Double Jeopardy: Risk of loss or injury arising from two sources at the same time.
He was dreaming. His father was beating him mercilessly for dropping his fork on the floor while eating his supper. The pain was excruciating. “That will teach you to be more careful at the table, Peter.” He only nodded and continued crying.
1778 Northern Saskatchewan
Peter Pond, American peddler, now partnered with Joseph Frobisher and Simon McTavish and Company, Montreal, tried to ignore his competition. Who were now boldly standing and shouting at him from their canoes, quickly approaching the shore of the long, narrow lake. This was bad. ‘Not only is this wilderness against me, but now the opposition is breathing down my neck. I’m always fighting two enemies. Two battles. At the same time.’
His head was swimming. His breath coming in short gasps. He started to hyperventilate, feeling one of his sudden rages coming on. Never a good thing. Especially for whoever happened to be near him. His men looked on. Worried.
Pond had taken the northern route west past Lake Winnipeg, following Thomas Frobisher’s instructions. Along with the crude map given to him by Frobisher. He muttered to himself, ‘Somehow there has to be a passage into the rivers and lakes flowing north, and not into Hudson Bay. Somewhere. But where? Is this where?’
He stood scratching his head, staring at the little sketch map in front of him. It didn’t make much sense. They had traveled the length of a long, narrow lake and didn’t know which one of the many channels, leading off the lake, to take west. He took another reading with his compass. His head was throbbing. And now those bloody fools from Montreal were nearly on top of him.
“Where to now Peter? I see nothing but endless water. And now our competition’s barking up our arses.” Elliot waited patiently. He knew Pond wouldn’t answer immediately. And he dared say no more. This man, although usually kind and understanding with his men, and the Natives, had sudden flashes of anger and violence. Sometimes over the smallest things. So Elliot simply waited.
Pond finally turned toward Elliot, reluctantly taking his eyes off the horizon and the sun. He was just about to speak, when one of the men in the incoming canoes shouted across the water.
“Well, if it isn’t the American retired soldier, Mr. Peter Pond. What? Lost your way? There’s no one to kill or duel way out here, Pond. Why are you looking so puzzled? I thought you were a good navigator and mapmaker, Pond? Are you lost?” Paul Black, an independent peddler out of Montreal scowled at Pond. He, and many other concerns in Montreal, hated the American. He was too good. Serious competition. He had no business in their country.
“We’re six canoes to your four, Pond. So, don’t get trigger-happy or there will be trouble. I promise you that.”
Pond stared back at Black, feeling nauseous, his headache getting worse. He was trembling. It was always like this before something bad happened. As he reached for his musket, he tried desperately to control himself. ‘No. Not yet. Don’t do this. Not yet.’ With these now somewhat garbled thoughts, he barely managed to pull his hand away from his pistol. Elliot looked on worriedly. The others looked away.
Finally the parties broke up, barely having avoided flying fists or duels with pistols. Pond turned to his guide. “Well, which way? This bloody map is useless. A blob for the lake on a piece of paper, showing a river running out the west side, but little more. A note saying, ‘turn west at five-five degrees north latitude.’ What, was Frobisher thinking? That I carry a sextant in my pocket? To measure latitude?” His Dene guide, Yakecan just shrugged, pointing at the water.
Pond, messaging his forehead, trying to make the headache go away, was still irate. And continued his tirade. “We paddled the entire length of this lake and there are at least four major channels that turn west. Each channel is a third of a degree, or less, apart. I couldn’t measure our position that accurately even if I had a sextant. And that fool Frobisher, draws a thin oval for a lake. It’s damn more complicated than that.” He turned to his guide once more. “Which is the right channel, Yakecan?”
Yakecan shrugged, again, then replied rather cryptically: “Many fish swim in muddy waters. Find the fish and the muddy waters. That’s the right channel.”
At first Pond only grimaced, thinking, ‘Did I hire an idiot for a guide? He’s supposed to be the best there is. Fish, muddy waters? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ He started shaking again, but then suddenly grinned, finally realizing what his guide meant. His men looked on in bewilderment, still wondering what the Dene was talking about?
“OK men, gather ’round. Those scoundrels from Montreal are waiting for us to take the correct channel. They’re so foolish, they probably need our help to find their way out of their freight canoes. Without our help, they’re lost. With our help, they’ll soon be lost again. Here’s what we’ll do…..” Pond carefully laid out his plan for his men. They grinned, delighted. Now they also knew what Yakecan was talking about. They lived to trick and beat their competition.
……………………….
After breaking camp the next morning, Pond’s four canoes traveled back up the long, narrow lake again before selecting a channel that led northwest. They knew their competition was watching them, but pretended not to notice.
“OK men, set a steady, but medium pace. Let those bastards catch up and pass us, before we make our next move.”
Black watched from his hiding place along the shore, as Pond’s canoes turned into the channel. “Well, you showed me the route Pond. Not so clever after all.”
He turned and shouted at his men. “Get those canoes into the water, you lazy turds, and follow him. Quick. Before we lose him. That’s the channel we need to take, to get to the Arabosca country.”
His men reluctantly obeyed, eyeing him with disdain. Once Black was out of earshot Daniel whispered to LeTour. “I hope that arrogant asshole knows what he’s doing. He leads like an emperor. More with the whip than his brains. We could all get lost out here in this godforsaken water-wilderness and perish, because of his conceit.” LeTour nodded knowingly. But there wasn’t much they could do when Black took the ‘full bit between his teeth.’
“We’ve almost got them,” shouted Black at his men. Soon we’ll pass them and get into the Arabosca country ahead of them, and then secure the trade. Once we debauch the Indians with enough liquor, and put them in our debt, the furs will be all ours.” Then Black started singing, forcing his reluctant men to sing along. But their voices sounded more like they were attending a funeral march.
A worried LeTour bent over in the canoe and whispered to Daniel. “How’s this supposed to work, Daniel? So, we get ahead of Pond. Black doesn’t know where he’s going. And he doesn’t bother hiring an Indian guide. I don’t like this at all, Daniel.” They kept on paddling, worried looks on their faces, wondering how all this would end. And, then there was Pond’s temper. That worried them most. There were rumors…
Finally the six opposition canoes pulled up beside Pond’s canoes, waving and jeering. Some men swore at him. Others spat. Black, majestically standing in the back of his canoe, waved at his competition. Then he fired his pistol over Pond’s head. “Thought you could outrun us Pond? No bonus for you this year, Yankee. We’ll be coming back, laden with furs, before you reach the Arabosca country.”
One of Pond’s men had heard enough. He took the steersman’s long paddle and gave Black a shot in the ribs, sending him overboard into the freezing spring waters. Black surfaced, sputtering, and was somewhat reluctantly grabbed and thrown into the canoe by his men. Still sputtering and coughing. Now furious.
He pulled out his wet pistol only to realize how useless it was. “I’ll get you for this you Yankee toad. I won’t forget.” Now Black didn’t look very splendid anymore, his uniform soaked and his knee-high leather boots full of water.
As the opposition canoes sped past, Pond’s men roared with laughter, giving their opponents some French Canadian cheer, then stopped paddling. Time for a smoke. And something to eat. They pulled out some pemmican and began chewing. Soon the other canoes were a mere speck on the horizon.
Pond felt a little better after seeing Black humiliated. He ate some of his pemmican before asking his men. “So, how’s this fare? Can you live on it, if you have to? This is the first time I’ve used it with the brigades, and I need your advice.”
Lizotte, usually silent, sitting up front, piped up. “It’s good Peter. Rich. Fills the stomach. Gives me strength to paddle for hours. And it takes so little to make a meal. A bag of this will get us across the continent.” The other men nodded in agreement.
Pond looked pleased. “Well done men. Especially sending that asshole Black into the drink. That will teach him. Now let’s turn around and take the right channel, before they figure out what we’re up to.”
……………………….
Pond’s men peered over the side of their canoes marveling at the sight. Below them in the clear, shallow water a steady flow of fish swam up the lake channel toward the running water coming out of the river at the end of the lake, to spawn. “This one, right, Yakecan?” His guide merely nodded at Pond.
As they got closer to the mouth of the river, at the end of the channel, the water grew murkier from the spring runoff, laden with sediments. “Many fish swim in muddy waters,” his guide exclaimed again. Yes, the spring spawn was on. They had found the right channel. And a sizeable river at the end.
That evening the men feasted on fresh fish and rested, before journeying up the river to the next lake. Now a little closer to their destination. Elliot glanced at Peter. “I wonder where those stupid, arrogant Montrealers are now, Peter? They will be even more dangerous and threatening after this little incident. If they ever catch up to us.”
In another channel, things were not going so well for the Montrealers. Black’s six canoes finally reached the end of the lake channel only to find a very small creek with a trickle of water coming out of it. There was no passage this way. Tricked.
Black, screamed at his men. Spittle flying everywhere. “How could this happen? Was no one watching that bloody American?” He glared at his men, almost daring them to say something.
“You told us to paddle hard sir. So, we put our backs into it, never looking back.” As he said this, LeTour also wondered why Black wasn’t paying more attention while they were paddling.
‘Now what,’ thought Black? ‘I have no idea what channel to take. We’ll have to check each one before we find the right one. That could take days. And we could lose him.’ He swore again and told his men to turn around. ‘I guess I’ll try the largest one first. As good as any.’
Luckily Black turned out to be right. He yelled in triumph and then pushed his men relentlessly up the river, trying to catch Pond’s party. Finally they reached the end of the river, and there on the shore of another enormous lake stood Pond. His men were busy repairing their canoes which had taken a beating on the journey up the river. Black got lucky, again. But, luck could be a double-edged sword.
Paul Black, red-faced, glared at Pond. “You tricked me once Yankee. It won’t happen again.” He was about to reach for his musket and shoot at Pond. But, then he saw the look in Pond’s eyes. Vacant. Staring. His hands trembling, and sweating. Black thought the better of it. ‘Wonder what’s wrong with him? He doesn’t look so well.’
Pond tried to calm down. “Why don’t we just work together Black? There’s enough furs for all of us in the northwest. No hard feelings. Just a little joke. What’s wrong anyway, Black? Lost your compass? You couldn’t find the right channel by yourself?”
“You know goddamned well why a compass or even a sextant wouldn’t work here my friend. Those instruments are too crude to measure latitude in such small increments. Or, determine the right angle for each of those channels, all pointing in almost the same direction. And these pieces of shit maps are useless. I still wonder how you found your way?”
Black looked sideways at Pond, who had now stopped shaking, hoping for an answer. And only received silence in return. Also, a slight smile from Pond’s Dene guide. Black wondered,’what’s that stupid Indian smiling at?’
Pond mused, ‘Maybe if you’d quit treating the Natives like fools, you might learn something. Who would ever, in his right mind, travel in this wilderness without a Native guide. Or Native help. Only that arrogant Canadian, dressed in black, would dare.’
“Why don’t we just break out the kegs and have some drinks, Black. I’ll make you a present of a few casks. Talk things over like adults and tomorrow be on our way. You know the way from here, right Black?”
Black nodded, trying to look confident in front of his men. He really wasn’t too certain. His maps were even worse than Pond’s. His navigating skills almost non-existent.
“Agreed Pond. But, no more tricks.” That afternoon Black and LeTour watched as Pond stood by the lake with his compass pointing it steadily along the east shoreline. Nodding, as if confirming to himself that it was the right direction to take.
“Did you see that LeTour? North-to-northeast on the compass. At least now we know which direction to take.” Black turned and went to the fires, preparing for the evening events. His men would be happy. The drinks were on that fool Pond.
LeTour looked on uneasily. Pond was as shifty as they came. He didn’t trust him. And, he feared that look in his eyes. He would listen carefully by the evening fires to see if he could find out more from Pond’s men about which route to take. ‘Rum loosens tongues, and someone will talk.’ With those misguided thoughts he too turned towards the camp fires.
That night the men celebrated. A few fist fights broke out, but nothing serious. And the tongues wagged on which direction to take tomorrow. By the time the party finished, every direction on the compass had been whispered to Black and his men. That night Black’s men slept more soundly than usual.
…………………….
Pond and his men were already on the water two hours before sunrise, having crept quietly out of the sleeping camp.
Elliot looked at Pond. “What did you put in those kegs you gave Black, Peter? His men are out cold, and not just from too much drink.” He waited for an answer which finally came. Pond was busy looking at the dwindling stars. Making notes.
“I laced those kegs with Laudanum. Those men won’t wake up for some time. And they won’t have any dysentery problems for months.”
After looking at his compass, Pond glanced over at Yakecan. “This isn’t the right lake or channel is it my friend? According to my readings, we’re heading too far northeast.”
Yakecan simply shrugged, before saying, “Find the moving water, Peter. Then follow it.”
By now Pond was accustomed to his guide’s rather short, calculated answers. Not a word wasted. ‘Follow the moving water.’ He wasn’t about to argue. Without his Dene guide, he wouldn’t have gotten this far.
By sunrise Pond’s canoes had moved around a spit of land and found themselves in a channel, between an island and the shoreline. They were just about to pass a narrow opening along the shore, not thinking much of it because it looked like a dead end. Then Pond felt it. Moving water. Coming from the narrow opening. Toward them. “Turn in there men.” Yakecan nodded knowingly.
The canoes moved up a narrow channel, the current against them, which eventually opened into an enormous lake, nearly twenty-five miles long. Pond marveled at the sight. The lake was oriented in the direction they needed to take.
“This one Yakecan, right?” Yakecan simply nodded again. Pond’s men broke out into a canoe song, continuing their journey west up the enormous lake. And with the help of their Dene guide, over Methye portage, and eventually into the Arabosca country.
………………………….
“Wake up Black.” Black opened one eye, only to see LeTour staring down at him, his breath reeking of last night’s festivities. “They’re gone. Not a trace of them anywhere.”
Black, now fully awake, stared at LeTour. “Who’s gone? What are you talking about?” Then he remembered the party. The drinking. He gingerly touched his sore head.
“The American and his men have disappeared.”
At LeTour’s words, Black sobered up fast. “Gone? Well, to hell with them. We know which direction to take, LeTour. You heard the rumors last night, right?”
“I heard all sorts of rumors. Not sure what to believe. I don’t trust that Yankee dog. He already tricked us once. He might again.” LeTour was scowling, obviously in a foul mood.
“You take two canoes and travel along the east shore of the lake, LeTour. I’ll take the other four and go along the west shore. One of us has to find the river or channel leading out of this lake, and when he does, just waits for the other to show up.” LeTour nodded. Soon they were on their way.
“Well, this must be it. It’s big enough. I think the water is moving slightly.” The two men stared at the channel that led out of the end of the lake. LeTour didn’t seem convinced.
“This has to be the channel, LeTour. There is no other opening along this lake. And he’s gone.” Black had missed the channel Pond took. Both men stared up the channel which looked relatively wide and promising enough. They got into the canoes and pushed off into the opening.
A week passed. After canoeing endless miles and traversing many channels and lakes, which were now all beginning to look alike, they finally came to the end of the last lake. And a dead end. Now almost exhausted, fly bitten, and nearly out of food, they looked forlornly at the solid lake shore in front of them. No river, no channel. Nothing but dense forest.
“We’re totally, completely lost Black. There’s no way any further by canoe. We have to turn back. We’ve missed something.”
“Black only looked sourly at LeTour. “Find our way back? In this incredible maze of channels, lakes and marshes? I didn’t draw a map as we were moving up. Or take directions. Did you?”
LeTour only looked despondently back into the distance, shaking his head. Thinking, ‘double jeopardy.’ They had lost. To Pond, and nature.
The Little Fort on the Athabasca River
The men saw it immediately, and moved away. Pond was growing irritated. “These goddamned blood sucking mosquitoes. They’re driving me crazy.” He started wildly swinging his musket at a swarm of bugs above his head. The men moved even further away. Finally, in a great outburst of rage, he fired his musket into another swarm of bugs. “There, that’ll show them.” Suddenly Pond was calm again. Almost looking relieved. So were his men.
Two of his men stood out of earshot, whispering. “Paul Black threatens him, ridicules him. He’s swore at, spat at. Shot at. And he does nothing. Then he totally loses it over a swarm of mosquitoes. I don’t understand, Elliot.”
“Neither do I, Roy. But, at least he gets us to where all the furs are, alive. No complaints from me.” They talked more about what they would do with all their money, once they got home.
1780, Montreal
“You understand Mr. Pond, this is not a trial. Only an inquiry.”
“Yes Sir, I do.” But before Pond could go on, Black’s widow jumped up and started screaming and pointing a finger at him.
“He killed my husband. That Yankee bastard is to blame. String him up. Oh, my poor husband, and all those men. Their children will never see them again.” With those words she broke into tears, and had to be led out of the room.
The inquiry continued. “Mr. Pond, it is my understanding that Mr. Black followed you northwest and you were in contact with him.”
Pond, pondered the question for a while, before answering. “Yes, Black’s canoes were behind us, following us.”
“And was there any incident that might have led to their disappearance?”
Pond merely smiled. Thinking, ‘What a stupid question.’ Then he answered. “Yes, there probably was Sir, or they wouldn’t have disappeared.” The magistrate merely scowled when hearing the Yankee’s answer.
A few more halfhearted questions followed before the inquiry ended.
Peter Pond stood up and strode out of the room. Now a much richer man, having taken so many furs out of the Arabosca country, he would have to go back next year, to collect the rest that he cached. Perhaps he should give Black’s widow a few pounds sterling. No. The public would then think he had done something wrong.
Author’s Notes:
I can’t imagine navigating northern Saskatchewan’s or Manitoba’s numerous lakes and rivers in a canoe to find the route to Methye Portage, then eventually into the Athabasca River. What a monumental task that would have been. And what courage it would have taken.
In 1976 I took a boreal ecology course at the University of Manitoba. Part of the course involved traipsing around the lake district northeast of Lake Winnipeg, in the dead of winter. It was there that I fully comprehended the vastness of the many northern lakes, rivers, islands and channels. You could get seriously lost in a heartbeat. If you didn’t freeze to death first.
Of course, we had compasses to help us find our way. Or so we thought. One cloudy afternoon our professor told us to traverse an island in the lake. He would meet us on the other side. After many hours we finally made it, frozen, exhausted, and somewhat bewildered. It was then that our spiritual leader informed us the island contained a considerable iron ore deposit beneath it. Of course, rendering our compasses useless.
During the late 18th century, when this story took place, the American, Peter Pond probably used a compass. Not likely a sextant or watches, to calculate latitude and longitude accurately, judging by the quality of his maps. While latitude was relatively easy to calculate, even a sextant could not have measured locations to one-third degree very accurately. Pond needed more than instruments to find his way into the Athabasca drainage, through the Methye Portage route. Certainly his Native guide(s) played a major role.
The main character in this story, Peter Pond, was the first White man to set foot along Methye Portage and eventually find his way into the Athabasca drainage in 1778. Although his maps are rough, they certainly paved the way for later explorers to move further northwest. Especially his protege, Alexander Mackenzie.
While Pond is real enough, Paul Black and his men, and their encounters with Pond in this story, are fictional.
I have often wondered about Peter Pond’s personality. And that reportedly bad temper of his. David Thompson wrote: “He was a person of industrious habits, a good common education, but of a violent temper and unprincipled character.” Pond was involved in a duel in the US, and two murder incidents in the Canadian northwest. He was acquitted of both murders, but the rumors swirled.
Was Pond’s temper just an occasional lapse? Or, perhaps something more sinister? When it comes to understanding afflictions and illnesses in the past, historic records are often difficult to interpret. I started doing some research (for my not so soon to be published novel) on what might have ailed Pond. And came across a psychological malady, known as Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Check it out.
Essentially, it is a behavioral disorder where the individual has explosive outbursts of anger and/or violence, “…that are disproportionate to the situation at hand (e.g., impulsive shouting, screaming or excessive reprimanding triggered by relatively inconsequential events). Impulsive aggression is not premeditated, and is defined by a disproportionate reaction to any provocation, real or perceived. Some individuals have reported affective changes prior to an outburst, such as tension, mood changes, energy changes…”
Some psychologists believe one of the possible causes of this disorder stems back to a violent childhood. The child is physically abused, and then later in life finds a sense of redemption by putting others through pain. Once the rage is over, the tension is released and relief is achieved. Other potential causes include genetics and differences (function, chemistry and structure) in how the brain operates.
Peter Pond often had real reason, and not some trivial incident, to turn violently against his rivals. Regardless of what may have plagued him, which we can only guess at, Peter Pond was occasionally a very violent man. And a very organized, calculating individual. Also, someone who contributed significantly to the exploration of the incredibly challenging 18th century western Canadian frontier.