A Dark and Promised Land (21 page)

After a quick debate, it is decided that the Company representative and leader of the brigade shall leave them and meet the chief; the rest are commanded to wait in the boats.

As Alexander steps ashore, Turr grabs his arm.

“You are going unarmed?” he whispers, not taking his eyes off the Indians waiting for them.

Alexander shrugs. “One shot is hardly much use. Besides which, I know of no reason to be concerned … leastwise not yet,” he adds in an undertone.

“I suppose not, but damn it, man, this is extraordinary. Walking into a camp of these devils with naught but superior wits and a king's reputation behind us.”

“I'm not so sure about superior wit, Mr. Turr; if we were so clever we should not be in this scrape, nor do I think the name of a distant monarch will hold much currency here, but we shall see, by and by.”

“What about the brigade?”

“I beg you make your thoughts clearer, we have no time.”

“Forgive me, but perhaps we will prepare them for an untoward outcome of this parley? Perchance we encounter mischief, they should be armed and prepared to fight.”

“I suppose so, but I am doubtful in my mind,” Alexander replies. “I fear an ill-considered reaction on the part of a man left behind; one witless fool with a tender trigger finger and we shall all have our throats cut.”

“But we cannot leave these women undefended, possibly to await death, or worse.”

Alexander's frown deepens. He steps closer to the nearest boat, lowering his voice. “Mr. Ramsay, get those muskets loaded and armed. Pass one to every man who can hold one without shooting himself. Load, prime but do not cock! If I see but one taut hammer when I return I shall personally shove the gun down that man's throat. Be quick but discreet.”

“Wise, sir. Very wise.”

“Foolish, bloody foolish, Mr. Ramsay, but there is nothing for it. Are you content, Mr. Turr?”

“As much as possible, given the circumstances.”

“Then let us go. Lead on,” he says, waving his hand to the four Indians who are waiting on the beach, watching them.

They follow their hosts into camp. The smell of wood smoke is heavy in the air and they walk past a rack of willow branches upon which long strips of moose meat are drying.

“Someone, at least, has had luck on the hunt,” Turr observes.

The Indians lead them to a tipi, and one of them lifts the hide covering the entrance. He points inside with his musket.

“My word, I don't like this …”

“Steady, Mr. Turr. I do not know what is in train here, but pray for smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“Tobacco. If they intend mischief there will be no pipe offered.” The Indian gestures again with his gun while the others move closer, surrounding them. Looking hard at the man holding up the hide, Alexander ducks his head and steps inside, Turr close on his heels.

Several Indians sit in a semicircle about a central fire, wrapped in capotes and buffalo skins. Smoke drifts upwards toward the smoke hole, glowing in the sunlight that shines through the yellow hide. It is hard to see clearly in the thick haze, though the murmurings that they had heard outside stop as they too sit cross-legged in front of the fire.

“Welcome,” says an Indian in the Stony language, of which Alexander is no expert. Squinting, he cannot make out the face opposite him because of the smoke. After a moment, he nods in reply.

“You must be hungry. Please eat with us.” Chunks of moose meat impaled on twigs are pulled from the coals and handed to the two men. So that was what he had been smelling without knowing it. His stomach contracts; the aroma is delicious.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Alexander replies cautiously, taking the proffered food. The Indians sitting next to him do not look up from the fire.

“You have journeyed a long way?” says the voice.

“Yes, from York Fort on the Bay.”

“A fair distance. You are trading?”

“Yes.”

“That is good. Trade is good. But why do you bring women? Are you trading women now?”

Alexander hesitates. “They are the wives of some of our men.”

Soft laughter carries from beyond the fire. “That is very unusual is it not, for a White man to bring his wife with him? I have never seen this before. The Indian takes his wife with him, but the White traders leave her behind, is this not so?” Alexander bites into the food without answering the question. There is a long silence, and he can feel Turr's agitation beside him.

“You have many guns my warriors say,” the voice begins again. “Guns and much gear.”

“We have what we need.”

“All men have needs. But it seems to us that Whites need much more than Indians.”

“A man must decide what he needs and does not need.”

“Truly, and so you will decide thus.”

“What are they saying, Mr. McClure?” Turr interrupts.

“Who is this rude idiot?” says the voice. “Tell him to shut up.”

“Do not speak!” Alexander says to Turr. Perspiration slicks his forehead. He knows that a parley is occurring, couched in nuance, and he struggles to understand the meaning behind the chief's speech.

“A raven spoke to me in a dream.”

“Raven is wise.”

“But foolish.”

“But his foolishness always has a purpose, whether we understand it or not.”

“This is so. In my dream, raven carried a brigade to me, on his back, telling me the
Manitou
has given it to me for my glory and greatness. But he said to be careful and use the gift wisely, for it is dangerous.”

“His words are indeed mysterious.”

“Not so mysterious. The brigade promised me has arrived.”

“I beg your pardon, but we are not the brigade promised. We are men travelling through this land seeking naught but trade and beaver furs. Do you have furs to trade?”

The laughter again. “Indeed, we will trade with you. We will trade you half of your gear and supplies for your lives. Raven warned me I must be cautious, and so I will wisely only take half, leaving the rest to whatever fate the
Manitou
has in mind for you. Now this is very fair, for I could easily take everything you have, including your scalps.”

“Truly, but then the king will be very angry with you, and his soldiers in the red coats that you so fear would seek for you, and you would be destroyed.”

The voice changes, becoming harsher. “I am Ikmukdeza, and I do not fear the red-coated king's men. If they come into my territory, it is they who will be destroyed, and I will have their scalps on the prow of my canoe!”

“I have not heard that your people are so warlike.”

“I am Ikmukdeza! I do as I wish and take what I will. My people follow me because they know of my strength and courage. All will soon know of me.”

“I must consult with my comrade, so that we may consider your generous offer.”

“As you wish,” a dim hand waves at him.

Alexander turns to Turr. ‘We have arrived at the pinch of the game. I have had dealings with the
Asinepoet
, and they are a good people who would not countenance such treatment of guests and strangers. I believe this chief is no more than a common highwayman. He is ransoming us for one half of everything we have — the trade liquor, supplies for the settlements, guns, powder, and shot.”

“One half? But that's impossible. The guns!”

“There is nothing we can do. With the settlers in the brigade we cannot afford a confrontation, although myself I would dearly love to get my hands on this arrogant bastard's neck.”

“So what must we do?”

“Agree to their terms. Hand over half of everything, and then get the hell out of here.”

Turr closes his eyes. “When London gets word of this, I shall be roasted alive. I shall be ruined.”

“It shall be hard all around. Those supplies are needed for the settlement.” He takes a deep breath and turns back to the smoky fire. “I have spoken with my friend and we agree to your terms.” Several of the Indians nod and smile.

“Very wise. Then let us pass the pipe of peace.” With that, a long-stemmed pipe wrapped in strips of hide and decorated with dangling feathers is lit and handed to him. For the first time since he had come ashore, Alexander relaxes, and he draws deeply on the pipe.

They pass it around several times, and then Alexander stands up. “I must prepare the brigade to distribute our gifts to you. But I have not seen you clearly, and I would like to truly meet the great Ikmukdeza
,
so that I will know him the next time that our paths cross.”

There is no reply, just the snapping of the fire and swirl of smoke. All eyes turn towards him. After a long silence, the chief gets to his feet. He is a man of about twenty-five, of no great height, with broad shoulders. Smallpox scars corrugate his face, and the remnant of his left ear is no more than a tiny flag. Elaborately carved trade silver pierces his nose and ears. A breastplate of mussel shells with red and blue quillwork decorate his chest, and a lithograph of King George hangs from his neck on a beaded chain. Feathers are tied to his black hair, which drapes untied down his back. His eyes are challenging and there is a hard edge to his mouth.

“Truly, I will remember you,” Alexander says, with just the slightest menace in his voice. Ikmukdeza smiles slightly and bows. Alexander pushes aside the door hide and steps out, Turr almost crawling between his legs in his haste to follow.

“Get that last boat unloaded, Mr. Irving, if you please.” Several bales had already been moved to shore when the young steersman, hurrying to obey, trips over a poorly stowed mast and falls in the water. He thrashes about, choking.

“Mr. Ramsay, could you please lend a hand to our young Mr. Irving? I do not wish to pen a letter to his widow telling her that he drowned in four feet of water and not but two paces from shore.”

“Aye, sir,” Ramsay replies with a grin, walking into the river and lifting the young man by his collar. “There ye go, lad, just stand up. That's right.” Irving's feet find the river bottom, and he stands up, water streaming from him as he coughs and hacks. Ramsay slaps him hard on the back and the off-balance Irving trips again, his arms cartwheeling and knocking the man sitting in the boat beside him. The man's musket fires, and, in response, a fusillade erupts from shore, answered by several following shots from the boats.

“Hold!” Alexander shouts. The gun smoke drifts away, revealing two Indians lying on the strand, one holding his stomach and feebly attempting to crawl away. Several others stare at him, frozen in the act of reloading. In the river behind him, Irving's body, pierced by many balls, begins to float away.

No one moves. Those in the boats and standing in the river stare down their barrels at the Indians, while those on shore respond in kind. The brigade is vastly outnumbered, but far better armed than most of the Indians with their miserably inaccurate trade muskets. But if it came to it, the final outcome would undoubtedly be a bloodbath. The Indian crawling up the strand stops with a shudder and a few feeble kicks of his legs.

Alexander knows that they stand on the edge of a blade, and that someone will very soon do something stupid, yearning for something, anything to break the awful tension. He slowly lowers his carbine into the bow of a boat. He raises both his empty hands palms out toward shore. “Mr. Ramsey, get the men into the boats, quickly but slowly, he says,” speaking over his shoulder in low tones. “Tell them to lower their weapons.”

“But sir!”

“Do as I say!”

“And what about poor Mr. Irving, dead in the river, filled with the Savage's shot?”

“Put him into the boat and make haste.”

Alexander has not taken his eyes off the warrior closest to him, willing him not to shoot; the Indian is very young — hardly more than a boy — and sweat runs down his brown cheek. The muzzle of his fuke wavers with his trembling, and fear calls from his eyes.