Margaret Elphinstone

Voyageurs

Voyageurs is one of three of Margaret Elphinstone's novels which feature islands, reflecting her fascination with the subject. In Waylaid by Islands, published in the November 2007 edition of The Bottle Imp she recounts her enthusiasm for islands real and imagined.

Book Details

Voyageurs by Margaret Elphinstone is Published by Canongate, August 2003.
2nd ed. 2004 - ISBN 1 84195 429 2

US and other foreign editions

Published in the USA, August 2004, by Canongate US (a joint publishing venture between Grove and Canongate Books UK).

Voyageurs has been selected for Barnes & Noble's Fall 2004 "Discover" series.

Published in Canada (Toronto: McArthur and Co. 2003, 2nd ed. 2004.)

Translated into German as Stromäufwarts by Marion Balkenhol
(Germany: Ullstein List Verlag 2004)

Synopsis

Voyageurs is set in North America during the 1812 War between the United States and Canada. (See map below.)

Reviews

Extracts from reviews of Voyageurs

Christian Science Monitor (USA) 17/8/2004 Ron Charles

What's particularly wonderful about Voyageurs is the chance to linger in the company of someone struggling with his faith, his responsibilities to others and to God ....a long book is always a risky trek into uncharted territory but this is a guide worth following.

Kirkus Reviews (New York) 1/6/2004

The illusion of a past time is beautifully sustained by Elphinstone's detailed recreations of indigenous (mostly native American and Canadian) period detail and by her narrator's reserved and wondering voice...

The Friend (Independent Quaker journal - London) 12/4/2004

...an extraordinary story told at various levels. History, travel, adventure, love story flow together in a seemingly effortless and natural manner so that all the research and meticulous attention to detail are woven into an authentic whole without being obtrusive.

The Globe and Mail (Toronto), 22/11/2003. Marianne Ackerman

Elphinstone has embraced our history and landscape with gusto, but allows neither to overshadow the human story... Perhaps the novel's greatest achievement is its depiction of a young man's interior voyage away from the stark hues of dogma into the moral ambiguities he encounters at every bend in the river.

The Times (London), 16/8/2003. Ross Leckie

What stands out is Elphinstone's sense of time and place... There are also marvellous passages describing the Canadian wilderness, and the narrative engages our empathy with the indigenous Indians.

But, more to the point, does Mark find his long-lost sister? That would be telling.

Sunday Herald (Glasgow), 3/8/2003. George Rosie

Elphinstone has done her research. Her history is bang up to date... Mark Greenhow is an unlikely - but deserving - hero. There is a quiet, dogged courage about him that is very satisfying. I have to say it's a long time since I've read a novel with more pleasure and interest. Voyageurs is a strong story, very well told; a tale set against the background of an almost-forgotten war when British troops (under a Scots commander) tramped into Washington and burned down the White House... Voyageurs is the kind of fiction we'll be reading long after the pretentious dross that makes the Booker prize list has been forgotten.

The Scotsman (Edinburgh), 9/8/2003. Tom Adair

This terrific read is almost 500 pages long ...[It] is a fine free-standing tale of brotherly love... The tone of the preface ...stands in stark contrast to the sinous, slip streamed prose that describes the action, that carries the tale and illuminates its dark interior world, a gripping story of human courage, cultural ignorance, and deep religious faith in a time of turbulence, set in British colonial Canada at the start of the 1800s.

The Independent (London), 3/10/2003. Boyd Tonkin

Elphinstone brings the landscapes and peoples of 1800s Canada back to thrilling life in her pacy, colourful and intelligent epic: the finest trip along these rivers since Brian Moore's Black Robe.

The Sun Times (Owen Sound), 18/9/2003. Andrew Armitage

Elphinstone has created in Voyageurs the epic novel that Canada's fur trade has always deserved.... A graceful writer, Elphinstone creates a host of vivid characters including some real life participants in the fur trade.... Suspenseful and hugely enjoyable, Voyageurs is a great Great Lakes read.

Extract

How any man could steer a course, with the light so uncertain and the waters so unruly, was beyond me, but our brigade hung together, and pressed onward. At least, we must have been moving at some speed, at the rate we were paddling, but I saw no landmark by which to measure. At first the wind seemed to be on our right, and the spray came flying into our side of the canoe. Presently it seemed to shift, or maybe we did. At one time the swell got so heavy I was alarmed. We rose so high at each crest that I felt we were tipping backwards, then we seemed to hang poised before we hurtled downwards – that was when I was really feart: it felt as if we’d never rise again, and the next wave would surely swamp us. But after a while that eased off, and when I could look up again I saw that the moon had swung right round so it was no longer on my right but almost dead ahead. We were paddling a path of light directly towards it. The wind dropped and the sky turned pale. I could see a humped silhouette on the horizon, which I guessed was land.

It was quiet enough now to hear a man speak. My brother-in-law’s voice came softly from the bows. “Brother Mark?”

“Ay.”

“Welcome to the United States of America!” I could hear the laugh in his voice. I could read him, as clear as an open book in the bright noonday. This wild adventure – whatever it was we were at – this was the breath of life to him. He was happy, as I was when I stood upon the summit of Helvellyn in deep snow, and saw all the winter fells spread like an ermine cloak around me.

I didn’t see the island until we were close up to it. It was long and low, that was all I could tell. We landed among little splashy waves on a sandy beach, and the four canots du maître drew in silently beside us. As we jumped into the shallow water and began unloading, a single ray from a dark lantern shone out from one of the canoes.

“Douse that light!” called Alan sharply.

The cargo was all ashore and the canoes beached in no time. The voyageurs took up their burdens, and vanished into the darkness above the beach.

“Are you there, brother Mark?”

“Ay.”

“Come on, then!”

I stumbled after him along a forest path. We didn’t go far from the lake; I could still hear the waves on the shore. There was a smell of damp earth and pine. An oblong of light appeared ahead, and when we came close I saw I was looking into an open doorway. Inside, the building was long and low, rounded at the ends, built of birchbark on a frame of sapling trunks lashed together. There were ashes in the cold hearth, but no other sign of habitation. Instead the place was being used as a storehouse. Canvas-covered bales were being stacked high, kegs neatly piled, cases and barrels carefully stowed. A couple of lanterns cast huge crossed shadows.

“Where are we?”

“This is the island of Bois Blanc. We won’t be long here. Then I’ll take you visiting.”

Once everything was put away Alan led me away along another track. It was getting light. We startled a little herd of white-tailed deer, who bounded away into the forest. Birds were starting to sing in the trees about us; some of their calls had grown familiar to me, but I knew few by name. A dozen questions burned on my tongue, but I uttered none of them. No doubt Alan would speak when he chose. When we came back to the shore the rising sun was glinting on the lake, but we were in shadow, facing north-west. We ducked back under the trees, and came on a clearing sheltered from the shore by barely twenty yards of forest. I saw a hayfield ripe – more than ripe – for harvesting. Beyond it was a log cabin with many additions built on, and a fenced garden behind. A coil of smoke rose from the chimney. Some mongrel hens and a pig foraged in the mud between the cabin and the shore. On the beach below a canoe lay half in, half out of the water. It looked very like the one that had brought us from the Sault. There was another island across a narrow strait, similar to the one we were on, low-lying and thickly wooded. The place seemed a little haven of habitation in the midst of the waters and the wilderness.

“This is the house of Martin Kerners.”

I followed Alan to the door without replying. He lifted the latch and walked in, and held the door for me to follow.

The cabin was warm and crowded. Three walls were hung with tools and baskets. The usual meats and fishes and herbs hung from the rafters. There were low boxes covered with furs and trade blankets to sit on, and opposite the hearth there was a deal table with benches on each side. Loic was there at the table, and the four voyageurs who’d paddled our canoe from the Sault, all discussing a hearty meal of the inevitable whitefish. Two young Indian women squatted at the hearth, busy cooking bannocks on a griddle.

Loic stood up. “Bienvenue! Biindigen! Welcome to my house, M’sieu. Please, will you sit down? Alan, you also. You must be hungry.” He turned to the young women. “Pakané, biidaw gondag niniwag waa-kizhebaa’miijiwaad!”

The voyageurs moved up to make room for us at the table. One of the young women set out bowls of steaming fish in front of us – “It is whitefish,” said Loic. “C’est bon. You will drink? Water? Is that all? Waase’aaban, nibi biidaw!”

The younger girl brought a pitcher of water. She said not a word, but I could not help noting her. For all her dark skin, she seemed to me the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She couldn’t have been above fifteen. She was very slight, her movements quiet and graceful. Like her sister, she wore a trade shirt tied at the waist with a voyageur sash. Her short woollen skirt and coloured leggings were entirely savage, however, and much embroidered with braiding and coloured ribbons, which matched the ribbon in her braided hair. She was all hung about with bead necklaces and earrings. I felt my senses reel – that is the plain truth; I never knew what the expression signified until that moment.


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