was feeling – that this was the place she was meant to be. She felt ridiculous even thinking it.
When she glanced up at Mourning his smile had grown wider. Again she
wished she could touch him, just in a friendly manner. This was a moment she
wanted to share.
“Maybe you like it so much cause this gonna be our city,” he said. “We gonna
come here a lot.”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s not far from here to the farm.”
“See that marsh over there.” Mourning pointed to the shoreline. “That really a
river. River Rouge. We gonna be comin’ on Detroit now, lickety-split.”
They passed a grimy cluster of grist mills, saw mills, tanneries, and small
factories, but when Olivia looked past those, the city in the distance was
beautiful. A pair of spires towered through the tree tops and a tin cupola glinted
in the sun. When they drew near the railroad yard Olivia’s jaw dropped again.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she whispered. “Just look at it.”
Wharves well over 100 feet long jutted into the water and armies of
stevedores were unloading the cargo ships at the docks into an endless row of warehouses. Between the warehouses Olivia glimpsed several sets of tracks and
beyond them was a city of tall silos, mile-high stacks of crates, piles of lumber,
and vats of oil.
“I never imagined anything like this,” she said. “This is so … so much.”
She blinked as a lilting voice called out. “Bonjour! Bienvenue!” Olivia looked
down and saw an enormous canoe, crammed with ten or twelve pairs of
oarsmen. None of their colorful shirts matched, but their headwear was identical
– bright red caps with long pointed tops that folded over and ended in a tassel,
like a sleeping cap or the hat of an elf in a children’s book of fairy tales. Every
inch of space between them was piled high with huge bundles of furs.
“They must be some a them French voyageurs I heard about,” Mourning said.
“Take the trappers out and bring their furs back. This Michigan got rivers what
take you just about anywhere.”
As the canoe passed within a few yards of the ship, the man standing in the
bow grinned up at Olivia, tore his hat off, clutched it to his heart, and called out,
“Quelle jolie fille ... une vraie beaute. J’ai le coeur qui flanche ma belle.”
Olivia blushed, not knowing enough French to understand what he was
saying, but enough to think it was something sappy. As they whooshed past, the
man turned and sang, “Il y a lontemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai . . . ”
The other men in the canoe laughed and loudly joined in the song. A few
lowered their paddles and turned back toward the steamboat, smiling, waving,
and calling welcomes until they were out of sight.
“Guess you been right ’bout romantic,” Mourning teased. “That fella like you
pretty good.”
“My troubles are over. Love has found me.”
