Furs and Fevers

By Lynn MacKaben Brown

Don’t mistake this for dry history! Lynn MacKaben Brown’s Furs and Fevers offers the reader a view into a long lost and mostly forgotten world—a world where Indigenous tribes interact with French-Canadian trappers and traders, while their way of life is unravelling under the pressure of American expansion into Indiana. The characters are historical, and their interactions follow the historical records available thanks to Brown’s exhaustive research.

The author has a gift for placing believable and compelling words in the mouths of those long dead and weaving it all into a story that keeps the reader entranced. Along the way, without noticing, that reader receives an education into the systems and politics of Indiana and the frontier in the early part of the 19th century.

There is plenty within these pages to challenge you, and controversial actions that leap out of their hoary context and force you to contend with your contemporary judgements and worldview. The past has dilemmas that can still cause debate today.

“Furs and Fevers is a compelling, enjoyable, and highly enlightening read that I envy you the initial discovery experience that is now, sadly in my rear-view mirror. Savor it!”

Brian Hogan, direct descendent of Dominique Rousseau.

“Lynn enthusiastically embraces the concept of history as a story. She combines bulldog determination to unearth truth with her interpretation of events. Then she re-creates the multicultural, time-honored role of tribal historian/storyteller. And who doesn’t love a good story?”

Sigmund Brouwer, author of The Last Temple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781649799272

Lynn MacKaben Brown

Lynn MacKaben Brown spent ten delightful years helping with her family’s Christian bookstore before attending nursing school, eventually earning her M.A. with majors in nursing (teaching) and gerontology. She is a history columnist for SEG-Way News and has written for magazines as diverse as Moody Monthly, RN, Christian Communicator, and Toastmaster. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother.

Book preview

About the Author

Lynn MacKaben Brown spent ten delightful years helping with her family’s Christian bookstore before attending nursing school, eventually earning her M.A. with majors in nursing (teaching) and gerontology. She is a history columnist for SEG-Way News and has written for magazines as diverse as Moody Monthly, RN, Christian Communicator, and Toastmaster. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Dr. Dennis E. Hensley, teacher and mentor extraordinaire. Dr. Henseley, without you, this book would never have been published. Thank you!

Copyright Information ©

Lynn MacKaben Brown 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Brown, Lynn MacKaben

Furs and Fevers

ISBN 9781649799258 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649799265 (Audiobook)

ISBN 9781649799272 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915092

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank Carole Withrow. You believed in my story from the beginning and encouraged me through those first halting steps toward this novel.

To Stuart Varney of the television show Varney & Co.: thank you for teaching me economics beyond my personal budget, especially the interaction of international economics and political economics. I could not have made Dominique as realistic without that knowledge.

Thank you to the wonderful people who assisted me in my research. There are too many to name, but I appreciate each one of you!

Thank you to by Beta Readers: Sherry, Russ, Brian, Cheryl, and Becca. Each of you made a difference in this book.

Let Me Introduce You…

Montreal Citizens: Canadians (we would say French) and British:

Dominique Jr., John Baptiste, Augustin, and Charles: sons of Dominique Rousseau, Sr.

Madame Rousseau: ex-wife of Dominique Rousseau, Sr.

Lady Jane (Jean) Cook: live-in mistress of Dominique Rousseau, Sr. and mother of his sons

Henri Ossem: fur trader with Chief Pahedketcha in Indiana

French-Americans:

Alexis and Francis (Fanny) Comparet Coquillard at The Bend trading post

François Comparet at Coquillard & Comparet headquarters in Fort Wayne

Americans:

John Tipton, Indian Agent at Fort Wayne

George and William Ewing: trade company owners with headquarters in Fort Wayne

Col. Ed McCarty: fur trader

Charles and Sarah Erwin: settlers near Dominique Jr.’s trading post

Agnes (Aggie) their daughter

John B. Chapman (not to be confused with Johnny Appleseed): settler

Bodéwadmi (Pottawatomi in English):

Pierre Moran: Big Chief (chief of multiple villages), former War Chief

Betsy, his oldest daughter: Celebrations Chief (party planner for 450 people)

Stephen Benac: village chief

Aubenaubee: village chief, former War Chief, Tribal Negotiator

Menominee: village chief

Monoquet: village chief

Iowa: village chief, Tribal Spokesman

Myaamia (Miami in English, Maumee in French):

DeRicharville (Richardville in English): Peace Chief, Principal Chief. The Principal Chief was the Peace Chief or War Chief as decided by events.

Godfroy: War Chief, Principal Chief before hostilities ceased from the War of 1812

LeGros: village chief, Tribal Spokesman

Pahedketcha (Papakeechie in English): Big Chief

Wawaasee (Wawasee in English): village chief

Nadin: his youngest daughter

The Blackrobes:

Father Stephen Theodore Badin

Father Louis De Seille

Father Benjamin Petit

Chapter 1

Quebec 1825

This room, she stifles me. The fire has been over-laid. My hand moves to my cravat to loosen it. The official portrait of King George IV catches my eye, reminding me that I am in the Superior Court of Quebec. Abandoning my quest for relief, I casually move my hand to my knee.

Can they not open the window? I force myself not to turn my head to gaze through the glass at the first spring buds braving the April chill.

A firm, brotherly hand clasps my shoulder from behind. Ah, Jean Baptiste has guessed I am not paying attention. I must do better.

The barrister of Madame Rousseau, my father’s former wife, buzzes on like a great bee. Legal and faithful wife…illegitimate births…rights under the king’s law and the Holy Catholic Church…

Will his closing argument never end?

Counsel for the Monsieurs Rousseau, you may make your closing statement.

Our barrister rises, the fabric of his black robe whispering. "Your Honor, my friend has stipulated that the will of Dominique Rousseau legally and unequivocally appoints his four sons as his heirs. I have presented the papers of adoption whereby the deceased claimed his sons and gave them his name.

"I have also filed the document of marriage annulment dated 1799, approved by the King’s Bench and the Holy Catholic Church on the basis of dereliction of duty. That is, Madame was given several years to produce a viable heir and did not do so.

"Abundant testimony has been provided regarding the exemplary character of the young men and their profound knowledge of the fur trade. Alas, Madame has no business knowledge. She is a lady. Why should she know such things? Still, the company must be managed.

In light of all these findings, I humbly petition Your Honor to rule in favor of the Monsieurs Rousseau.

The court is adjourned until tomorrow at nine.

My three brothers and I stand respectfully while the judge retires then we gather around our barrister.

I cannot read the judge’s face, I say. Does all go as well as it seems to me?

It goes very well, Dominique.

But I see a slight pucker of your brow.

I like things tidy. The one strand that annoys me is that your father did not marry your mother. But that is me. He picks up his papers. Well, Monsieurs, we will see the end of this tomorrow.

After he leaves, I turn to my brothers. Let us take the rest of the day to do as we wish. I need fresh air desperately.

Ah, you are off to the docks, then, says Jean Baptiste, my younger twin. As for me, my joints are stiff with so much sitting. I will wrestle at the gymnasium.

Always the fighter, says Augustin, the tallest of us all. I will repair to the inn and prepare for tonight’s party. My fiancée kindly wrote me an introduction to her relatives, and they have invited me tonight.

I will accompany you to the inn, says Charles, the youngest. I must write a letter to Elizabeth. He emits a great romantic sigh.

Did you not write one before breakfast? asks Augustin.

Yes, but the mail canoe is leaving for Detroit in an hour. It is my last chance to send a letter until we return home.

Charles is oblivious that the rest of us exchange glances or quietly snicker. The love angel has struck him hard.

At the docks I finally relax, free at last to rejoice in nature. The chilly but gentle breeze teases the surface of the water. Trees everywhere sprout leaves. Here and there a brave flower dares to grow where heavy boots often tread.

My life has been good. I have spent winter seasons in Montreal and summer seasons trading with the Pottawatomi of northern Indiana. But in the months since Father’s death, his desk at the company has been mine.

After this case is finished tomorrow I must arrange travel to our estate on the island. Even excellent managers should see their master occasionally. I should appear in that capacity soon. Yes, the island must replace Indiana for me now.

When we enter the courtroom, Charles murmurs, The old owl is here already.

Although her nephew represents her interests, Madame has attended every court session, like a low-born woman.

To me she seems a turkey vulture. Her hooked nose thrusts forward over a scrawny neck ruffled with lace instead of feathers. Her claws clutch the head of her cane. She flexes them as if her talons itch to tear into us to rip out our hearts.

Silence. All will please rise.

I find that the deceased and the mother of the Rousseau gentlemen were never married although faithful to one another in the establishment of a domicile. That is, they informally contracted a Morganic marriage. As such, the sons, although legally adopted, cannot inherit—

What! Charles pops up from his seat. This is injustice! We are named in the will!

I will have order in my court! the judge says sternly though no more loudly.

All four of us are on our feet. Jean Baptiste grabs Charles in a restraining hug. Augustin covers Charles’ mouth and forces his jaws closed.

Charles, you will control yourself! I command, but Charles struggles. I nod to my other brothers. Take him out.

As they leave, I turn toward the judge and bow. Your honor, I apologize for my brother’s disrespect.

The judge gives me no time to sit. Rousseau & Sons is now the property of Madame Rousseau. Court is dismissed.

The rap of the judge’s gavel is a sledgehammer to my dream house of glass. It has made me a pauper—again.

Chapter 2

Montreal 1825

I am home.

I exit the canoe in a daze and wander the docks. I still cannot grasp all we have lost. All I have lost.

The entire company is gone: all of our posts on the Great Lakes and upper Mississippi River. My island estate is gone. My mind is a muddle. I do not know which foot to stand on.

I am afraid.

Jean Baptiste and I are the only ones old enough to remember living in the squalor near the docks after Madame discovered the affair and banished my mother from cooking at the Rousseau house. I remember the smell of filth and excrement and garbage strewn on the streets. I remember the cast-off rags I wore, the lack of socks and shoes.

I remember teaming with my twin to beat down big boys who insulted our mother. At the time, I did not understand the taunts that snaggle-toothed consumptive women aimed at her when my father found her and began giving her money for our needs.

Today I see the docks swarming with ragamuffins such as we were, begging for money or picking pockets. An enterprising few ask for work or bring trifles to sell.

I have little more than they. Our difference is, I dress better. At least for now.

The carriage pulls up to our home. I sit a moment to gather myself. Inside are the brothers I sent home immediately after the judge’s verdict, afraid Charles would damage our position further by insulting the judge or, God forbid, attacking Madame. I stayed behind to pay the law firm before signing away my inheritance. Our inheritance.

Before I reach the door, Jacques, our butler, opens it.

Your brothers await you in your library, Monsieur.

I hand him my hat, then stride firmly down the hall. Entering the library, I am aware of its richness as if I had never seen it before.

The enormous multi-paned windows, wide and tall, allow sunlight to bathe the room unobstructed except by velvet swag valences and matching drapes. The windows and hardwood bookshelves that encircle the room reach nearly to the soaring ceiling, leaving just enough room for classical busts in alcoves, alternating with paintings of manly outdoor sports.

The painted ceiling continues the theme of nature. Its art is mirrored precisely in the lush, pile carpet. Furniture is in the masculine style of arms curled under and straight legs. Deep blue velvet upholstery is limited to chair backs and seats.

The only anomaly is an heirloom desk and chair.

It was my father’s library and home office. I have changed nothing.

My brothers are exactly as I had expected them to be. Charles is talking rapidly, anxiety accenting his words. Jean Baptiste strides about like a caged bear, his cold pipe clamped between his teeth. Augustin lounges in his chair, deceptively calm. His head tilts back, supported by the chair. His eyes are closed, but a small sardonic smile teases his mouth.

I sit in Father’s favorite chair—the new invention with springs—which I appropriated as his leading heir. My personalized Meerschaum pipe lays at hand. Jacques serves me a glass of wine. He exits quickly and silently.

Charles pounces. Is it true that we have lost everything? Not only the company, but all of the property and money, as well? We can inherit nothing?

Jean Baptiste stops pacing and leans against the fireplace mantel, both hands fiddling with his pipe stem. Augustin quickly leans forward, gazing at me intently.

That is true.

SNAP! My brother has broken his pipe stem.

However, the judge has mercifully allowed us to retain this home and one other city property. I pause only a moment, not giving Charles a chance to rant. The question is this: do we rebuild our business or do we pursue a different future?

It took four generations to build the company, says Jean Baptiste.

There are four of us, says Charles. We should be able to rebuild quickly.

This, then, is what I can contribute, I say. My license to trade in Indiana is granted to me personally from the United States government, not to the company. Father signed over to me the canoe and supplies for this season. The voyageurs are already engaged and money withdrawn from the business for their pay. An express canoe is also engaged to transport Charles and me to his wedding and money for expenses is in hand.

I have a license for Detroit, says Charles, and a fiancée with a good dowry.

My fiancée brings a generous dowry, as well, says Augustin. Jean Baptiste and I can find positions in the companies of Father’s friends and put by seed money for our new venture.

Since the houses are legally mine, I will pay the taxes, I say.

I will take care of Mother. If we rent out the other house, she should experience no change of lifestyle here. Jean Baptiste sighs comically. I suppose it is time I take a wife.

We all laugh. It is a family joke that my twin and I have held out for love instead of succumbing to the trade tradition, though we are of twenty-nine years.

Jacque enters bearing a silver tray with a letter on it. "Excusez-moi, Monsieurs, but this note has come for Monsieur Augustin."

Augustin takes the letter. As he reads, his jaw tightens. There is no answer, Jacques. You may go.

Jacques bows and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"It is from Louise. She has broken our engagement. She says this:

I do not wish to be a burden when you already have so much trouble in your life, so I will sacrifice my hopes for the future and my dreams of becoming your wife. Be assured that I will always remain your warm friend and that I wish you good fortune in your future endeavors. You need not reply to this. I do not wish to cause you further distress.

Louise

Augustin walks to the fireplace and throws the note to the flames. It seems that Augustin is worth making much of when rich, but when he eats broth, he can go to the devil as quickly as possible.

Charles’s face turns so pale that we all notice.

I am sure Elizabeth will be true, says Augustin quickly. She seems to love you dearly. No one has ever accused Louise of having a heart: only the money of a trade heiress without the inconvenience of brothers.

After a pause, I say, I suggest we all write letters of resignation from the company that is no longer ours. We hold many trade secrets in our heads. As long as we are employees, we are obliged to use them for the benefit of the company. I will personally deliver the letters at the beginning of office hours. Goodnight, all.

All too soon it is morning and I am approaching the company building. I have dreaded this since the moment I knew we had lost the case. Workmen are already removing the company name of Rousseau & Sons and replacing it with The Rousseau Company: a division of the Foureau Trading House. A lump forms in my throat. This is far worse than I had anticipated.

The doorman opens the door. I greet him as usual, but I note a distance in his manner. The route to the chief office is littered with people avoiding me or at least not meeting my eyes. I will not force them to acknowledge me. It is better so for all of us.

I must wait at the door of my own office for the head clerk to announce me. I enter. Madame’s nephew lounges against the fireplace, smoking while reading a company document.

I bow, intent on discharging this distasteful duty as quickly as possible. Monsieur, I have brought the resignations of my brothers and myself and also all keys to company assets.

The nephew merely points across the room with his pipe. I turn toward the executive desk. There sits the old turkey buzzard herself with a macabre grin of triumph and a malicious glint in her eye.

Damn you to hell where you belong!

I approach, my behavior tightly controlled. A thousand thunders! She has extended her hand to be kissed! Non! That I will not do. And courtesy cannot compel me. I bow politely.

Our resignations, Madame, effective immediately. I lay four folded letters, each sealed with the Rousseau family crest, together with the company keys on the desk. I meet her eyes with dignity, head held high.

The nephew approaches the desk. Excuse me, Monsieur. I have been looking through the company documents and I cannot find any executive information at all except contracts. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where I can find them.

I turn to the nephew. Oui, I can tell you, Monsieur. They are in the heads of my brothers and me. There is nothing written.

Comprehension of the seriousness of the situation flashes over the face of the nephew. He is not so superior now.

Would you consider acting as a consultant during this time of transition? If you do not wish to be an employee of the company, I will pay you generously as an independent expert. The offer is made hesitantly. He knows that he is walking on very thin ice, but he also knows he needs the information desperately. I am sure your father would not wish to endanger the company he and his ancestors spent more than one hundred years to build.

"Au contrar, Monsieur. Considering the circumstances, I am certain he would wish the company to go to hell as rapidly as possible. Good day."

I leave with measured swiftness and stride to the nearest tavern where I indulge in a generous amount of unaccustomed mid-morning liquor.

The lamplighter is making his rounds. Charles and I have spent the day packing and disposing of personal possessions. We leave tomorrow. There only remains final goodbyes.

Arriving at the luxurious but discrete apartment I have rented for Angelique, I check the looking glass in the hall. I straighten my cravat and run a hand over my hair, ensuring that each hair is in place. I turn toward the door and sigh quietly while inserting the key.

I should be a master at ending an affair by this time, but it always distresses me when the lady cries.

A litany of young ladies flows through my mind: the disappointed girls of the fur trade and their parents who have hounded me for the last fifteen years, and the unbroken line of mistresses from inferior social classes with whom I have found companionship. To this day I have not found a love like that of Father and Mother. My own love, she evades me like one of the shy foxes of Indiana.

When I enter the apartment, Angelique hurries to me. I return her kiss and embrace, then lead her to a seat, determined to attend to business immediately.

I am afraid, my little cabbage, that we must part. My brothers and I have lost our business, and I must leave for Indiana tomorrow. I do not know when or if I will ever return to Montréal.

I will go with you. I can be ready as soon as you say.

That is touching, my dear, but it is not possible. I cannot afford to marry you and support you in Indiana at this time.

I will wait. Just tell me that you will come for me. Her bottom lip trembles. Tears are not far off.

But who can blame the poor dears? They are trained to be entirely dependent on men for guidance and protection. They know nothing but how to manage a house, produce an heir, and be pleasantly ornamental. Angelique must be nearing twenty. She is deathly afraid of becoming a spinster. Even a frontier home is preferable to that humiliation. But I cannot take her with me.

Angelique, your delicate beauty is like an orchid. It should be appreciated by many and cherished by one who can care for it with the tenderness it deserves. That man is not me. If I took you to Indiana, you would be among wolves and bears and deadly snakes. There is not one white woman within fifty miles.

I would not be afraid. You would be there.

These are real dangers. If you were not afraid, you would be a fool, and I do not believe that of you. As for me, I will be gone for weeks at a time, making circuits of native villages. What would happen to you if I was scalped by a native and you were there alone?

But the natives are peaceful now, are they not?

Angelique, they were on the warpath only a dozen years ago and much blood was spilled. Now, American settlers are moving onto their land before they have even ceded it and the nations are not happy. The young men thirst to prove themselves as warriors. The old chiefs struggle to restrain them. The nations and the Americans buried the hatchet, but I am not convinced that it is buried as deeply as Washington City prefers to think it is.

Angelique looks down on our clasped hands, struggling to contain her tears.

I stroke her hand. Angelique, beautiful ladies like you do not survive the transition to frontier posts. The fierce life requires a woman who was reared in a frontier village so the change is not so great a shock. I will not take you.

I wait to let it all sink in. She says nothing more.

If you wish me to leave now, I will leave. I will do anything to make this easier for you. But I would prefer to take this last night and make pleasant memories of seeing angels that we will remember for the rest of our lives. The choice is yours.

In answer, she flings herself into my arms.

Early the next morning, I take a hackney carriage to Notre Dame Church at the Place d’Armes where I saw my father assemble with other members of the militia during the War of 1812. Even the church’s famous bell tower is dwarfed by the mammoth Gothic Revival shell of the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal, whose construction began last September. I know exactly how much Rousseau money helped to erect that façade.

I make my way through the hay and wood market that occupies the Place d’Armes these days and enter the church. I stop at the fount of holy water and cross myself, enter the sanctuary, and genuflect before entering a pew. I do not attend mass every day, but I do like to keep my accounts short.

When it is my turn, I enter the confessional. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession….

After penance and mass, I wait for the other parishioners to leave so I can have a final word with the priest. We walk to his quarters where he pours us wine.

I will not say adieu, my son, for it may be God’s will to send you back to us. It would give me great joy to see you again. You are a good man and a good Catholic, and you have brought me joy in these years that I have known you.

Now, Father, lying is a sin.

It is the truth. Just because you cause me distress with your affairs does not mean your joie d’vivre is not a blessing. Each of us has our besetting sin. God’s mercy covers all.

Amen. I cross myself.

Tell me, Dominique, what is the priest situation in Indiana these days? Are you able to go regularly to mass?

No, Father. The Americans still do not permit priests to be stationed in Indiana. A priest comes from Kentucky annually for a two-week visit each to Vincennes and Fort Wayne. I see him at Fort Wayne whenever he is there.

That is little guidance for you, my son. I encourage you to remember your prayers.

I do my best, Father. Which is nowhere near what you would wish, I am afraid.

These people you trade with, what is their view on sexual purity?

My hand goes immediately to my nose of its own accord. I rub my nose as if it itches then drop my hand to the wineglass. They take it very seriously, Father. Relations are forbidden outside marriage—although a man may marry more than one wife if he can afford it.

Father leans forward, intently interested. And what happens if an illicit relationship is discovered?

I find my hand on my nose again. They chop off the offender’s nose.

Father blinks with surprise, then laughs. That is quite a deterrent!

Indeed.

Perhaps, then, it will be God’s mercy, to help you keep yourself from your besetting sin, my son.

That is the opposite of what I was thinking. His suggestion sounds like nonsense.

The priest rises and I rise with him. He makes the sign of the cross. Go with God. I will pray for your safety.

Merci. It is certain that your prayers will be more effectual than mine.

Rousseau! You there, Dominique!

I straighten and turn to face the advancing métis dandy whose requisite Regent beaver hat perches jauntily on his head. Prominent cheekbones in a round French face declare his mixed blood.

After la bise, the air kiss on both cheeks, he says, Dominique, mon ami, I am glad to have caught you in time to bid you adieu. He pauses, scanning my clothes critically. But you are not in mourning! he teases.

Buckskins do not come in black.

But buckskins are so unfashionable, mon ami.

I prefer them to wearing a corset. I like style, but the fashions this year are ridiculous.

Men do not wear corsets. Men wear girdles.

And I am wearing buckskins.

What is that you are holding? Ah, what books have you selected this time? He takes the small stack of books from my hand. "I thought that you already purchased Don Quixote."

It wore out.

"I see. Sir Walter Scott…Oh là là! Don Juan! I am thinking that your lady mother did not buy you this one. Are you certain that it will not give you fevers in the night? Perhaps I should keep it for you."

I will manage. I reclaim my books and hand them to Charles for packing in the canoe. Adieu, mon ami. We shake hands in the French fashion: a slight squeeze with a single pump of the hands. Then we embrace one another.

Jean Baptiste and Augustin approach, one on each side of our beautiful mother, who is bravely cheerful.

God go with you, my sons, and may our Blessed Mother and Saint Anne protect you. Go to mass frequently for my sake, if not your own.

I will go as often as possible, I say, knowing she does not understand the situation.

Look after your health. Return to Montreal, if at all possible.

We will, says Charles.

After a final round of family embraces, Charles and I enter the canoe. The voyageurs push the canoe from the pier and paddle away from civilization amid a chorus of Bon voyage!

Charles and I watch our mother’s white handkerchief waving us on our way until it fades from view.

Chapter 3

Detroit 1825

"Sacré bleu! says Charles softly. What has happened to our little French village?"

People are everywhere inside the village that surrounds the fort, as well as camped outside it as far as we can see. Amazed, we beach the canoe and look about.

The French population has not grown. The variety of native bands in their European–native dress mixture, moccasins, and blankets have not changed. No, the influx is composed of Americans and new immigrants. Guttural German assaults our ears and the strong, pickled smell of German cooking hangs in the air.

Charles and I wrinkle our noses in distaste.

I stop a passer-by. "Excuse me, Monsieur. Who are all these people?"

The man scans my buckskins. Been in the backwoods too long? The Erie Canal is almost finished. It’s bringing settlers by the boatload.

How large is a boatload?

Flatboat hauls thirty tons.

I turn to Charles. "Thirty tons! Think how this Erie Canal will help the fur trade! I had forgotten