Another Forgotten War: 1811-1812

PART ONE - SUMMER 1811

CHAPTER 1.1 - STRAITS OF MACKINAC

Robert Dickson could hardly lift his arms. He slumped onto the stinking bale of furs at his knees and stifled a gasp. He forced his back straight and willed his heavy paddle from the water and across the gunwales of his battered canoe. Augustin La Roque drifted alongside Dickson.

Dickson, La Rocque and their crews had endured a long day navigating the vast open water of Lake Michigan and into the Straits of Mackinac. The canoes were on the way from Green Bay, beyond the frontier of civilization, to Fort St Joseph, the westernmost outpost of Canada and England. In the early afternoon, a northwest wind came up and their pleasant mid-summer crossing of the great lake turned into pounding hard labour. Finally, they passed into calm waters shielded behind Isle San’ Helena where they took a little rest.

As their canoes drifted together in the island’s placid wind shadow, La Rocque’s lungs recovered enough to speak. Dickson. He heaved a breath. You look about ruined, man. La Rocque peered at his reflection in the water, silvered like a mirror. About as ruined as me. God, that was hard work for old fellows like us.

Dickson scooped up a cup of water and splashed it over his head. We can rest here for a while, dry out the canoes, and have something to eat. Dickson’s stomach growled at the thought of food, but the crewmen set their paddles aside and swiftly stoked their stubby clay and stone pipes. Food could wait. In the meantime, I will tell you what lies ahead. Dickson and La Rocque had travelled these waters many times, as had several of their crews, but this was new territory for the younger men, including Dickson’s son.

As soon as the men had their pipes charged and fired, Dickson waved them back to their bails and sponges to dry the canoes. They had worked twelve hours crossing the lake, paddling without a break, and half those hours were spent quartering a stiff wind. The laden canoes had shipped water.

From here, we head southeast, keeping close to the shore. With the wind directly behind us, we will be moving fast. The youngest men grinned and winked at each other around the stems of their pipes. Dickson glared at them and put a warning note in his voice. The shore is entirely marshland with a few slabs of exposed rock. There is little refuge for a reckless crew in trouble.

Dickson let them work a while as he lounged in the stern, and dipped into his bag of honeyed nuts and berries. We stay close to the shore until we reach Point la Barbe, about six miles away. We are already drifting on the Mackinac’s current, and when we reach la Barbe we will be at the mouth of the strait.

La Rocque’s voice screeched in mock terror. Poised on her lips. Ready to suck us in! The men snickered and dabbed at puddles and pools in the bottom of the canoes.

Dickson ignored him and them. When we pass la Barbe, we use the wind to cross well into the gut of the strait. To clear the strait, we steer east and a little north. Most of the wind will be behind us. The water is very shallow. There are rocks and sandbars just below the surface. The waves will bounce us up and down. To make his point, Dickson sketched a few tall waves with one hand until he brought it down with a smack onto the other. He did not have to tell the men the canoes could not take a hit on a rock or bar. They knew the frail shells under them were old and hard-used.

We clear the north shore of the straits. There is deadly rubble strewn everywhere. The mid-channel current is safest, but we cannot stay in it too long or we will be swept east along the south shore into Lac Huron. We want the north shore. The men had the canoes dry and were slouched against the fur packs, gobbling pemmican and puffing furiously on their pipes.

As soon as we clear the point, we steer north around a finger of barren rock pointing right at Mackinac Island. We stay close to shore. The land is on the west, so we lose the following wind, but we are then in the lee. No more slop over the gunwale! The men shouted approval. From there we paddle in calm water as far as we can, and camp for the night. Pipes were scraped out, embers hissing in the water, and they got underway.

The signs of danger were plentiful. Most were easy to see and avoid, but the sight of one hazard always inspired fears of unseen others. The wind and current fairly drove them deep into the strait, and all the while they dodged giant boulders, ragged ridges, shoals of gravel, and muddy sandbars.

As they passed la Barbe, the huge length of Lake Huron opened before them. The afternoon sun presented a splendid view of Mackinac Island with Isle Marie a blurred green mound beyond. In the farthest distance, the bleached blue of the lake spread east to join the darkening sky like a huge blanket folded over everything the men could see. Dickson gave them a moment to find themselves in the vastness, then he pointed with his paddle to where they must bear. He sang to his crew, a Gaelic dirge in favour of a Highland cattle thief and having nothing to do with paddling.

La Rocque liked Dickson’s song the first three times it was sung, but the pace it set was too slow. Before he could start another dreary round of spitting Gaelic, La Rocque interrupted with a true canoe man’s song, a French song with a rhythm to make the boatmen work. The men picked up La Rocque’s powerful baritone and drove hard across the current.

The canoes swept off to the north, quartering the wind and again taking water. They barely cleared a windswept islet standing off la Barbe, wound through a rock garden sprouting white frothy flowers, and careened past a last toothy point. They lunged into the lee of mainland, and away from the maw of the great lake.

They entered a paddlers’ paradise. A light breeze played across the water, keeping the biting insects off the crew and drying their hot sweat. The mid-summer splendour was enhanced by the yellow evening light. Dickson squinted at the sun. Very nice. La Rocque, drift your canoe over here for some talk. La Rocque ferried toward Dickson. They met at paddle length and held each other off.

We have enough daylight to get clear of the straits and reach St Ignace for the night. Four or five miles. We won’t get any further north before dark. What do you think? The crews were listening.

Good. From St Ignace, the American fort on Mackinac Island is only four miles away across the water, but Ignace is not in easy sight from there. The hump of the island blocks the view from the fort. If we keep close to shore, the sun in the west will hide us in shadow. With that, La Rocque nudged the canoes apart and set his crew to work cruising north, following an endless marshland, barren rocky plates, and barely-submerged threats.

The crew sang no songs. They craned and squinted across the waves, dazzling in the setting sun, searching the maze of marshy reeds for the beach below St Ignace.

Dickson saw their landing first and let out a whoop, short-lived in lungs worked like foundry bellows. The bleary crews were startled by his cry and looked to where he was pointing. A tiny beach lay on the left, a mere dimple in the vast stretch of waving, watery green. They turned towards it.

CHAPTER 1.2 - ST IGNACE, LAKE HURON

Dickson stared across the water at the distant island. Ordinarily, the brigade would have stopped for the night at the American fort on Mackinac Island, just east of the straits, but Dickson did not want to meet Americans. The last time he was at Michilimackinac, he had fallen afoul of the American’s Non-Importation Act, passed by Congress a few years earlier. He had encountered the town’s customs official, attended by an old soldier, who demanded to inspect his goods. When Dickson refused, the official told him he could take himself and his English truck back to Canada. He had grabbed Dickson by the arm as though to propel him on his way. Dickson struck him once and hard, below the chest bone and left him gasping and thrashing on the ground. The old soldier chuckled, then cocked his finger first at Dickson and then at the passage west. Dickson immediately rounded up his crew and departed. He would not be welcome in Mackinac.

Non-importation acts and embargo acts were standard fare in American policy since they won their revolutionary war. Whenever the United States was suffering at home or abroad, they cut off imported foreign goods, be they Spanish, French, or especially English. Since 1806, the Act was invoked, repealed or changed once or twice a year, with little effect on the flow of goods in the far west, because nobody on the frontier knew for certain and from season to season whether the edict applied. Voyageurs are discrete travellers, passing swiftly without drawing attention to themselves or their goods. The vacillating policy simply directed the frontier trade through darker shadows than ordinary, nothing more.

After his visit to Michilimackinac, when the Americans were testing their newest protectionist laws and when he thumped the customs official, Dickson realized the Americans were going to enforce it this time. The months since had shown him to be right. Traders from Canada had trouble getting their goods beyond Michilimackinac, if they dared stopped there or let themselves be seen by the American soldiers. Simple evasion soon became smuggling. Some lawyer, somewhere, could brand Dickson and his fellows as armed smugglers, little better than pirates.

Dickson did not agree and never would agree with this assessment. He knew the far west was still Indian country and trader country. No king or president, duke or congressman, judge or magistrate, sheriff or marshal had ever seen the frontier and the lands beyond. And yet, these far distant potentates might fight a war over who owns the land.

In disgust and anger, Dickson steered the brigade away from Michilimackinac and perilously close to the north shore of the strait, twisting his craft between hulking rocks spewing white foam. They were deep in the shadow cast by the mainland and invisible from the American fort against the setting sun. The soft yellow light of dusk was just skimming the tops of the tall willows decorating a shallow bay when they slid toward the beach in front of the old French mission post at St Ignace.

The French had long ago abandoned the place and the only thing remaining of their church was the tumbledown chimney and fireplace that once was the centre of mission life. Now, the fire-split rock and decaying limestone shielded the flames of whoever chose to stop there for the night. Dickson’s men prepared and ate a big meal of fish, corn and maple sugar, smoked their pipes, and were rolled up in their blankets just after the sun set.

The moon was barely rising when Dickson threw off his blanket, and swatted at the mosquitoes he and his swaddled men drew from the sultry marshes behind the old mission. He had left a large kettle of tea steeping overnight near the banked fire. He shifted it onto the embers and poked a few dry sticks into the glowing coals. Then he wandered a short way from the camp to listen. He heard the hum of biting insects looking for him, the call and short barks of wolves with their young, fish jumping and splashing in the shallows, and far off the clear peal of a bell. The watch was announcing the hour at Fort Michilimackinac. He thought, 2:00 in the morning. He checked the position of the stars. Yes, Orion and the Dipper were where they should be at that hour.

Dickson turned back to the sleeping camp just as the dry sticks burst into flame and light. My children, rise up. Rise up! Time to go to school. Even the deepest sleepers were kept half awake by mosquitoes and Dickson had no trouble rousing the men. Some immediately charged their smoking pipes even before they were fully out of their blankets. They pulled a blazing stick from the fire to light the tobacco and then stumbled into the darkness, hawking and spitting.

Having smoked, the men were ready for breakfast. Dickson opened a basket packed with biscuit bread, pemmican, sugar, salt, roast acorns, dry meat, and a large pot of his wife’s finest blueberry jam. The men crowded around the fire, dipped their cups into the kettle of tea, spooned in sugar, and drank it in a gulp. They hacked open the breads and loaded them with slabs of pemmican on a bed of jam, thick with wild honey and mint. Everybody stuffed a handful of dry meat and acorns into a belt bag or pocket, took another cup of tea, and stood eating their bread and jam. Nobody talked for the few minutes it took them to gobble their food, relight their pipes, and fill their cups with the last of the tea.

Antoine Brisbois, La Rocque’s bowsman, rinsed the tea kettle and threw the dregs on the fire. A little dry kindling remained and this he stuffed into a stonework crib built into the fireplace. Somebody would welcome this dry wood at the end of a bad, wet day. Dickson tossed him a birchbark packet filled with a few charges of pipe tobacco. Brisbois thrust the packet on top of the kindling, out of the reach of weather and rodents.

The eastern sky glowed with false dawn as they finished floating, loading and boarding the canoes. Dickson wanted to be well past the American fort and on the way to St Joseph Island before the rising sun could light up their flashing paddles.

CHAPTER 1.3 - DE TOUR PASSAGE, ST MARY’S RIVER

Dickson took the lead north from St Ignace, aiming for the big islands in St Martin Bay. This would take them far enough north that by dawn they could not be seen from Mackinac even if somebody was watching from the top of the Turtle’s Back, the high hump of rock in the island’s centre which gave Mackinac its Ojibwa name. Once they reached the big islands, they would steer due east with the wind behind them until they reached De Tour Passage and the turn to St Joseph Island.

Dickson had not slept well all this trip, with the bugs, humidity, and consequences of age. As he paddled he fell into a voyageur’s reverie of random notions, sustained by the pace of work and the rhythm of a man’s working heart.

Since spring, Dickson had sensed a bad temper building in the United States. The Americans he knew were, like him, engaged in the western trade with the Indian Nations. All of them handled money and goods, and with money and goods came information. Information flowed back and forth between the source of money in the east and the far western hinterlands, carried on the tides of commerce. Dickson’s American counterparts were at least as well-informed about affairs in Washington, New Orleans, and Boston as he was about those in Montreal, Quebec and York.

This hardy reassured Dickson. He had little confidence in his own knowledge of the facts, and a few virtuous facts can quickly breed into many bastard rumours. As a trader, Dickson was constantly trying to discern the truth behind the rumours, including the fantastic rumour saying the United States was preparing for war with the British.

Dickson’s store at Wisconsin Portage was on the main road from Lake Michigan to the middle Mississippi River. Everyone moving to and from the far west passed through Wisconsin Portage. Since April, traders from the most remote parts of the Northwest had travelled east to Fort Mackinac and Fort St Joseph to exchange a year’s take of furs for a fresh stock of trade goods. These men alone possessed the most recent information about life and doings beyond the scrutiny of anyone at the American and British posts on the lakes. This year, Dickson had stayed at home as long as he dared to hear the latest news, before he travelled to Fort St Joseph.

Some travellers spoke of war, but he was not convinced. The Americans he knew were competitors. Sometimes fierce competitors, but not enemies. His wife, Totowin, had fed many Americans at her table, and he had eaten at theirs. Then, a party of Americans from St Louis showed up at Wisconsin Portage. They all but told him to leave his home and store before the American army arrived to oust the English. They offered to buy him out on the spot for next to nothing, if he included his wife in the sale. The man who said that was carried away by his friends, holding his broken jaw with both hands. Dickson did not believe they were traders. No American trader would dare such arrogance unless he had some reason for swollen confidence. Their bearing reminded Dickson too much of military men.

Dickson’s numb mind thought about war with the Americans. He thought about the consequences—win or lose—for the Indian Nations, for the trade, for his family, and for himself. He glanced at his son, Napeduta, William, who for the first time was wielding a paddle in his father’s canoe. Almost a man. No, already man enough to make his own trails in life, and Dickson knew his son’s trails yearned west towards the Nations, not east and the civilized capitals. He thought of Totowin, his wife. He got as far as thinking the worst—exiled back to Scotland by a jury of jeering American victors. He was imagining what Scotland would make of Totowin, when La Rocque shouted at him from a fathom away.

Dickson! Wake up! Look, we are out of the lee of the headlands. This is a good sailing breeze, straight downwind to De Tour. Let’s hoist sail. Two of his men were already shipping their paddles and unlashing the sailing gear.

Dickson blinked and gazed quickly around. Aye. Hoist sail, then. He signalled his own men. Dickson eased his tired body into a more comfortable position. He welcomed the rest sailing offered from ceaseless hard paddling. He wafted his broad pine blade in the dark water of Lake Michigan with just enough effort to keep his craft headed downwind. Squinting in the dazzle of wave-washed sunlight, he watched the sailing rig go up. With the mast tied in place, he ordered the sail set and called Adieu to La Rocque, who was loudly haranguing his crew to get the boom mounted. The sail snapped into shape, caught the wind, and the canoe began to lumber up to speed. Dickson had his compass lashed to the smelly pack of raw fur and hides jammed in front of him. He flipped back its leather cover and read the needle. The breeze was due from the west, and they had to go a little north of east, almost a following sea. Even a canoe’s simple rigging could run with the wind.

They were barely beyond the coast when the wind shifted slightly north, growing stronger with each passing minute. At first the crews were delighted to be pushed where they wanted to go. It was a romp, racing the canoes across the lake with their lateen sails stepped and spread. The swells became choppy and the canoes sped even faster away with the wind. Then the sails belled and bulged, threatening to pull out the tie-off thwarts, or tip them over. Neither captain wanted to lower his sail and concede the race. Soon the frail craft were caroming down steep troughs between waves tall enough to hide one from the other with only the sail in sight.

Heading into an angling trough, La Rocque lunged to push the stern of his canoe around and bring the bow on square to the next wave. The canoe rolled through the trough and La Rocque’s steering paddle swung through empty air. The canoe took the wave on the starboard beam and shipped the lip of the curling crest. La Rocque immediately yanked out the knot on the hoisting yard and the canvas tumbled off the mast. The race was over and Dickson quickly hauled down his sail. La Rocque shouted a few curses at Dickson, then at the wind, the scudding clouds, and the growing waves.

In their play at yachting, the racing captains had run straight downwind, and they were carried far from the shore they intended to follow. They had overfled the safe route through Les Cheneaux Islands, and they would now have to fight for miles in a quartering sea just to reach the passage. Otherwise, they would strike the rocky islands and reefs off Drummond Island. If they survived that threat, they must then paddle back into the wind to find the passage.

With the sails stowed, the paddlers swung into the rhythm of toil. The wind forced them almost due east and they took desperate chances to gain a little water to the north and the shore, any shore. The waves were still shaping up, so there were respites when they washed each other away. La Rocque and Dickson dug in to turn their craft north along the false calm, gaining a few yards before the next white-maned crest closed in on them.

Once, they threw out sea anchors to dry the canoes. They taunted each other as the men, crippled from hours of kneeling on a canoe rib, lurched to their feet and fumbled to open their trousers. The canoes bobbed and pitched and most of their piss spattered across the cargo and into the bilge. The sea anchors were hauled in and paddles were lifted.

Just then, a single raven fought its way across the wind, flying low and flashing a black crystal eye at the tossing craft.

La Rocque winked at Dickson and said, Look there, my friends. A raven has come out to see if we will soon be carrion. He will judge and then carry the news back to his friends. If he thinks we will perish and supply him with fresh eyeballs and guts, he will bring his friends back for the feast. We are safe unless we see more ravens.

Dickson’s bowsman, Joseph Renville, pretended to reach for his musket, carefully wrapped in a sheath of oilcloth and greased leather. What has he seen, then? Perhaps I should shoot him before he sends out the dinner invitations.

Dickson was looking at the building waters. If you shoot him, his friends will just send another scout. Besides, it is evil luck to kill ravens without a good reason. Saving our guts is not a good reason if we are drowned and dead. He has seen nothing of promise. Let us be off.

In three strokes, the men had their rhythm. In ten strokes, they had steerage. In twenty strokes, they had all-day power in their arms. The wind drove them fast, fast to the east and only Dickson and La Rocque’s experience carried the craft a bit north and ever closer to the shore. Through the mist ripping off the waves, the opening of De Tour Passage came in sight, but almost a mile off the port side, a mile of vast breaking tops, steep troughs, and wind. Neither captain hesitated. At once they turned, exposing the length of their canoes to the weather. They drove down each wave and along the trough, then zigged bow-on over the next wave, then zagged along the receding flank and trough. Over and over and over.

They finally made the east side of the passage where the St Mary’s River’s current is much stronger than on the west side, where every right-thinking canoe captain would go. Dickson and La Rocque were tangled in the strong current and violent waves standing off the east channel. Grim determination was now at the helm, and the men dug in with their paddles to cross the current to the west. Gradually, as they clawed their way into the passage, the wind fell off in the lee of the headlands.

They spent the last of their energy staggering into a glassy-calm inlet where Dickson intended his men to rest and clean up for their visit to the British at Fort St Joseph, glittering three miles away across the rippled waters of Potagannissing Bay. From here the finish was easy.

CHAPTER 1.4 - WASHUP ROCK, ST MARY’S RIVER

Dickson wrenched his back and arms in a fit of limbering, and pointed his paddle at a large, sleek-backed rock embedded in the shore. We stop there for a bit. In half an hour the canoes stood off a beach blanketed with nice, shot-sized pebbles. The bowsman in each canoe tottered over the gunwale and into the cold water before the craft could touch the bottom shelf. They held the canoes steady while the rest of the weary men eased themselves into the water. The fragile craft were drawn up parallel to the shore, and lifted just far enough onto the shingle to hold them in place. Dickson and La Rocque watched to make sure the craft would not slip and slide, but the surface of the bay was like a mirror and the canoes sat perfectly still.

The men collapsed on the flat rock and moaned loudly in exhaustion and relief. La Rocque asked if anyone saw another raven, and none had. We were never in danger, then.

Francois LaFramboise, the youngest enlisted crewman at nineteen years, was sent to lay a fire and make some tea. Dickson told him to use the last of the tea and sugar. The rest of the men struggled out of their sodden coats, caps, scarves, sashes, trousers, moccasins, and belts of weapons, tools, medicine, and religious paraphernalia. Few of them could swim, and they would have sunk like stones had their canoes capsized.

La Rocque swept off his shaggy cap and tossed it amongst his clothes, now spread out on the flat rock to dry in the afternoon sun. He shucked off his moccasins and trotted down the black rock and into the lake. His thick body hit the water like a falling tree, a signal for the rest of the men to peel. Dickson found his precious lump of English soap and used it, lathering first his hair and then his body. When he was done, he tossed the lump to La Rocque.

La Rocque delicately held the soap to his nose and snickered. For a hard man, Captain Dickson, you have a fine taste in scent. After this, bears and bugs could find us in a smokehouse.

Use whatever muck you like, Augustin, Dickson replied. My body is that of a civilized race—fair and delicate. Your calloused hide and bristly hair can tolerate scouring with shards of broken glass. It does not matter what you smell like. There are no women to sniff your bouquet within five days travel.

So you think, Robert. So you think.

The water near the shore was warm and not too muddy. The men were soon clean enough and back at the canoes unpacking their finery, such as it was. Tea was poured. Pipes were cleaned, filled, stoked and smoked.

Dickson had a clean cap, a print cotton shirt, woollen trousers and a pair of fine, quillwork moccasins, a recent gift from his wife. He would wait to put on the moccasins until he was on dry land, so he tucked them under his belt. He stowed his damp work clothes in a canvas sack. La Rocque wrapped a broad Assumption sash around a clean shirt and waistcoat. The younger men were much dandier than the older captains. Sunrise scarlet, water blue, and forest green silk shirts were brought out, doeskin trousers with beadwork up the side were shook straight, dyed feathers were carefully taken from parfleche boxes and arranged as cockades on their felt hats, and their necks, wrists, fingers, and ears were hung with gaudy silver and glass baubles.

Slicking back his hair and seating his cap, La Rocque turned to throw his travel kit into his canoe. Merde! My craft is leaking. I think there is a split in the bark near the keel. Too much twisting on the top of those damn waves. Antoine, help me. La Rocque grabbed the cords on a bale of fur and with a heave pulled it up a few inches. Water spurted into the bilge. Antoine Brisbois reached under the bale and stuffed a summer beaver skin of no value over the four-inch split, skin down and hair up. La Rocque let the bale down, where its ninety pound weight gently pressed the bandage against the wound. He and Antoine shifted the cargo a little to take the strain off that part of the hull. It should hold to St Joe. You loafers! Dry the canoe!

Dickson was inspecting his craft. Mine is no better. We can see the fort and the water is mellow. The current is against us, though. You go first and I will follow in case you need help. Dickson tugged down his cap, and gripped the gunwale of his canoe. His crew fell in and they heaved the heavy-laden craft off the shingle and into deeper water. Standing in the shallows and holding their canoe, they washed mud from their feet and waited for La Rocque to launch. His crew eased aboard, holding their finery away from the water. Dickson’s men braced the canoe as Renville pushed off the bow and leapt aboard. Dickson gave a mighty heave, driving the craft away from the shore. He swung his body onto the aft deck, straddled the gunwales, and slid down and onto his seat. He drew his paddle from beneath the pack lashings, and dug it into the water. Then they were off, paddling hard up the current toward St Joseph Island.

CHAPTER 1.5 - POTAGANNISSING BAY

Finally, twinkles of light from the island resolved into windows, metalwork, and hanging laundry. Then came the smell of smoke from supper fires. Then came sounds; first the dull thud of axes, the piercing squeal of horses, and the bellowing of cattle bulls; a bit closer and they heard children shrieking and dogs yelping; then, women’s voices; then, men’s voices; and at last the slap and splash of gentle waves against the shingle and shore below the fort.

Fort St Joseph was set on a small peninsula bulging from the south tip of the island. The bulge and the main island were high-crowned domes of rock barely covered by drifts of sand, gravel and boulders. Behind the fort, a narrow sandy and scrubby isthmus connected the peninsula to the island. The fort perched at the top of the peninsula, fifty feet over the St Mary’s River, the artery connecting Lake Superior and Lake Huron in British territory. No canoe, bateau, schooner, sloop or barge could pass between the two great lakes and escape British eyes and telescopes mounted on the fort’s water bastions.

The fort faced southwest into the mighty St Mary’s channel. A sturdy rock and log wharf thrust from the shore into the slight bay before the fort, directly in front of the watergate. The gate itself was screened by a chevron redoubt. The palisade was constructed from trees cleared away from the fort’s walls to the distance of a musket shot. Every stump had been pulled or burned in case they were used to hide attackers. As a result, the verge around the fort was the best pasture on the island and the fort’s cattle, horses, sheep, goats, hogs, turkey’s, chickens and geese were herded on it. They ate everything growing there, and by mid-summer, the main season for war, sentries on the firestep behind the palisade could see green snakes winding their way out of bedrock cracks and across the close-cropped grass. No enemy could approach unseen.

The dome of rock at the summit of the peninsula dropped off to a gravel bank constantly worn and worried by rainfall and crashing waves, giving the island a skirt of low and level land. The skirt’s hem swirled out to the east, downstream where silt and litter collected in the lee of the island. The sheltered lowland on the east side of the peninsula was entirely taken up by the tenements of traders, married soldiers with their wives and children in tow, civilian tradesmen, and garrison servants.

The fort could only be approached openly through one of two gates, but the tenements could be entered and left at will. In summer, there might be four hundred men, women and children living near the fort, come from all over the Northwest, Canada and the United States. There was a British customs collector overseeing commerce on the frontier, a British army to keep the peace, and rarely a French priest to shepherd souls. People came and went, and so long as they paid their taxes and did nothing singularly offensive, neither Crown nor God gave them much mind.

Dickson and La Rocque did a great deal of business at St Joe and were well-known by secular and sacred authorities.

Robert Dickson was forty-three years of age in 1811 and an old hand in the Northwest since he was a little more than a boy. He came to Canada with his two younger brothers from Dumfriesshire, Scotland. Their father made certain his sons were well-educated before he sent them to Canada to make their fortune. As boys, they studied mathematics, astronomy, and rhetoric. All could speak and write English, French and Latin, and after years on the frontier Robert was fluent in the languages of the Dakota, Annishinabe, and Hotcangara, known to the English as the Sioux, Ojibwa and Winnebago. While some of the mettle had been scoured out of them as boys by a series of stern Scottish tutors and teachers, the three Dickson brothers were still Scots, fluent in Gaelic. Dickson’s worldly learning and ancient blood combined to make him one of the most respected traders in the far west.

He had bone and muscle enough to make sure he was given the respect he deserved. He stood well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders, powerful arms and rock-like fists. He was not known for a quick temper, but no sensible man offered him insult without having first picked out a line of retreat. His wit and strength carried him further and further into the western wilderness, all the way to the headwaters of the Missouri River, the mouth of the Mississippi River, and the land between and beyond.

His hair was a wild red thatch which earned him the name ‘Pahinshasha’, the Red-Headed Man, amongst the Dakota. As a young man in 1790, he met Totowin, Bright Blue Woman, the sister of Wakanhdisuduta, Red Thunderbolt, and she agreed to take him as her husband, and he was faithful to her all his life. They had a son, William. Nobody on the frontier called him William, and William had only ever been on the frontier and beyond. Everybody called him Napeduta, Red Hand. He was Red Hand because when he was born his right hand was red with his mother’s blood. Only his father called him William, and only in his thoughts.

Augustin La Rocque was forty-six years old in 1811, three years older than Dickson. In 1786, his prosperous merchant family in Quebec sent him to accompany a canoe brigade and establish a trade outpost on the Mississippi. In a bragging mood, La Rocque claimed his family had acknowledged his perspicacity when they gave him such a responsibility, but Dickson and most others in the Northwest suspected they had expelled him from Quebec, banished to a place unknown to most Lower Canadians.

Young Augustin was then a mere canoeman in a fleet of four craft carrying traders and servants accompanied by two Jesuit priests. He was not the youngest canoeman, nor the most ignorant, and his family paid for the expedition. He was not spared hard labour, nor did he shirk. By the time the expedition arrived on the Mississippi, at the end of two months of toil, he was hard-worked and proud of it.

The expedition stopped for the winter at Prairie du Chien, the most remote French outpost in the Northwest. Augustin fit right in. He was energetic and capable in a settlement of lethargy and stultification. When the time came for the expedition to return to Lower Canada, Augustin balked. He said he was staying at Prairie du Chien. He offered to look after the firm’s interests until the voyageurs returned with new supplies. He would be their agent until then.

The expedition captains did not care if he stayed or returned. They said goodbye to Augustin, shoved away from the shore, and disappeared into a bank of fog. Young Augustin was on his own.

La Rocque prospered, by the local measure of prosperity. He ate well, had his own log cabin near a spring, plentiful firewood, and the trade goods left over from the past season. The goods were the dregs, things nobody wanted in summer. By late winter, however, these same goods were gladly taken in trade for fresh meat, furs, snowshoes, clothing, a canoe, and a dog. He was wealthy, back then.

When Augustin La Rocque left Quebec, he was a burly, blustery, callow, ignorant youth of twenty years. In 1811, he was still burly and blustery, with more muscle and a bit of new fat, but nobody judged him ignorant. He was inured to hardship, experienced, wily. He was one of the rare men in the west who could read and write, in English and French. Later, a lifetime later, and he was fluent in the Dakota of the Sioux and the Annishinabe of the Fox and Sauk people.

Now he had a family man’s responsibilities, a wife, two sons and a daughter, and a crowd of friends and his wife’s kin. He yearned for his home on the Mississippi where, La Rocque thought, he could enjoy life for many more winters. He still liked to tell a grand story.

Dickson said something La Rocque didn’t hear, but he grunted assent anyway and jerked back to attention.

Dickson turned his canoe along the sand beach ringing the peninsula and made for the docks in front of the traders’ quarters. As he came around the island he fell into the shade cast by the hump of rock and the fort. He relaxed his squinting face and blinked hard. He saw the small dock he wanted and digging his paddle in for the last few strokes, carried his craft in a clean arc to stop exactly along the low wooden shelf. There was not the slightest sound of his canoe touching the dock. His crew gave a cheer and chant and flicked water at Dickson with their paddles. Their outbound voyage was done.

La Rocque went Dickson one better. He approached the other side of the dock at speed. Just as the bow was about to crush itself on a piling, Antoine Brisbois at the bow leaned far to starboard, dug his paddle into the still water and gave a mighty pull, jerking the bow away from the dock. At the same time, La Rocque pried on the same side, spinning the heavy canoe amidships and bringing it to a rest against the dock. His port gunwale gave the slightest knock on a piling.

I heard that, and apparently so did everyone on St Joseph Island. Dickson pointed with his chin at the dozen or so people sauntering down the beach towards them.

La Rocque grunted and shot a fierce glance at Brisbois, who ignored him. Steering had caused the knock on the wharf and La Rocque was the steersman. La Rocque shipped his paddle and immediately began off-loading his cargo onto the wharf. Some of the approaching gawkers picked up their gait, hoping for the job of humping bales and barrels to the trader’s warehouse. One man held back, rather than rushing to the point of commerce.

La Rocque heaved a ninety pound pack out of the bottom of his canoe and onto the dock He nodded at Dickson around the bale of furs. There is our Montreal gentleman. Does he not look brimming with ill news? When these shallow businessmen have that look, it means work, money or blood from us. What do you say?

Dickson glanced along the beach and saw Charles Askin approaching. The Montrealer would have no good news if even a small part of what he heard, saw and learned in recent months beyond the frontier was true. You are probably right, but we must talk with him, anyway. Let him say what he wants to say.

La Rocque laughed. That is for you, Robert, not me. I have better things to do in St Joe. I am your clerk and you talk for both of us whether I like it or not. That is the order of things. I don’t have to be there.

Dickson looked sharply at La Rocque, who was busy with a heavy pack. His clerk and friend always wanted to hear the news first, so his stories would later seem the most credible.

Augustin, the eager lads are enough impressed with your ability to heave packs. Leave it to them. Askin will pay to get our stuff into the warehouse. La Rocque pulled himself onto the dock and bellowed at the advancing job seekers, recruiting them all as Askin’s porters. They broke into a run, grabbing at pack ropes and hand holds.

Dickson glowered at La Rocque and wagged his finger. La Rocque’s generosity with the rabble would cost Askin twice the pay of a few practiced porters. La Rocque laughed.

Dickson turned to the man strolling toward him.

Mr Askin. We are here and we must talk.

Yes, Mr Dickson, we must.

CHAPTER 1.6 - ON THE BEACH, ST JOSEPH ISLAND

Charles Askin was the chief agent for McGill and Company out of Montreal. His official employment with McGill was to manage the smooth flow of English goods, money, and credits from Montreal to the Missouri River, and Indian commodities from the Missouri to Montreal. He was also expected to keep the Company informed of every nuance which could affect profits. More than a trader’s agent, he unofficially represented the Montreal Board of Trade, the ship owners on the Upper Great Lakes, and the crafts guilds making trade goods in Lower and Upper Canada. Priests and pastors consulted with him, and he with them. He had their ear and they had his. It was said he was quite wealthy.

He was confident of his superior information from Lower Canada, but he had only heard rumours about events in the far west. Of course, trade was off—far off—since 1806 when the region was wracked by drought. Askin knew poverty breeds resentment and then rebellion. Who did the impoverished Indians in the west resent? Who would they strike against? Askin talked to everybody and anybody he met on the road from Montreal to the end of the Lakes, swiftly weighing anecdote and expertise. He had a full dose of anecdote by the time he reached St Joseph Island and now he wanted expertise. While still in Montreal, he learned Dickson had not yet brought his returns to St Joseph Island nor had he taken out the next season’s trade goods. Askin reasoned, Dickson must be coming to the fort soon or suffer low water from Green Bay to Prairie du Chien. In any event, Askin was impatient and restless. He wanted a break from his home, which he only visited from time to time when consulting with Montreal. He went to find Dickson.

To Askin, Dickson was a step or two below him, a post trader with a staff and retinue of clerk, voyageurs, travellers, general labourers, and their profligate families. Nevertheless, all these many people kept Dickson informed. Dickson would have the latest information about affairs beyond the frontier, the very information Askin needed to understand what was happening from Montreal to the mountains.

Well, Dickson, La Rocque, Askin said. You are finally here. May I invite you to my office?

He turned away and led them up the sand beach to an ancient silvered driftwood log. Several small children occupied the log, and when they saw Askin stalking toward them they scattered along the beach.

Behind Askin’s back, La Rocque mimed a mad barking dog, causing Dickson to choke on a laugh converted into a cough. Askin dropped heavily onto the log and beckoned one man to each side of him. I want to know what you know, and you want to know what I know. Let’s not fence. Agreed?

Dickson abandoned any plan for subtlety. It’s serious, then.

Oh, aye. It’s serious. Askin grunted and scrounged a sharp piece of bark from under his rump. I knew you were coming. The pickets spied you on the washup rock. I have food and grog ready for you and your crewmen. Your packs and cargo will be taken into McGill’s warehouse and your canoes set on stands. I have billets for your men. We’ll talk in an hour, right here, after you have eaten. He nudged Dickson and winked. And rested, eh?

With that, Askin rose and went off to assign and pay the porters unloading the canoe.

La Rocque slapped his cap against his leg, dislodging a shower of sweat and grit. God, he is a cranky old dog. Not a word or hand of welcome! But, I will eat his food and drink his grog. And his men can deal with those stinking damn hides and sway-backed canoes. A fine fellow! Anyway, we do not have to live with him.

No, we do not. He has three wives, you know.

Yes, my pity for them.

Dickson and La Rocque slumped forward with their elbows on their knees, resting their weary backs. For a while they just stared at the beach and wharf. All the hangers-on were gawking and pointing at their cargo as Askin’s men wrestled the heavy bales and bags up to his warehouse. They were alone.

He wants to talk politics, Robert.

Yes. I expect so.

I would rather talk about trade, and my prospects for the year. I have many mouths to feed at home besides my horses and cattle. Ha! Or, talk about women perhaps. Not politics. In fact, I would rather not talk at all. I want food, drink and rest, although rest could wait for a few more hours. What La Rocque meant was he did not want to talk about British politics. He understood Canadian politics, but British politics were incomprehensible at best and unsafe for Canadians, especially Lower Canadians, especially French Lower Canadians, and especially French Lower Canadians out of touch on the far-off Mississippi.

Dickson stood up from his punky seat and faced his clerk and friend. "Politics is trade, and trade is politics. The politicians decide who trades here, and who the trader must pay. Mr. Askin can tell us whose politics are ascending.

What do you think? We should just sell our furs tomorrow and retire from the trade? Neither of us can do that. Should we just sell the furs, spend our credit on new stock, and go back home to trade? Just as we always do? We can’t do that if there is war between the British and the Americans. You know that! Let us learn what we can while we are here, and make use of it in our trade.

La Roque ducked his head and again took off his cap and wrung it in his hands. The damn British and the double-damned Americans should wage their war in the east. Not here. Well east of Montreal, or course.

He straightened his shoulders and slicked back his hair. Robert. La Rocque put his cap back on. My friend, I am on the road from Prairie du Chien for the last time. I am still your clerk, if you want, but after this I will travel no further east than Green Bay. My wife is not well, her mother has just moved in with us, and I expect more kin will soon be sitting at my table. Prairie du Chien is far into American territory and we—my family and friends—are Canadians. I must protect my interests at home. That, of course, includes your depot there.

Dickson sighed and slouched further onto his knees. He had expected this. Men La Rocque’s age and his own were rarely found paddling canoes. Someday, it came to an end and this was La Rocque’s day.

Well. There it is. Dickson smiled weakly and grasped his friend’s shoulder. I accept your offer to continue as my clerk at Prairie du Chien.

I will give you good service, Master.

Dickson thumped La Rocque on the back, almost tossing him into the sand. I know you will, oaf.

We can talk of this later. Settle terms and all that. After you recover from your feelings of desperation at my loss. Both men laughed too hard and too long.

But you know, Robert, you too are getting older and ready to lay down your paddle. Even Askin suggested you needed rest. La Rocque glanced at his friend and saw he was not smiling.

La Rocque cleared his throat. Askin. He is an insolent fellow. He travels by schooner and bateau and by carriage in Montreal! I will not call him ‘Mr. Askin’. He has become a usurer, and now a messenger with bad news.

Augustin, don’t be trivial with the man. He has money, influence and information. And we do not. Dickson paused. I’ll tell you whatever I learn from Askin. I don’t mind speaking to him alone.

And why not, you and he being British to the core. La Rocque waved away his sour words. ‘Monsieur’, then. In Montreal we call every unfamiliar man ‘Monsieur’, so I will not be singling Charles out for my esteem. La Rocque often spoke as though he was in Montreal every few weeks, immersed in culture and civilization, but he had not been further east than Fort St Joseph in twenty years. I will stay a while to be polite. And to eat his supper.

La Rocque’s gaze was on two stout woman carrying food from one of the huts built into the gravelly bank. One woman carried a pail of stew—venison, onions and potatoes laced with pepper and wild oregano. The other set down a wooden trencher filled with wild rice on one end and boiled corn on the other, and a loaf of wheat and oat bannock, honey, and berry compote. While Dickson and La Rocque tore into the food, the women swiftly made up a small fire to keep away the insects. They were sopping up the last of the gravy with the last of the bannock when Askin trudged along the beach toward them. He pulled from his pocket a bottle of finest dark rum and three tot glasses. Dickson and La Rocque gulped the last of the stew and bread and reached to take a glass.

Askin spoke, once they each had rum in hand. Dickson, you are here late and with a light load in broken canoes. Did you do enough trade to restock your store for the coming winter? I have no doubt you will pay your debts, but can you return west to do business?

Dickson sipped his rum, even though he was not a drinking man. Yes, I think so, but of course it depends on the prices I can get here. As you must know as well as I, the returns from west of Mississippi were not good again this year. Drought still burns the plains, and grass gave out seasons ago. The buffalo all moved west and north and the Nations went with them. My travellers went to within sight of the Shining Mountains and back and barely earned enough to load a pack horse. Dickson glanced at Askin. He had probably said too much.

Well, Dickson, you are in luck. As it turns out the merchants want what you have, and so prices are good. Askin tossed back his rum and stood away from the fire to avoid its heat. I know your business well. I have studied your accounts here and in Montreal. You turn a profit for all, including yourself. And you pay your debts. Montreal likes you.

Dickson was not surprised Askin knew his business affairs, but hearing what sounded faintly like praise, Dickson gave Askin a startled look. Ah! Matters were serious, indeed.

Askin passed the rum. It is essential you return west and be the good face of the British trader. Impress the savages with your honesty and loyalty. He turned away to avoid Dickson’s hard stare. If necessary I will advance you goods on my own account.

Dickson coughed on his rum and spat into the sand at his feet.

Askin chuckled and carried on. That tells you what I think of the situation, eh? My clerks are assessing your furs and hides right now. You will get good prices, I am sure. Your accounts will be ready for inspection this night. We can settle up when you have studied them. He offered the rum bottle to Dickson, who declined, and to La Rocque, who grabbed it eagerly.

As La Rocque offered Dickson more rum, he muttered in Dakota. What are we settling up for at such wonderful terms and prices? Just goods?

Askin stiffened. I beg your pardon, Monsieur La Rocque?

I told Robert this was much better rum than we have on the Mississippi. We should get some for our stores.

Askin almost sneered at La Rocque. I doubt you have the clients on the Mississippi for this quality of rum. I suggest, Monsieur, we speak in French, English, or Iroquois, as you choose.

Latin, then. I’ll chant you my catechism.

Askin was Anglican, and he flushed. He sat on the log, turned away from La Rocque and spoke only to Dickson.

"I am just arrived from the east and you from the west. Let us see what we know.

Every sign I saw in Montreal and New York tells me we are heading for war. The Americans lust for war! They believe they can just stroll into Canada and take it all for themselves. And they are not far off the mark on that. There is nothing you could call an army in Canada and all of is posted far away from here. I mean to take nothing from Captain Sherrard and the garrison here at St Joe, but they are only a few men, burdened with wives and children, and defending a weary excuse for a fort.

Dickson thought Askin exaggerated.

The garrison was small, but the men were soldiers who knew how to fight. Many were veterans of battles in India, Ceylon, and Europe. He had doubts about Captain Sherrard, an officer with three decades of experience with the sword, and two decades of experience with the bottle. His command was exercised in the same slow, slurred manner as his speech. Sherrard and the garrison were shoddy and inattentive, but not dangerously befuddled.

"Dickson, if we have war, we shall have to fight it here on our own. Canada will not be sending seasoned troops all the way from England to save us. Are the noble conquerors of Napoleon’s armies now going to leave London’s adoration for St Joe’s mosquitoes? I think not! We will need our own food, our own ships, our own fighters. And, our own command.

I can tell you all the details, show you all the documents, Robert. I have letters, orders and newspapers at the warehouse and you are invited to read them. They all say what I have just said. They also say that the trade will be ruined if we lose the war—if the British lose to the Americans. Ruined for years and perhaps decades. Perhaps forever. Askin picked up his glass and leaned back.

Dickson used Askin’s silence to think and to pack his pipe. He picked a small coal out of the fire and puffed vigorously. He stood up and paced in front of the driftwood log. "Everything I hear and see in the west reminds me too much of war. We will go into the details later, as you say. But, I agree with how you see the lay of the land.

"I know what you want. You want the western Nations pacified or, better yet, on side with the British. You stunned me with your offer of free goods, but now I see. Goods paid back with loyalty. You will recover your investment from ... Who, Askin? The Crown? The Montreal Board of Trade? The Company? American companies?

Askin shrugged. All of them, Dickson. All of them. You have it right. Lots of cheap goods will keep the savages happy and out of the way. As you say, they are following the buffalo west and north, and are already far from your stout travellers. If they want to follow the buff, send them on their way with a new musket and kit.

"I don’t think so, Askin. The western Nations can get goods from us, the Americans, Spanish, Hudson Bay men, and if they go far enough west, the Russians. Our goods are replaceable. The Nations want a guarantee that their lands will be protected for their use alone. Whoever offers them the best guarantee—Americans or British—will have their loyalty. But, not for a pile of goods.

Will the British sovereign fight to protect the Nations’ lands and rights?

Askin hesitated. He had no authority to answer Dickson’s questions, so he said as much. Robert, I do not know. Can you tell me how the Nations are disposed towards the British or Americans? Again he hesitated, and coughed into his hand. And how are the, er, Canadians disposed?

La Rocque sprang up, tossed his rum down his throat and announced that he was going to look for excitement in the tenements. He was speaking his best French, showing up Askin’s Montreal slang. He doffed his cap in Askin’s face and at the same time swept the rum bottle behind his back. Turning into the night, he and the bottle disappeared.

Just as well. I want to know. How will the French hereabouts turn? Askin realized the rum bottle was gone. He produced another flask from his coat pocket, this one of whiskey, and pried off the seal. Again Dickson refused, so Askin drank from the bottle.

They will act as you would, in favour of their own interests. There are French all along the Mississippi from Prairie du Chien to New Orleans and up the Missouri to the Mandan villages. Some are Canadians and some are not, but none are impressed with either the British or the Americans. They don’t want to be part of any war, but they will make the best of a bad situation.

And what does that mean?

Askin—Charles, if there is war ... . Dickson knuckled his eyes and went on. "The Nations are