A Dark and Promised Land (20 page)

The wind that had blown from the north for the last several days turns about and carries from the opposite riverbank, bringing with it the tattered remnants of a summer that still lingers in more southerly parts of the continent. The low clouds that had seemed to drift about their very ears lift and dissipate, leaving behind a sky as blue and luminous as the inside of a sunlit robin's egg.

Rose is surprised to see the sun so strong and high; the weather had been so cold she had forgotten that the season was not far advanced, and the harvest moon had not yet waxed to its full. The warm air seems to blow new life into her, and she breathes deeply of it.

The weather seems to have a similar effect on her colleagues: the squabbling and division that had bedeviled the brigade is replaced by crude humour and the occasional hummed song. But, despite the lifting of the mood, her mind stubbornly drifts back to Lachlan, and the two women, and the husband left sitting forlornly by the water. She knows she will never take a river for granted again.

For those that had been left in the river's embrace to wait until the coming of Jesus with his fiery sword, she had great pity and sorrow. Especially her father — that was a wound so large and bright she forbids herself to approach it, entombing it until the day she feels safe enough to surrender to that unquenchable misery.

Turning toward the water, she leans over the gunwale, peering into the river. Her own eyes look back at her, dimmed by grief and loss. A goose feather rotates across her reflection, blown by the warm breeze; the water split by its small wake comes together after its passing and the eyes return with the same pain, the same confusion. She looks up, resting her head on her crossed arms.

Far overhead, a raven passes over them, watching the tiny almond-shaped vessels crawling up the silver band winding its crooked way across the dark forest. The raven cocks its wings and drifts in lazy, slowly descending circles, curious about the light flashing from the swinging oars. The river enters another, much broader river, and the boats move straight out from the smaller river's mouth, a wide
V
spreading behind them. A flurry of activity on board and twin poles are raised; they hoist sails and ship sweeps, and surge along in the freshening breeze. The surface of the water is corrugated by wind and sun, and the sound of singing voices rises from it like smoke.

There were twa bonnie maidens, and three bonnie maidens,

Cam ower the Minch, and cam ower the main,

Wi the wind for their way and the corrie for their hame,

And they're dearly welcome to Skye again.

Come alang, come alang, wi your boatie and your song,

To my Hey! bonnie maidens, my twa bonnie maids!

The nicht, it is dark, and the redcoat is gane,

And you're dearly welcome to Skye again.

There is Flora, my honey, sae neat and sae bonnie,

And ane that is tall, and handsome withall.

Put the ane for my Queen and the ither for my King

And they're dearly welcome to Skye again.

There's a wind on the tree, and a ship on the sea,

To my Hey! bonnie maidens, my twa bonnie maids!

By the sea mullet's nest I will watch o'er the main,

And you're dearly welcome to Skye again.

Alexander leans on his scull with a grin, listening to the singing of the Highlanders. The men are pouring their hearts into it, though one can imagine by the restlessness of their hands that they miss a tankard to go with their song.

The blue water of the Nelson River is stirred into a fine chop, and the heavy boats seem to scud effortlessly along the surface, driven by the press of canvas. It is rare when they can make use of the sails, and the men sprawl in the bottom of the boats in grateful contentment.

Rose sits in her usual spot against the starboard gunwale, staring out across the water. A few hairs have escaped from beneath her shawl, the fine red strands twisting in the wind, reflecting the afternoon sun. As Alexander watches, he feels an impulse to reach for those lovely hairs, to have their softness in his hand. Her cheek glows with light from the glittering water, and he craves to again run his fingers over that warm, yielding flesh. Terrified that he will do something foolish, he folds his arms over his chest, the scull jammed in an armpit.

He turns to check on the following boat. They are falling behind, her young and inexperienced steersman unsure of how the rig works, the sails twisting and spilling air.
They will catch up eventually
, he thinks. He suppresses an impulse to slow down, remembering that it is the responsibility of those behind to keep his pace, not the other way around. Turning back, he notices the empty places in the boat, and they sadden him, but his grief is tempered by the long roll of loss that he carries in his memory; death is but a freak snowstorm or a damaged canoe or a charging buffalo away, and the living can ill afford more than a passing nod for those taken. Life takes one's full concentration, and time is not to be squandered by worrying about what might have been. It is all in God's hands, anyway.

To the south of them is Jack River House, the last Company post before the Red River settlement, and he fancies he spies a thin line of smoke rising from a distant point. The sight gladdens him, for tonight they will eat fresh meat and have their fill of drink, and the colonists will at last have walls between them and the forest. It matters little to
him
: as something that had spent too long in a cage, he could not long stay inside. He would get edgy and seek a door, or the light of a window. He was never far from one. When staying at York Fort, he preferred to sleep in the courtyard, or alongside the great river. Even when summer thunderstorms marched up the valley, washing over him with light and noise and rain, he would lie back in the warm moss, the water flowing over his face and into his beard. The Indians peering out from their tipis would sometimes see him, lit by lightning, and mutter to themselves, cursing him for a devil.

“Mr. McClure, what is that I see there?” asks Turr, interrupting his reverie. “It appears to be smoke.”

“I am uncertain. I had first thought that it was Jack River House, but we are still too far north. We shall proceed carefully, but I suspect it is a camp of trading Indians.”

“What is Jack River House?” someone asks.

“It is our last post before entering
Missinipi
, the Big Water. As you know, we follow the eastern shore of the lake until the mouth of the Red River. From there, it is but a day's easy journey to the settlement. Tonight you shall all eat your fill and sleep behind closed doors.” A cheer went up from the boat.

“Why, it sounds like we are almost there,” says one of the Orkneywoman with a wide smile.

Alexander shakes his head. “It is not called the Big Water for nothing. It is a great ocean in the heart of Rupert's Land and it will take many long days to reach the southern end, and that with favourable weather; there may be terrible storms waiting on
Missinipi
, and we cannot take anything for granted, most of all time.” The woman's smile vanishes and she lowers her eyes. Her shoulders slump as she recedes into herself.

“That does not sound very promising,” offers Rose in a quiet voice, looking at the filthy, haggard wretch with as much sympathy as she could find in a dry heart.

Alexander's nervous laughter dies on his lips when he realizes that she is serious: that their journey had taken much from them and the possibility of more danger and adventure might prove more than they could bear. As for Rose, she had been as stoic as any man, and Alexander has been unaware of the price she has paid for this. He had seen the limits of the father, why would he expect the daughter to be so different? He does not reply, cursing himself for his loose tongue. They sit in silence, having lost their good humour, and the sunlight no longer feels so warm.

The brigade creeps farther south, and, as they near a headland, Alexander realizes the smoke they had seen from the mouth of the Hayes is indeed not from Jack River House, but from an Indian encampment along the shore of the river. As they approach, they see many canoes pulled onto the beach, and Alexander orders the sail dropped and the sweeps put out. He steers them away, but it is too late. While they watch, three canoes put out with four Indians in each; two more appear from the opposite shore. They all have black scalps dangling from their prows.

The canoes are much faster than the York boats and Alexander orders the first three lines of rowers to ship their sweeps, the last line he leaves to give them steerageway.

One the Baymen reaches for a fuke.

“Leave it,” Alexander mutters alongside his hand. “Make no sudden actions, any of you, for your life's sake!”

The canoes quickly draw alongside them; the Indians all have the short-barrelled muskets they prefer, resting across their knees, and Alexander does not wonder if they are primed. Their faces are painted in ebony and white, and they have partridge fathers hanging from their long, black hair. Charms of bone and silver drape about their necks. Their eyes sweep the occupants of the boat. Seemingly recognizing him, one of them addresses Alexander in a unique tongue.

“Who are they?” Turr asks. “And what do they want?”

“They are stone Indians.
Asinepoets
. Their chief wishes to speak with us.”

“Tell them we have no time. Tell them to go away.”

Alexander stares at him. “To do so would be an intolerable insult, and an invite to battle. We have no choice but to accept the invitation.”

“The pox on them. I will be damned before I stick my neck into that trap!”

“We have no choice,” Alexander repeats.

“I do not agree. We outnumber them three to one.”

“And the women?”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. Blast and damned, this is not good … what the deuce is that fool doing?” he says as the other boat — the one having difficulties with their sail — shoots past.

“Hola!” Alexander shouts at their rapidly retreating stern. “Ship your sails. Come about!” The Indians had not yet engaged in chase, but he doubts they will remain still if the boat carries on much farther. It takes those aboard an uncomfortably long time to get things organized, and when they finally work their way back, they accidentally collide with Alexander's boat. There is a great deal of jostling and cursing, and Alexander cannot imagine what the Indians think, but is sure he sees laughter in their dark eyes.

After arranging themselves into a semblance of order, they follow the Indians to shore. A large crowd watches as they approach, wrapped in white capotes and hides and many carrying fukes. The forest stands behind them like a dark wall, and several women and children melt into the shadows of the trees. The sun is lowering over the western shore of the river and the light reaches between the dark spruce, illuminating the shaggy grey mosses hanging there, glowing motes of dust and insects woven into the interlaced space. Shadows move there, glimpses of people or ghosts slipping from bole to bole, only half realized.

“Why the unease?” whispers Rose. “Do the Savages truly pose a mortal threat?”

“Proportionately, no,” Turr replies under his breath. “Any number of misfortunes might befall a man in life, though a tommyhawk between the eyes or an arrow through the ribs is in fact most uncommon.”

“This is not what I would have expected. After all I have read and what I have since experienced, I am struck by the violent passions of the Aborigines.”

“They are rather too busy making war amongst themselves, my dear, to bother with us. Besides which, they have become rather dependent upon our trade.”

“Might I suppose by that you mean our liquor?” says Alexander.

“No, sir, you may not. And I must insist that while I despise that aspect of trade as much as yourself, it has long been out of the Company's hands. If one must seek fault for the deplorable liquor habit of the Savage, one must look south and east. Do you think a
Canadiene
worries about such things? The scoundrels will approach the Savage's tents while the beaver skins are still warm, and upon offering the Indians rum, acquire all available peltries on the spot. The Company resisted until the Indians would no longer trade unless liquor was part of the bargain.”

“Hardly a moral position, sir.”

“Perhaps not, but there is precious little morality in this land.”

“In my short time here, I have seen what drink does to them,” adds Rose. “And I am shocked that than any god-fearing soul would dare trade in the vile stuff. He will have much to answer for when he is called before God.”

“I agree, I agree, miss … but in answer to your question, in truth most Company men are lost by drowning and untreated hernias.”

“Indeed, sir? You amaze me.”

“Oh, yes, the men carry packs that weigh close on to two hundred pounds through the portages, and at a sprightly gait. If mishap should befall him, there is not a physician available for many hundreds of miles.”