A Dark and Promised Land (5 page)

They paddle up to the bear, and the Indian pulls out a knife as long as his forearm from under his jacket. His grinning teeth white in his scarlet face, he leans over the gunwale and saws at the quivering white neck while the water blossoms red.

The sudden violence shocks Rose. She turns toward her father. Lachlan offers her a damp handkerchief.

“You have blood on your cheek,” he says. The Indians tie the floating carcass to the canoe and return to their former course.

After a couple of hours of a rhythm under which it is difficult for the passengers to keep awake, they pass a long, flat point and the Europeans are surprised to find themselves in the mouth of a large river. As they nose into the current, they see that countless scores of waterfowl inhabit these marshes: the air is shrill with the whistling of duck wings, and massive flocks of geese rise at their approach and settle in the scrub behind them. Small shorebirds wheel and circle along the shore like a moving shadow.

The bank deepens until they come upon a peeled-log wharf and a long gangway on piles leading from the high shore; the upper edge of a palisade and a tall flagstaff is just visible. The Indians turn toward shore, their keel sliding into the muddy bank.

Rose steps out of the canoe and into the cold, peaty water of the river. She sinks into the mud, feeling it squelch beneath her hide-wrapped feet. Her ankles protest the cramped seating and once on firm shore she bends down and rubs them. Her leather leggings are dark with the river.

Above them, a gull sails on the breeze, dipping and rising, but making no headway. The Highlander hurtles a rock and the gull drifts away, disappearing toward the distant, opposing bank.

Their Indians pull the bear to shore. They squat in the mud beside it, the animal's yellow-white hide now fouled by the slime of the riverbank. They mutter something in their tongue, as if praying; one of them brings out tobacco and offers it to the animal.

“What is this?” Rose asks, pointing.

The officer from the frigate barely glances at the Indians. He is tall and thin, with sparse red hair and a large nose covered with spidery veins. He stands with his hands thrust in his pockets, eyeing the distant palisade with a gloomy look. When he speaks, his Adam's apple seems to struggle for release.

“It is some manner of heathen ritual,” he says. “When a Savage kills an animal, he must ask it for forgiveness, or some such rot. Pay them no mind.”

“I assume we are at York Fort, Mr. …?” Lachlan trails off.

“Turr. Yes, it is York Fort, and the factor shall be in a hellfire rage at the manner of our arrival. We must get on.”

They leave the Indians to their prayers and begin the ascent up the bank. After so many hours cramped aboard the canoe, it proves hard going for all of them but the Highlander, who scrabbles up like a rat on a mooring line. He reaches the top long before the rest and peers down at them with a grin.

“I think there be three lasses following hard on me, nae one lass and two men.”

“I say!” Turr replies as he scrambles over the bank, his face red. “You affront me undeservedly, sir. This is a wretched climb.”

“Nae affront intended, Mr. Turr.”

They follow the path from the gangway to the gates of the fort. After so many weeks at sea, the exercise is hard going for Rose and she breathes heavily, covering her mouth with her hand. They pass a pair of ancient and rusting field pieces overlooking the river. Turr pats one as he passes.

“These would have been fired in honor of our arrival if fate had been kinder to us,” he says with a sigh.

A line of clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, hurry from the west as they approach the fort. They quicken their steps. Heaps of garbage are scattered about the stockade and a skinned ox carcass has been dumped just outside the fort gate. Felled by some strange disease, not even the Home Guard has touched it. The smell of carrion and smoke fills the air. A pair of ravens flap away croaking as they approach.

Several tipis squat outside the palisade. Rose points them out to Turr. “The Home Guard,” he says with hardly a glance.

“I have heard the term before. What does it mean?”

“It refers to a blackguardly band of thieves and miscreants who, when not thieving, murdering one another or lost in drink, provide the fort with meat, especially in the hungry winter months. I say, it is beginning to rain. We must hurry.”

A high stockade of sharpened spruce sunk into the boggy ground surrounds the fort. The main building — known colloquially as “the octagon” — can only be entered through an archway that faces the main gate of the stockade. They approach on a path of rough boards, a bridge over the soft muskeg. A torpid stream runs beneath them, and bugs glide on its slow surface, their long legs dimpling the water. In some places the boards sink into the peat and brown water gurgles up around their feet. As they near the gate, an emaciated cur bolts at them. Turr gives it a resounding kick and it turns away with a yelp.

The Company coat of arms has been painted on the archway of the octagon:
Pro Pelle Cutem
. Lachlan frowns. “‘Skin for skin.' Is it not the words of Satan himself, questioning our Lord? ‘Skin for skin; yea, all that a man hath, will he give for his life.'”

“I doubt that is the correct interpretation. You are very well acquainted with the Bible, sir. A chaplain, perhaps?”

“No more than all good Christians should be, Mr. Turr.”

They follow Turr inside and Rose and Lachlan are surprised that “The Grand Central Station of the North” is such a shoddy affair: frost has shattered much the stone and brick foundation and the siding is falling off. The archway is warped and twisted, and many of the timbers are cracked. The smell of sewage and rotten garbage is thick inside the walls.

“Like a bit of old Glasgow,” the Highlander says, beaming and clapping his hands to his breast. The sound of an organ carries through a wall.

“They will all be in church, I'll wager,” Turr says.

Lachlan looks at him with surprise. “You mean it is Sunday?”

“So it would seem. Well, no point in disturbing them. We can find ourselves something to eat. I doubt I have eaten in days.”

They find a long, dark mess, with many tables, a stone hearth, and a massive, black iron stove. Turr lights an oil lamp with a coal from the hearth. He disappears for a few minutes and returns with a cut of fresh moose meat wrapped in a cloth. After banking the fire, he rolls pieces of the meat in flour and fries it in a black skillet.

After they have eaten, they lean back in their chairs, listening to the foraging of mice in the ceiling, and feeling more satisfied than they have in a long time. The Highlander leaves them on a quest for drink.

“We best inform someone about those poor folk back on the beach,” Lachlan says.

“It can wait,” Turr replies. “This is the first I have felt at peace for many days and I intend to enjoy it a little longer. There is time and plenty to send a boat for the others.” He settles deeper into his chair and closes his eyes.

Lachlan is about to reply when the cook hurries into the mess and stops, staring at them in amazement.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Turr mutters to himself.

“Damn it, Mr. Turr, this is the worst possible news; it is quite beyond the pale.”

“Indeed, Governor.”

Robert Semple gets up and begins pacing in his cramped quarters. “There is nothing remaining of the
Intrepid
?”

“There was aught left but jetsam scattered on the beach. And many dead.”

“Cigar?”

“Why, yes, sir. My word, where did you come by them?”

“I brought a box with me, in my personal baggage. Contraband or not, a gentleman must have a smoke with his port, and none of your damned trade twist.” Both of them know that because of the ever-present danger of fire, smoking in quarters is absolutely forbidden in the fort.

Taking a deep drag of the cigar, Turr looks around. The room has barely enough space for a bed, a washstand, and a desk overflowing with Company Papers and correspondence. Daylight is visible through cracks in the siding where the chinking had fallen away. A black stovepipe passing through the room from below provides the only source of heat in fifty-below weather. He thinks it an exceedingly mean apartment for a man of the stature of a governor of the Hudson's Bay Company's territories in North America, even in the savage wilds of Rupert's Land.

“How many dead?”

“I would expect about half, including most of the crew, oddly enough. I tried to save as many as possible, but in those terrible circumstances there was only so much I could do.”

“I'm sure you did all that is expected of a gentleman and more, my good sir, and I shall mention it in my reports. But a nasty business it is. God damn my eyes, how could this happen? Captain Bowers knew the Bay as well as any man.”

“I'm really not sure,” Turr replies, staring at his hands resting in his lap. Although he is no seaman, he suspects the captain's outrageous drinking played a hand in it. But he is superstitiously reluctant to sully the reputation of a dead man.

Semple looks hard at him. “Tell me what you think, man. Come, come, I must have something to tell Lord Selkirk.”

Reluctantly, Turr describes all he can recall: there was a great deal of ice, much more than normal for that time of year. The farther they sailed, the more limited became their options, and eventually they were separated from the
Resolute
and the
Prince of Wales.
Their rudder was taken by a great berg when they turned their stern toward it to flee. After that, it was only a matter of time before the storm grounded the frigate.

“I doubt it will suffice, Mr. Turr,” Semple says, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “There will be an accounting.”

Turr sighs, the governor's meaning clear enough: blood will be demanded for the loss of the
Intrepid
, and they have one chance to assign blame as far from themselves as possible.

“I supped with the captain that evening and he seemed melancholy to me. Drank three bottles of claret himself with the meal. Perhaps two … of course, that was some time before the encounter with the berg …”

Semple takes a deep drag of his cigar and exhales a cloud of smoke. It curls about the room, tendrils pulled through gaps in the walls. “It would be shocking if drink was a factor,” he says, unable to suppress the relief in his voice.

“Very shocking indeed, sir.”

“Though I am aware of the irony, I believe I should have another drink. More port? Or brandy?”

“Brandy, if you please.”

“Capital stuff. It was delivered by long-boat from the
Resolute
— she arrived yesterday, in case you have not heard. As soon as possible, I turned them about, so they and the
Prince of Wales
are wasting valuable time in a fool's errand scouring the coast for you. Joy on your recovery by the way, and may you live long enough to profit by it.”

The governor pours the brandy from a cut-glass decanter into two delicate glasses. Turr stares at the burgundy liquid, the sharp smell mixing languidly with the cigar smoke. He tries, and fails, to keep his hand from shaking as he reaches for the glass.

“The factor will be apoplectic when he learns of the
Intrepid
's fate.”

“I have not yet seen him.”

“He is on a hunt, I believe. The man wastes far too much time in ridiculous pursuits,” Semple pauses, looking into his drink. “You realize the gravity of the situation?”

Turr nods, understanding quite well. After the previous year's debacles, Lord Selkirk is counting on these colonists. His grand plan of building a new settlement in Rupert's Land greatly irritated many powerful men, and the expected assistance from the Company had not materialized. Squabbling and sabotage had been the order of the day, and from their own people! Their enemies would have a great laugh if they knew.

“A dead Highlander is of little use to anyone,” Turr acknowledges, “Although the difference may not be as great as one would expect.”

Semple does not smile. “Due to Selkirk's madman Macdonell, the Company's situation here has become quite untenable. His pemmican proclamation has roused half the country between here and Pembina against us.”

“Pemmican proclamation?”

“Macdonell's ill-conceived device to raise food for the colony. They cannot seem to provide for themselves, no matter how much help and advice are provided. So Macdonell passed a law demanding a tithe of pemmican from anyone passing through the settlement. Naturally, this was deemed intolerable.”

Turr cocks at eyebrow at him, tapping his ash on the floor “Nor'westers?” he asks.

“Of course. And now under the tutelage, threats, and subterfuges of those Canadian devils, the Half-breeds are threatening war, and many of the Indians are unwilling to trade with Selkirk's colony or the Company. With the
Intrepid
lost, thousand of pounds of goods are at the bottom of the Bay, not to mention the strong Highland backs imported at great cost.”

Turr watches the governor as he gets up and begins to pace in his little room, startling a rat that scurries along a wall. Semple is a small man with a round, boyish face and large, doll-like eyes, and there is an air of brutish arrogance about him, a spoiled and effeminate demeanour that hints at too many nights in gin-soaked drawing rooms and riding high-bred horses across groomed landscapes. No doubt the man is vicious with a rapier and duelling-pistol, but what good that will do him in Rupert's Land, Turr cannot imagine. A damned American as well, and the ink hardly dry on the treaty of Ghent. After the disaster of Macdonell, this is the best that Selkirk can do? It bespoke of nothing but difficult times for the Company on the Bay.

“We will have to let London know,” Turr says.

“Indeed. I will request the factor send a man with a packet informing Lord Selkirk in Montreal, but it will be many months before he receives it.”

“Assuming no Nor'wester interference, of course.”

“Surely they would not dare intercept our correspondences?”

“They would indeed, if they can. They are a thieving, lawless band of cutthroats hardly better than the Savages among whom they drink and fornicate …” There is a sudden commotion below them: shouts and laughter.

“That will be the factor; I must speak with him. No, stay and finish your drink, Mr. Turr; your turn with Himself will arrive soon enough. Enjoy the peace while you may!”

After the governor departs, Turr remains, savouring his brandy, which he refills from the nearby decanter. Soon the oil lamp gutters and goes out; he does not bother getting up to relight it. His cigar ash glows as a perfunctory mote in the darkness.

Would they dare?
he thinks.
How naive; of course they would. As we would in our turn. It is war, after all. Nations or Companies, it makes little difference; the terms are the same with no quarter asked or given. It is a struggle where everything — for us and them — is at stake.

You and I have not been in Rupert's Land very long, governor, but everything I have heard in London indicates a grave situation; after one hundred and fifty years on the Bay, the company is on its knees. The land is a powder keg and Selkirk's goddamned colonists are likely to prove the stray spark that blows us all to hell.

The next morning three York boats leave with the tide to pick up the surviving colonists. Rose, standing on the high bank of the river, watches them depart. Her father has left to speak with the factor and she knows that if he discovers her missing from their cabin unaccompanied by an escort, he will likely beat her. But the smell of the tiny, rancid space reminds her too much of the oppressive journey aboard the
Intrepid
, and she longs for cleaner air.

The wind freshens, bringing with it the promise of more rain, but at least it keeps the insects at bay. Her muddy skirts twist about her and she pulls a paisley shawl over her hair. There are few women's clothes at the fort, but the factor had given her what little he could find. Years out of fashion and a trifle too large, but at least they are not a Savage's rags.

At that thought, she sees the Indian's tipis outside the fort. Smoke from muskeg fires peel away from the tops of several of the nearest. Curious, she makes her way toward them, intending to walk past in a manner that would evidence no interest, and yet allow her to see more closely.

As she approaches, shouting breaks from the willows and a boy rushes toward her, pursued by several others. Blood runs into his face. A large rock strikes the back of his head and he tumbles onto the path. The rock-thrower saunters up and picks the bloody stone off the trail. While his fellows laugh and hoot, he brings it down on his enemy's skull again and again, driving the bloody head into the mud.

She yells at them to stop. They ignore her, kicking at the body until the boy who threw the stone begins sawing at the scalp with a long knife. Rose turns and vomits. There is a stirring in the tipi beside her and a man emerges; she recognizes him as the Indian in the canoe who had shot the white bear.

“What you do?” he grumbles, seeing the mess she has made on his home. He stands next to her, and she backs away.

“Please, they have killed someone, you must get help.”

The Indian walks over and gives the body a kick. “He is Stone Indian,” he says, as if that answer were sufficient.

“But there has been a murder. We must do something.”

“He is enemy. Nothing to do. Scalp maybe. You want?” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and grins at her, the youths watching them.

Isqe-sis emerges from the tipi and begins haranguing the man. He tries to argue, but her volume increases until several faces are staring at them from surrounding tipis. Shrugging, he turns and walks away.

“You feel not okay?” Isqe-sis hesitates a moment, thinking. “Rose?” Rose shakes her head, snuffling and holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Isqe-sis guides her into the tent.

“Come sit. You eat?” Isqe-sis indicates a buffalo robe and gives her a bladder of water.

Rose shakes her head. “How did you get here? You were back at the camp …”

“Come last night. With my brother.”

“I see.” She takes a heaving breath, blows her nose into a handkerchief. “They killed him. I saw it; he was just a child. You people truly are … are Savages!”

Isqe-sis looks at her. “Stone Indian are our enemy,” she says. “They kill many of us. This one maybe watch us for their warriors, in secret. A danger to us. Perhaps there will be an attack.” She pushes a steaming cupful into Rose's hands. As before, she hesitates over the white skin, moving her fingertips over fingers and hand and up the smooth white slope of arm. She sighs and turns away.

Rose shivers at the touch. “But you are supposed to be Christian. How can you kill if this be so?”

Isqe-sis does not suppress her laugh. “Are the English not Christian?” she asks. “Do the English not kill?”

“In my country, the penalty for killing is death.”

Isqe-sis laughs again. “Not here. Christian kill. This camp almost empty, White disease kill many this year. Bad axes, bad guns kill some. Many more musket kill
Ayisiniwok
, my people. Death is in the land here. For Christian English, for Christian French, for
Ayisiniwok
, for Stone Indians. Even for girl with hair like falling leaves.”

At that, Isqe-sis begins telling Rose about life in Rupert's Land. It is an illuminating experience, and she soon forgets about the body that lies outside, already stiffening and gnawed by dogs. Isqe-sis tells her of growing up in the shadow of the fort; the manner in which the Europeans misuse them, often trading inferior goods for the most prized beaver pelts. Loving between White men and Indian women is very common, and that most of the children that wander about the fort are of mixed blood.
À la façon du pays
, they call it. This had been recently decreed illegal by the Company, as all of these children were morally if not absolutely legally the responsibility of the Company, one it felt loath to carry. Yet such relationships had a long tradition on the Bay and continued unabated, if more discreetly.