Trouble at Fort La Pointe (Mysteries through History) Read online

  And … the end of the trappers’ competition was in sight!

  CHAPTER 2

  INTO THE LAKE

  Many friends came to the lakefront to see Suzette’s family off. “We’ll be crossing today too!” Gabrielle told Suzette. “We’re just not packed up yet.”

  “I can tell Papa is eager,” Suzette laughed. “He’s moving fast!”

  Papa splashed into the water, a heavy bundle of furs balanced with long-practiced ease on his shoulder. If he minded the biting cold water, he showed no sign. “This is the last one, Suzette,” he called. “Ready to go?”

  The family owned two large birch-bark canoes for transporting themselves and their belongings, and a smaller one Suzette used for short trips along the shoreline. The three canoes were staked and floating in hip-deep water offshore to protect their fragile seams from rocks. Papa didn’t permit Suzette to paddle across the open waters of the great lake, so he and Yellow Wing packed her canoe full and tied it behind one of the larger ones. Suzette and Mama waded out and settled Charlotte in place before gently climbing into Papa’s canoe. Grandmother paddled in the bow, or front, of Yellow Wing’s canoe.

  “We’ll see you on the island!” Suzette yelled, waving hard. Then Papa and Yellow Wing dipped their paddles for the first powerful strokes.

  Suzette sat in the center of Papa’s canoe, wedged among their belongings. She kept an eye on Charlotte, whose cradleboard was braced against a crossbar. Mama paddled in the bow and Papa in the rear. Leaning back against a bundle of furs, Suzette dabbled her fingers in the water. A pair of merganser ducks paddled nearby, then dove, chasing fish below the surface. Papa was already singing one of his favorite paddling songs.

  Soon the shore of the mainland faded behind them. Content, Suzette barely noticed when she felt a trickle of cold water in the bottom of the canoe. She reached for a piece of heavy cotton cloth kept as protection against leaks and sopped up the water. But before she could wring out the cloth, the trickle became a stream. “Papa! We’re taking water.”

  “Mop it up the best you can. It can’t be serious. Yellow Wing and I sealed every seam with fresh pitch yesterday.” Papa began to sing again.

  At first Suzette wasn’t worried either. Wasn’t Papa one of the best canoe men on the great lake? He and Yellow Wing knew how to tend canoes. But water was soon appearing faster than she could soak it up. She scrambled to find a small birch-bark makak and began to bail.

  Papa stopped singing. “I’ve got water back here now. What is this?” He sounded puzzled.

  Mama turned around. “My feet are wet too, Philippe. Shall I stop paddling and help bail?”

  “No.” Papa’s blue eyes narrowed with worry. “We’re a long way from either shore. We need to paddle hard. Suzette, keep bailing.”

  “I’m trying!” It was difficult, though, because the canoe was packed so full that there was little room to scoop the makak. Suzette felt the cold water around her thighs. A shiver chased away the sun’s warmth. They were in the middle of the passage now, about evenly distant from the mainland and the island. Too far to swim in the icy water. Too far to shout for help. The loaded canoes were riding low in the water already, and water was rushing in faster than she could get rid of it.

  They were in trouble.

  Yellow Wing eased his canoe close, frowning. “What’s this? That canoe was sound yesterday.”

  “I don’t know, but we’re taking water. Come closer.” Papa stopped paddling and grabbed the other canoe. “Suzette, pass Charlotte over to your grandmother.”

  A finger of fear, icy as the lake, crooked around Suzette’s heart when she looked at her baby sister. Charlotte was asleep, shaded from the sun by a woven mat. Suzette gingerly lifted the cradleboard and passed it to her grandmother’s waiting arms.

  “Papa, shall I try to cross over too?” Suzette asked. “Or pass over some of our belongings to lighten our load?”

  “No. The other canoe is too full to take any more weight. And I need you to bail.” Papa leaned into his paddle. The powerful muscles he’d developed during his voyageur days rippled beneath his shirt. Every stroke sent the canoe surging ahead.

  The water had risen to fist-deep. Suzette reached for the bailer again, feeling another shiver of fear down her spine.

  “Don’t worry, mignonne,” Papa called. “If we must, we will throw a bundle or two of furs overboard. That will lighten our load.”

  “Papa, no!” Papa needed to turn in every one of his furs at the trading post. If they discarded furs, he would surely lose the competition!

  The fun of rendez-vous was forgotten. Mama and Papa’s hard paddling seemed to bring them no closer to La Pointe. Despite Suzette’s bailing, water rose two fists deep inside the canoe. Cold water bit through her leggings.

  Whenever she dared, Suzette snatched a glance toward the island. The fort danced teasingly in the distance. Water rose three fists high.

  Soon every muscle in Suzette’s body ached, drawn tight as a bowstring with worry and the effort of desperate bailing. She felt sick as she watched water rise to within two fists of the canoe’s top edge.

  Finally Mama stopped paddling and turned her head, careful not to upset their balance. “Philippe, we mustn’t swamp. We will lose everything.”

  The brief silence was painful. Suzette heard a gull calling and looked again toward shore. It was still too far. They could not reach shore without lightening their load. And the water was so deep that if they threw their belongings overboard, the blankets and kettles and tools they needed to survive could not be retrieved.

  Papa put his paddle down. “I’m going to toss over some furs.” His voice was tight. Suzette watched him struggle to loosen a bulky bundle of stiff furs from the tightly packed canoe. No! She wanted to weep. All her hopes for the future were about to be cast overboard.

  Suzette didn’t think. Instead came the sudden slam of cold, burning her skin, stealing her breath, as she eased her feet over the canoe and slipped into the water. It took all her effort to grasp the canoe before the lake claimed her.

  “Suzette!” Papa bellowed. The canoe was rocking dangerously. He steadied it even as his huge fist clamped around her wrist like iron. “What are you doing?” He began to pull her from the water.

  “Papa, pa-paddle!” Suzette begged, her teeth chattering. “Please d-don’t lose any furs.” She wanted to say more, but the lake was squeezing her chest, locking out the words.

  “Philippe, pull her in!” Mama cried. Her voice could have cracked ice.

  Suzette heard her mother’s fear and found the strength to speak once more. “Paddle!” she gasped. “I can hold on.”

  She heard a paddle splash behind her. “Philippe, keep going,” Yellow Wing echoed urgently. “I’ll stay beside Suzette. If she slips, I’ll grab her. Now go!”

  Suzette moved hand-over-hand until her weight was balanced behind the canoe. She clenched her fingers around the cedar frame. Her legs felt like logs, too stiff to kick. She closed her eyes and concentrated on holding on. A few moments later she heard Papa bellow again, then distant shouts. “Help is coming, Suzette,” Papa called. “Don’t let go.”

  She didn’t know how long she was pulled through the water. The numbing cold robbed her fingers of sensation. She couldn’t hold on any longer. Yellow Wing! she tried to call, but the words wouldn’t come. And when she felt strong arms lift her from the aching cold, she wasn’t sure if she’d been rescued or if one of the spirits, Papa’s God or Mama’s Spirit of the Waves, had claimed her for their own.

  CHAPTER 3

  SABOTAGE

  No fire’s warmth had ever felt so good. Not on the most bitter winter day, when her breath clouded in the brittle air and she had to snowshoe through chest-high drifts to check her snares. Not even the time she had fallen through the ice into a stream, and her leggings had frozen so stiff she’d had to drag herself home. Suzette lifted her face to the sun, hugged the wool blanket more tightly around her shoulders, and edged closer to the flame
s. She was huddled on the sandy beach below Fort La Pointe.

  “Miigwech, miigwech,” her parents were saying in thanks to the two Ojibwe men who’d seen their trouble and paddled out to pull Suzette from the lake. “Miigwech,” Suzette echoed, but it came out a whisper, and she wasn’t sure they’d heard. Mama pressed gifts of appreciation—a fishing lure, a pipe—into their hands. Then Papa said a prayer, fingering his silver cross, and Grandmother offered tobacco to the lake in thanks for their safe passage.

  When the two men had gone, Papa gave Suzette one last, crushing hug before turning back to the canoes. Grandmother began to brew some tea of wintergreen leaves and wild cherry twigs. Mama knelt by Suzette, stroking her hair. “Daughter, you were foolish,” she scolded softly. “Haven’t we taught you better?”

  “But, Mama, Papa was going to lose a bundle of furs! All our work! It would mean—”

  “Hush. I know what it would mean. Do you think anything means more than your safety?”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Suzette mumbled. The crackling fire and pungent smell of burning pine were lulling her to sleep. “I just knew we couldn’t let Papa throw away his furs. It would have ruined everything …”

  “Stop talking and drink,” Grandmother ordered, pouring a bowl of steaming tea. The women watched until she had finished, then coaxed her down on a blanket. “Rest,” they murmured, and Suzette was happy to obey.

  Drowsily, Suzette watched the men unload the canoes and pile the family’s belongings near the fire. Charlotte fretted and Mama soothed her back to sleep with an Ojibwe lullaby. Suzette was just drifting to sleep when Papa’s voice, sharp as a skinning knife, cut through her sleepy haze. “Someone did this.”

  Suzette opened her eyes. Papa and Yellow Wing were squatting beside Papa’s canoe, now empty and resting upside down on the beach nearby.

  “That’s not possible.” Yellow Wing bent close.

  Papa’s face was as red as his hair. “What else can it be? That seam was solid last night. You and I both inspected every seam in this canoe.”

  Suzette knew it was true. She had watched Papa and Yellow Wing prepare the canoes for the crossing. They had restitched several fragile seams in the birch bark with watab, split spruce root threaded through holes made with sharp awls. Then they had carefully sealed cracks with pine pitch. Papa and Yellow Wing knew their canoes like they knew their family.

  “Look at this seam.” Papa pointed. “Most of the pitch was scraped away. If all of it had been removed, I would have seen immediately. But just enough was taken to let us get out in deep water.”

  “Philippe!” Mama breathed. She caught Papa’s eye, then glanced at Suzette as if to say, Don’t frighten your daughter. Suzette narrowed her eyes to slits, wanting to hear more.

  After a moment Yellow Wing said in a low voice, “Someone was trying to harm you or the family?”

  “Perhaps just scare me.” Through the veil of her lashes, Suzette saw Papa’s eyes spark like flint on a fire steel.

  “But who …” Yellow Wing let the sentence die as he glanced toward Mama. She shook her head. Grandmother’s lips were pinched together.

  “I don’t know,” Papa said grimly. “But I would like to find out.” He pushed to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get these things moved up to the woods. I want to make camp.”

  Suzette abandoned her pretense of sleeping and sat up, hugging the blanket close around her shoulders. Papa’s discovery was chilling as spring snow. A man’s canoe was among his most precious—and necessary—possessions. Each was painted with a unique design. Papa had painted a leaping fish on the bow of his. Everyone knew who it belonged to.

  Perhaps he’s mistaken, she thought. He must be. No one had reason to wish Papa—or his family—any harm.

  Did they?

  The family began their first trip from the beach up to the campground in brooding silence. Trying to push her troublesome thoughts away, Suzette drew a deep breath and took in the familiar sights of La Pointe.

  The French trading post sat on the southwestern shore, just above the beach, in a big grassy meadow A tall log stockade surrounded the post. Suzette noticed that a few logs had been replaced recently, giving the walls a funny striped look. Hundreds of wiigwams already dotted the meadow by the fort. In a small field that had been scraped from the earth nearby, Suzette could see Ojibwe women planting potatoes, corn, and squash. As Suzette’s family made their way through the campground, friends called to them from all sides.

  The family returned to their usual place beneath pines at the meadow’s edge, marked by lodgepoles they’d left planted in the ground the year before. “The framework is still good,” Grandmother announced, examining the poles, which were bent and tied with basswood twine to form arches. Since the family would be here all summer, they had two wiigwams, or lodges: one for Mama, Papa, Suzette, and Charlotte, the other for Grandmother and Yellow Wing.

  Suzette helped cover the top of the dome-shaped frames with birch bark. She stood on tiptoe to hold the pieces in place while Grandmother and Mama lashed them to the poles. Next they unrolled lengths of bulrush mats to cover the sides. They arranged the mats to allow breezes inside during hot days, and left a smoke hole in the roof so they could have a cook fire inside on rainy ones.

  Suzette inhaled the scent of fresh cedar boughs as she spread them on the ground inside and covered them with rush mats. In her own corner, she neatly folded her sleeping blankets and deer hides tanned with the hair on them. Tidying the lodge and making it snug against the weather usually made her feel safe. At home.

  But today was different. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t forget Papa’s words. Someone did this … They circled in her head like a buzzing black fly.

  Papa must have noticed her mood, because once his chores were done, he poked his head into the lodge and beckoned. “Come, Suzette, I want to take some furs to the post. Shall we go find your old friend Monsieur Roussain? And see about your summer lessons?”

  Suzette scrambled to her feet and joined him outside. “Oh, oui, Papa! Yes!” She was eager to visit the clerk who gave her French lessons.

  Grandmother, who was arranging the area between their wiigwams where she would build the cook fire, shook her head. “Philippe, your daughter should spend her time learning how to make some Ojibwe man a good wife one day.”

  Papa put an arm around Grandmother’s shoulders. “But, Grandmother, with such a teacher as you, how could Suzette not be well prepared?”

  Grandmother shook her head again, but she couldn’t hide her smile.

  Papa hoisted a bundle of furs onto his shoulder, and he and Suzette set off across the meadow toward the stockade. “I want to get most of my furs safe in the trading post and marked in the ledger,” he whispered to Suzette. “But I’ve hidden a few bundles in the woods. Captain d’Amboise won’t close the competition until the voyageurs arrive. I’ll bring my hidden furs in at the last minute, eh? I don’t want anyone to know how many furs Philippe Choudoir has for the competition.”

  “Monsieur Roussain will be impressed by the quality of your furs, I know. And I’ll be glad to see him again.”

  Papa smiled. “I’m glad you enjoy your French lessons. I’ll arrange lessons for Charlotte, too, when she’s old enough.”

  “Papa … why don’t other voyageurs teach their children to read and write?”

  Papa paused to better balance the load he was carrying. “Well, most of my voyageur friends come from poor families. They can barely read and write themselves. But since my father was a merchant in Montréal, he could afford to send me to school. That’s why I know how important reading and writing can be.”

  Suzette frowned, trying to understand.

  “It’s hard to explain, mignonne.” Papa sighed. “Life is very different in Montréal. Ojibwe people are respected if they give away their possessions to people in need. But where I come from, the most important people are those who hold on to their money and possessions.”

  Suzette
felt baffled. What kind of place was this, where selfishness was honored?

  Papa shook his head. Then he grinned, his blue eyes dancing. “Well, rich or not, your papa was too restless to study. I ran away from school, and from Montréal too, eh? So I could become a voyageur and marry your mama!”

  He was still chuckling as they reached the rough log walls of the stockade. As they passed through the gate, Suzette looked around eagerly. Papa said Fort La Pointe was a small outpost compared to some of the other trading posts, but it still seemed grand to Suzette.

  “Look, Papa, they’ve built the carpenter a larger shop!” she exclaimed. They paused for a moment, looking for other changes, but the other post buildings were just as she remembered. One long, low building included the store and attached storage room, the carpentry shop, and a workshop with a small blacksmith’s anvil. Facing those were quarters for Captain d’Amboise and Monsieur Roussain. The French soldiers stationed at La Pointe, and the French laborers who hauled heavy loads and kept the fort in good repair, slept in crowded rooms beyond. The buildings were all made of vertical logs pounded into the ground like tree trunks, their slanted roofs covered with strips of cedar bark.

  “It must be very strange to live in buildings like that,” Suzette mused, thinking of their cozy lodges. What would it be like to live within such solid walls? Would she still be able to smell a coming rain? Hear the ice begin to drip in the night during the first spring thaw? Add wood to the fire without leaving the warmth of her sleeping robes? “I don’t think I’d like it.”

  “I’m happier in our wiigwam too.” Papa smiled. “Come on.”

  They found Monsieur Roussain, the post clerk, in the store. The small room smelled of tobacco and wood smoke. Monsieur Roussain was working at the counter. Ceiling-high shelves lined all four walls. Suzette saw at once how few goods—cloth for new shirts, iron kettles, pretty silver earbobs—were left on the shelves. Monsieur Roussain was probably as eager for the voyageurs’ arrival as Papa.