End of the Paddle: Second Book in the French Frontier Series

End of the Paddle

Second Book in the French Frontier Series

Copyright © 2006 by Patricia Pfeiffer

All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe used or reproduced by any

means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the

written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-38481-5 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-82862-3 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-38481-1 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-82862-0 (ebk)

Contents

Author’s Note

Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Glossary

Dedication

To my dear friend, Naoma Dietz,

To Kaye Perry who deserves it,

and

To those intrepid Frenchmen who paddled and portaged this land

and left it as they found it—minus a few beaver

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The history of the French fur traders before Lewis and Clark fascinates me, perhaps because I am half French and came from the fur trade country of Meenashota. As a child, it was my privilege to see the Chippewa from Millac Lake harvesting wild rice on Big Rice Lake, visit their wickiups, and store those memories until I wrote this book.

End of the Paddle is the sequel to Keeping Her Head, the story of my great-great-great grandmother who escaped the guillotine and came to Quebec. Although the family was not in the fur trade, I have taken fictional license to place her there and make Jazelle the first white woman to cross America. Pick up your paddle and go with her and the voyageurs up the rivers, over the portages, and across the lakes.

I have tried to keep as close to history as possible, however, to not confuse the reader, I changed the word piece to morceau, a French word meaning the same thing. A morceau was a 70-90-pound pack which voyageurs carried,. Unbelievably these men could carry two of these and run over portages. I am indebted to the Savanna Portage Trail State Park for valuable insight.

Jerry Rosnau, owner of Cattales Book Store in Brainerd, Minnesota, introduced me to a living coureur de bois and opened up a whole new idea for the book. He is Pierre in the story, and gave me

the right to use his pictures to give the reader a visual of those Runners of the Forest.

Betty Burnett insisted I publish. Without Kathy Lowry’s help and her faith in me, End of the Paddle would have lain molding in some attic, awaiting discovery years hence.

My critique group’s sharp hatchets and encouragement has my everlasting appreciation. We cannot do without each other. My thanks go to my son Gerry; Sharp Eyes, if I were to give him an Indian sobriquet.

I wish also to thank Linda Peachee for the cover art and two illustrations, Gerry Pfeiffer for the maps, and Jim Kelly for cover design and graphics, and for getting me out of computer scrapes.

All errors are mine

CHARACTERS

Prologue

Allard Demers—ship captain, Charles’s uncle

Charles Bruneau, (Broonoh)—husband of Jazelle

Jazelle l’Heaureau Bruneau, (later Jaye)—Charles’s wife

Hugh La Vigne (La Veeneen)—Jazelle’s cousin

Leon Clarmont—Charles’ brother-in-law

Minette Clarmont,—Charles’ sister

In Quebec

Arnaud LeMire—Pierre’s co-worker

Igasho (Ig’a shoo)—name of their canoe

Matchitehew (Matchiteewho)—enemy

Indian Pierre Dubois (Doo-bwah)—coureur de bois, voyageur

Profond—owner of warehouse

From Montreal to Sault Sainte Marie

Anihita Sahali (Allard’s wife)

Bellamy Demers—Allard’s son

Alexander MacKenzie—head of NW Co. Post

Provencher—brigade leader

Severin—voyageur

Valara Demers—Bellamy’s wife

At Sault Sainte Marie (Soo Saint Marie)

Archambault, Father (Archambow)—Jesuit Priest

Crawford—Bartender

Fleur Gerard (Flewr)—Hugh’s wife

Claire Williams—wife of factor

Mrs. Haight-Armstrong—trader’s wife

At Sandy Lake (Lac des Sables) (Lake de Sable)

McKay—factor

Broken Tooth—Indian headman

At Rice Lake

Keezhukumi (Keez-hoo-koomee), Returning Echo—headman

Little Deer—Pierre’s daughter

Nishkaadizi (Nish-kah-deezee)—Angry One

Nokomis—Wadena’s wife

Stands Alone—Pierre’s son

Willow Deer—Pierre’s wife

At Mud River

Hidden Muskrat—friendly Indian

Paul Bruneau—Charles’ cousin

Crooked Leg—enemy at Mud River

No Nose—Crooked Leg’s wife

Rising Moon—Wadena’s wife

Steps Softly—Hidden Muskrat’s wife

Wadena—headman at Mud River

At Leech Lake (Lac Sang Sue) (Lake San Soo)

McGillis—factor

In Dakota

Maanagawane (Mahn-ag-a-wah-nee)—Cheyenne leader

Snakkanaabe (Snak-kan-ah-be)—headman

Anishanaabe (A-nish-an-ah-be)—Snakkanaabes grandson

Other Words

Coureur de bois (coor de bwah)—independent voyageurs

Kookum (Indian)—grandmother

Mishom (Indian)—grandfather

Pose (French)—a half-hour rest

Madame LaVielle—demon of waterways

Windigoes—demons of waterways

Marie Lorraine—Allard’s ship

Prologue

Atlantic Ocean

July 1795

Captain Allard Demers at the wheel of the merchantman Marie Lorraine studied the western horizon through shrewd eyes.

I don’t like the looks of that cloud bank. Early for a hurricane, but the Atlantic chooses its own time to kick up a rumpus. The captain stood taller than most Frenchmen, with dark hair and eyes, silver rings in his ears and a red silk scarf tied around his head.

His experience did not betray him. He shouted to the helmsman, Take the wheel, Hugh, and hold her steady. Charles, tie that loose yardarm. Louie, pull that drough. We’ll bring her through. The men jumped to the commands. Allard shouted as a wave washed over the deck. Tighter, to give us more anchor. It’ll to be a near thing,

At the mercy of winds, the night black as Neptune’s heart, the Marie Lorraine stood on tiptoe, plunged into a trough, and surfaced on the crest of another pounding wave. Water streamed across its deck, drenching the men tied with ropes to masts and rigging, leaving them gasping like netted sardines as the water retreated through the scuppers and gathered power for another onslaught.

The Marie Lorraine hadn’t been built to withstand hurricanes. Allard had always carefully chosen his times for travel to the New World, but this trip was different. Along with a cargo of wooden

casks of white wine, he carried a precious cargo of lives: his nephew Charles Bruneau and his wife Jazelle, his niece and her husband Minette and Leon Clermont and their baby.

Getting them aboard hadn’t been a sure thing. The French army controlled the chateau, but the Baroness Jazelle Picard l’Heaureau Bruneau had escaped the guillotine with Hugh La Vigne’s help. Now she was safe and on her way to Quebec.

On the second day of the storm, Jazelle lay on the captain’s bunk too weak to do anything except hold a blanket with one hand and grasp her sister-in-law’s hand with the other. The ship wallowed in another trough, fought its way up a crest, only to dive into another, taking both girls’ stomachs with it. Drenched in cold sweat, every muscle aching, gray-skinned, her amber hair tangled with vomit, Jazelle’s body shrunk into itself.

Minette clutched her ten-month-old baby, Yvonne. Neither she nor the baby was seasick, but the child wailed continuously.

Praying hadn’t helped to quiet either their fears or the storm’s fury. They suffered through the night, listening to the creak of timbers, wondering if ship’s timbers would split and dump them in the sea.

At dawn Hugh LaVigne shouted something at Allard and pointed to the waves, which seemed to be flattening.

Hold the wheel tight. Hugh did as ordered and lifted his face to the wind, his one eye searching for signs of a lighthouse beam.

Allard walked across the deck as though it were not heaving and handed a mackinaw to Charles, who was reefing in a lower sail. It’s amazing how cold these summer storms are, his uncle said, but those waves calming down mean we’re getting into the center of the storm.

Charles climbed the rigging to shake out a reef, and Allard took the wheel from Hugh. A half-hour later, the ocean no longer raged in thirty-foot waves. Instead, it boiled and seethed with foam rising above the deck, filling nostrils with salt, and freezing flesh as though they sailed the Arctic.

Later Charles descended to see how the women fared. He stooped beside Jazelle and took her hand. Uncle Allard says the worst will be over by tomorrow morning. Be brave, my dear.

I wish only to die, Jazelle whispered.

I almost wish we had stayed at the chateau, Minette said as she shushed Yvonne.

Never, my sister of the strong stomach, Charles answered in a lower voice. Think. Think, Minette, you will soon be on your own land. I have promised Leon a portion of mine. Hold up your head, my sister. We will be land owners, as worthy of respect as our late marquis.

She sighed and returned to her bunk.

Charles climbed the ladder to the deck and disappeared above.

The ship plowed on through the seething seas with the sun casting a bleary eye through fog. Waves rose and told them the ship was entering the edge of the storm. on deck, Allard shouted against the roar of waves, wiping his lips and nose before he could speak.

Hugh, test the water.

Hugh LaVigne threw a bucket overboard. The rope snapped against the ship’s side as he pulled it up and took a sip. LaVigne was a wiry, little man with a vivid white scar creasing his cheek from the empty right eye socket to the corner of his mouth, drawing his lips into a twisted smile. Cold, he croaked.

Through the worst, then. Out of the Gulf Stream, Allard shouted back, but I fear it’s blown us too far north. The flag still snapped against the rigging. Worst storm I’ve seen this time of year. Take the wheel while I go below.

Allard climbed down a ladder and knocked at the open door of his cabin.

How does she do, Minette? he asked his niece.

I heard a moan an hour ago. I sponge her face and rub her wrists.

It’s about all you can do. Try a sip of brandy. He left the women to their misery.

Jazelle could not move a muscle, nor speak above a whisper. Better my head in a basket beneath the guillotine than this nightmare of nausea and weakness, she thought. Every inch of her body ached, too weak to grip the sides of the bunk, she was tossed back and forth with each gallop of the ship.

Next day’s dawn found the winds diminishing, the waves no longer mountains. Bare feet slapped the deck above. Men climbed rigging, hoisting sails with vice-like hands.

Charles entered the cabin and stepped over to Jazelle. Minette blinked awake and sat up to suckle a whimpering Yvonne.

Ma petite, Charles said to Jazelle, you live?

No, Jazelle answered in so weak a voice he glanced at his sister, his eyes worried.

Allard says today we are out of it. He smiled and caressed Jazelle’s hand.

I don’t know how he knows, Minette said, as the ship rode the crest of another wave.

He knows. Is he not the greatest sea captain alive? He has made this trip many times in both summer and winter, and he says this storm was more violent than usual. His problem now is to determine where we are and how far off course.

Are we lost? Minette asked.

No, Uncle Allard is never lost. He has sailed from France to Quebec, to the southern isles, to Britain, and to Cathay without mishap. He’s been boarded by pirates and fought free. There is no sea that Allard cannot best. He is so very clever. Hasn’t he fooled both the British and the French?

Minette rose to look out the porthole at brilliant sunshine and rolling breakers.

As the roaring ceased, and Jazelle’s stomach settled, she slept, too weak to move. After a few hours she awoke, dizzy but able to rise. To think I left everything behind, she thought, except the family gems and a few keepsakes, to escape to New France. It is the least I can do for my Charles, who risked his life for me. Minette? she called in a barely audible voice.

I’m right here. Are you better?

I think so. Do you suppose you can wash my hair? Do I have a clean dress?

Minette helped Jazelle out of her sweat-encrusted nightgown. With soft soap, she washed and rinsed Jazelle’s hair until it shone again. A bath in tepid seawater and the straight gray gown of a servant made Jazelle feel almost human, with a renewed desire to live.

Minette, taller than Jazelle’s five-foot two and dark as Allard, stuck her head out the door and shouted, Leon. Charles. Come help me with Jazelle. They scuttled down the hatch and lifted her up the ladder to stand beside Allard at the wheel. She held firmly to the binnacle beside him.

I’m tacking her into the wind, Charles’s uncle said, and I believe that smudge over to our right is Cape Charles. He waved a bare, bronzed arm toward the southwest. "If I’m right, and I’m seldom wrong, we’re near the Strait of Belle Isle. We shouldn’t meet any vessels coming through there. They’ll stay in deeper water in the Gulf of St. Laurent. I’ve snuck through here before, and I’m not afraid of getting caught by the British or the Americans.

However, Charles, you shinny up that mast and raise the American flag. The British have a peace treaty with them. Did Father Dumay teach you that France lost Canada to the British thirty-five years ago? We French still think of it as ours, especially Quebec. We do not forget quickly, do we? He instinctively turned the wheel.

Jazelle tottered to the rail, relishing the cold spray on her face. She looked southwest toward the entrance to the Sainte Laurent River. There, near Quebec at Porte la Chester, on the grant of land Allard had given Charles, she would live the rest of her life as a French housewife, but with no children. She bit her lip, thinking of her baby born dead, now lying beside her mother in an unmarked grave in the village of l’Vigne.

Bare feet pounded on the deck above them. Land ho! shouted Allard. I told you I’d bring us through. A cheer went up.

CHAPTER 1

Quebec

1799

In the LaFond warehouse, Pierre Dubois, a man in his fourth decade, but lively as a spring frog, addressed his fellow worker, Arnaud LeMire, twenty years older.

Good morning. It’s cold as an Englishman’s heart in here, but we must bear it until our fingers drop off if we wish to eat.

The Frenchman, twisted with time and grueling work, only grunted in reply. Around them lay supplies ordered by voyageurs preparing to enter the wilderness for furs in this year of 1799. These goods must be strapped into morceaux, or pieces as they were called, packets weighing nearly one hundred pounds.

Did you breakfast, old man? Pierre asked, pulling a croissant from a pocket and handing it to him. Arnaud grabbed it eagerly. If they paid us what we are worth we could dine at the finest cafes in Quebec. At least LaFond allows us hot coffee.

LaFond is not so bad—as traders go, Arnaud said, pouring thick black liquid into earthen mugs. Jean is an honest trader. He does not sell weevily cornmeal or rancid pemmican. His canoes are made by natives who take pride in their work. They will hold together in the worst rapids. The Hudson Bay blankets are new, not used or full of fleas. Arnoud looked about. What are the orders for this day?

Pierre held a paper near the flame, since sunlight was just peeping into the windows of the warehouse where they stood. Cuvier. He peered more closely at the list. "Supplies for sixteen men in each Canoe du Maitre. Thirty canoes in all. Each will hold three to four tons, as you well know. We’ll be too tired to look for a bed warmer when this day is through."

Arnaud grinned. You are trying to pull this gimpy leg of mine, friend Pierre. I know you lift no light skirts but dream of your wife in Meenashota. He poked a finger into the pot. Water’s not hot yet, so let us begin with the ground maize.

The men set to work filling canvas bags with cornmeal, sewing the tops with cord and an awl and binding each morceau with leather straps for easy carrying on portages. The warehouse was filled with barrels of cornmeal, pemmican, colored glass beads and silver crosses; buckskin pants, shirts, and moccasins; Hudson Bay blankets, paddles, axes, flintlocks; and three canons.

On the far side from where the men worked, animal pelts on frames no longer were stacked to the fifteen-foot ceiling as they had been last fall when voyageurs returned with furs. Now only a few inferior ones were left to fill questionable markets, the rest already shipped to England or France.

The usual malodor of Quebec’s waterfront blew in through an open door, salt from the Ste Laurent River, tar, lumber, along with rotting food and manure beginning to thaw from the night’s frost.

At noon Pierre and Arnaud looked about to be sure LaFond or his clerks were not about and went behind a pile of blankets for a rest and a smoke.

Pierre shrugged and grinned. Were it not for this old knife wound in my shoulder, I’d be signing with a brigade and be up the river in a month, but, no, I must stay here. I can no longer paddle sixteen hours a day and run with two morceaux on my back up hill.

Arnaud downed his coffee in one gulp. Nor have I traveled the long way for ten years, with this leg shorter by two inches from that break on the Calument Portage. I was getting too old anyway, in my thirties then. An old man to those young bucks I paddled with.

Pierre sighed again. Of course, my arm is not the main reason. I have no money to buy supplies for the adventure. I must remain here, a slave, unless God does a miracle. They had another mug of coffee and went back to work.

By mid-afternoon they discovered there were no more straps, so Pierre went to find LaFond at his place of business. He stopped at a door with the sign LaFond Wood Runner Outfitters, faded to gray with letters a muted burgundy.

LaFond, a Métis, tall for a Frenchman and with the copper skin of his mother, came toward Pierre. He gave him an order for leather at a shop up the street. "Take all they have ready. We must not delay these voyageurs or the coureurs de bois, chafing to be on their way west.

After leaving orders for leather straps to be delivered the next day, Pierre walked along the waterfront toward LaFond’s warehouse, noting schooners, sloops, shallops, gunboats, bateaux, and canoes anchored along the wharf. A merchantman was tying up, the gangplank down. Two men descended, dressed as sea captains. One figure looked vaguely familiar. Where?

Pierre’s lope turned into a sprint. Hugh! Hugh LaVigne. The man turned toward Pierre as he stepped onto land. Under his black claque with its points over each ear, his head was wrapped in a scarlet cloth. A patch covered his right eye socket from where a puckered white scar pulled the corner of his mouth upward in tiny wrinkles.

Phhgr? The men threw their arms about each other, kissing cheeks twice.

Hugh’s eyes brightened. Alloh, alloh, he mumbled in spite of his missing tongue.

"Sacre demon, I find you, my friend, my great friend. I thought never to see you again." The men embraced again. Only then did Pierre turn to Hugh’s companion.

"I am Allard Demers, captain of the Marie Lorraine." He held out his hand to shake Pierre’s.

Pierre took Hugh’s arm. "Let us go to the Boire Profond, my favorite tavern. It’s only a couple of streets away."

Linking the men’s arms, Pierre led them away from the waterfront through slushy black snow. Both sides of the streets were lined with four-story buildings not unlike those in Old France. Some had stood for nearly 200 years and now leaned on each other like drunken sailors. Wooden signs, promising to meet every need, swung in a stiff breeze funneled through the street. Supplies for outfitting canoes to frigates, haberdashery and hat shops, especially expensive beaver ones in all shapes and sizes, hats that made Quebec famous. When tired of trading, a man could choose from grog, rum, and wine dispensers.

Slabs of meat hanging from hooks and dripping blood encouraged good housewives in homespuns and huge white bonnets to feed hungry husbands. Women, questionable by their décolletage and uncovered hair, smiled from upstairs windows over taverns. The air was thick with odors of pelts, leather, fresh meat, and dung.

They walked on in silence, Pierre taking in Hugh LaVigne and Allard. Allard had brown hair pulled behind and tied with a black ribbon. Both men had the sea-gray eyes of Bretagne.

Two Indians wearing only breechclouts, beaver top hats, and moccasins stopped to speak to Dubois. They opened curled fingers in the gesture of greeting. Pierre spoke with them in the Algonquin mother language, speaking more with hands than with his tongue. He moved his arms in the undulation of waves upriver and, pointed to the sky, and slapped his hand once. They nodded to him, and, ignoring Hugh and Allard, moved on.

Old Huron friends from trapping days to the north, Pierre said. They asked what I am doing. I tell them I go upriver if God wills.

A babble of voices in linga franca, starched English, and the patois of the Métis made talking difficult. Above it all voyageurs sang ditties at the top of their voices, accompanying themselves with hops and jumps, clicking heels before their feet touched the street.

The three moved on to enter the tavern, a dark hole between two ship fitting stores, smoke filled, and smelling of sweat, cheap wine, and conspiracy. Pierre led them to a back table in a dark corner. The bar was crowded with voyageurs in varying dress, coureurs de bois in white blouses and brown corduroy pants, and a few Indians, dressed and undressed in buckskins.

A barmaid with a bosom which could have held a tray of drinks, gave Hugh a frightened stare and didn’t remove her eyes from his face until Pierre slapped her rear and laughed.

Tillette, take your eyes off my handsome friend before they pop from you pretty face. He turned to look at Hugh. You are paying, aren’t you? It is the end of the season and my pockets are as empty as an overturned canoe.

Order what you like, Captain Demers answered, smiling. "I will

pay."

Pierre straightened, relieved at the offer since he had invited the men. Three of your best mirabelle brandy, Tillette, the one your father hides behind the barrel.

Now, Pierre turned to Allard, how do you like this New France?

Allard’s smile turned bitter. Our New France that the British rule? But not us Frenchmen. Oh no, they do not rule us.

Tillette set the wooden mugs on the table, brandy made of local blackberries and strong enough to petrify the mug had it sat in it too long.

So why are you here? Pierre continued, laying a hand on Hugh’s arm, but looking at Allard.

I come many times over the years, the sea captain answered, "but now with Napoleon ruling France, I come less often. Hugh and I help émigrés escape from France."

Hugh