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Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
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It rotated on a swivel pin set in a post. It could fire miniature cannonballs or enormous charges of buckshot.
“Load it with the shot, Corneille,” he said, thinking it would be helpful against amassed warriors. But nothing transpired that hot July day. It was the peak of the trading season and most villages were camped around one or another of the posts, exchanging robes for things the tribes prized: axes, hatchets, knives, hoop iron for arrow heads, kettles, skillets, rifles and shot, awls, traps.
Sun blistered the deck making men dizzy with heat and dehydration but still he kept on, rotating the watches at the tiller so that each of his men got a rest in whatever shade he could find, which usually was none at all. The ones in the cabin had the better time of it, he thought. Now there was continuous talk and raillery among them all, the opposition men conversing through the small portholes on either side of the cabin with those on deck, almost as if they weren’t prisoners or captors. And the ones in the hold had the better of it: hot as it was in there, it was cool compared to the brutal heat and glare on deck.
Thus they traveled, rotating duties, through the day and into the second night, each fighting exhaustion. Brasseau tied a line to himself and lowered himself into the cold water to shock his body back into life. Others just lay in a stupor, glad of the cool breezes of the night.
By dawn — fortunately, because they needed the light to navigate — they slid into patches of white water, marked by occasional boulders slicked smooth with the abrasions of the current. Wolf Rapids. There wasn’t much of a fall, but between the current, the boulders, and the narrowing channel, it stopped the steamboats. They shot out of the lower end just as sun poked over the northeastern bluffs — and beheld a mountain of trade goods lying nakedly on the shore, and Fitzhugh howling at them.
Wearily, Trudeau eased the long keelboat toward the bank until it touched bottom. His men threw lines to shore. Two or three Creoles Trudeau had never seen before caught the lines and tied them to willows. Fitzhugh stared, first at Trudeau, then at his own men on the deck, and then at a strange face in the porthole of the cabin. “You,” he muttered, a crazy joy illumining his face. “All the ol’ coons.”
Six
----
In a few minutes Fitzhugh had the whole story. His oxen dead; his mules stolen! A keelboat for a dozen oxen and six mules seemed a fair-enough exchange although Maxim scowled about it. But Maxim was scowling about everything anyway.
“You sure it wasn’t just another Blackfeet horse-raidin’ bunch?”
“Yes,” Trudeau said. “Horse raiders, they come on foot and ride their prizes away. But these came on horseback. Horse raiders, they don’ bother with oxen. But these, they hang around and put an arrow into every ox, and steal the mules.”
That was all Fitzhugh needed. “I reckon they got a keg o’ whiskey for it. What about the wagons?”
“We cached the sheets in the woods near the river. It was all we could do.”
He pointed at the boat. “What about them in the cabin?”
“They understand. We tell them the whole story. We’re Creoles, they’re Creoles. They aren’t mad.”
“I guess you’d better let ’em out.”
Moments later, the American Fur engages stood on the riverbank, blinking at the sun.
“What’d you have in mind, Trudeau?” Fitzhugh asked.
“Trudeau’s gallic shrug said more than words. He pointed at Primeau. “He knows Anglais.”
“Unload your bales and then help us load up. We’re borrowing this keelboat.”
“Stealing it,” snapped Maxim.
“I reckon it’s repayment, Maxim.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Fitzhugh ignored him. “Git your bales out and you can do what you want afterward. We’ll leave your powderhorns and duffel, and drop your rifles a mile upstream.”
“Monsieur Fitzhugh, I would not wish to leave the robes exposed to the
“Load it with the shot, Corneille,” he said, thinking it would be helpful against amassed warriors. But nothing transpired that hot July day. It was the peak of the trading season and most villages were camped around one or another of the posts, exchanging robes for things the tribes prized: axes, hatchets, knives, hoop iron for arrow heads, kettles, skillets, rifles and shot, awls, traps.
Sun blistered the deck making men dizzy with heat and dehydration but still he kept on, rotating the watches at the tiller so that each of his men got a rest in whatever shade he could find, which usually was none at all. The ones in the cabin had the better time of it, he thought. Now there was continuous talk and raillery among them all, the opposition men conversing through the small portholes on either side of the cabin with those on deck, almost as if they weren’t prisoners or captors. And the ones in the hold had the better of it: hot as it was in there, it was cool compared to the brutal heat and glare on deck.
Thus they traveled, rotating duties, through the day and into the second night, each fighting exhaustion. Brasseau tied a line to himself and lowered himself into the cold water to shock his body back into life. Others just lay in a stupor, glad of the cool breezes of the night.
By dawn — fortunately, because they needed the light to navigate — they slid into patches of white water, marked by occasional boulders slicked smooth with the abrasions of the current. Wolf Rapids. There wasn’t much of a fall, but between the current, the boulders, and the narrowing channel, it stopped the steamboats. They shot out of the lower end just as sun poked over the northeastern bluffs — and beheld a mountain of trade goods lying nakedly on the shore, and Fitzhugh howling at them.
Wearily, Trudeau eased the long keelboat toward the bank until it touched bottom. His men threw lines to shore. Two or three Creoles Trudeau had never seen before caught the lines and tied them to willows. Fitzhugh stared, first at Trudeau, then at his own men on the deck, and then at a strange face in the porthole of the cabin. “You,” he muttered, a crazy joy illumining his face. “All the ol’ coons.”
Six
----
In a few minutes Fitzhugh had the whole story. His oxen dead; his mules stolen! A keelboat for a dozen oxen and six mules seemed a fair-enough exchange although Maxim scowled about it. But Maxim was scowling about everything anyway.
“You sure it wasn’t just another Blackfeet horse-raidin’ bunch?”
“Yes,” Trudeau said. “Horse raiders, they come on foot and ride their prizes away. But these came on horseback. Horse raiders, they don’ bother with oxen. But these, they hang around and put an arrow into every ox, and steal the mules.”
That was all Fitzhugh needed. “I reckon they got a keg o’ whiskey for it. What about the wagons?”
“We cached the sheets in the woods near the river. It was all we could do.”
He pointed at the boat. “What about them in the cabin?”
“They understand. We tell them the whole story. We’re Creoles, they’re Creoles. They aren’t mad.”
“I guess you’d better let ’em out.”
Moments later, the American Fur engages stood on the riverbank, blinking at the sun.
“What’d you have in mind, Trudeau?” Fitzhugh asked.
“Trudeau’s gallic shrug said more than words. He pointed at Primeau. “He knows Anglais.”
“Unload your bales and then help us load up. We’re borrowing this keelboat.”
“Stealing it,” snapped Maxim.
“I reckon it’s repayment, Maxim.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Fitzhugh ignored him. “Git your bales out and you can do what you want afterward. We’ll leave your powderhorns and duffel, and drop your rifles a mile upstream.”
“Monsieur Fitzhugh, I would not wish to leave the robes exposed to the
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