorrow. I’d wager Simon will want to get going as soon as possible.”
“I think you’re right,” replies Quesnel. “Some of the voyageurs want to stay here for a few days, but I know how badly Simon wants to return to Fort St. James. If we don’t get back soon it will be too late to send a message to Montreal.”
“What do ye think the Company will do?” I ask. “This is a huge setback, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps they’ll send Simon to search for the headwaters of the real Columbia,” Quesnel says. “Or maybe there’s another route altogether that we don’t know about. This is wild and unexplored country; I’m sure it has a lot of surprises left in store for us.”
The next morning there is indeed a surprise waiting for us, but it doesn’t come from the land. Despite Quesnel’s thoughts to the contrary, Fraser tells us that he’s agreed to stay with the Secwepemc for two more days.
“It’s a good idea,” says Quesnel. “This is the first true day of rest we’ve enjoyed in nearly six weeks. It will do us and our feet a world of good. Besides, we dodged one mutiny; I don’t think Simon wants to encourage another one.”
In all, we spend three days swimming in a quiet backwater of the river and lounging in the hot sun. We could have stayed for weeks, but despite the protestations of the chief to remain, Fraser is adamant we leave.
Xlo’sem bids us an emotional goodbye, making Fraser promise to return as soon as he can. The people give us food and an ample supply of leather moccasins, along with bear grease to treat the sores on our feet. With the chief and the rest of the Secwepemc people waving from the shore, we push off into the river and paddle north.
We travel steadily upstream for several days, and our food situation greatly improves when, to the delight of all, Waccan finally shoots a deer. We eat fresh venison and are surprised to discover that our salmon caches are intact as well. Remarkably, some of the fish is still edible.
“We passed Mackenzie’s trail yesterday. One more patch of rough water and it’s clear sailing to Fort George,” says Fraser.
“And about time, Simon,” says Stuart. “Your river may never see another North West Company canoe, but that doesn’t take away from what we’ve done. And who knows, perhaps it will prove useful after all. If that day comes, people will have the men of the North West Company to thank for it.”
“I’m not concerned about the gratitude of future generations,” says Waccan, chewing on a dry piece of salmon the colour of paper. “I never thought I’d say it but I just want to get back to Fort St. James.”
“Then we’d best get you back soon,” promises Fraser. “Ten days from now, this trip will be over and consigned to the history books.”
It’s a warm night. The campfire crackles and pops as I watch the embers spiral up into the sky. There have been times on the journey I felt certain that I’d die and never see Liverpool or any other place again. But I have to admit that travelling the river has been the most remarkable experience of my life.
I remember Louise, and my hand travels absently to the medicine bag resting against my chest. It’s almost full now. Inside the leather pouch are treasures, including a pebble from the shores of Stuart’s Lake, a piece of wood from the hanging bridge that almost cost me my life, a shell from the muddy banks of the estuary, and a Musqueam arrowhead I’d dug out of the canoe. These are my memories of an amazing adventure. I’m anxious to show them to Louise, and tell her the stories that accompany them.
“Two years,” I say to myself. “I wonder what else can possibly happen before I get home.”
But there’s no home anymore for me. Just Libby, somewhere back in England, and even if by some miracle I return, would I even recognize my sister? Probably, but she was little more than a girl at our parting in Liverpool. Now she would be a woman. Which makes me, I realize with a start, a man.
I run my hand over my face, feeling my moustache and thin beard. And would she know me? I hope to find out soon. I’ve more than completed the mission I was sent on by McGillivray, but have no idea when, or even if, Fraser plans to send me back to Montreal.
On the afternoon of the sixth of August, two months and a week after we left it, Fort George appears ahead in the distance. Several figures emerge from the small log cabin, waving and shouting excitedly as the canoes slide gently ashore. “You’re alive! I can’t believe it!” cries Hugh Faries. “I gave you up for dead weeks ago!”
“You should know it takes more than a little voyage to the sea to kill a Nor’Wester, Mr. Faries,” replies Fraser.
“So the Columbia does reach the Pacific just as you thought it would!” Faries is ecstatic at the news.
Fraser shakes his head. “The Columbia does indeed reach the sea but this river, I’m afraid, is not the Columbia. Now put the kettle on and make us some tea, Hugh. I have quite a story to tell you.”