Chapter
2

Pierre squinted at his reflection in the clear puddle and scraped the long razor across his cheek again.

“Ah, looking good, monsieur.” He sat up straighter and flashed himself a grin so that he could see the full effect of his personal ministrations. “Looking real good.”

He’d spent more time taking care of his appearance in the past two hours than he had all winter. Like the rest of his brigade, he’d scrubbed the bear grease from his face and had lathered himself with soap to rid himself of all the dirt and vermin he’d accumulated during the past months of travel. He’d even attempted to launder his clothes, although the first chance he had, he was trading for a pair of corduroy trousers and a cotton shirt.

Red Fox watched him with his steady, serious eyes.

“What do you think?” Pierre rubbed his hand across his chin, the smooth skin strange under his callused fingers. “I’ll bet you’ve never seen anyone quite as handsome, have you?”

“I think you want to make a feast for black flies and mosquitoes.”

Pierre knew the young brave thought he was foolish for shaving the heavy beard and washing away the bear grease that kept them from being eaten to the bones by vicious swarms of insects that came to life every spring.

“It’s a small price to pay to get the attention of the pretty ladies.” Pierre bent toward the pool of recent rainwater, cupped his hands, and splashed his face. “Where I come from, the smell and sight of bear grease isn’t exactly going to endear me to anyone.”

“You do not need those ladies.” Red Fox’s ever-watchful eyes scanned the lakeshore, where the rest of the voyageurs were washing and making themselves presentable before they forayed into civilized society. “Not when you could have a good woman from among my tribe.”

Pierre rinsed his razor. Many coureur de bois like himself took Indian women as their wives. The native women knew how to paddle and patch a canoe and make bearskin robes, and they could ice fish in the harshest of winter temperatures. As the headman of a fur brigade, an Indian wife could be a great asset. Many of his fellow traders married Indian women, not only for their knowledge of the land and ability to survive in the wilderness but because the unions helped solidify trading relationships within tribes.

Maybe marriage to an Indian woman was his best option. Even so, he wanted to put it off for as long as possible. “I’m not ready to get married.”

“Then you do not need the attention of ladies.”

Pierre tossed Red Fox a grin. “There are some of us who get attention no matter what we do.”

He dried the razor blade on the grass and then returned it to the leather case he only used in the spring and summer when he returned to civilization.

The wide open shoreline that made up the south side of the Straits spread before him. It had been cleared of all its timber in bygone years. In fact, the treeless terrain stretched back for at least three miles from the shore, evidence of the old fort and community that had once thrived there.

Now all that remained were a few charred picket walls buried in drifting sand. Long before he’d been born, the old buildings had been dragged across the ice of the Straits and reconstructed on Michilimackinac Island, which was a more strategic location for a fort than the wide, exposed mainland.

Too bad the Americans hadn’t been able to make use of that strategy and hold the fort at the beginning of the war.

He peered across the choppy water. In the distance he could see the rising hump of the island, the Great Turtle, as the Ottawa called it—the place where the waters of both Lake Michigan and Lake Huron flowed together around the island’s shoreline.

Home.

He dragged in a breath of the damp, cool air, letting the familiar lakeshore breeze caress his bare skin. His predawn trip onto the island yesterday morning had made him realize how much he’d missed his childhood home in the years he’d been gone.

He’d never thought he would miss it, had always expected that once he left he’d never want to return.

But thankfully God had whacked him hard across the head and brought him to his knees.

And as much as he loved the wilderness and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, an urgent need to return to the island had haunted him these past months, ever since he’d learned that Michilimackinac had fallen to the British.

“We must go. The Great Spirit Git-chi Man-i-tou is waiting.” Red Fox rose from the rock where he’d perched. His necklace of beads and metal disks clinked together and bumped against his shirtless chest. He’d already painted his face, one half blue and the other half red with the vermillion Pierre had provided the Chippewa in preparation for their return to the island.

Red Fox’s tribe would be paddling to the island today too, arriving to receive their yearly gifts from the British, a system that provided provisions to the Indians in exchange for their friendship.

“We have waited too many sleeps to go to the Great Turtle,” Red Fox said, his young face thin with worry. “We must not anger the Great Spirit by waiting any longer.”

Pierre crossed his arms and assessed his crew among the throngs. “We’ll leave soon. When the men are ready.” His men were laughing and singing and excited about the stop on Michilimackinac.

Even though he was anxious to return, he was nervous too. His parting with his family hadn’t exactly been a happy occasion.

His foolishness weighed heavily upon him whenever he thought about the final heated argument he’d had with his papa. He may have made peace with God, but he’d never be able to make peace with Papa. Now he’d have to live the rest of his life with the regret of not being able to look Papa in the eyes, shake his hand, and ask for his forgiveness.

At least soon he’d be able to stand before his maman, hug her, and tell her he was sorry.

Of course, during his early morning mission to the island the previous day, he hadn’t been able to resist swinging by his home and peeking in on her. He’d had to wrench himself away, even though his heart had swelled with longing to feel her gentle fingers comb his hair as she’d always done. He knew speaking with her would have put his entire mission in jeopardy. As it was, he’d stayed too long.

He hadn’t planned to let anyone see him. But on his way back to his canoe, he’d come across a soldier strangling a young woman. Thankfully he’d knocked the soldier out before he knew what was coming. When the soldier woke up, he wouldn’t have any clue what had happened. Which was a good thing, because the British liked him and thought he was their friend. If any of them suspected he was communicating with the Americans, they’d arrest him and lock him away for the duration of the war, if they didn’t kill him first.

Unfortunately, the woman had seen his face, had been too curious, and dare he say—recognized him? And even though he’d pleaded with her to remain silent, he had the feeling she’d already spread word about his arrival to everyone on the island.

He couldn’t really blame her. He remembered what it was like after the long winter, waiting for the first contact with someone from the outside world. Whatever the case, he was hoping the fresh shave and a change of wearing apparel would make him indistinguishable from all the many voyageurs who would descend upon the island with him.

“You will anger the Great Spirit by sneaking around the island like a-se-bou the raccoon,” Red Fox warned, as if he’d sensed the direction of Pierre’s thoughts.

“I’m just doing my part in the war,” Pierre replied. He hadn’t wanted to pick up a gun and fight. And because he was an important fur trader, no one had questioned his decision to stay off the battlefield. In fact, because of the relationships he’d already formed with the British over the past several years, none of the British officers had second-guessed his loyalty, even though he was an American citizen.

“The raccoon is nothing but a thief,” Red Fox said, puffing out his chest and staring off into the distance. “It is no good to have your feet in two fires. Someday you will get burned.”

Red Fox was one of the smartest men Pierre had ever met, but also one of the most superstitious. He believed every legend and lore that had been passed on to him from his people. And while Pierre had tried to speak to him of his God of mercy and love, Red Fox could not understand a God like his. And he certainly couldn’t understand Pierre’s part in the war, not when he himself didn’t know how he’d gotten mixed up with both sides.

“I’m too smooth and quick to get burned,” Pierre said, slipping on his shirt. As the damp material slid over his head, his gaze landed on several men poking around his canoes.

Not surprisingly, several other brigades had also stopped at the Straits to bathe before making an appearance on the island. The shore was lined with their birchbark canoes, loaded with the pelts they’d collected all winter, including many of the North West Fur Company voyageurs and their agent.

Pierre stiffened and started toward them.

Red Fox put a steadying hand on Pierre’s arm. “You cannot get attention of ladies with cuts and bruises on your face.”

Pierre’s footsteps faltered. He’d only been jesting with Red Fox about winning the attention of the ladies. The truth was he’d put off his womanizing ways along with his drinking when God had turned him back around.

If he were completely honest with himself, the real reason he wanted to clean himself up was because he wanted to look good when he finally stood before his maman.

But he wouldn’t make such a favorable impression on Maman if he showed up with a black eye and busted lip, which was what he’d come away with the last time he’d gotten into a fight with a North West Company agent.

“Stay away from my canoes.” Pierre forced himself to stop at the stern of one of his vessels. In the bright morning sun, the strong scent of pine rose up from the white birchbark his men had recently coated with fresh resin so that the canoes would be durable and waterproof for the last leg of their journey.

The agent kept strolling, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his sagging trousers. Like most of the men, he was still shirtless, and his back was the purplish-red of a beet that one too many sunburns had stained over the years.

Pierre quickly took stock of the ninety-pound bundles that had come hundreds of miles, through rapids, over portages, and past many dangerous currents. His brigade had risked their lives to haul the furs out of the wilderness. At the very least they deserved the rewards for the hard labor.

And he was determined to do whatever he could to finish their journey in safety without any further problems from North West Company men who wanted to see free traders like himself put out of business altogether.

“Leave my furs alone.” Pierre growled the words. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough to damage my business this year?”

“Nope.” A grin turned up the corners of the agent’s lips, revealing crooked, tobacco-stained teeth—at least what was left of his teeth. “I figure I still got some time to make you go crying home to your mama, where you belong.”

Pierre gripped the closest paddle, decorated with a colorful pattern. The paddle was the arm of every voyageur, his life, safety, and pride, often inherited from a voyageur father, and almost always blessed by a local priest before leaving on a journey.

Of course, his papa hadn’t given him his paddle.

Red Fox moved next to Pierre, his dark eyes issuing another warning—the warning not to swing the paddle. “Do not fight. One day your belt will be heavy with the scalps of your enemies. But not today.”

Pierre struggled against the urge to knock the agent flat on the ground. His men had become his family. The wilderness had become his home. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone push him out of doing what he loved. And he couldn’t let the North West Company strip his brigade of what was rightfully theirs, not after months of hard work.

The agent ambled along the last of Pierre’s canoes as if he were taking a leisurely stroll instead of calculating how he could steal or destroy the cargo of furs.

Pierre started forward, but Red Fox grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backward. “Not today,” he said, firmer this time.

Pierre strained to break loose from his friend’s grip, hoping his shirt would rip and set him free to slam into the agent. But before Pierre could get away, Red Fox had wrenched his arm behind his back and jerked it painfully.

“We need to go now to the Great Turtle,” Red Fox said. “Then my people will help keep watch over my brother’s furs.”

“You’re right.” Shame slipped a knot around Pierre’s heart. “I’m still too quick to pick a fight.”

Maybe he was still quick to sin in too many areas. Maybe he hadn’t changed enough yet to return home.

He glanced again at the rising hump of Michilimackinac, letting the cool air blowing off the lake soothe him, along with the lingering scent of the whitefish he’d caught and roasted for his men.

Today he had hoped to stand in his childhood home and cook dinner for Maman. He’d seen the near-starvation conditions of the British garrison yesterday during his mission. Even though Maman surely wasn’t faring as badly as the soldiers, he’d saved several of his catch, along with the cornmeal and onions he’d purchased from the Chippewa. He wanted to make her a feast of baked stuffed whitefish, and if he had enough of the cornmeal left, he would make her the hasty pudding she so loved.

But maybe he should move on, urge his brigade to St. Joseph’s. They had no reason to stop at Michilimackinac. Up until now, they’d always bypassed it. He’d made a point of avoiding home.

Why should he change course now? What made him think Maman would want to see him again?

“We will wait for right time to attack company traders. Then our war clubs will strike like lightning and our arrows will sting like the hornet.” Red Fox watched the North West agent slink back to his brigade. His dark eyes glittered as sharp as the edge of his tomahawk. “They have hurt and cheat my people too many times. We will repay them. Someday.”

Pierre knew the Indians were getting tired of dealing with the North West Fur Company. Their agents were stealing and encroaching on Indian land. And now many of the natives preferred to work with free traders like Pierre, who were more honest and fair in their dealings.

The Indians had more patience with their enemies than he did. Even so, Pierre knew that when the natives finally had enough of the abuse, their retribution would be swift and brutal.

Pierre was glad Red Fox was his friend and not his enemy.

The young brave’s painted face was fierce. “Today is the day of calling to the Corn Spirit so that our bellies will be full when game is scarce. And you must offer the peace pipe to your family. You have withheld the pipe for too long.”

Pierre nodded. He’d come this far. He couldn’t stop now.

Even if Maman didn’t forgive him, at least he’d find peace in apologizing. Oui. Red Fox was right. If he faced his fears, he’d finally be able to move on to his future without the past pulling him back.

Pierre rolled his shoulders, easing the tension from them. Then he curled his tongue against the back of his teeth and whistled. The piercing sound rang out over the beach, signaling his men to start packing up.

Red Fox released his arm and nodded at him, his eyes praising him for his self-control this time.

Pierre dropped the paddle.

He wasn’t the same reckless youth who’d left the island. He was a changed man.

Hopefully he would be able to prove that to his maman. And eventually prove it to himself too.