The Pemmican Man: an historical novel

By William Hennessy

This is an old fashioned adventure story that will capture your interest in seeing Bart succeed despite the forces arrayed against him.
In 1816 Bart is blamed by his stepfather Elmer for the death of his son who was killed and scalped by marauding savages. His mother Anne is also a target for his mean and drunken temper. Bart runs away from Elmer's illegal still but is followed by Elmer and his drinking pal and sheriff Jack Scott. He manages to escape from them. He eludes at least temporarily the savage Blue Legs who hates everybody. He takes the sheriff's horse to Presque Isle and there he joins the fur trade with the Northwest Company. He and his new friend Peter develop a source of needed pemmican from the Blackfeet Indians on the far western plains and help recover stolen ponies from the Crow. He saves Peter's life and survives a life or death struggle with another trapper. He and Peter return successfully to the Northwest Company base in Fort William where he is rewarded and then he takes on the mission to rescue his mother from Elmer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098333294

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The Pemmican Man

© 2020, William J. Hennessy

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-09833-328-7

ISBN: eBook: 978-1-09833-329-4

Where Credit Belongs

I wish to

thank my patient spouse Sally for her constant support and encouragement during the long period of time it took to write this novel. My double cousin Terry Hennessy who took valuable time away from running his Senior Softball business. And for those of you who have no double cousins, my condolences as they are like siblings. My friends Geri Grant and Peter Ranum who gave moral support and advice some of which I actually followed. My editor Elizabeth Schutt who spent months of her time and effort editing this project. Thank you to all the rest of my friends and relatives who supported my endeavors on the long and difficult path to completion. You know who you are. And thank you dear reader for without readers this endeavor would be in vain.

PROLOGUE

In 1814 Lord

Selkirk of the Hudson Bay Company and founder of the Red River Colony of Scottish settlers authorized the issuance of the Pemmican Proclamation. This forbade anyone in the Red River Colony from trading any foodstuffs to the Northwest Company which relied upon the Red River source of pemmican to feed its voyageurs on their long treks they made to obtain and transport furs. Pemmican made from dried Bison (Buffalo) meat and mixed and pounded with bison fat and whatever wild berries that are available becomes a vital foodstuff for the voyageurs. It satisfies their bodies need for nourishment and lasts almost indefinitely if dried and stored correctly.

This caused a proxy war to occur in June of 1816 when the Metis half breeds and Indians who relied upon the pemmican trade for their livelihood attacked the colony. Some twenty settlers and one Metis were killed and one wounded. That attack became known as the Battle of Seven Oaks because of the large oak trees that existed there. A monument to that battle now stands within the city of Winnipeg, Manitoba where it took place.

That fall is where we take up this narrative with Bart Murphree on a forest path running from his step-father and the sheriff Jack Scott who are pursuing him with firearms and dogs to force him to work in his step-fathers’ still.

This work of historical fiction is superimposed upon the background of the magical era of the fur trade in North America which is presented as it existed in 1815 and subsequent years.

Table of Contents

Chapter One: On The Road

Chapter Two: Leaving Home

Chapter Three: Hiking North

Chapter Four: Long Lake

Chapter Five: Attacked

Chapter Six: The Great Lakes

Chapter Seven: Fort William

Chapter Eight: The Pigeon Hunt

Chapter Nine: Trek to Grand Marais

Chapter Ten: Letter From Home

Chapter Eleven: Battle of Seven Oaks

Chapter Twelve: Green Lake Post

Chapter Thirteen: The Buffalo Jump

Chapter Fourteen: Back to Green Lake

Chapter Fifteen: Going after Frank

Chapter Sixteen: Pemmican

Chapter Seventeen: The War Party

Chapter Eighteen: Making Pemmican

Chapter Nineteen: Return to Ft. William

Chapter Twenty: Going Home

CHAPTER ONE

On The Road

I stopped just short of the road in the thick tag alders that grew along the road and listened for the sound of anyone approaching. Hearing nothing, I stepped onto the dirt road and headed north being careful not to leave any trace of my passing on the bare dirt that appeared between the rocks and grass. I was worried that someone could come along and recognize me, Bartholomew from the still. Of corse, people really knew me as Bart, only my mother Anne called me Bartholomew and then only when I had done something wrong.

Coming to a low swampy area I spotted some wild onions growing next to the road and pulled them up with the roots attached. I tasted the stalks and found them to be strong onions. Good!, I thought these things should disguise any scent from my moccasins. I rubbed them all over my moccasins and the rest of my clothes as well, hoping to disguise my scent from both man and beast. I continued hiking along and my spirits picked up while the sun warmed me. I occasionally caught myself whistling Yankee Doodle or some other tune until I realized that I might be giving myself away. So I stopped, although it was difficult for me to restrain my naturally cheerful personality.

I tripped along all that day, thinking warm thoughts of Tom, Martha and especially Mary. It was so good of them to take me in like that. It warmed my heart just to know that people like that existed and were interested in helping me. And I was making good time. Before the sun set completely, I spotted a low area off to the left of the trail. Being careful to refresh the wild onion scent on my moccasins from plants growing there to cover my scent, I pushed through the tag alder, the moose maple and brush in a zigzag fashion so as to leave no straight line trail. I made sure that I left no footprints through the brush as I pushed through.

About a quarter mile back from the road I came upon the expected pond, in this case a beaver pond with the stick-built lodge sitting right smack dab in the middle of the pond. I worked my way around to the far side of the pond to be distant enough from the road so any noise I made camping there could not be heard and anyone coming from the direction of the road would be clearly visible to me from across the pond.

I chose an elevated area behind a towering white pine for my camp site. Looking around I scraped through the pine needled surface so no loose or dry vegetation would start burning there. Below the surface I saw evidence of a camp fire from many years ago, probably by Indians hunting in this area. In the same spot where the ashes were, I started a small fire from dead branches I found either still attached to a tree or lying about. Then I ate some moose pemmican with hot tea made over the fire. The moose pemmican tasted a little sweet as compared with the usual method of making it from bison but there weren’t any bison in Pennsylvania where I was coming from. I was glad to have food to eat on this trip. It was a clear night so I was able to watch the stars as they appeared one at a time. I knew the polar star, which gave me the true north direction, as well as the constellation Orion, plus the evening star Venus and the Milky Way. It would be nice to know more about the heavens, I thought, as I fell asleep in my blankets.

I woke up suddenly to a thrashing about, jumped up and grabbed my musket, which I kept next to me, loaded and ready for action. I swung it around ready to fire at anything. False alarm! It was only a fat rabbit with his leg trapped in my snare desperately trying to get out. Killing the rabbit with a fast and merciful blow to its head and then skinning it took me but minutes while the fire I had rekindled took hold. Roast rabbit for breakfast and wild plants I picked nearby for hot tea. Not a bad start to the day, I thought. Then the sun climbed to a point where my little camp and I were warmed by the bright rays of a clear October morning.

Packing up my small kit and caboodle I retraced my steps to the wagon road and turned north with the sun on the right side of my face and a spring to my step. I had to restrain myself from whistling again, although once in a while when I could see both far to the rear and to the front on a straight stretch of road I allowed myself to whistle.

I was on such a long straight stretch whistling Dixie when I heard a sound, a sound that did not come naturally from the forest that I was finely attuned to, but a different sound. I looked back and saw a dog and then the head of a horse coming around a bend far behind the dog. I ducked into the forest just as a mounted rider came into view, traveling fast, and with another dog following along. I pushed through some dogwood, went around a huge granite boulder and a gray outcrop set back from the road. There I had a partial view of the road from between the pines and aspens. A chestnut horse came trotting into view and there sitting high in the saddle was Sheriff Jack Scott with a long barreled revolver holstered to his buckskin trousers. He had a sagging wide brimmed hat that had seen better days and a store-bought shirt. There was a bedroll tied on behind him together with his rain slicker. He also had his usual unpleasant expression on a face that had never learned to smile. I felt certain that it was me that this nasty sheriff was looking for and I had no intention of being captured.

The dogs started barking and running back and forth, alerting on my scent but also a little confused by the wild onion scent. I checked my musket and felt for my large bone-handled knife which was hanging from my belt to make sure they were ready. My powder was dry and I waited quietly knowing that if I made the slightest sound the dogs would pick it up. To my relief, one of the hounds started down the road, heading north again and the other started to follow, but just as it passed my trail into the woods, it stopped and headed toward my position. My heart stopped. The hound followed right up to where I was waiting and then leaped over a branch toward me with his jaws wide open, baring his long sharp teeth. I leaned back and fired the old musket totally by reflex. Blam! The musket roared and a cloud of black smoke poured forth. Scott yelled for his hounds, but only one returned to him on his big chestnut gelding, the other lay dying in a pool of blood under me as I jumped up and away from the bloody hound. Scott drew one of his big revolvers and urged his now startled horse up the slope and through the brush toward me. I started to reload the old musket and just had it primed and ready to fire when Scott came up to me where we could clearly see each other.

Okay there young fella, put down that old musket or I’ll drop you right there in your tracks and let old Yellar have you for dinner, growled Scott.

The other hound, the one with a yellowish coat, had by now come around and was to my right while Scott and the chestnut were right in front of me. I lifted the musket and aimed it straight at Scott as steady as a rock and said:

Keep on riding and leave me alone or I’ll shoot you and I mean right now. I tried to sound like I wasn’t scared even though I was.

Meanwhile Old Yellar was sneaking around behind me as though he was being directed by Jack Scott through some mental telepathy. Now Old Yellar started some deep, heavy growling with his teeth bared and inching up on me.

Scott yelled: Give it up boy. I’m just going to bring you back home to your folks, if you drop the gun and go quietly I’ll overlook the fact that you done killed my best hound dog.

Just then Old Yellar leaped at me. I jumped. My old flintlock went off with the usual cloud of black smoke. Jack Scott hollered in pain and jumped off his horse. I fell to the ground with Old Yellar on top of me with his jaw and big teeth locked on my left fore arm. Then the two of us rolled over onto the rocks and grass with both of us tumbling downhill as I struggled to pull my knife. I finally got the knife out of its leather sheath, and with all the strength that I could muster I buried the blade into Old Yellar’s side as deep as the hilt on the huge knife would allow. After a while he let go of my arm and yelped about with the hilt made of antler bone sticking out of his side like a handle. Just then Jack Scott strode over and swung his big revolver at my head knocking me flat onto the ground. When I came to, for I must have been knocked out although I don’t remember being out, it was quiet except for old Yellar’s moaning, the big chestnut munching on some grass and a gray jay giving out a loud warning call to any birds or animals within hearing.

I came to with a terrible headache. I couldn’t move my hands or arms. After a few minutes I discovered that my hands were tied behind my back. Once I was able to painfully open my eyes I saw Jack Scott standing a few feet away tying a fresh rag onto his bleeding left arm.

It’s just lucky for you that you only nicked my arm or I’d kill you right now and save myself the trouble of hauling you all the way back to your old man. But I don’t think he’s going to be happy with you either so that’s something for me to look forward to-when he gives you the thrashing of your life!

I lay there face up with my arms tied behind me. They hurt from the weight of my body on them. Taking a deep breath and trying to relax, I looked up at the blue sky and the green tree tops waving in the light breeze. A small dot sailed into my view from the north as it soared toward a large pine with big bare limbs hanging out. I recognized the white head and tail of a mature bald eagle. It lit on the bare topmost branch of the pine, settled its footing there, then swiveled its head around and appeared to look in my direction. The natives considered this to be a strong omen of good fortune and at that moment I felt a powerful connection to the earth, sky, water and all of nature. As uncomfortable as I was lying there trussed up and in the grip of Sheriff Scott, I immediately felt mentally at ease and at one with nature and within the power of whoever created this universe. I knew right then that I had done the right thing in leaving home even though I was captured. As confusing as things seemed to be, I trusted that I would be all right and that the world was unfolding as it must. I watched the eagle roost on the dead limb of the huge pine and survey its surroundings. About then the chestnut horse lifted its head and moved toward toward Scott and the eagle soared off with a high pitched scream. My heart soared as I watched it fly off. Then I rolled over and tried to work some circulation into my arms and hands even though they were behind my back.

Scott, seeing me move, turned and said, Go ahead and get up cause we’ve got a long ways to go yet today.

I struggled to my feet and Scott took another piece of rope out of his saddlebag and tied it around my waist and then to his saddle horn, telling me that I would have to keep up if I didn’t want to be dragged all the way back home. Then Scott pulled the knife out of his hound and cut its throat to put it out of its misery, then wiped the blood off the blade and pointed it at me.

I ought to kill you for what you done to my best hounds.

With a flourish, he put the knife in his saddlebag, got on the chestnut and headed through the trees and brush back to the road, traveling south. I stumbled along behind him trying to keep some slack in the rope and working my hands and arms to try to loosen the knots or stretch the rope to get free. I was silently determined to get free somehow, knowing that that was the right and only thing for me to do.

I didn’t say a word. I knew it wouldn’t do any good and I needed to save my breath, stay on my feet and to try and figure a way out. Right now there was nothing to do but keep up with the horse and not get dragged down onto the ground what with all of the rocks, twigs, mud and bruises that that would entail. I gritted my teeth and my determination to escape increased with every step that I forced myself to take. As I struggled to keep up the sweat began to run down my face and back. Then it started to drip down onto my dusty clothes and run down my arms and then it began to wet the rope holding my hands tightly bound together.

My pain and the hours ground slowly on as I stumbled and ran trying to keep from falling face down onto the gravel, until finally Scott pulled over onto a grassy meadow alongside the rough road. There were two huge white pines standing in the middle of this meadow with some distance between them. Under them the tall grass lay flattened on the ground by some weary traveler who had stopped here in the past to rest. Nobody was there now, there was only the sound of a welcome breeze through the whispering pines.

Scott let his horse pasture on the long grass while he leaned back resting against one of the pines while holding a long lead rope with his left hand. I quickly flopped down under the other pine next to a branch that had fallen down in a storm, carefully keeping the branch behind me. The sweat running down my arms had wetted the sisal rope on my hands giving me hope that the sisal would stretch enough so I could slip my hands free. I worked on freeing my hands while trying not to give any appearance of moving my body to Scott. He sat quietly chewing some tobacco while holding the end of the horse’s lead rope. The horse grazed ravenously on the sweet green grass. I thought he probably had ridden the horse hard and without much concern about the horses feed. Slowly, ever so slowly, I loosened the sisal rope holding my hands behind me. Finally one hand came free of the sisal but I did not move or let on that my hands were no longer tied but tried to look tightly tied up and uncomfortable.

I waited for an opportunity to make my play. Finally the big chestnut horse who was hungrily munching grass decided to move to a fresh patch of longer grass lying further away from Scott. When he went for it, he swung his big head toward the grass resulting in a sharp pull on the lead rope that Scott was holding. Scott was jerked to his left pulling him off balance so that he first leaned to the left and then fell to his right side. He started to push himself up, desperately trying to get to his feet as he heard me moving much too quickly for someone who had his hands tied behind him. Scott slipped on the damp grass slowing him down considerably. Without hesitation I took my chance and with one giant effort I leaped up and in two steps was on Scott using the branch as a club. With all the strength left in my exhausted body, I swung the branch down on the side of Scott’s head. I heard the sickening sound of the blow and the next thing I knew Scott was lying flat on the ground with a little trickle of blood oozing from his left ear and dripping onto the dusty ground. I grabbed the big revolver from Scott’s holster, checked him for other weapons, then took the lead rope and led the big chestnut a little distance away and looked into the horse’s saddlebags. I found enough food for a few days together with my my old musket and knapsack.

I returned to check on Scott’s condition. I hadn’t wanted to kill him only to injure him enough to set myself free. Scott was starting to groan and writhe around in pain. I decided to wait before leaving to see if he was going to live or not. His groaning slowed in frequency. The blood coming from Scott’s ear finally stopped and Scott lay more quietly, breathing regularly. Finally I saw his eyes open. I figured he was going to live so I took a blanket, a jacket and a little food and put it next to Scott, being careful not to get too close. I left Scott his jacket and hat but took the revolver and musket and all the rest of his supplies and got on the big chestnut and started back north toward Lake Erie and Presque Isle once more.

As I started out, Scott yelled, I’m going to come after you and get you if it’s the last thing I ever do. Then I’m going to whip you to within an inch of your life and then I’m going to lock you up in my jail until your old man comes and gets you. Don’t think that you’ll be getting away just because you’re a little bit ahead of me on the road. I’ll be coming after you and then you’ll be sorry.

I saved my breath, not wanting to waste it on Scott, or give him any additional excuse to track me down. I kept going on his big chestnut horse. I really didn’t know where except to Presque Isle or what I would find when I got there, but whatever it was, it would be better than going back home. The big chestnut wasn’t accustomed to having a young lad telling him what to do and wanted to turn around and head south toward his barn, but I knew how to handle a reluctant horse and was able to keep him turned north without having to strike him or kick him. I simply urged him on with gentle but firm cues that all horses instinctively understand. Soon the chestnut was moving along at a good flat walk and occasionally a jog trot, which was all he could handle after working all day with the heavy Scott and the saddlebags. I kept an eye on the horse to see if he showed any signs of overheating or exhaustion but he looked okay. I let him set the pace for the most part and we moved along to the north.

When we came to a grassy area that showed promise of pasture, I stopped to let us both rest for a while, heal up any bruises and let the chestnut graze after all he had been through. Most people don’t realize it, but horses are sensitive animals and the stress of firing guns and the confrontation between myself and the sheriff had taken a toll on the big gelding, which of course, he couldn’t communicate except by body language that the sheriff did not notice. While grazing, the horse came up to me and muzzled me on my shirt, making it even dirtier than it already was, but I didn’t mind. The thought came to me that Scott probably didn’t communicate with the horse well or even treat him very well. But he definitely liked me.

After a while it was time to keep on moving and so we did. Again I let the gelding pick out the easiest and softest footing on the rough and rocky road north. Thus we continued on until nightfall without seeing anyone or anything except one lone bald eagle sitting silently far up in the top of a Norway pine tree slowly turning its head from its flexible neck as it kept an eye on us. Towards evening I spotted a low rise some distance to my right with plenty of tall trees on it so I turned in there and made a quiet camp a ways off the road on a piney knoll.

That night I hardly slept at all because the events of the last few days crowded out anything else from my mind. I vividly dreamed about my leaving home two days before like it was happening all over again. The memory was so real that I must tell you about it and that would mean starting this story from the very beginning.

CHAPTER TWO

Leaving Home

It was pitch black. I lay silently in bed, not moving a muscle. I strained to listen for any sound whatsoever. I could have heard a mouse creeping along the log wall that rose to the rough roof boards over my head, but there was no mouse, no sound, nothing. Good. Nobody is awake. Earlier I had heard the sound of a wood fire crackling. Now it was totally silent. There must be just smoldering coals left in the in the cobblestone fireplace downstairs, coals that were slowly and silently turning black like dying mushrooms as the life ebbed out of them.

I lay there in my rough night shirt realizing that I was afraid. Of what I did not know. The unknown maybe. After all I had never left home before. Not like this. Leaving home and not coming back. That was my plan. Not coming back. Yes, maybe I was more than a little afraid.

I knew that I could not stay there anymore, but I could not leave either, at least that’s what Elmer said. But to hell with him. In the predawn darkness of my final day in this log cabin I slipped quietly out from the itchy straw mattress.

I was young, only seventeen, healthy and strong from working long hours outside in every kind of weather. Every day and all day. I had had no schooling except the little my mother had taught me. Just some reading, a little history, some arithmetic.

I knew from overhearing my mother talk to a friend who had stopped by one day, that I was shy by nature, or perhaps it was from being shouted down by Elmer every time I said something. Dark hair hung down straight to my shoulders. Hazel eyes framed my aquiline nose and wide mouth and a few freckles were sprinkled around my face and about my long thin but muscular body.

Quietly I slipped on the homespun shirt and buckskin trousers my mother had made for me. Then I heard a sound and my heart skipped a beat as I stood stock still next to my bed waiting to hear if anyone was awake. When no more sound was heard I realized it was only Elmer snoring in the bedroom on the floor below. I’m gonna have to be very quiet if I’m gonna slip out of this house undetected and be long gone before Elmer was up and about or else I’ll be in deep trouble. I put on my long buckskin moccasins that reached almost to my knees. Then picked up my knapsack and went over its contents one more time: flint and steel for making a fire, a spare shirt, and some dried venison saved for this occasion. Then I went quietly down the ladder from the attic bedroom without making a sound and without any light. I found my way down by crawling along the notched log that was secured to the red pine log walls with wood tree nails. I knew each log and board in that house because I had helped to build it just a few years before, so I was able to feel the way down the notched log without making a sound—or so I thought. The man whom I had thought was my father was fitfully snoring. Good. Elmer was still sleeping.

Down on the main floor, I felt around in the dark for the flintlock musket that was kept next to the door. It was old. It wasn’t purchased new to start with and now it was pretty beat-up. There was also a new one, a breech-loading rifled musket that some of the local hunters had begun to refer to as rifles, but the old man never let that one out of his sight and kept it next to him in the bedroom when he slept. This old muzzle-loading flintlock smooth bore was at least twenty years old and like most smoothbores tended not to be very accurate. It had to be loaded from the muzzle end and the lead bullet rammed down and secured with a cotton patch which was time-consuming, but I needed it to bring down game for food, clothing, and maybe even to earn some money. Perhaps, most of all, I needed it for protection from both the white man and the red man as well.

Although this musket was old, I was used to it, knew every worn part of it and just how to aim it a little bit to the right of the target to be right on. I picked up the old musket and took it with me. It felt like an old friend. Besides it