The Littlest Voyageur Read online

  The publisher wishes to thank Stephen Veit, museum technician at Grand Portage National Monument, and Linda LeGarde Grover for their expert help.

  Margaret Ferguson Books

  Text copyright © 2020 by Margi Preus

  Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Cheryl Pilgrim

  All Rights Reserved

  HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  www.holidayhouse.com

  Canoe Manned by Voyageurs Passing a Waterfall by Frances Anne Hopkins used by permission of Library and Archives Canada / accession number 1989-401-1 / e011153912, C-002771

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Preus, Margi, author. | Pilgrim, Cheryl, illustrator.

  Title: The littlest voyageur / Margi Preus; illustrated by Cheryl Pilgrim.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret Ferguson Books, Holiday House, [2020] | Summary: In 1792, Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge, a squirrel, eager for adventure, stows away in the canoe of a group of voyageurs, unaware of what they are traveling so far to trade. Includes pronunciation guide, historical notes, and a recipe. | Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019009423 | ISBN 9780823442478 (hardcover)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Fur traders—Fiction. | Squirrels—Fiction. | Canada—History—18th century—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.P92434 Lit 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009423

  Ebook ISBN 9780823443093

  v5.4

  a

  To all who work to preserve and protect our wilderness annd waterways

  — M. P.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part I: The Voyage

  Montreal: My Wanderlust Is Born

  May 15, 1792: My Journey Begins

  We Paddle Up The Ottawa River

  Our First Portage: Still On The Ottawa River

  Some Difficult Truths Are Encountered

  We Are Camped At Talon Falls

  The Berry Picking Is Good On Lake Nipissing

  There Is Some Danger On The French River

  On To Lake Superior

  There Is Fog

  We Encounter La Vieille

  Spiffing Up At Hat Point, Lake Superior

  Part II: The Great Rendezvous

  Grand Portage

  Six Days Of Work

  Six Days Of Fun

  A Horrible Discovery Is Made

  Later That Night

  In The Forest

  We Are Safe

  I Rally The Fur-Bearers

  The Plan Is Executed

  The Canoe, She Is Finished

  La Vieille Saves The Day

  We Are In A Pickle

  What Happens Next

  Many Days Later

  More Days Pass In Which We Chase My Crew

  We Lose Track Of The Time

  There Is A Big Wind

  Part III: The Littlest Voyageur

  Spring 1793: Something Wonderful Happens

  Spring 1795: Life Is Magnifique!

  Pronunciation Guide

  About Voyageurs

  About Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge’s Speeches

  About Red Squirrels And Flying Squirrels

  Recipe For Bannock

  Sources

  PART I

  THE VOYAGE

  MONTREAL

  MY WANDERLUST IS BORN

  The flash of red paddles.

  The sound of strong, singing voices.

  I leapt to a higher branch for a better view of the mighty Ottawa River.

  Canoe after canoe after canoe—a whole brigade of canoes—moved along the waterway below my treetop home. Each big birch-bark canoe loaded with many bundled parcels. Each propelled by a crew of eight to twelve voyageurs. Each voyageur paddling like mad. And singing!

  I sang a song, too: “Come back! I want to go with you!”

  No answer.

  I flung myself from branch to branch, trying to catch up with them.

  But soon there was just the sound of their song trailing behind as they paddled into the faraway.

  Every spring when the ice had well and truly melted, the voyageurs set off from my home near Montreal in their beautiful honey-colored canoes. Where did they go? What did they do there? What did they carry away in those canoes? What did they bring back when they returned months later with the autumn wind at their backs?

  Sometimes on their return I caught the scent of the faraway: Pinecones sticky with resin. The sweet sap of maple trees. Musky mushrooms. Juicy berries. A multitude of nuts and seeds yet to be tasted.

  It was a smell that stirred up in me a wanderlust—a call to adventure of the grandest sort.

  “I want to be a voyageur,” I told my friends.

  “Why?” they asked.

  “They are brave. I am brave!

  “They are strong. I am strong!

  “They like to sing. I like to sing!

  “They carry heavy bundles. I carry…things.

  “They wear red caps and sashes. I wear red from head to tail!

  “The voyageurs are small in stature,” I said. “I am small! Why should I not be a voyageur?”

  “Because you are a squirrel?” my friends argued.

  “Because you cannot paddle a canoe?”

  “Because you cannot cook?”

  “Because, at the portages, you cannot carry a heavy bundle?”

  This is what I said to them: “I may not paddle, but I can sing! I may not cook, but I can eat! I may not carry much, but I can carry something!”

  “Well,” said my friends, “they will never let you into their canoe.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. “But their canoes are so big there are plenty of places to hide. And I am so small I can fit into one of their vest pockets.”

  MAY 15, 1792

  MY JOURNEY BEGINS

  And that is exactly where I was when the next brigade set off. Oui, c’est vrai! Yes, it’s true! I joined a crew of eight hearty voyageurs:

  Jean Méchant

  Jean Paul

  Jean Luc

  Jean Jacques

  Jean Henri

  Jean Claude

  Jean Louis

  Jean Gentille

  Et moi, Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge, the littlest voyageur.

  The Jeans were not exactly aware that I had joined their team, but I planned to impress and delight them with my many talents.

  As soon as I was in the canoe, I slipped out of the vest pocket where I had been hiding. I stashed myself among the kegs and barrels and oilcloths, and the many big, heavy canvas-wrapped bundles they call pièces.

  But before the voyageurs departed, wives and sisters and mothers came down to the waterfront to say goodbye to their husbands, brothers, and sons. The clerks and gentlemen of the North West Company, the voyageurs’ employers, came to wave farewell, too. Speeches were made, cannons fired, flags waved, songs sung. Finally the canoes were launched, and we were in the water!

  Oh! The exhilarating whoosh of the canoe surging along under the power of eight strong paddlers! The speed of it was astounding! If I’d had a red cap to hold on to, I would have been holding on tight.

&nb
sp; The five canoes in our brigade launched all at the same time, and every one wanted to be the fastest. Forty-some paddles flashed in the sun. Who would be first?

  Not us. We were, in fact, last.

  Perhaps with my encouragement, our canoe would soon be number one!

  WE PADDLE UP THE OTTAWA RIVER

  It wasn’t long before I found myself, nose to the wind, perched on the bow of the canoe. The men dipped and swung their bright-bladed paddles while I called out “Strrrrrrroke!” Again and again, forty to sixty strokes per minute. “Strrrrrroke!”

  The steersman, Jean Méchant, barked from his place in the back, “What a noisy chirring racket! Who brought that squirrel along? Was it you, Jean Paul?” He poked the middleman sitting in front of him.

  “Mais non,” Jean Paul said, then nudged the middleman who sat next to him. “Perhaps it was Jean Luc.”

  “Not me,” said Jean Luc. “Were we supposed to bring squirrels?”

  “No!” everyone shouted at him.

  Like me, Jean Luc was making his first trip as a voyageur. He couldn’t be expected to know everything!

  “Maybe it was Jean Henri,” Jean Luc said, tapping the middleman in front of him with his paddle.

  “Not me,” said middleman Jean Henri.

  And so they went, along all three rows of middlemen:

  It was not middleman Jean Jacques.

  Not middleman Jean Claude.

  Not Jean Louis, also a middleman.

  Not even the bowman, Jean Gentille, who sat in the very front of the canoe to guide it. Unbeknownst to him, it was in his vest pocket that I had hidden.

  From my perch on the bow, I tried to explain my goals and aspirations. “My name is Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge, and I am an adventurer. I long to explore the unexplored, discover the undiscovered, and taste the as yet untasted.”

  “I hope he won’t be a nuisance,” said Jean Méchant from the back of the canoe.

  “He’s only a squirrel,” said Jean Gentille.

  I vowed to not be a nuisance. No, I certainly intended not to be, for what joy it was to feel the wind in my fur, to see the playful otters swimming by and the bright rings made by jumping fish. What a thrill to hear the slap of the beaver’s tail and the wild call of the loon. And what heaven to smell the spring blossoms and sun-warmed pine.

  And oh, how I loved to sing!

  The voyageurs also loved to sing.

  “En roulant, ma boule roulant,” Jean Jacques, le chanteur (the singer) started us off.

  “En roulant ma boule,” the others joined in.

  They did their best, but this song about getting a ball rolling could be a bit repetitive. I tried to encourage them to put in a little flourish.

  “En rrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrrrrroulant, ma boule rrrrr-rrrrrrroulant!” I sang out. (Even the Frenchest of Frenchmen cannot roll his r’s like me. I can keep it up all day if I have to. Or even if I don’t.)

  I scampered along the gunwale, encouraging each man to sing with more gusto. Perhaps this would make us go faster and we could overtake the other canoes in our brigade. This was my thinking, but the others didn’t seem to agree.

  Some of the voyageurs covered their ears; others began swinging their paddles at me.

  “That’s enough of that noise!” Jean Jacques yelped.

  “Shoo!” said Jean Paul. He swatted at me with his cap.

  “Va-t’en!” Jean Claude swiped at me with his paddle. “Go away!”

  It was a wonder the entire canoe did not tip upside down.

  And then I saw Jean Gentille motioning to his vest pocket. “Chut,” he whispered. “Hush! Jump inside!”

  I did. And there I crouched, panting.

  “Where did the little pest go?” Jean Jacques asked.

  “I don’t care, as long as he’s gone,” I heard Jean Méchant say.

  “What do we do now?” Jean Luc said.

  “Paddle!” Jean Méchant barked. “And put your backs into it!”

  “But,” Jean Claude asked, “where are the other canoes?”

  The voices grew concerned.

  “Are we lost?” they wondered.

  “We were so busy with that pesky squirrel that we have gotten separated from our brigade!” Jean Paul said.

  The part of the Ottawa River where we were paddling was a maze of islands and peninsulas, bays and inlets. It would take hours of paddling to find the others. If we could.

  “Now what shall we do?” Jean Luc cried.

  The voyageurs pulled the canoe to the shore and they all jumped out.

  “It is the fault of that chattering rascal,” said Jean Méchant.

  The others grumbled their agreement.

  “If he hadn’t distracted us, we would still be following the others,” said Jean Jacques.

  Sacrebleu! Oh, no! I thought. It was true. It was my fault. I wanted to set it right. But alas, what could I do? I, who was so small and insignificant?

  But then I had an idea. I thought, I may not paddle. I may not cook. When we get to a portage, I may not carry much. But there is something at which I am very, very good.

  I climbed out of Jean Gentille’s pocket and quickly found the highest pine tree in the entire wilderness. Up I ran, as fast as I could.

  Below me, the river split into many glittering waterways, divided by a confusion of islands and peninsulas. But—there! What did I see in the distance? The flash of paddles and four canoes laid out like a dotted line across a map.

  I chirred! I trilled! I rolled my r’s with great ferrrrrrrrrocity!

  The voyageurs looked up at me.

  “Is that the same squirrel?” said Jean Méchant. “It sounds like the one that recently caused us so much grief.”

  Have I mentioned that sometimes these men were not very bright?

  Ah, but Jean Gentille looked up at me with a smile on his face. He knew!

  “Wait!” he said. “I think the little red one has found our brigade. I think that is what he is chattering about.”

  “Found our brigade?” the others said. “How is that?”

  “Why, he can see them, from his perch in the treetop.”

  Meanwhile, I was practically doing head-stands up there—pointing with my paw, then my tail, then my entire body. When Jean Gentille whistled for me, down the tree I raced, over the boulders, up his trouser leg and onto his shoulder.

  “Can you show us the way, little one?” said Jean Gentille.

  “Oui! Oui! Oui! Oui!” I chirred, and “Oui! Oui! Oui! Oui!” again, in case they missed it the first time.

  Jean Gentille said to me, “You shall ride on the bow of the canoe and show us the way.”

  “A squirrel? You are going to put your trust in a squirrel?” Jean Méchant said. “Ho ho! You are as nutty as he is!”

  The others also seemed skeptical, but they climbed back into the canoe. We set off, with me on the bow pointing the way with my nose. I cheered enthusiastically when they steered the right way, and scolded with all my might when they steered the wrong way.

  Soon we saw the bright, flashing paddles of the other canoes. We had found our brigade.

  “Youpe!” cried my canoe-mates. “Yippee! Hip, hip, hoorah!”

  And I joined them, crying, “Hoorrrrrrrrah,” leaning a bit heavily on the r’s, perhaps.

  “Oh!” teased the voyageurs in the other canoes, when we caught up to them, “did the wittle boys get wost?” They threw back their heads and laughed.

  “We always knew which way to go,” said Jean Henri.

  “We were never really lost,” said Jean Claude.

  “Good job, Le Rouge,” Jean Gentille whispered to me, shortening my name a bit.

  Did the others not know it was I who had shown them the way? I? Me? Moi? Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge? Jean Pierre Little the Red, if you wa
nt a direct translation. Although perhaps Jean Pierre the Little Red is more musical. At least when it is spoken in French.

  Ah well, what did I care? The wind ruffled my fur. And I sang. I sang at the top of my lungs! “C’est moi—it’s me! Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge of the Big Voice and mon bon ami—my best friend—Jean Gentille of the Big Heart.”

  OUR FIRST PORTAGE

  STILL ON THE OTTAWA RIVER

  For a time, I was a hero. It’s true! A hero! Well, maybe not a hero, but at least I was tolerated. The voyageurs allowed me to stay in the canoe. Perhaps only in the bottom of the canoe—

  “And no singing!” Jean Jacques grumbled, with a shake of his finger.

  But even that status didn’t last long.

  I had been trying very hard not to irritate anyone—not singing, not running up and down the gunwales, not pestering anyone in any way. Instead, I stayed curled up in the bottom of the canoe, whiling away the time among the bundles of goods we carried.

  It is, of course, difficult to be an explorer when you can’t see anything. How is one supposed to discover anything at all? Well, let it not be said that I am not resourceful. Indeed, after a day of this I realized I could explore right where I was. For instance, what was inside these parcels?

  I decided to make a tiny hole in one of them to see what was in there. Just the tiniest hole. Then I would be able to press my eye against the itty-bitty hole and look inside.

  And so I began to chew. I gnawed a very small hole, but as soon as the hole was made, ping! out popped a bead. A tiny white bead. And ping ping ping—red, yellow, blue—several more tiny beads. Then more. And more.

  What to do?

  I did the only thing I could think of: I crammed my paw into the hole to keep any more beads from popping out.

  But, now, what did I smell? A whiff of something. A rather delicious smell coming from this other bundle. Convenient to my teeth. Soon my teeth had chewed a little hole in that one, and click! out came a little dried pea. Tick click clatter tap, a pawful of peas fell out. Oh, dear. I quickly stopped up the hole with my other paw.