Читать книгу A Dark and Promised Land - Nathaniel Poole - Страница 8

“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.

The Ayisiniwok women are very loyal to their White husbands, but such sentiment is often not returned, and it is common that a trader or employee will return to Scotland or Orkney after their mandatory seven-year residence at the Bay, leaving behind their local wives and children to fend for themselves.

As she listens, Rose finds herself warming to Isqe-sis, and the dignity with which her people endure that which none but the most depraved Orkneyman would countenance; of family, loves, and lives lost by those who traded with the English on the Bay. It had never before occurred to her that the depravity of the poor could be a moral reflection of the powerful.

As Isqe-sis speaks, it becomes Rose’s turn to reach out and run a hand along Isqe-sis’s honey-coloured arm. Pale skin, wrapped skin, skin hidden from the rare sun was the norm among Rose’s people, and the only colour she ever saw among her countrymen was in the faces of the fishermen and the shepherds — people whose skin turned red and purple with the gnawing of the seasons.

Now it is Isqe-sis’s turn to blush at the caress; she pulls her arm into her capote and looks down. Her infant mews, and she lifts it to her swollen breast. The crucifix swings free.

Seeing it, Rose asks about her faith, Isqe-sis revealing a deep passion for Christ, and how she hungers to be confessed. Journeys to the isolated Jesuit mission on the Nelson River are sporadic at best, and she suffers greatly during the long intervals in between.

There is a kind of animism to Isqe-sis’ faith, a way of looking at Christ that differs from other Christians — Protestants or Catholics. She sees the holy within not just the Body of Christ, but within all creation. The trees, the soil, even for the lowliest of crawling things she feels a religious respect. Rose wonders how her confessors could approve.

When she takes her leave and sees the body in the muddy path, the warmth she shared with Isqe-sis fades. The killing had been too brutal, too sadistic. The dead boy reminds her that even if some of them are ostensibly Christian, she must maintain her guard against the sanguinary aspect of the breed.

“These people cannot stay, Mr. Turr. We have neither the provisions nor the accommodations to provide for them.”

Although his words are flat, inside the factor is fuming. Selkirk should have known they would not be able to supply his peasants before he arranged to bring them here, he thinks. The man seems to believe that Company resources are his to use as he sees fit. A pox on him.

“I am deeply sorry for their misfortune,” he says without the least hint of concern in his voice. “But they must depart as quickly as possible.”

They are standing beside the signal cannon at the entrance to the factory. The wind is blowing hard from the northwest and Turr’s thin hair flows from his scalp like red smoke. Several ravens are squabbling over the ox carcass behind them.

“They have had a very difficult time,” Turr says. “Many have lost family. “They will have an even harder go of it to arrive at Red River before winter.”

“It is over late to debate the wisdom and ethics of Lord Selkirk’s designs,” the factor replies. “My order is as firm as my conviction: they must leave tomorrow.”

Below them, an Indian pushes off in a canoe. Two men stand on shore playing out a net, which the man ties to several tall poles sunk into the river bottom. The canoe bounces and pitches in a steep chop set up by the wind running against the flood. While struggling with the last of the poles, the canoe suddenly rolls and throws the man into the river. The Indians on shore laugh.

“Have you decided who will guide them?” Turr asks.

“I spoke with Alexander McClure this morning. He is willing to take them on to Red River.”

“The Half-caste?”

“He owes the Company a great deal,” says the factor, his frown deepening. “Unpaid credit from last year’s season; he brought in few furs and of low quality. I did not give him a choice.”

“I see. Well, I will speak to the colonists and let them know.”

The man in the river grabs the gunwale of his canoe and kicks toward shore. He stands up, shaking off the water while his companions mock him. With a rueful grin, he sits down as a small liquor keg is brought out and passed along.

“Another thing, Mr. Turr: I want you to go with them.”

“Eh?”

The factor shoves his hands into his pockets and stares off into the distance. “I am afraid so. I must have a Company man at the settlement to find out what in blazes Macdonell is doing. The rumours are disturbing, and London wants more than just rumours.”

The blade of dried grass he had been chewing blows from Turr’s lips. Laughter carries from below. “Perhaps you would consider someone else? Someone younger? I had hoped …”

The factor shakes his head. “I need someone I can trust, a man who can give an accurate report. Besides, there is no one else I can spare.” He pats the cannon beside him. “God’s blood, I would love to fire this. It does a man good to make a great noise and smoke every now and then, eh, Mr. Turr?”

Cecil Turr nods, not trusting his voice. His hands shake. Without taking his leave, he turns away and shuffles back towards the fort.

Rude bastard, thinks the factor, his heat increasing again. He takes several deep breaths then dismisses Turr from his mind. His musings on the joy of cannon fire had reminded him that the supply ships had not yet arrived from their searching for the lost frigate. He swears volubly at the cannon, a stream of blistering invective. Only a factor for a year, and now this. He is sure he will be blamed.

The flood of furs to the Bay has slowed to a trickle despite recent company expansion inland. The widely scattered forts they built at great risk and expense had come to naught; the Nor’westers were always there first, having bullied or bribed the Indians into long-term allegiances. In their arrogance, they even established a post on the Hayes, a mere three-day journey upriver. The Company is on the verge of becoming irrelevant in its own territory, and even if policy is decided in varnished, smoke-filled luxury thousands of miles away, it is the poor bastard on the frontier who will be blamed. God rot it, it is just not fair.

Many more Indians have gathered to join the party on the river, and a fuke is let off. The factor jumps. Damn it to God-rotting hell, he thinks. That fucking sod Spencer has traded too much liquor to the Home Guard. He turns and stomps into the fort. Several colonists are milling about behind the palisade, staring and pointing at the unique things that catch their eye. The chief trader sees the approach of the factor and turns toward him, smiling.

“You can smile all you like, Mr. Spencer, but I find little to be amused about. Your carelessness has roused the Home Guard, and I want those gates locked, now!”

Rose sits on her hard bunk, listening to the yowling and gunfire not one hundred feet away. She had been rereading a dog-eared copy of Richard Allestree’s The Whole Duty of Man, Laid Down in a Plain and Familiar Way for the Use of All, that the Factor had given her. The commotion had started late that afternoon and carried on well past sunset. After the murder of the Indian boy, she had tried to comfort herself with the book, but the frightening whoops and singing kept cutting through her focus. She has never heard such chilling sounds before, and feels afraid and unsafe, emotions becoming all too familiar. They had been given one tallow candle, and its pale light only seems to deepen the shadows.

When the factor offered a private dwelling, she had been delighted that they would have their own space, a wall to put between themselves and the rest of humanity. But with the horrid sounds carrying from the other side of the palisade she finds herself yearning to be again surrounded by her countrymen.

Lachlan sits on a polished section of a log, staring in fascination at the mosquitoes circling him, tiny wings shimmering in the wan candlelight. At the sound of another gunshot, he gets up and peers out the rickety door. A great fire is burning outside the fort, with sparks soaring heavenward to blend with the sharp, cold stars. Through narrow gaps between the palisade poles, he sees shadows of dancing figures cutting across the fire. The air throbs with dark and compelling drumming.

“I dinna much like our position,” he remarks. “We are between our friends and whatever that is. Good for our friends perhaps, but nae good for us.”

Rose turns to her father. She knows that such lapses into his native accent are a sure sign of stress.

“Perhaps we should return to the Great House — what do they call it, the Octagon? The Indian word for it is Kitzi-waskahikan.”

Lachlan turns to her and smiles. “Ah, lass, you do my heart glad. You have been in the country naught but two days, and already you are learning the Savage’s language. Where did you come by the word?”

“I do not recall, father,” she says quickly, recalling her illicit liaison with Isqe-sis. “I imagine I must have overheard it.”

“Well, I approve,” says Lachlan, nodding. “Judging by that bestial noise out there, these people can only be helped by what we can teach them, and in order to teach we must learn their language and their ways.”

Rose gets up and takes her father by the hand. Though her face is shadowed and invisible, he looks up at her smile.

“You regret coming here?” she asks.

“No, but I am uncertain. The little I have seen so far falls fair short of what I had imagined. But listen! That racket is moving closer. Let us flee to the Octagon, or whatever you call it. What do the Irish say? Better a good run than a poor stand?”

They abandon the cabin for the brightness and safety of the Great House and its peeling walls. Disturbed by the carryings-on outside the fort, most inhabitants have abandoned their beds and several traders carry loaded muskets.

They enter the main hall where they encounter the chief trader, who is bullied by Rose’s father into giving them a tour. They move from one cold room to another, the way announced by a feeble lantern. Rose’s skirts stir a dirt floor thick with rat droppings, bones, and other filth as they pass through the chapel, mess, trading hall, and even a magazine, wherein Lachlan thinks it foolish to locate such capricious stores inside the place where so many people lived: one lucky shot from a devil Frenchman would send the whole place to heaven. They finish the tour in the warehouse.

“These are last winter’s furs, ready for shipment to England,” Spencer says, approaching the massive, iron-clad doors. The lock clacks loudly as he turns the key, the lantern guttering as the great doors are swung open, like the breaching of a tomb. It casts a moving, fitful light onto stacked bales of compressed and dried beaver pelts. The space is close and musty, filled with the stench of hundreds of untanned skins.

“This is a much smaller load than most years,” Spencer says, moving closer to Rose. “It’s been getting that way for some time. Just a few years ago, this room would not have space for a bleeding mouse; she were jammed so tight with beaver.”

“Is it all just one kind of animal?” Lachlan asks, uncomfortable with the clerk’s obvious interest in his daughter. “Do you only trade in beaver?”

“Nay,” Spencer replies, not taking his eyes off Rose. “There is also marten and mink and bear. Caribou, moose, and buffalo. Anything ye can slit a hide off is in there. Hell, the Savages would skin mosquitoes if we paid ’em for it. But ’tis mostly the bloody beaver.”

Lachlan reaches out and fondles the edge of a pelt; it is both crisp and luxuriantly soft at the same time. “Your profanity is unwelcome in the presence of my daughter, Mr. Spencer. However, I find it amazing that the European passion for hats has been responsible for the civilizing of an entire continent.”

“I don’t know about that, sir, begging your Lordship’s pardon,” Spencer says with a grin, showing a black mouth largely devoid of teeth. “Civilized, you say, but just outside these walls heathen are murdering heathen tonight. Not much in the way of civilization in these parts.”

Lachlan looks at him. “I take your point, but that is why we are here. We will take civilization to the Savages.”

Spencer shakes his head, his greasy hair swinging. “Begging your pardon, but you can’t civilize ’em any more than you can civilize a hog. They’re animals, sure enough. A whip and a brace of pistols and a good, strong wall between you and them is all that’s needed to deal with the Savage.”

Spencer hides his contempt for the Orkneyman behind his smile. You don’t know, he thinks. You’re like every other Scottish and English fop that comes here thinking you know the place after a few days, believing you can change things for the good of King, country, and God. Just you wait, Mr. Schoolmaster. Wait ’til you see some of the things I’ve seen in the years I’ve been here. Their whelps cut down with axes, the tortures, the killings. Disease burning through the camps, leaving bloated bodies for the ravens to pick at. Starvation waiting in the next valley empty of deer. You think you know, but your safe home is thousands of leagues away, and when you head off up the river, then you will know the meaning of savagery.

Yes, you will find out, you and your beautiful daughter. More’s the pity. Now there’s a girl of the likes I ain’t set eyes on in many a year. I wonder what she’d feel like under me …

“Spencer!”

“Aye, what?”

A man hurries into the room, out of breath. “Meeting in the square, pronto — oh, begging your pardon, sor, didn’t see thee standing there. Evening, ma’am.” He touches his forelock with his finger. “Everyone is expected in the square. The factor wants to give a little speech.”

Lachlan inserts himself between his daughter and Spencer, leading her out of the room.

When the Indians started their fire, Declan McCormack stood a little way off, watching. The gates had been locked when he returned to the fort, but although unarmed, he felt unafraid of the carryings-on. The occasion seemed to be the recent arrival of the two missing ships of their Orkney convoy — no speeches, no solemnity, just boisterous drinking and singing and drumming. He had seen wilder carousing in his time, but without the guns. Now he stands in the shadows and relaxes against a tree, feeling an admiration for the Indians, the vigour with which they dance and the exultation of their unashamed bodies. Several men and women sit staring into the fire, their faces shining in the heat, chanting in a high chorus. The wind blows off the river and stirs the flames; sparks swirl about the dancers to be lifted and swept away.

The chanting affects him viscerally, and for a moment he is disturbed by the feelings that bubble up inside him, dark and sexual and as if from a great depth. He turns away from the fire and pisses against a tree; suddenly, laughing Indians surround him. Clapping him hard on the shoulders, they haul him toward the fire. As he enters the ring of yellow light there is a great whoop as several young men jump up and charge. The drums fall silent.

He fells the first one with a solid punch to the jaw, but then they are all over him, like a tide rolling over a sandbar. They pin him to the muskeg as someone yanks off his breeches and jacket. He shouts at them to leave him be, but those wiry arms are far too strong and he cannot move. Soon he is stretched out naked, flushing with shame.

A short and very thin Indian wearing only a hide breechclout walks out of the shadows. His entire body is painted in red ochre, and his face is skull-white. Raven feathers sway from his topknot. His face and ears and arms are adorned in silver jewellery that flashes as he dances; in that light, he looks to Declan like a God. With a great smile, the Indian pulls out a knife half as long as a sword as he kneels over the Highlander. It flashes in the firelight. Declan turns his face away, closing his eyes.

Laughter and the drumming starts again; the hands release him. He leaps up and runs from the fire; in the darkness he cannot see the pine and collides with it, knocking himself unconscious.