Below, you will find the Introduction and first chapter of my novel.
The following includes facts about the author as well as the first Chapter of the novel, Ripe Chokecherry Moon, by Trish St. John
About the Author:Trish St. John: (Patty Johnson)
Patty, writing under the name of Trish ST. John, was born in Bemidji, Minnesota, near the Headwaters of the Mississippi River. As the child of one of the first Minnesota research conservationists hired by the DNR, she visited Grand Portage and walked the paths the voyageurs traveled. She listened to Indian lore from the Red Lake Reservation near her home and became fascinated by the stories her father told her of the Fur trade. After teaching English literature, writing and Minnesota history for a number of years, she vowed to her students that one day, she would write a story about the Minnesota fur trade.
Ripe Chokecherry Moon is that story. It took her over ten years to write and she personally visited all the areas that she described in her book. She went back to the actual fur trade journals to research the life of the voyageur as well as attended fur trade enactments to learn more about black powder rifles. She even attempted cooking bannock over an open fire so that she could understand more about Poor Eyes, the Native American cook in her novel.
Trish St. John’s careful research has created memorable characters as well as a memorable plot based on a time in Minnesota history when Minnesota was under four flags and no one, not even the men who traveled the voyageur’s highway, understood the fur trade boundary wars. Ripe Chokecherry moon is a carefully balanced love story, that uses historical accuracy to enhance the romance, not diminish it.
Today, Pat lives with her husband, Lon, and her golden retriever on the Sauk River in St. Cloud, Minnesota. She enjoys watching nature out her back window, cooking, traveling, designing and creating stained glass windows, and decorating on a schoolteacher’s salary. You can find more about this life on her storefront blog at http://www.lulu.com/content/221212.
Pat writes primarily from her cabin on Little Rock Lake, which you will see pictured in her blog. She says that she discovers many of her plots while sitting on a small island in the Mississippi River, or staring into the waves that lap the shore near her dock. Pat is also extremely concerned about Minnesota water quality and manages a blog concerning Little Rock Lake. You can visit this blog at http:/www.freewebs.com/littlerocklakeblog
Look for more novels to come out in this series as Pat explores what became of Joseph in the novel, Trappers’ Moon. She also plans on tracing the mystery surrounding Jean Batiste’s birth in a third part to this saga.
Her novel can be ordered on line at her storefront at http://www.lulu.com/lokiloki or at her storefront at www.freewebs.com/ littlerocklakeblog. She also has a new 200 page Minnesota cookbook that will be featured on the littlerocklakeblog site.
You can also read more about the author and about the fur trade in her storefront blog, and download a free cookbook titled, Free Wild Minnesota Berry Cookbook, on her lulu website.
She includes more family pictures, recipes and news at http://www.Freewebs.com/trishstjohn or on her daily blog, Voyageur on a Minnesota Highway, which can be reached at Blogger.com
And now, on with the story…
The Villain:
“Beauparlant!” She screamed. Heavy wet material clung like spider webs to her face. She struggled to be free of her bonnet, clawing frantically at the gauze covering her eyes. Her arms swung wildly, useless. In desperation, she tried to kick towards the large rope anchoring the boat. Her petticoats filled with water and her corset stays tightened. A cry was torn from her throat and then black water closed over her head.
The Hero:
Francois’ arms tightened around his captive as he swam towards the ship. The girl in his arms weighed hardly anything at all. Anger clawed at his gut. What was a small child like this doing, joining a group of women that were selling themselves to the highest bidder?
The Conflict:
Mentally Francois cursed the day that McTavish and his company had set foot on the voyageur’s highway. They’d mismanaged the furs and taken away his right to make a decent living, forcing him to a pledge of non-competition and cutting his credit. Francois was tired of hearing of the fur company border disputes. He just wanted to be left alone, to do what he did best. He clenched his jaw, muttering, “I’ll be damned if I’ll end up like Old McTavish, wearing a cut away suit and a beaver hat, stuck in some office in Montreal ordering Flintlock rifles.” If survival meant he had to give up his shares as a partner in North West, he’d become an independent trader moving throughout the Minnesota wilderness.
Below you will find the first chapter of the novel Ripe chokecherry Moon by Trish St. John, which is sold through lulu books at http://www.lulu.com/content/221212
The Main cover can be seen ( which is a lot clearer than this one ) along with ordering information at my lulu website
Ripe
Chokecherry
Moon
A tale of the Minnesota
Fur Trade in the 1800’s
Trish St. John
Published by
L.J. Wilderness Publications
Waite Park, MN
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright 2006
By Patty L. Johnson (Trish St. John)
ISBN:
Printed in the United States of America
Order at http://www.lulu.com/lokiloki
March 2006
Dedication:
To Lon: Always my hero,
To Dad: Who traveled the voyageur’s highway
To Barb and Gayle: Who get me out of the house to shop!
To Sharon for editing and Jackie for inspiration
To: students who write and love to read
The Voyageur
Dere’s somet’ing stirrin’ ma blood tonight,
On de night of de young new year,
W’ile de camp is warm an’ de fire is bright,
An’ de bottle is close at han’__
Out on de reever de nort’ win’ blow,
Down on de valley is pile de snow
But w’at do we care so long we know
We’re safe on de log cabane?
Drink to de healt’ of your wife an’ girl,
Anoder wan for your frien’
Den geev’ me a chance, for all de worl’
I’ve not many frien’ to spare__
I’m born, w’ere de mountain scrape de sky,
An’ bone of ma fader an’ moder lie,
So I fill de glass an’ I raise it high
An’ drink to de Voyageur.
By William Henry Drummon
From The voyageur and other Poems, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Publisher
Chapter One
In the early l800’s, at Fort St. Anthony
Merewyn MacKenna stood in the shadows and watched as three men loaded a large canoe with provisions. Dusk had turned into full-blown darkness when she’d crept up on the deck of the steamboat Virginia to escape the confines of her stale cabin.
The air was fresh, taking her breath away. She heard the metallic twang as the fiddlers tuned their instruments below deck. There was about to be a big party in celebration of reaching Fort St. Anthony, and everyone on board was excited to be in this new place people were starting to call Minnesota.
The coming of the steamboats always meant a great jubilation. Merewyn had heard the welcoming sound of gunfire from the Fort, and the elated cheers when the boat had first docked. She knew there were plans in the making for a grand party. Since the inhabitants of the Fort were shut off from communication with the outside world for most of the year, everyone was excited to meet the new passengers and check out the supplies brought by the Virginia.
The captain planned on holding a steamboat dance. Everyone from the Fort would be invited. There would be food, dancing and a chance to meet the latest passengers, known as the King’s Brides. Word had it that many traders would be attending the dance with the hope of making an acquaintance with some of the girls that the captain had brought along on the ship. They would visit with the women at the dance, and if they liked what they saw, they would bid for them on the following day. The women would have their passage paid for, the steamboat captain would become rich and some very lonely men would have new wives.
Besides the steamboat passengers and the traders, the captain had invited important members from the Fort.
For days, everyone on ship looked forward to the captain’s dance, and tonight was to be a special celebration. Below her in the darkness, Merewyn saw men dressed in their finest shadbelly coats, while the women wore crepe gowns or muslin dresses. She could hear excited chatter, as couples met, mingled and talked of their futures.
Merewyn had taken a chance coming out into the night air, but she felt reasonably safe, certain that no one would notice her in the crowd. After the confines of the ship, she needed to feel grounded, to smell fresh air. The sharp odor of pine trees and wood smoke filled her lungs and she felt happy.
It had been a long trip to this place called Minnesota, and she was glad it was almost over. At first, when the women passengers had gone out on the top deck to view the river and the countryside, she’d stayed hidden below, not wishing to be seen by a potential husband. She’d heard the excited tones of her fellow travelers and from their conversations, tried to imagine the bluffs that they were describing to each other, but nothing had prepared her for the colorful scene below.
It was a night made for remembering, and that wasn’t all good. She turned her dark head slightly to catch the fresh breeze, which seemed to sweep down the course of the river, bringing with it smells of sun baked earth and Norway pine. She took a deep breath, clearing her lungs of the ever-present pipe smoke and stale body odors that had filled the interior of the boat during her journey. She breathed in again, deeper this time. It was good to be in America.
She thought of the legends her father had told her of Checkered Cloud, the storyteller, and Mocka-Doota-win’s two wives. She thought of the voyageurs, and the tales she’d heard of how these men crossed Lake Superior in canoes, made from paper torn from birch trees.
Gingerly, she inched her way along the catwalk. The deck felt slippery. She grasped the railing as the boat pitched against its moorings. The wet metal bit into the palm of her hand. She ran a finger lightly against the slippery bar. The bar was smooth and cold in the night air.
She wanted off the boat. She longed to feel solid ground beneath her feet. It would be exciting to jump into the swirling water below and swim to freedom. She sighed and then let her eyes stray to a dark figure that seemed to be loading cargo twelve feet below.
On a lower deck stood a voyageur and he lived up to every fantasy she’d ever dreamed about, from his blue capote pulled over straining back muscles, to his jaunty red cap, decorated with turkey feathers.
Her heart raced and a small pulse jumped in her neck. She leaned farther over. He was throwing large sacks of flour onto a loading deck. Girl, she said, quit your staring. It’s not as though you haven’t seen a man before!
But even as she silently spoke the words, she knew that she had never experienced such a man! He was a big bear of a man, with wavy, black hair and rippling muscles that drew her closer to the railing for a better look. She thought he might be part French. She noticed how his strong torso narrowed to long slim hips. Most of the voyageurs she’d met through her father’s company were short, and they wore long blanket coats, which reached to their knees covering their leather leggings.
Merewyn’s lips felt dry, and she licked them unconsciously. It was a hot sultry night and she watched as the man threw his capote on the deck. His body was magnificent. She stared boldly at his departing back watching as he jumped quickly from bale to bale with an economy of motion.
Merewyn did not realize that she had continued to move forward until her feet touched down on the planks that led to the loading platform some six feet below her. She stopped, inhaled the crisp evening air, and leaned over the side of the boat for one more look before going back into the cabin she shared with Claudette.
She watched the voyageur pace the deck. His trim hips moved rhythmically as he threw sacks down and picked up others. Occasionally, she glimpsed pale skin as his breechclout strained against his powerful thighs. His legs were bare. She thought of the many stories she’d heard about the men in the New World. What would it be like to travel the wilderness country with a man like that? What would it be like to have such a magnificent man make love to her?
She could almost hear Claudette’s voice, with it’s lilting laugh, filling in the conversation. “Magic!” She would tell her, “Pure Magic. Take your chance now, Merewyn. Go after him! What have you to lose? Better a good looking voyageur who smells of fresh lake water than a fat trader with four native wives and a passle of kids.”
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Ever since meeting Claudette, she had moments when it seemed they communicated without words. Sometimes it was as if Claudette’s forceful personality had the power to take over her own. She knew she was just being fanciful. She blamed the thought on her mother’s romantic French heritage, combined with her own Scotch-Irish imagination.
She’d grown up listening to the swaggering stories of the voyageurs around her father’s London merchant trade center and most of them had been boastful exaggerations.
But now, after one look at the magnificent body before her, she was beginning to believe the tales of their wilderness conquests, and worse than that, she was starting to think like Claudette. The thought kept running through her mind that it wouldn’t be so bad to jump ship with a voyageur. All she’d have to do is hide on board his canoe under one of the packets. Then when she was away from the ship she would tell him her story. If he were an honest man, he’d help her. He had to know her uncle. Together they would find Uncle Kenneth and everything would work out.
“Voyageurs aren’t just like other men,” her mother’s throaty French Canadian voice echoed in her memories. “Do not underestimate them. They know who they are and are at peace with themselves and the world.”
She remembered how her mother had smiled in what Merewyn had privately thought was a rather naughty way, before continuing. “These voyageurs, my innocent darling, are so earthy, so passionate. When you are older, you’ll know what I mean. We will make plans. I will take you to visit the New America. There, you will meet a man like your father, and you will give me many dark eyed grand babies.”
Merewyn frowned. First, she was hearing Claudette’s voice and now the voice of her mother. She’d always been a dreamer but it was time to stop. Looking at the man below her, she thought she understood a little of what her mother meant about passion, but it frightened her. The man below was overpowering in his masculinity, and dangerous. But, Ah! He was fun to watch. A sweet, dizzying sensation filled her as she watched his gliding muscular back weave in and out of the stockpiled packets. What would it feel like to be lifted up by such bronze forearms and pressed next to warm skin, the color of tanned leather?
Merewyn grinned to herself in the darkness. For once, her totally impractical, French-Canadian mother had been right. Voyageurs were special!
They didn’t put their pants on one leg at a time like other men. They didn’t wear pants or at least this one didn’t!
Her pupils darkened slightly. She watched the bare, corded upper thighs of the man loading supplies.
Since the weather was hot the dark stranger wore moccasins and leather leggings to about the knee. From the knees up, he appeared bare to the hips except for a fringed, beaded hunk of material that hung suspended from his waist, much in the style of the Indian breechclout. When he bent to lift a heavy bundle, the cloth would move and from the side, she could see the dim shape of his tanned upper hip and thigh.
The water swirled below her, mirroring her thoughts. She bit her lip staring into the darkness. She’d never seen so much man before.
As he moved off in the darkness, she gazed intently into the black surface of the water searching for a glimpse of her reflection, wondering what he would see if he were to notice her. The water showed a pale oval face with deep blue eyes. Curley black hair cascaded out of a makeshift bonnet and appeared to rock back and forth on the surface of the water. She smoothed the curls back from her brow as though seeing herself for the first time in this new place.
What was she going to do? Had she been crazy to come to America? Could she go through with her plan and pretend to be one of the King’s brides for some lonely older man in the new country and then abandon the unsuspecting man? She’d paid for her passage, but she still needed to get off the ship, find a place to stay. She was running out of options.
An intense feeling of distress filled her soul. The sad answer was, she just didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
The only people that had loved her were dead, buried in a country cemetery a continent away. She wasn’t in any position to bargain, even if it meant marrying a man she had never met before.
She tossed her dark hair, her eyes snapped and she came out of her trance. I’ll not stare into the water and feel sorry for myself, she vowed. I’ll get what belongs to me, no matter what it takes. MacKenna Fur Company is rightfully mine! She took one last look at the voyageur. It would be exciting to talk to him. Learn what he could tell her about furs. Maybe he would be able to tell her where she could find her uncle and what her uncle had been doing to Mackenzie Furs.
She exhaled and wrapped her torn shawl closer around her body. She felt the sting of the night cold and shivered in the darkness. There had been one brief moment when a part of her felt joined to the voyageur by an invisible cable, but that feeling was probably just the loneliness of the night. That and the fact that they seemed to be the only people cut off from the dancing and excitement above deck. She trembled, feeling raw, exposed, and frightened by what would happen in the morning. She was no longer sure of her actions.
On board ship, life was different from the life she had known in England. Everything was basic and elemental. There was no privacy. Natural body functions were accepted and discussed openly. She’d often overheard conversations about the side of life that a man and woman shared together. She’d heard the younger women talk of making love and how pleasant it could be, while others claimed, love making was horrible and necessary only as long as it took to give a man a child.
The cabin walls were thin. She heard women coupling with the sailors aboard ship. Their moaning voices seemed vulgar and out of place in the life she had known.
Tomorrow the crying might be hers. If caught, she would bed a man that she had never met. He could be toothless, have many Indian wives in the villages, or smell of perfumed soap and dirty clothing. He might be fat with a giant fish belly. She swallowed hard, trying to keep such thoughts out of her mind, knowing that if she didn’t, she would never sleep.
A hot flush deepened her cheeks to crimson as her hidden ideas began to form. It would be much better to go off with the voyageur. At least he looked clean. He was young, strong. She looked out on the water. The waves lapped hungrily at the hull. The dirty, dark sky blended into the drabness of the ship.
Loneliness wasn’t new to her. As an only child, she’d often been by herself, but she’d never felt as vulnerable as she did now. The wind picked up slightly. Black waves licked the sides of the Virginia.
She took one more furtive look at the man working below deck. She felt a quickening in the lower region of her body. The voyager looked like the type of man the women had described as ‘good in bed’. If she had to choose any man from those she seen lately to give her offspring, he would be her best choice. She knew what the traders had said. Voyageurs were not marrying men, or if they married, it was to a different woman in every Indian village.
Maybe she could marry one of the men wanting brides and then return to England. She did not see marriage to a voyageur as something she could deal with. She remembered how her father had often said that a “voyageur’s mistress is the freedom of the river.” She knew that for these untamed men, very few women could compete with their desire to be free. She did not wish to spend her life worrying at the Fort while her husband went deep into the interior to bring back furs. It was no life.
Her thoughts raced. She wondered if the man she had seen was married, or if he had a mistress other than the river. If he had, did his woman wait for the sound of his paddles and his joyful call across the water, or was his woman tucked away in some lonely back wooded area, surrounded by children the color of teak.
Did the man follow his partner into the quiet forest and make love to her on a bed of pine needles under a blue, northern sky? Or did he leave her for months at a time, to fend for herself?
Lost in her thoughts, she leaned against the railing just as the captain called to the man in her thoughts.
“Francois, come and join us. There’s good whiskey on deck and a boat full of desperate women wanting a man.”
Wanting a man! The words seemed to echo across the water, penetrating Merewyn’s mind. Her eyes blazed. She was not going to be reduced to such terms. She did not wish to be bought like the women on the boat.
“I’ll take the whiskey you’re offer’n, but I’ve problems enough with the trade companies, without add’n a desperate women to my life!” Francois called back across the water.
“They’re a plague!” he added,” all they’re look’n for is to trap some man into paying their passage and they’re use’n marriage to do it. There’s a name for women like them. Once they get to America, they’ll turn tail and leave, tak’n half the money for furs.”
The captain chuckled. “I think you’ve been without a woman too long. There’s more to think about than furs.”
“You’d think it would be enough for a woman to have the pleasure of a man in her bed, without him pay’n for it by marriage,” Francois grumbled. “The women on your ship have one goal and that’s to set about trying to change a person. I say, tell them to go back to England where they’re useful.”
The captain laughed, handed Francois a bottle and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “You must be hav’n a bad trad’n season or just bad luck with women. It’s a good country, Francois. How else are your men going to find women other than by my ship? Maybe these women just want to see America for themselves. And what’s wrong with them coming to find husbands? It helps me pay for my ship. There’s lot of men on your crew who would be happy to have one of the King’s brides.
Francois laughed cynically and then drank deeply, before wiping off the mouth of the bottle and handing it back. “It would be fine, if the women you brought knew how to work other than lying on their backs. The traders pay for their passage over, you get rich and they come here expecting tea parties and men in fancy collars to make life easy for them. None of them knows how to gut an animal or stretch a hide.”
The Captain swallowed another drink. His grin widened, stretching his face into a lopsided smile. “The men waiting for wives don’t ask about whether the women can stretch a hide, young man. They marry them first, and if the women don’t like the life, they send them back to England and marry another. That’s fine with me because it makes me twice as rich.”
Merewyn felt her nails biting into her palms. Women were like livestock to these men. She’d just heard the captain talk about how men married the brides and then sent them home so they could get another! How many wives did they have? Whatever happened to love, or caring about another individual and wanting to share a life with them? These men were as primitive as the clothing they wore!
Two new men climbed quickly on board, and then disappeared below deck with the Captain.
The man called Francois ignored them, turned back to the loading of his canoe, shifted and retied his packages, and then boarded the ship. He moved over to a secluded corner and withdrew a small white pipe. He smoked silently as he looked out at the water.
Slowly, he took a crumpled and well-worn letter from his pocket. He looked at the letter for what appeared a long time. His shoulders slumped.
He glanced again at the upper rail of the Virginia, ran a hand through his dark curly hair, and strode the deck. Lost in thought, he seemed oblivious to the dark haired girl with the sharp, wistful eyes watching in the darkness.
As he strode the deck, he clenched his fists at the Company’s unfairness. The year had been productive. The competition between rival fur companies had quickened his wits, and he’d made money for them all. By rights, he should receive at least one more partnership share in North West Fur. He’d spent 5 years being a clerk for North West furs on a wage that no man could live on. After his apprenticeship, he’d made junior partner in the company and was rightfully entitled to shares of the profit. He paced the deck faster. He would have the partner shares he’d earned, if Astor quit making trade agreements almost impossible.
He lifted a box of flintlock rifles and hoisted it easily to his shoulder. “Damn the boundaries and Damn John Jacob Astor,” he mumbled. “It’s time somebody gives him his dues!”
Astor now controlled the remnants of the North West Companies’ old Fond du Lac Department, and he was refusing to allow the British to trade furs legally. Morrison and Crooks, his top employees, were making plans to move in on the British trade by establishing posts along the northwestern border. This meant the Fort he was journeying to, Grand Portage, was right in the middle of the conflagration.
He tossed a bundle of flour into the canoe. He didn’t even know if the company he was a junior partner in still existed. One year they called the company he worked for North West; the next year, The New North West. Two years ago, there had been talk of a merger with Hudson Bay. He no longer knew whom he worked for, or where the actual boundaries were. The politicians who made the rules didn’t even know that. They had been scrambling around for months, trying to track what constituted the old trade routes so they could define the boundaries, and they still hadn’t accomplished anything. He slammed his fist against the railing. “Politics,” he mumbled. “Damn that Astor and all those like him!”
Politics combined with the McTavishes and the Astors were tearing up the fur business. The Winterers were leaving the trade, discontent over small shares and poor trade goods, and Jay’s Treaty which had allowed reciprocal trade rights between the British and American’s was being ignored. The Hudson Bay Company and the North West Company were playing one small company off against another and in the process getting rid of the junior partners. In London, MacKenzie was squeezing the independent companies like Benoit by playing one against the other and all the time talking about how the furs belonged to England. In the territory, Rich Astor wanted America to control all the North West Fur trade rights, and he wrote influential treaties and boundary agreements to see that it happened, leaving the French Canadian voyageurs without company support.
Francois was tired of hearing of the fur company border disputes. He just wanted to be left alone, to do what he did best. He clenched his jaw, muttering, “I’ll be damned if I’ll end up like Old McTavish, wearing a cut away suit and a beaver hat, stuck in some office in Montreal ordering Flintlock rifles. If survival meant he had to give up his shares as a partner in North West, he’d do it. He could always move west and become a totally independent trader as if his father had been years earlier.
It might be smarter to cut his losses now. He only had a few shares in the North West Company and as a wintering partner; it was unlikely that he’d earn more. Lately the North West Company gave out partnerships to family members rather than to the men who paddled the waters and took the risks. He was luckier than most. While he hired out to North West to bring furs from the Interior, he also had his own men owing their allegiance to him. He paid their salaries, not North West. He simply wanted to bring the furs to North West and have them pay him what he was owed.
To please his superiors at North West, he’d spent two winter assignments living with the Sioux and Ojibwa tribes, just to keep them from trading with the company that Astor was starting to call American Fur. Now, everyone in the trading business was worried about the new trade agreements. To compete with Astor’s company, even Hudson Bay Company was forced to cut prices. The fierce competition from the major companies was trapping out the beaver and soon nobody would find work.
In late May, he’d set out from the interior to deliver Indian furs to North West as promised. He had no idea what he or his men might find along the portage route. He did know that if they were stopped anywhere between Fort St. Anthony and Grand Portage by a representative of the American Fur Company, that representative could claim he had the legal right to confiscate all the furs Francois and his brothers had collected over a two year period. Then, he’d be out the furs, plus he’d owe North West for the trade materials given to him the winter before. He’d have no furs to deliver. He’d have to make good on his word.
Once he’d taken the pelts from the Indian villages, he owed them trade goods in return. They trusted him to bring the supplies they needed for winter. Now the border area was in such a desperate condition that there was talk of needing a military fort to protect the lives and property of the citizens of the country. Whose country and whose interests, Francois questioned? Certainly not the interests of the Indian people or the voyageurs.
Rumors said that young Ramsey Crooks was secretly meeting with American Fur at the Rendezvous at Fort Kaministikwia. Rumors also claimed that Astor had demanded a payment of £300 from the Hudson Bay Company to ignore Hudson Bay traders within their boundaries. If this illegal trade agreement were true, it would leave Astor and American Furs with an abundance of time to spend confiscating the furs of North West.
The partners had changed the rules since North West had started financial squeezing the company. They were demanding that no one in their employment could trade independently. Not that it made much difference, since any independent trade had to be in worthless pelts like moose and buffalo. The only markets the independent traders were allowed access were backed by North West, and the company naturally made a large profit on each transaction. Francois’ face darkened. He did not intend to give up the Benoit furs he had collected on his own. He’d give up his junior partnership in North West first. The fur trade couldn’t last forever the way the companies were depleting the pelts.
Francois sighed. Independent French-Canadian traders such as his father had been, were being run out. Until now, it hadn’t much mattered to him. The company had promised him the dream of a larger partnership status, but rumors said, that promise was ending. He slammed a crate of tin kettles down against the piling.
He’d like to get his hands around the necks of McTavish and his conspirator MacKenzie. With their stupid fear over trader rebellion, they were strangling their own companies.
Mentally he cursed the day that McTavish and his company had set foot on the voyageur’s highway. They’d mismanaged the furs and taken away his right to make a decent living, forcing him to a pledge of non-competition and cutting his credit.
But what grated on him the most was the partner’s aristocratic ways. They sat in their Great Hall on only the most sumptuous chairs, gossiping about each other and eating their fine dinners off pearl ware dishes from England, drinking the best wines out of ornate glassware, and they were immune to how the Winterers felt. They only allowed the highest members of the ‘inner court,’ into the Great Hall and even these men were seated by their importance to the company. The guides and clerks sat near the door and were ridiculed while they ate.
Francois was tired of doing the bidding of partners who looked down on his men. North West had contracted for a rich stock of pelts and he and his brothers would deliver them. Once this trip was finished, he’d be moving on. It was time he thought of himself and of Benoit Furs.
He felt restless. What would stop Benoit Furs from moving farther into the Interior? He could always trade with the Indians around the source of the Mississippi River. Right now, nobody patrolled that area heavily. It was unlikely that anyone would ask to see his trade license.
Francois slammed a pack of furs down on the deck. That the fur trade business should come to this, he thought. He hated the lying and deceit, but now politics forced him to make an unpopular choice. He must choose between losing his company and breaking the law.
His stride lengthened and Merewyn heard him mumble, “Damn that man! I’ll kill the bastard!”
Merewyn’s eyes widened in terror as she watched the heavily muscled voyageur clench his fist tightly then slam his hand repeatedly into a heavy coil of rope on deck. She spotted a small splash of blood trickle down his hand.
Francois was oblivious to the pain, lost in the events of the past week, ignorant of the girl watching in the darkness.
What angered him the most was that the majority of his problems started with the empty accusations of Dumas Beuparlant, a known thief, who had been running back to England, tattling to MacKenna Furs and causing trouble between the British traders and the Indians. While working with North West, Beuparlant had deliberately lied and falsified documents concerning Benoit Furs, then run off to England. Now, the senior partners of North West would not offer the Benoit brothers the shares they had earned. Instead, they’d divide the shares up and hand them out to their family members. If it had not been for Beuparlant’s lies, Benoit Fur would have been North West’s top fur supplier.
And as for Beuparlant, once he’d created problems for Benoit Furs, he’d gone on to work for American Furs. “The lying Bastard!” Francois mumbled.
Francois’ shoulders sagged thinking about how hard he and his brothers had worked to earn the right to trade, to make his father’s name respected. Now he was about to give up his heritage, his father’s dream. He paced the floor rapidly as he thought out loud, “This whole mess amounts to nothing more than Lysette followed me from camp to camp. Dumas Beuparlant will never forgive the fact that she wanted me!”
Francois’ stomach churned. He noticed the blood running down his forearm. Waves were about to break up his canoe and he felt like he had no paddle. He squared his shoulders. “I’ll have to tell Joseph and Jean Batiste,” he mumbled. “It won’t save anything, but they have a right to know.”
He stared sightlessly at the supplies he was loading. With a good wind, his men could complete the route from Fort St. Anthony to Fort Kaministikwia and not be discovered. If they could make this one run, the situation with the North West Fur Company might stabilize, and the trade agreements controlled by Astor might change. Someone might even kill the wily American.
If the current law stated that an American had to be a licensed trader to transport furs through American territory, he’d hire an American to act for him. There were always ways to get around the law, even with Morrison or Astor playing politics.
He’d learned as a voyageur that waves were different every day. Soon, people would see Dumas Beuparlant for the man he was, and deal with his lies. If the fur territories settle down, he’d have the trading agreement he needed.
He read the paper one more time. Decisively he crumbled and tossed the note into the current, then turned his back as it bobbed, dipped and eventually disappeared into the swirling eddies.
Merewyn watched him. Without thinking, she reached for a hook and stabbed at the water surrounding the swirling note. Shortly the note caught on the hook. Merewyn reached farther, leaning over the deck.
A sudden powerful gust of wind pushed at the note, catching Merewyn off guard. She reached further. Her right foot shot out from under her, catapulting her into the air. She realized she was falling. She let out a short terrified scream, but no one heard her cry. The happy sounds of the party mingled with her cry and were smothered by the waves lapping the ship.
She hit the water with an impact that stole the wind from her lungs and left her sputtering and floundering. She struggled towards the top, and then felt her body go under for the second time. Gasping for air, she kicked towards the surface, willing her body to fight the panic that clutched at her heart.
Heavy wet material clung like spider webs to her face. She struggled to free herself of her bonnet, clawing frantically at the gauze covering her eyes. Her arms swung wildly, useless. In desperation, she tried to kick towards the large rope anchoring the boat. Her petticoats filled with water and her corset stays tightened. A cry was torn from her throat and then black water closed over her head.
Francois had just boarded his canoe and was waiting impatiently for Jean and Joseph when he heard the first cry. Obviously someone was having too much of a good time with someone’s bride, he thought.
The second cry ripped at his insides and drew his attention to the water. There, less than thirty feet from his canoe, a woman was drowning.
A stream of curses filled the night air. His canoe shot ahead almost of its own volition, and Francois stared in stupefied surprise at the sight of three ripped petticoats floating in the water.
Peeking out from under one of the petticoats was a tiny, dark haired woman, flailing and stabbing at the water.
“Don’t slap the water,” Francois yelled. “Cup your hands and paddle!’
Ignoring his instructions the woman continued gasping, sputtering and beating the water as she clung to her petticoat trying to use it as a type of flotation device.
“Fire and Damnation!” Francois swore. The water wasn’t that deep but he was going to have a time of it getting her into the canoe.
He paddled near the struggling woman, circling in closer.
“Let go of your petticoats and hang unto the stern,” Francois shouted.
The woman made a desperate lunge for the canoe. Francois watched in horror as she grabbed for the cedar strip.
“Jesus and Holy Mary, No!” He yelled. The bow of the canoe raised perpendicular in the water, and he watched as his supplies floated out from the stern. Then he too was in the water, and over 400 pound packets of kettles, powder, and shot floated momentarily, and then began to fill with water.
“Just look what you’ve done,” he sputtered. He reached out a strong arm and anchored the girl to his side. “You damn nearly ruined everything I’ve packed, and you nearly killed us both.”
Merewyn watched his mouth move, but she was too exhausted to hear his words. Her hands and feet were numb from the cold. Frantically she clung to his warm body.
Francois pulled her against his chest and started kicking for the boat. Dimly, he was aware that Joseph and Jean had launched another canoe and were paddling quickly towards shore to retrieve the canoe and salvage the packs. They had not seen the girl, because she was on the wrong side of the ship, but they had heard his cursing and noticed the Benoit supplies floating in the water.
Francois arms tightened around his captive as he swam towards the ship. The girl in his arms weighed hardly anything at all. Anger clawed at his gut. What was a small child like this doing, joining a group of women that were selling themselves to the highest bidder?
He hoisted her to the plank that led to the main boat. “You’ll be all right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll call the captain! I must rejoin my brothers, get back to my supplies.”
The child’s head snapped upward. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her dark curly hair had come loose from its knot and hung in damp tendrils around her neck and face. She looked upset. “No,” she pleaded desperately. “Please don’t tell the captain!” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t want him to remember that I’m on board.”
Her parting statement left Francois stunned. Why wouldn’t the captain know she was on board?
Lost in thought, he reached out and took the wet packet of flour that a surprised Joseph handed him.
“Damn,” he muttered for the second time, as he helped the girl up onto the decking. He knew he didn’t have time to question the girl further.
“I’ll not talk to the captain,” he replied. “You will be fine. Just go to your cabin and get out of the wet clothes.”
He turned to Joseph and Jean, “Repack the goods. Grab that box of tin lanterns, Jean. Spread them out on deck and see if we can dry them.”
Merewyn heard their muttered curses as she hurried to her cabin barely glancing at the men and supplies scattered over the deck. Francois and Joseph watched as her back disappeared into a doorway.
“Darn if we’ll get any help from her,” Francois mumbled. “It’s like I said earlier, “Lord keep us from desperate women.”
Joseph’s laugh carried over the water. “She’s just a child, Francois. It isn’t the first time we have overturned a canoe. Now, maybe we can stay for the party”.
Francois stared at him coldly. “We need to start up river,” he said. I don’t have time for childish pranks.”
In the room she shared with Claudette, Francois’ words echoed in her mind as she ripped off her sodden dress, replacing it with a dingy calico. He thought she was a child, so her secret was safe for now. Later, she would try to thank the man and offer to pay for his ruined supplies, and then he would not be tempted to tell the captain. She’d come too far to be returned to England, because a stranger complained to the captain.
Merewyn pulled on dry stockings. She was amazed that she still felt so little fear. She could have lost her life but somehow she couldn’t summon up any emotion. With everything that had happened this past year, a dip in the river seemed mild in comparison.
Intent on thanking him, Merewyn returned to the loading platform. Francois was slamming tin ware into a wooden crate. He eyed her warily. She could almost read what he must be thinking about her, and it wasn’t good. His dark eyes looked bleak. She knew she’d done enough damage to his trade goods to set him back at least one day.
Francois drew back, hoping to pass her on the right and leave the ship. He didn’t want any ‘thank you’, but as he tried to move past her, there was something about the child that made him give her a second look. He wondered why she was so frightened of the captain.
What could it be? Without the moonlight highlighting her dark silky hair and lovely face, her shapeless outfit and features were barely distinguishable from countless other young women. She confused him.
Francois remembered the feel of her in his arms and he knew why she would be hard to forget. She had the softest breasts. They’d felt good pressed up against his chest. He remembered how the wet material had clung to her. Suddenly he didn’t like the new dress she wore. It was dry but it didn’t mold to her body as the other had done.
His eyes met hers boldly, giving her the mock, jaunty smile of the voyageur, the legendary rake.
Merewyn hesitated before breaking out into an answering smile, timidly sensing an almost savage virility in the man.
She moved towards him provocatively, unconsciously holding her hand out much as her mother might have done to greet an old friend. She felt as if some powerful invisible force guided her.
She wanted to thank him, ask him about Uncle Kenneth. Maybe he could tell her about the new country, about the fur trade. Maybe he would help her.
Francois took her hand. The night closed in and they were alone in a blackened wilderness, lit only by dim stars. Merewyn, remembering his anger on board ship, spoke hesitantly. “I came back to thank you for saving my life. If there’s anything I can do to help you repack your goods, I want to help.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Francois replied abruptly as he swung a canvas bound packet on board. “I’m not in the market to buy a wife. So, unless you’re sending me a different message, I think you belong below deck, Miss.”
Merewyn gasped. He thought she was one of the King’s brides. It might be true come morning, but she had never planned it to go this far. She hesitated then held out her hand again.
The man ignored her and continued loading and unloading his cargo. Eventually he braced his heavily muscled buckskin legs against the railing and tipped the bowl of his pipe overboard. Obviously, he hoped she’d leave.
There was a faint hissing noise. Then the warm glow from his pipe dimmed, closing them into a shadowy intimacy. The small girl moved closer intent on asking him some questions.
“Aren’t you wasting time?” He asked insolently. “Or shall we get down to price? There’s a party down below and I’ve heard from the Captain, that this is your last night to amuse yourself before you find a husband on board ship.”
He drew closer, moving towards her in the moonlight. Obviously his insults weren’t working. His stomach churned. Could he be wrong about her?
As he closed in on her, the moonlight stripped the harsh shadows from her face. She was very young and looked surprisingly innocent. Francois wondered if the poor girl had a clue as to what he’d just suggested. He felt raw anger burn in his throat. What kind of people would allow a child to walk alone aboard a ship with a ship full of men starved for female companionship?
The soft, smiling, heart shaped face looked at him trustingly, bringing with the look, a surge of longing in his soul that he had almost forgotten.
“My God, will you listen to me! You are a child! Isn’t falling off a ship enough action for you in one night? Do your kin know where you are? Do they know how you look at men?” His voice sounded hoarse, caressing her with its gravel-rich warmth.
Merewyn eyes snapped, and she blinked back tears of anger. Why was the man so angry? He was the one that had been doing the looking! First, he’d assumed that she was one of the King’s brides ordered up by a lonely trader, and now he’d assumed that she was a young schoolgirl. Mentally, she cursed the lumpy, shapeless gown that she had chosen in her hurry to thank him.
“Make up your mind!” She snapped totally forgetting her shyness. “Either I’m a child or I’m not a child! But no matter what I am, you are being rude.”
Francis’s eyes glowed in the dusk. This wasn’t the timid voice he’d expected. This girl was older than he’d thought.
Merewyn looked directly down into his dark brown eyes, her own luminous blue eyes flashing sparks at him. “I came up to thank you. Why couldn’t you have allowed me that pleasure?” she asked. “I’d have thanked you for not telling the captain and I’d have left. Why did you have to mention my parents? They’re dead, both dead!”
She felt her dreams and fantasies pulled from her and plunged into the icy water below. Blinking back tears, she moved as though to leave.
Francois noticed the tears hanging on her long, spiky lashes. This was not going to be easy. Oh what the hell, he thought. There was only one way to stop a woman from crying. He pulled the tiny figure that curved in all the right places against his chest offering her comfort.
He felt the softness of her breasts, pushing against his arm, the warmth of her breath and the rapid beating of her heart.
He grabbed her roughly, snagging his rough callused hands in her damp hair and forcing her face towards him. “You have no business being here talking to me,” he said as he loosened his grasp slightly. “You said something about the captain not knowing you are on board? Are you in danger?”
She shut her eyes, choosing to ignore his question. She wanted to hang on to her child-like illusions. She wanted to think of the tall voyageur as a noble, courteous gentle man, who was unhappy and wanted her friendship.
Francois saw her composure slipping, and felt a strange tenderness towards the child. He gripped her arm firmly, staring into her lovely eyes. “I’m sorry if I was unkind. You’ve had a shock. You look like a dreamy-eyed English violet to me, even if you are just out of an English schoolroom.”
Merewyn opened her blue eyes timidly, as she fought to hold back tears. He’d called her a violet. She smiled tentatively, holding out her hand.
Francois stepped back as though burned.
“Good God!” He swore. “What in the hell are you doing stowing away on board this ship with all these women who are looking for husbands?”
It wasn’t what Merewyn expected him to say. She’d wanted him to notice that she was a woman. She’d expected him to apologize, be a gallant French-Canadian, kind, everything her mother had talked of. Now he’d insulted her by again calling her a child.
She twisted her arm from his grasp. “I’m seventeen!” She hissed. “Not that it’s any of your business. I can be anywhere I want to be!” She kicked out at his bare leg and elbowed his rib. It was of little satisfaction to hear his grunted, ‘oomph’ because the man’s grip only tightened on her arm. The moment that her skin met his, she felt frozen to the deck.
The voyageur closed in on her, slowly flexing his calf muscles as he grinned. “So you’re a woman of the world,” he said as his eyes turned from hers to her heaving breasts. “Ready to marry the first man who pays for your passage. Well, well, maybe the kindest thing I can do is teach you a lesson. Smart little English misses should stay in England where they belong.” He pulled her against his chest, twisting her face upward. She looked directly into his face.
For what seemed like a minute, the two of them stood there, silently looking into each other’s face, aware of the physical sparks of electricity that seemed to be moving between them. Merewyn felt a strange tingle of awareness deep within, a moment of joy. One part of her wished that she hadn’t childishly kicked the man and the other part of her rejoiced in the feel of his skin against her own.
So this is how it felt to be a woman she thought, masking a secret smile. The feeling was unfamiliar. Under her feet, she felt the reassuring vibrations of the boat in the water, but in her soul, she felt the stinging recognition of another human being.
Merewyn squirmed in the voyageur’s arms, Her body suddenly stilled when she felt the rising action of his breechclout and the ridge that burned into her hip. She knew little of men but she understood the voyageur’s desire and felt excited by it. Lowering her eyes in embarrassment, she saw precisely what she’d tried to avoid seeing. She tried to move away. The voyageur only looked down at his body, giving her a rueful grin.
“You’ll have to excuse my forwardness, Miss. I’ve been alone in a canoe with only the otter and beaver to talk to for awhile.” He smiled knowingly. “I guess I’m going to have to find myself a woman to take care of this problem I seem to have.”
Her eyes met his in the moonlight and she found herself challenged by dark brown eyes that burned with a fierce longing. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I was on deck because I wanted to see a voyageur.” A faint blush stole over her cheeks. “I wanted to know about the Colonies. I’m sorry I kicked you especially when you saved my life.”
The man threw back his dark head and laughed, pulling her tighter against his chest. “Well you saw a little more of me, than most people have.” He grinned ruefully. “However, I don’t think the Americans think of this place as an English colony.”
Merewyn’s body still felt a deep response to the lusty male in whose arms she found herself, but she forced herself to answer quietly. “Well, I can’t help but think of America that way. After all, it did belong to England and my father always said it would again some day.”
The man still held her against his chest and she realized that ever since he had pulled her from the water, she had no desire to leave his arms. What was it she found so compelling about this man?
Francois forced himself to comment lightly, trying to defuse the sexual sparks flying between them. “That sentiment is something you’d better not mention in these parts,” Francois warned.
Something about her defenseless posture made his voice soften and his arms hold her loosely, giving her the chance to free herself if she wished.
The woman-child did not pull away. Francois looked down into her face. She had the bluest eyes and her skin was silken. Any man would be glad to take her to his bed. He tried to put the picture out of his mind, but it kept intruding. He could see her, lying against a blue quilt, her long black hair curling over her milky breasts. He released his arm from her abruptly. He couldn’t explain the sudden flashes of overwhelming desire he felt. This woman excited him. She was a child. She should be treated as a child, and yet he wanted to touch her, have her touch him. Maybe his brothers were right. He had been without a woman for too long.
He lowered his voice, teasing her as he might have teased Jean Batiste when he was about her age. “Well, Little girl, I’m a voyageur. Now that you’ve been baptized in the river, will you tell your friends in the classroom about your experience and the type of beast you’ve discovered, or will you whisper about it to the first man who bids for you?”
Merewyn felt hurt, but she managed to stammer. “It’s not that way; I didn’t mean to pry. I wanted to ask you about the Fort and who runs it. I just saw how angry you were when you threw away the note, and I wanted to know why. I won’t tell anything and I hadn’t planned to listen. It’s just that you seemed lonely, and I’d heard about men like you and I wanted to...to...” She touched his arm, lightly running her hand over his wrist.
“Find out a little more about us, aye?” He looked at the child in her ragged dress, hidden by the darkness. His wrist felt like it was on fire.
Why wasn’t someone calling for her to come below? If a child like that talked to everyone as she had talked to him, she wouldn’t last a minute in the wilderness before some man had stolen the fruits she offered so innocently.
“The note wasn’t important girl. I’m over my anger.”
He saw her lift her pouting bottom lip and then watched it break into a winsome smile. He shuddered. Someone should lock her up.
In the sheltered bay, the water lapped softly against the keel and a loon laughed over the water. The man moved towards the big-eyed child, swiftly making his decision. Merewyn could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breathing erratic. She stared at the man, hypnotized by his eyes...dark, bottomless, secretive eyes that seemed to beckon her towards him. And at the same time, shout, “Stay out of my life, Girl.”
If she hadn’t watched him before, she might have taken him at his word. She saw sadness and frustration on his face. Merewyn stood quietly, meeting his eyes.
“You’d better go back to your quarters, child,” he said bitterly as she closed the distance between them.
“I just want to know about America and what voyageurs are like. Whether it’s true there are wild beasts along the shore and whether this territory is as pretty as the English countryside?” Her voice trailed off as she put a hand trustingly on his arm.
Misinterpreting her action, he reached for her, taking her chin in his hand. “I warned you, My Pretty, this talk’n has gone on long enough. The Fort is not the place for you, and the men there are not to be trusted. I’ve already told you that its been a long time since I’ve been with a woman and you’re much too fetch’n a piece of baggage to keep away from. There are beasts all right, and most of them two legged. If you marry one of those men bartering for you, you’ll find out all about men before morn’n,” he continued as he grasped her forearm. “If falling in a river didn’t teach you a lesson, this will. You can expect a lot more when a man pays for you and takes you to his bed.”
He reached for her, drawing her into his arms and lifting her face to his, never taking his eyes off her trembling lips. Merewyn felt a tiny flicker begin in the very core of her that threatened to burst into full flame. His arms tightened about her, pulling her breasts tightly against his chest, as his lips took hers in a searing kiss.
Stunned, she opened her mouth deeper, moaned and moved closer towards his grinding body. She forgot everything she wanted ask him about. The kiss deepened and she felt herself responding mindlessly, her fingers running through his dark hair, pulling him closer.
Her response astounded Francois. His body hardened. He pulled her deeper between his thighs. She could feel his breath, moist and warm against her neck. He put a hand on either side of her waist, pulling her into his hips so that she felt his arousal. She wore no corset and his large hands seemed to burn through the material spanning her waist before moving upwards to grasp her breasts. His eyes were hungry, searching.
“You’re beautiful,” he said huskily, “even if you smell like river mud.” His lips brushed hers lightly. He trailed kisses along her neck, and then moved again to kiss first the left side of her mouth, then the right. He groaned, pulling her tighter, still grinding his hips into hers. His lips searched for her mouth binding them together.
At first, his tongue barely tasted her, and then slowly he explored her mouth.
Her own fears forgotten, Merewyn reached for him, touching him. She ran her hands against his rib cage, traced her fingers along his side. The arms that cradled her were bands of steel, desperately pulling her close. She reached out to comfort him, opening her mouth so that he might taste the nectar.
The sounds of returning footsteps and the laughter of his two companions forced him to thrust the girl from his arms. He caught his breath sharply, and then he folded his arms across his chest as his eyes raked over her. The blood pounded in his temples. His breathing slowed. She certainly wasn’t as young or inexperienced as he’d first thought!
“Tell your friends you almost bedded a voyageur on board a steamboat with fifty people dancing above you,” he called jauntily as he jumped into the stern of the canoe. “Be good, girl!”
In the birch bark canoe, Francois Benoit’s two brothers glanced at each other. Their faces mirrored their disbelief.
“Well if that don’t beat all.” Jean Batiste stated.
“Yup,” Joseph replied, his face as puzzled as that of his younger brother’s.
On deck, the young girl clutched her arms tightly across her aching breasts, and reached one hand to touch her bruised lips.
The kiss had been incredible, absolutely incredible.
Two hours and many songs later Francois and his brothers beached their canoe and carefully dried unloaded and weighed their new purchases. Then they bound them into uniform 90-pound bundles that were easier to carry.
Joseph and Jean Baptist didn’t have much to say to Francois. It had been many months since the brothers had seen their brother with a woman, and they’d never seen him kiss one. It was one thing to take a woman out into the forest after a night of drinking and take her to bed. You just didn’t go kissing them on board ship where everybody could watch.
Privately, they both thought that kissing the skinny, dark haired child just didn’t make any sense; but then Francois had been doing many things lately that didn’t seem very clear.
After packing a large bundle of flour, dried beans, peas and miscellaneous goods for placement in Poor Eyes’ Canoe, Francois dismissed his brothers. Their bewildered expressions annoyed him. He needed to be alone with his thoughts and their eyes asked too many questions about the blue-eyed girl.
Francois didn’t want their questions. He felt ashamed of himself. He’d wanted that girl more than he liked to admit. He wondered how she came to be on board and why the captain didn’t know about her. It made him angry to think that she might be married within the week to the first man that would bid for her. He brushed both hands through his dark hair and stared out at the darkness. For a moment, he wondered how much the girl’s passage cost and what her bride price would be?
When he’d held her in his arms, he’d felt almost whole again. His burning hatred for Dumas and for what Dumas had done to his family had faded into the moonlight because of a few enchanting minutes pressed against the breasts of a blue-eyed witch woman.
His body stiffened. He had a job to do and an English woman with skin as soft as satin and violet pansy eyes had no part in it. He’d sworn vengeance on the men who had hurt his family. Dumas Beuparlant was the only man still alive and he intended to make him pay for what he’d done.
He forced himself back to the present. The fiddle was playing. That meant Jean Batiste and Joseph wouldn’t be any help weighing the furs. He walked around the camp, checking over the small details. Some of canoes were being loaded with trade goods owed to the Indians for last years furs; but most of the canoes held prime pelts he’d collected in the interior.
As he packed Poor Eyes’ canoe, he realized that he might be taking a step that could take him from being one of the youngest partners in the North West Company to becoming a Coureur de bois, an illicit trader.
The Benoits had their weaknesses, but his family was honest and their word meant something. He checked his supply list carefully. He wanted to be certain that if trouble came, no company would accuse him of illegal use of their stores. When morning came, he’d itemize everything belonging to the North West Company. The furs that he promised North West would go to Fort Kaministikwia. He wasn’t a thief.
There were two months of good trading left and plenty that he needed to do if he was to keep one step ahead of the fur companies. He must restock his goods; talk with other independent traders to see what North West was about to do. He also needed to check with local traders so he could find out what supplies they needed in the interior. That way he could plan the routes that would carry his company of men into the wilderness in search of beaver pelts.
It would be at least two months before he returned to Lake Superior with the proof he needed of Dumas’ treachery. If the North West Company didn’t want the furs, he’d figure a way that the Hudson Bay Company would. And if the North West Company wouldn’t buy them, he’d sell to American Furs. He’d made promises to deliver goods to the Indians when he’d taken their furs, and he intended to keep his word. There was only one thing he was certain of; he had to get to Fort Kaministikwia and talk to Gillian Du Preis before the Traders’ Rendezvous. His friend, Gillian would be able to tell him what was going on at the Fort, and help straighten out this mess with North West.
As he sat in the dusky light of the campfire, he heard the droning sound of a fiddle in the distance. He saw his brother Joseph leaning heavily against a wall. Probably winded, he thought, and maybe just a little bit drunk.
Francois impulsively, took one or two dancing steps, then regretfully, picked up his ledger and walked over to where the goods were stored.
He opened the large boxes and kegs and carefully checked their contents. The counting could not wait until morning.
Across the camp, his brother Joseph stared wearily at the sooty fireplace in the great lodge as he listened bleary-eyed to a wheezing, unvarying tune played on an old fiddle and tin soup kettle. It would have been more entertaining to stay at the captain’s dance, but Francois had been insistent that they return. The dancing with the heavyset girl had left him exhausted. Like his brother, Francois, he had a lot on his mind. Francois’ trip to get supplies from the boat bothered him. Why had they needed to go alone out to the ship to get supplies when the supply store was full? And why had Francois conducted business with cash, not credit?
Earlier he’d seen, Francois, walking in the darkness, drinking whiskey and squinting at his ledger when he should be dressed up and dancing. Francois’ behavior puzzled him. Tonight, for one moment in the moonlight, Francois had been himself again, kissing a skinny woman under the stars. Now, Francois was back acting the Bourgeois, close mouthed and meticulous, grumbling over his ledgers.
“Francois is becoming our father,” Joseph said, as he carefully handed his slightly younger brother a tin cup of brandy, his palms raw from the days paddling.
Jean Batiste shook his plumed cap up and down, while steadying the cup. “Your father, Joseph, not mine! I do not think a father of mine would force anyone to paddle sixteen-hour days. With Francois, like Old Jacques, it’s all work. Where are the sing’n and the danc’n, I ask you? The men like the sing’n and the danc’n! I like the sing’n and the danc’n! What’s wrong with our brother?”
Joseph staggered slightly before sitting down and thumping his tin cup on a nearby log for emphasis, ignoring his brother’s question.
“Cain’t you get it in your head that you’ve done enough sing’n and danc’n for one evening,” Joseph slurred. “I thought you would’ve found a woman to bed, or are you so ugly no one will have you? The new men will be wondering what’s wrong with you.”
Jean Batiste puffed steadily on his pipe. Alcohol consumption caused his face to flush unbecomingly. His conspicuous ostrich feather drooped dejectedly from his red woolen hat.
“I’m the greatest lover in the Northwest,” he bragged, slapping his brother’s broad shoulders. “I’ve already made one woman happy, tonight.”
“The only way you’ve made a woman happy tonight is by coming outside. You’ve stepped on everyone’s feet tonight!” Joseph replied. “You’ve been sashaying around, bragging and driving the women away. Women don’t want you tell’n them how you’re a great lover. They want to find that out for themselves.”
Jean Batiste twirled to the music, ignoring his older brother. “Let’s go to the boat where there’s more women for bed’n. The music’s better too.”
Joseph chuckled low and deep in his throat, tears running down his face, easily recognizing his younger brother’s lie. “You must have been slapped on the head by a grizzly bear, Little Brother. We’re at the Fort and the other dance is a long way down river.”
He stopped speaking suddenly, a devious grin dancing over his arrogant features.
“Well, I’ll bet my beaver pelts!” Joseph laughed. “All the women turned you down. Didn’t they? Francois’ the only one who got any kiss’n tonight.”
“It didn’t seem to make him any sweeter,” Jean replied sulkily, as he swung a mock blow at his brother’s head. Then he reached into a gay beaded bag and withdrew some rope tobacco. He handed a twist to Joseph.
“Looks like none of the women wanted you, either,” Jean teased. “The only way you make them happy, is by stay’n away from them.”
“Now don’t be sour little brother. If you stay by me, we’ll both get lucky. I’ll teach you all you need to know to pleasure a woman.”
Jean flushed querulously. “I know how to please a woman. I’m out of rum. I could’ve had a woman, but Poor Eyes has been tell’n them not to talk to me unless I give them rum. I don’t know why Francois brings that old woman along if she’s gonna ruin a mans pleasure.”
Joseph slapped his brother’s back hard before bellowing, “Poor Eyes is like a mother to us. She is a good cook. She knows this country better than any white man does. Francois knows the men would all desert without her kettle of boulettes.”
Jean nodded glumly in agreement, pouring another tin cup of his brother’s rum. “If I’d known you had this keg stashed in the canoe, I’d have used it to get me a woman by now.”
“Aye, it’s good thing I kept if from you and you didn’t know. You’d be fool enough to marry the girl for a keg of rum. Then where would you be with a wife and papooses trailing behind you to the Fort?”
“Are you tell’n me what to do?” Jean asked in mock anger doubling up his fist and squaring off on his brother. “I ain’t got any papooses trailing behind me, and that’s a fact,” Jean shouted!
“I’ll not have you tell’n me what to do!”
“Nah,” Joseph answered enveloping his brother’s shoulders in a massive squeeze and thumping him on the back before passing him the keg. “I’ll leave that to Francois.”
Jean sighed despondently, as he downed the fiery liquid. “I just get tired of you and Francois tell’n me what to do. Ever since Ma dumped me on him, Francois’ been acting like I ain’t dry behind the ears.”
“He doesn’t mean to. He’s had to wet nurse us a long time. I guess habits are hard to break.”
“Well, I still wish he spent more time kiss’n women and less time tell’n me what to do. Did you hear him whistling?”
“Yup.” Joseph replied. “Makes me think he needs a woman to keep his canoe warm. Maybe if he had his own woman, he’d leave us to ours,” Jean added thoughtfully.
“Ours?” Joseph chuckled as he looked around at the half-breed women in their large calico dresses adorned with balloon sleeves, squatting gracefully on the floor. Their colored handkerchiefs covered their heads and their ornamented moccasins stood out sharply below their short skirts. Each woman wore a blanket in the form of a shawl. Many had openly paired up with men. They were drinking brandy and nursing children. While in the darkened corner dozens of infants stood upright in their tightly laced cradles. “I don’t think we got any women,” Jean said sourly.
“We ain’t do’n so well tonight,” Joseph agreed. “None of the Benoit brothers has any women.” He stared gloomily into the fire.
“I ain’t a Benoit,” Jean continued. “We may have shared a mother, but that old hard skinned trader was no father to me.”
Joseph looked up slowly, reading the pain in his half brother’s eyes. “You’re my brother and Francois’ brother and as we’re Benoits; that makes you one.” He slapped his younger half brother on the arm. “Names ain’t important. It’s how many pounds you can carry over a portage. It’s how many times you dip your paddle during the day.”
Jean laughed. “I can out paddle any Pork-Eater from here to St. Charles. I can carry 400 pounds on my back across a portage. I’m the…”
“Damndest, Voyageur on the Great Lakes.” Joseph continued with a hearty laugh. “Save the brag’n for gett’n women. We’ve bigger fish to fry. Francois has been carrying that ledger.”
Jean stared, suddenly becoming more sober. “Not the ledger! You’re the head clerk. That’s usually your job. That means he’s plan’n on mov’n again.”
“Yup. Unless we can do somet’ing.”
“We could get him a woman,” Jean chuckled. “But she’ll have to be able to keep up, not like that light weight woman he was kissing today. He’d expect her to carry her share.”
Joseph raised one bushy eyebrow then nodded slowly. “Yup.”
“Don’t you know any other word than, yup?” Jean growled. “It’s get’n on my nerves.”
“Yup.” Joseph replied further annoying his brother. He went over to the keg sitting against the wall and refilled his cup, then staggered back and sprawled heavily on the soft ground, grunting painfully.
“Francois would never tie himself down to a leaky canoe. It surprised me to see him kiss’n that young girl.”
“Maybe she was kiss’n him.”
“Maybe they was both kiss’n each other.” Jean Batiste swayed lightly on his feet, and then lowered himself to the ground next to his brother. “Well, what are we to do? I’ve shown him half the women in the Fort, and he don’t pay any attention. Says they’re useless and they ain’t worth his bother.”
“Well, if they ain’t worth his bother, why was he kiss’n that girl on the boat today?” Jean Batiste argued.
“Maybe he has a problem,” Joseph replied sadly. “Maybe when he makes love with a woman it won’t stay up so he just kisses them.”
Jean Batistes eyes widened, mirroring his disbelief. “No!” he joshed. “You’re drunk and not making sense. He’s a Benoit. The spit’n image of old Jacques. It must stand up. My fellow always stands up.”
Joseph shrugged smugly. He did not wish to be out done on a favorite topic by his younger brother. “My fellow is taller and stands up longer than yours. He knows what to do when a beautiful woman strokes him.”
Jean swallowed another drink, trying to think quickly but his thoughts seemed muddled. “My fellow knows what to do even before a woman touches him.”
Joseph laughed, putting his arm around his younger brother. “Your fellow is always standing up, even when you don’t want him to. And since no woman will get close to you.” His voice trailed off, his bleary eyes mirroring his humor.
Jean Batiste lunged at him, and wrestled him to the ground in the dim firelight. Then stopped his exaggeration suddenly and became serious. “Joseph, you don’t suppose, that he can’t get it to stand up because of that business with Lysette? He’s almost thirty. It must be a terrible thing to lose the desire to bed a woman.”
“Hell,” Joseph swore. “I don’t know. He is like a bear with a sore paw over Lysette, but Francois never goes outside with any of the women, not even tonight after all that kiss’n.”
Jean looked puzzled. “Old Jacques never had any problem whoring with the best of them and he was close to sixty.” He sighed heavily before finishing his last drink.
“I never said he couldn’t get it up,” Joseph replied. “I just said he had a problem. You don’t lose your desire or your will, by turn’n thirty, boy. It’s somet’ing else. Maybe it’s those licenses he wants with North West, or maybe it’s all that business over Lysette. Maybe he’s choosy about whom he slides between his blankets, and then again, maybe he’s got a problem. Maybe it gets up, but it don’t stay up.”
“Well if he’s got a problem, we’ve got to fix it, Joseph,” Jean Batiste stated earnestly. “If the word gets to the Fort about the Benoit men, not being able to well, you know, finish things, we won’t have any women tak’n chances on either of us. When we walk into the Fort, the women will start laugh’n. Then they’ll be hiding behind a pile of furs and start laugh’n, talk’n, and talk’n. You know how women are. We must do somet’ing! We need to find Francois a hot, passionate armful of woman, that will fix things for him and take his mind off work.”
Joseph nodded glumly, his face mirroring his brother’s depression. He pounded his fist into the ground. “Yup, and we’d better be about it. Just yesterday, Francois said, there would be no time to go to the St. Andrews’ festival. He says we must take another load of furs up river if we are to stay ahead of the rival companies.”
Jean Batiste nodded glumly. “I’d like to go to the Fort. It’s been a long time since we’ve had any good fight’n. It must be terrible not to feel strong, to shrivel up. It would be better to go under a big wave and never surface. No man should live that way.”
Joseph growled. “It’s probably your fight’n that done it to Francois. I promised no fight’n this trip, and you’re always punch’n somebody. No wonder Francois won’t let us go to the St. Andrew’s festival. He probably remembers that gash on your head that kept you lay’n in the bottom of the canoe for three days.”
Jean Batiste glowered, “It ain’t the fight’n. He’s been carrying around a letter and he won’t talk about it. I think he’s angry at Dumas, so he keeps us paddling to dusk. Now we all pay. It’s Dumas’s fault. Francois just thinks of Dumas.”
By now the alcohol had clearly affected Joseph. He brushed a maudlin tear from his eye. “Poor Francois, not to make love, to lie all shriveled up waiting for somet’ing to happen. To crawl in his blankets and watch women and know he can’t have them. We must do somet’ing.”
Jean flushed, embarrassed by his older brother’s show of sentiment. He tried to change the subject. “We had a good run on Lake Superior and we’re ahead on furs; that should make Francois stand tall.”
“If you can’t make love, what else is there?” Joseph asked.
“The Benoit Fur Company,” Jean Batiste replied firmly, defending his older brother.
“With Dumas going over to England, poison’n all our contracts, and try’n to take away our license to trade we’re lucky to stay in business. If François didn’t work so hard, there would be no Benoit Furs. North West would have taken us over completely.”
“I sometimes wonder if that would be such a bad thing, brother,” Joseph said sadly. “I’m tired of this fight’n over Dumas; but like you, I want to go to the Fort. It has been two months since I’ve fondled anyt’ing smoother than an otter’s pelt.” A terrible thought flickered through his mind. “Maybe this problem could happen to all of us. Maybe it’s a disease.”
Jean Batiste growled. “You’re stinkin drunk. It isn’t going to happen to me! I’m no Pork-Eater. I take to women like a bear to a honey tree and I’m gonna prove it by bed’n the first woman I see at the Fort. I’ll ride her hips all night long and prove my strength. My fellow will stand up tall, time and time again.”
Joseph groaned, pathetically, aroused by the image. “I can out bed you with any woman you choose. I’ve carried 400 pounds across eighteen portages on La Grand River; I’ve made as many de’charge as any man. I’ve canoed the St. Lawrence.” He slumped to the ground.
“I’m tired of eat’n pemmican and sleep’n with the mosquitoes,” he grumbled. “I want to find a pretty girl and fill my hands with her. I’ll be hungry and she’ll be my meal. I want to make love, to dance and sing and tell stories about the Great Water. I want to erase this sadness from my mind.”
“If Francois has this problem, maybe we should work for another Bourgeois until things work for him. A man who has this problem and thinks only of work, is a hard boss.”
“He’s our brother,” Jean said shortly, “He can out trap, out hunt and out shoot any trapper in the country. He trades better than Manuel Lisa does. There is no other Bourgeois! You know what a mess things are in with the big companies fighting. Francois only works because he is angry with Dumas, and Lysette isn’t keeping him in his blankets in the morning.”
“He’s a ring-tailed screamer!” Joseph agreed, “But right now there’s nothing we can do. If we tell him we know about his problem, he’ll throw both of us in a tamarack bog.”
“No man’s that stupid,” Jean Batiste replied in an offended tone, “but maybe there is something we can do. We can’t stop Dumas because we can’t find him, but there’s plenty of women and we can have us a bunch.”
He whooped joyfully, spinning his brother around. “We’ll find a women to keep Francois busy, so his fellow doesn’t forget what it’s there for. Then while he’s busy, we go to the Fort and do our own bed’n.”
“That’s good. I like that!” Joseph shouted, laughed happily, and swung his tobacco pouch in a circle. “We will each have four or five women. No, make that six! None of the women at the Fort will laugh when they see how big, how fierce we are. They will fight with knives to come to our blankets.”
Jean danced a few halting steps in the firelight, his gestures crude and suggestive, pantomiming precisely what he had in mind. Joseph joined him, laughing delightedly as they swaggered, sang, and circled the dying campfire.
Finally, out of breath, Jean rasped, “Where can we find him a woman who will make his blood pump? She’d have to have special...”
Joseph nodded slowly, a smile lightening up his dark features, as he thought about the skills such a woman might possess.
“For once, you’re think’n, Jean.”
He stared at the firelight. His voice grew low and melodious.
“Once I had a woman named Marie. She was Me’tis, and when I was with her, I felt strong enough to sire....” His voice trailed off, pleasurable memories written in every line of his face.
Turning, he faced Jean Batiste, his eyes slightly glazed over. “Hell, we were out to the big boat. We saw him kiss’n that skinny girl. There’s got to be more of them. They sent all those women from England to marry traders. If we go back tonight, we’ll be able to board the boat before the Canadians do in the morn. Maybe we can steal him one of the King’s brides or better yet, a French one.”
“He hates English women,” Jean said as he downed the fiery liquid. “You’ve heard him! He calls them lazy and says they have no place in the wilderness. It’s not likely he’d take to an English bride. And it’s doubtful she’d know how to help him even if we paid for her. English women are cold. She’d have to be able to carry 90 pounds at a trot or Francois would chuck her out of his canoe.”
“He hates the English because of our mother. Jacques blamed her to the day he died for all of his misfortune. Francois thinks all women are__,” he broke off, not wishing to say the name around his brother.
“There’s not much anyone can do about the past but whether this girl we find, earns her Pemmican is Francois’ problem,” Joseph grumbled. “We’re not talk’n about a lifetime. All the woman needs to be able to do is make him feel like a man. With his equipment work’n, we can concentrate on ours. All this talk of Francois has made me needy, and if the only way I can have a woman is to get Francois one, then I will do it. Are you with me?”
Jean nodded happily, his jaunty cap bouncing on his dark hair. “We could steal a bride off the boat for Francois and meet our own party down river, before you can say “otter trap.”
He snatched up his blue capote and started to sing, dancing his brother around enthusiastically, while tossing his red-feathered cap into the air before continuing. “Then we bring Francois his woman, and he will be so upset wonder’n what to do with her and if he can last with her, that he’ll not worry about where we are, or what we’re do’n. We’ll go back with the rest of the Winters, and let Francois figure out if she’s to ride in his canoe. Tomorrow we dance!”
“Let’s hope she rides somet’ing other than his canoe,” Joseph suggested. “He ain’t gonna thank us for this!” He looked at his slightly younger brother apprehensively, and tied his gaudy sash tighter. “I think maybe we are mak’n a big mistake. Francois is a proud man. Remember, Little Brother, you never see Francois’ fist until you’re on the ground. When he has the anger on him, he’s a bull moose.”
“Let’s hope he’s a moose in rut, then he’ll be too busy worry’n about what to do with the woman to wonder where she came from, or connect us with her when she shows up,” Jean Batiste growled. “And that, Big Brother, means that you and I can continue up river with the engages and enjoy St. Andrews’ Day at the Fort.”
Joseph’s smile deepened. “We’ll have to get him a feisty one, with big heavy breasts and sashaying hips. A ripe widow, who will know what to do with him and keep him in her blankets for at least a week. “
“Aye! Maybe he’ll share her with us.” Jean Batiste leered drunkenly. “We’ll get him one with big lips who likes to kiss.”
“You know what I would do with a plump widow, just begg’n to be taken? I’d grab her by the hair and drag her to my canoe and then I’d bed her under the stars, and I’d kiss...”
‘You’d have to drag her by her hair, Little brother,” Joseph interrupted lightly. “One look at your ugly face and she’d run away. Besides, you haven’t the skill or the stamina for a ripe widow! If I took her, I’d bed her go’n over the Lachine Rapids and if we capsized, they’d find me floating face down with a grin on my face. I’d clutch her big breasts and I’d ride her over the falls. When we reached the shore she’d beg for another ride.”
Joseph took another drink, gesticulated crudely, laughed loudly and then threw his cap in the air. “Come Jean! There’re things we must do. Get the light canoe, and the spirits!”
He took one or two dancing steps, leaping into the air. ‘There’s a head wind tonight; with any luck, we’ll be back with Francois’ bride before morn.”
Jean Batiste slapped his brother on the back, grunting agreement. “Francois will never know we had anything to do with it.” He gave another rumbling laugh, climbed carefully over the gunwales and sat without movement in the bow. Joseph pushed the canoe silently into the inky black water…….To be continued.
Read more about Francois and Merewyn Mackenna’s struggles as they travel the voyageur’s highway attempting to bring furs to the Great Rendezvous at Fort William.
Learn more about Crazy Kenneth Mackenna and travel with him and his flamboyant entourage as he attempts to bring a lot of love and a “wee bit of Scotland” to those living up river.
Laugh over the escapades of Joseph and his brother Jean Benoit as they liven up every camp from one end of the river to the next.
Learn native Indian Lore from Poor Eyes, the camp cook, and enjoy her tales of the ‘Dark one who lives below the surface of Lake Superior.’
And finally,
Experience Minnesota for what it was like over a hundred years ago. Picture in your mind the unspoiled beauty of Kettle Falls, the majesty of the Pigeon River, the splendor of Grand Portage and the excitement of a Trade Rendezvous at Fort William…
Order Ripe Chokecherry Moon at http.//www.lulu.com/content 221212 or check out http://www.lulu.com/lokiloki. Visit my web site for a free downloadable cookbook and more facts on the Minnesota wilderness and its historic fur trade.
Here is a picture of the free cover to my e-cookbook which you can find at http://lulu.com/lokiloki
I have just finished adding a free l80 page cookbook to my http://lulu.com/lokiloki storefront. Just go to my site and click on the link to the free book. It is filled with UP North recipes that my family collected over the years. Since we lived on 80 acres in Northern Minnesota, we spent a lot of time in the berry patches. You will find recipes in the cookbook for raspberries, currants, elderberries, chokecherries, pin cherries, wild plums, wild grapes, blueberries and blackberries. I have also included a wide variety of recipes for wild mushrooms, wild rice, hazlenuts and even dandelions. There are plenty of recipes for those of you who enjoy making your own wine, as well as recipes for desserts, main courses, jams and jellies, syrups, and bread products.
I hope you will enjoy my cookbook, and that after you have downloaded it, you will read the first chapter of my book, Ripe chokecherry Moon which takes place in the Minnesota territory during the time of the fur trade.
