bedroll. Outside, rain whispered through the spruces. He thought, this is a scientist’s life: hours spent alone in a dark forest, or alone in a musty library, or alone on an endless lake. A man’s only companions were his voice, his instruments, the rain, the dark. No one explained the world to a scientist. He found answers only in nature, or in himself.
That’s a rich one, Elisha thought.
They set out the next morning despite a marbled sky and cold spray gusting off the lake. Elisha bent over the paddle, his lips pursed to stop their trembling. To distract himself he counted each paddle stroke until he reached one hundred, then began anew. A hundred strokes closer, he told himself each time. To what he didn’t know.
Susette began to sing. Her voice wavered on the first notes then dropped to a low, pure tone, a choirgirl’s tone. The song was more a chant than a true melody, every fourth paddle stroke marking a phrase; as she sang the party’s pace fell in with hers.
Mon canot est fait d’écorces fines
Qu’on pleume sur les bouleaux blancs;
Les coutures sont faites de racines,
Les avirons, de bois blanc.
Something about a canoe, something white. Elisha felt a twinge of regret at his poor French.
Je prends mon canot, je le lance
A travers les rapides, les bouillons.
Là, à grands pas il s’avance.
Il ne laisse jamais le courant.
Rain had started as a drizzle, and with Susette’s singing and the lake’s gauzy spray their passage was strangely beautiful, as though they were paddling through a cloud. After some time the rain stopped and Susette fell silent.
“Madame Morel, don’t quit just because the rain did.”
She glanced back at the boy but said nothing. He bent forward and said, “You have an awfully sweet voice.”
“You claimed to speak French, but I did not hear you singing.”
Elisha chuckled nervously. The presence of Mr. Brush and Professor Tiffin made him feel awkward and furtive. “Yes, well. My singing is worse even than my French.”
“I was told there are many French in Detroit. My husband told me this. He said that there are many voyageurs living there. That a person might hear French in the street every day.”
“Indeed, you can. There are French barbers and French tailors, a man named Chocron. The Berthelet market is owned by a Frenchman. I suppose I haven’t yet spent enough time in Detroit to practice my French—I’m from Newell, Massachusetts. That’s where I was raised.”
“I have never been in Detroit. I would like to see it someday.”
“You should visit! I could show you the Berthelet market and the French tailor—though of course your husband likely knows their locations. But if he doesn’t I could show you both, together. We could make a tour, just the three—”
Susette had stopped paddling. Elisha followed her stare to the horizon, where a gray shape slid through the mist. As he stared, the shape materialized into a canoe.
“Ahead.”
Professor Tiffin’s paddle paused, dripping. The canoe was three hundred yards distant, near enough to see three hunched forms in a vessel that was too small to be a bateau or canot du nord, but was closer in size to a Native bark canoe. Elisha strained forward. A chant rose from the distant craft.
“Are they voyageurs or Natives?” Elisha asked. “Are they Sioux?”
“Chippewas, on their way to the Sault,” Tiffin said. “Hopefully they’ve fresh meat of some sort—we can trade for tonight’s supper.”
“Start ashore,” Brush said. “We shall let them pass. If they want trade they can come to us.”
A moment’s silence; then Tiffin said, “There is no cause for alarm—we’re too deeply into Chippewa territory to encounter Sioux. And even if they are Sioux, they certainly won’t trouble a party of white men.”
Brush dug hard and the canoe swung shoreward. He took up an oilcloth-wrapped rifle from the canoe bottom and propped it between his legs. He said calmly,
That’s a rich one, Elisha thought.
They set out the next morning despite a marbled sky and cold spray gusting off the lake. Elisha bent over the paddle, his lips pursed to stop their trembling. To distract himself he counted each paddle stroke until he reached one hundred, then began anew. A hundred strokes closer, he told himself each time. To what he didn’t know.
Susette began to sing. Her voice wavered on the first notes then dropped to a low, pure tone, a choirgirl’s tone. The song was more a chant than a true melody, every fourth paddle stroke marking a phrase; as she sang the party’s pace fell in with hers.
Mon canot est fait d’écorces fines
Qu’on pleume sur les bouleaux blancs;
Les coutures sont faites de racines,
Les avirons, de bois blanc.
Something about a canoe, something white. Elisha felt a twinge of regret at his poor French.
Je prends mon canot, je le lance
A travers les rapides, les bouillons.
Là, à grands pas il s’avance.
Il ne laisse jamais le courant.
Rain had started as a drizzle, and with Susette’s singing and the lake’s gauzy spray their passage was strangely beautiful, as though they were paddling through a cloud. After some time the rain stopped and Susette fell silent.
“Madame Morel, don’t quit just because the rain did.”
She glanced back at the boy but said nothing. He bent forward and said, “You have an awfully sweet voice.”
“You claimed to speak French, but I did not hear you singing.”
Elisha chuckled nervously. The presence of Mr. Brush and Professor Tiffin made him feel awkward and furtive. “Yes, well. My singing is worse even than my French.”
“I was told there are many French in Detroit. My husband told me this. He said that there are many voyageurs living there. That a person might hear French in the street every day.”
“Indeed, you can. There are French barbers and French tailors, a man named Chocron. The Berthelet market is owned by a Frenchman. I suppose I haven’t yet spent enough time in Detroit to practice my French—I’m from Newell, Massachusetts. That’s where I was raised.”
“I have never been in Detroit. I would like to see it someday.”
“You should visit! I could show you the Berthelet market and the French tailor—though of course your husband likely knows their locations. But if he doesn’t I could show you both, together. We could make a tour, just the three—”
Susette had stopped paddling. Elisha followed her stare to the horizon, where a gray shape slid through the mist. As he stared, the shape materialized into a canoe.
“Ahead.”
Professor Tiffin’s paddle paused, dripping. The canoe was three hundred yards distant, near enough to see three hunched forms in a vessel that was too small to be a bateau or canot du nord, but was closer in size to a Native bark canoe. Elisha strained forward. A chant rose from the distant craft.
“Are they voyageurs or Natives?” Elisha asked. “Are they Sioux?”
“Chippewas, on their way to the Sault,” Tiffin said. “Hopefully they’ve fresh meat of some sort—we can trade for tonight’s supper.”
“Start ashore,” Brush said. “We shall let them pass. If they want trade they can come to us.”
A moment’s silence; then Tiffin said, “There is no cause for alarm—we’re too deeply into Chippewa territory to encounter Sioux. And even if they are Sioux, they certainly won’t trouble a party of white men.”
Brush dug hard and the canoe swung shoreward. He took up an oilcloth-wrapped rifle from the canoe bottom and propped it between his legs. He said calmly,
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