Читать книгу A Dark and Promised Land - Nathaniel Poole - Страница 9

At daylight, a rumour begins through the factory: an Indian woman and her two children have been killed in the night, hacked down by their husband and father. The company surgeon leaves with his assistant to attend. None of the victims are brought into the fort.

“Thank dear God for the walls, or who knows what devilry might have passed here last night,” Lachlan says, standing in the yard with the rest of the colonists. It is still early, and the light is low, the expectant hour before dawn. The eastern sky glows red and violent, as if raging over the night’s killings. A few scrawny chickens wander the yard: vague, white ghosts in the shadows. A rooster crows. The breeze is cool and whispers of hard days ahead, although it is still high summer.

Turr, standing nearby, bristles at Lachlan’s comment. His cheeks are blotchy, and in the dim light his sunken eyes seemed like flyblown holes. His hair is a barely-discernible orange buzz about his head. He had passed the night in his room commiserating with a vast quantity of trade liquor, to no avail. His problem — being sent away — had not changed in the night, and it feels like little men are hammering on the inside of his skull, seeking a way out.

“God rot the walls,” he says, waving a hand at the timbers. “When the Home Guard decide to take York Fort, York Fort is taken, forthwith.”

Lachlan stiffens. “Indeed? Then why are the walls there, pray?”

Turr rubs his eyes. “Because better a fool’s illusion of security than fear’s demoralizing chill.”

At that moment, Alexander emerges from the octagon. His gait is an unusual hop-drag, the right limb obviously lame. He is dressed in a rough, buckskin jacket with long tassels and an elaborate blue and white beadwork of flowers embroidered on the chest, arms and back. He wears knee-high moccasins and has a pack slung over his shoulder. In his hand is a carbine and his face is dark. To those watching he looks like a Savage, and a few move away.

“Hard night, Mr. Turr?” he says with a smile, touching his cap as he passes.

“Aye, hard night, all right,” a trader says. “Just ask his doxie!” Several Baymen guffaw. Blushing, Rose straightens a crease in her skirt.

“Time to load the boats,” Alexander says quietly, looking down, as if informing the grass. “For anyone planning on voyaging to the Forks.”

“Who is that?” Lachlan asks. “And where is this ‘Forks’?”

“That is Alexander McClure, our Half-caste guide for the next two months,” says Turr with a scowl. “And you had best learn the land, Mr. Cromarty. The Forks refers to the meeting place of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. That is the location of Fort Douglas and the heart of Lord Selkirk’s settlement, to which we are all headed, God help us. But he’ll leave whether we are aboard or not, so I advise everyone to gather their things and follow as quickly as possible.”

The colonists hurry down to the river, carrying their meagre possessions. As they pass the gates, Rose edges closer to her father and looks for signs of the trouble from the night before. The ring of a burnt tipi still smolders and many Indians sleep on the ground, apparently where they have fallen. The sharp odour of vomit shadows the reek of the decomposing ox, and they — at least those who still have them — cover their noses with handkerchiefs and hurry past.

A pale form is lying on nearby muskeg and two men approach. A moccasined toe prods it and the figure stirs, groans, and rolls over onto his back. Everyone stops and stares. The man stares up at the brightening sky, as if something of profound import is written in the early red-tinged clouds.

“That’s Declan Cormack, by God.”

One of the Baymen gets down on a knee; propped by his musket, he says something to the Highlander. Declan seems to consider this for a moment.

Grinning, the men help him pull on his damp clothes and lift him to his feet where he stands gently swaying. His forehead is marked with a great plum of a welt, and his hair, wet with dew, hangs sodden and limp on his face. Bits of moss festoon his head and beard, and he looks as wild as a satyr. He hobbles over to the crowd, where many give him a dark and disapproving look. He walks a little apart as they continue towards the river.

The factor supplied enough provisions to last several weeks, after which they will have to rely on their guide and a hunting party of Home Guard who have been hired to provide for them as they journey south. The factor had coldly explained to a furious Governor Semple that York Fort simply did not possess the resources to provision so many people for such a long journey. The Indians will provide for them, just as they provide for the fort; the colonists would not be in any better or worse position than if they remained on the Bay. Semple does not see it that way, but he has no authority over the factor, and has little choice but to comply.

The Company supplies them with six York boats: flat-bottomed, lapstrake-hulled, double-enders that for more than 150 years had transported passengers and cargo to and from the fort. The boats are more than thirty-six feet long and equipped with many long sweeps and a sail. Alexander divides the colonists to allow four men in each boat, to assist four experienced rowers. There are not enough rowers at York Fort to man each boat with a full complement of seasoned crew; the colonists will have to pick it up as they go along.

The Indians follow in two canoes. Among them, Rose sees Isqe-sis sitting behind her husband, accompanied by two other women and a child. She waves, but Isqe-sis, according to her tradition, ignores her, paddling forward, her baby lashed tightly to her back.

Once the boats are loaded, Governor Semple comes down from the fort. He is dressed in a double-breasted black tailcoat with a knotted burgundy neckcloth and black top hat and white pantaloons tucked into Hessian boots. The Indians watching from the bank are deeply impressed and they point at him, speaking among themselves.

The great man sits in his place in the bow, and, one by one, the boats are pushed from shore. The sweeps dip and the rising sun illuminates the golden water running off the oars as they lift from the river. As the last boat leaves the riverbank, a deep boom echoes from the fort.

“At last, he gets to fire off his damned cannon,” Turr says.

As the current takes them, the oarsmen lean into their sweeps; the factory flagstaff soon disappears behind one of the many low islands in the river’s mouth. This close to the Bay, the Hayes is broad and slow, the far bank a line in the distance.

The sun shines on the brown water and tossed by a morning zephyr, myriad dazzling jewels appear to spangle its surface. Rose sits in the stern of her boat, just in front of their steersman and Half-caste guide, her father beside her. The women are scattered between their husbands, trying not to get in the way; each stroke of the long sweeps covers a six-foot arc and the rowers must stand to lift the oar and then use their weight to pull as they sit down. The heavy sweeps are thicker than a man’s thigh, and although at first the rowing is clumsy and inefficient, the oarsmen soon synchronize themselves, white foam appearing at their bows.

It is hard work for those accustomed to it, and torturous for those who are not. Loaded with crew, passengers, provisions, gear, and equipment destined for the colony, the York boats weigh several tons, and maintaining the speed demanded by their guide requires all of their efforts.

There are many channels and islands to navigate and Alexander keeps the boats in the back eddies whenever possible. He has been up the Hayes many times, and knows the secrets of the river. The tide can be felt many miles upstream, and he knows when to rest and when to row, when to pole and portage, and when to drag the boats with lines from the shore.

Now they must row long and hard to make up for time that will be lost in the portages. If the wind is fair and strong, they will raise their sail and give the oarsmen a rest, though opportunities will be infrequent.

Breakup is in late May and the ice returns early, so dawdling on the river is a luxury they can ill afford. There are miles of northern forest they need to pass through, lands devoid of both men and often the game required to sustain them; although many make the long voyage between York Fort and Red River or Pembina or even further places without mishap, it is neither easy nor taken lightly.

Alexander looks down at the bedraggled peasants they are ferrying to the Forks of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers and knows that by the time they reach the safety of Fort Douglas they will have known hunger, cold, torment by insects, and perhaps much worse.

But now, at the beginning of a new voyage, he feels cheered, as he usually does when setting out. Although recently arrived at York Factory himself, there is little to keep him there, and he is content to turn about and return to the land of his mother.

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out dudheen. Cupping his mouth with his free hand, he shouts to the canoes that have pulled far ahead of the York boats. The paddlers in the nearest ease their stroke, and the flotilla of Hudson’s Bay craft come upon it and slowly pass by.

As the canoe drifts alongside, McClure hands the pipe to the man in the stern. The Indian is wearing a bent top hat and a scarlet British army uniform, rent and smudged with dirt and smoke, though the bright brass buttons sparkle in the sunshine. A long Hudson’s Bay fuke protrudes from between his knees like a phallus.

The Indian drops his paddle and barks something to his wife. She quickly passes him the wanatoyak — the slow-burning birch burl stored in a bucket filled with sand. The man dips a twig into the bucket, and, bending forward, blows on it; with his lean hands wrapped around the precious embers, he looks as if praying. Smoke curls from the bucket, and a flame leaps from the dry twig. The Indian thrusts it into Alexander’s dudheen and inhales deeply, clouds of smoke billowing. Satisfied, he passes it to Alexander, who receives it with a nod. So inspired, the fellow pulls out his own pipe and lights it as well. He picks up his paddle, and the canoe again pulls forward of the flotilla, the scent of tobacco smoke in its wake.

Drawing deeply, Alexander leans back on his scull and half-closes his eyes.

Rose squirms on the hard thwart, wishing for a cushion. She casts about and her eyes fall again on Alexander. She had watched the interchange between him and the Indian, and as he smokes, she feels resentment at his obvious ease: the oarsmen labour with great effort at their task while this character props himself on his stick, happy as a priest cloistered with a keg of wine. What makes him so special?, she wonders. Steering the boat cannot be that difficult, judging by those closed eyes and that half-smile.

She considers him: handsome enough face, although she wonders what it looks like beneath all that masking hair. Broad nose, the cheeks lightly corrugated by a distant bout of smallpox. The hulking shoulders and arms of those who used their bodies thoughtlessly, as tools. She had marked his limp, it seeming incongruous with the man’s obvious strength.

She knows him, or thinks she does; had met many others of his ilk. Men amazed at their personal powers, believing them to be as astounding to others as themselves. They rejoiced in their skills with pistol and rapier and horse, ludicrously killing each other off for the tiniest affronts. Stupidity is the only thing greater than their self-regard, and this man positively reeks of complacent certainty.

At that moment, Alexander becomes aware of her searching gaze; he stiffens and loses his insouciance. His eyes flick to the horizon. Feeling pleased, Rose turns to her father, who smiles at her and takes her hand in his own. She lifts a dipperful of water from a bucket at her feet and offers it to him.

With the river’s high sandy banks shielding the view of the surrounding country, there is little to see as the brigade works its way upriver. It becomes uncomfortably hot, although the bright sun offers a welcome relief from the mosquitoes. Rose leans over the side of the boat, her white fingers trailing in the water, leaving a long, silver ripple. The men’s harsh breathing, creak of locks, and the splash of sweeps are the only sounds on the river. She feels bored and lethargic. With a sigh, she settles deeper into the boat.

“You might not want to do that, Miss,” Alexander says to her.

“Indeed? Why not?” she replies with what she thinks is just the right degree of haughtiness.

“There are belugas in the river: fierce white whales. Why, they will knock a boat over with one sweep of a giant tail. One might see your finger and think it a tasty tidbit.” Rose snatches her hand away; Alexander nods with a grave expression. Unsure if he is making a fool of her, she turns her back on him.

The men row on. Alexander allows a break every two hours, just for the time it takes to smoke a pipe. The Bay men drop their oars, stretch, and sit staring at the river as they puff contentedly; beside them the Orkneymen and Highlanders sit with their heads hanging, running sweat, aching arms loose in their laps. Although a hard breed, the many weeks at sea as well as the shipwreck have taken their toll.

Around midday, Rose is wondering when they will stop for dinner and have a chance for their private business. Eventually the cook, an Orkneyman — with many years on the Bay, or so he proudly claims to Rose — brings out a canvas sack and removes a stack of dry, brown slabs. He breaks off pieces and hands them around. The oarsmen grab the water ladles and the proffered food, wolfing it. Startled expressions move over many faces and some spit overboard. A host of complaints breaks out.

“Are ye tryin’ to poison us?” a man shouts, waving his fist in the cook’s face.