“’Tis a wee bit early fer a full brigade to travel east,” says Mackay as the watery March sun peeks through Fort William’s ice-frosted windows. It has been a long winter and Mackay has kept his word. We have been most busy doing chores around the fort.
“However, the two of ye should be able to pick yer way to Montreal by now. There’s still snow on the ground, but ye’ll leave tomorrow anyway. McGillivray’s waited long enough fer this news.”
With little ceremony save a crushing bear hug, we slip away from the wharf, heading east towards Lake Huron. In many places the rivers are still frozen and snow continues to fall well into April, but each day is warmer than the last, and we make good time. “La Grande Chaudière!” exclaims Lapointe more than a month after leaving Fort William, as a distant thunder rises on the early May wind. “We’ll be in Montreal in just a couple of days.”
We quickly portage the waterfall, stop briefly to give thanks at Sainte Anne de Bellevue, and then continue almost immediately, excitement building with each paddle stroke. When a dour stone building comes into view on the banks of the river, I almost cry with joy.
With Fraser’s report burning in my vest, there’s little time for visiting at Lachine, so we haul the canoe onto the shore and hurry down the wagon path to Montreal.
Without bothering to knock, Lapointe throws open Henry Mackenzie’s office door. Mackenzie stands up from his desk, the same desk he’d been working at when I first saw him. “Luc Lapointe, this is a surprise! And who is this voyageur?” he adds, staring blankly at me. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Sir, I’m Duncan Scott. Ye hired me, remember? Mr. McGillivray sent me west to New Caledonia.”
Mackenzie slumps back into his chair, dumbfounded. “My goodness! You went out a boy and have come back a man!”
“We’ve urgent news from Fraser,” says Lapointe. “Where can we find Mr. McGillivray?”
“What news?” A deep voice asks from the doorway. “Tell me quickly: did you make it to the Pacific? Did you beat the Americans?”
I hand over the confidential report and the letter from Fraser that I’ve carried since last summer. “Sir, we did reach the mouth of the river, but we didn’t find any Americans. The river isn’t the Columbia, ye see.”
“Damnation!” McGillivray frowns. “That is bad news! But this new river?” he asks hopefully. “Do we have a new trade route to the Pacific?”
“I’m afraid not. The river is far too wild fer commerce, and some of the people we encountered were less than hospitable. Read the report, Sir,” I say. “It sounds fantastic but I was there, and I can assure ye that every word in it is true.”