The Arctic Fury

by Greer Macallister

  Pleasant, thought Virginia, was a fool’s dream. The voyage might be any number of things, but anyone with a brain in her head would know that none of them would find the frozen wastes to the north pleasant.

  Rather than contend, she nodded politely at the girl and told her where to stow her things. She hoped Stella knew what it was to work; that would make things easier once the physical demands of the journey grew. Her clothing was neither as fine as Caprice’s nor as plain as Doro’s. Of all the expedition’s women Virginia had met so far, she was dressed the most like Elizabeth. Perhaps she worked for a rich household, as Elizabeth did.

  While still mulling over Stella, Virginia felt a hand clap on her shoulder and turned to see a woman in buckskins. Automatically, Virginia smiled. A woman dressed for frontier life was a woman she didn’t have to acquaint with difficulty, and that was something to celebrate.

  “I’m Ann,” said the woman, returning the smile. Her grin showed the effects of hard living, some teeth dead, others missing. Virginia guessed this made her look older than she really was. She also looked brutally strong, her broad shoulders straining the buckskin of her coat. This woman, thought Virginia, was a gift.

  “You must be missing your dogs,” said Virginia politely, reaching for the only thing she knew about the woman other than that she cared more for comfort than propriety.

  “Like limbs,” Ann said.

  “We’re glad to have you in our party. We’ll be acquiring dogs in Moose Factory, I understand. Is that your understanding as well?”

  “Yeah. I told ’em to try to get malamutes, though if there’s only huskies, we can use those all right. All good running dogs. I’ll need to be looking ’em over real close. Don’t want to get sold a bill of goods.”

  “Absolutely,” Virginia agreed.

  She sent the two newest arrivals to join the others inside in the back parlor and did a quick tally. Six women who’d come together in the coach, plus Stella and Ann. Including Virginia herself, that accounted for nine, with four remaining.

  Thirteen, she thought again, shivering. At least it wouldn’t be for long.

  Virginia rearranged herself on the thin cushion and waited. Each time the inn door banged open, she straightened up, but after a few disappointments as men entered the room, she was beginning to grow impatient. She decided to walk outside. There was only one entrance to the inn; she wouldn’t miss anyone by introducing herself before they came through the door instead of after.

  As soon as she came out of the building into the slightly chilly afternoon air, she nearly collided with a small, dark-haired woman with delicate features who barely came up to her shoulder. The birdlike woman looked up at her, and Virginia saw her dark, flashing eyes and a thin upper lip. This must be Christabel, the illustrator. They introduced themselves, and the illustrator beamed a bright smile at Virginia. After a brief conversation, Virginia sent her inside to join the others.

  The sun had just begun to descend when the three remaining women appeared. One Virginia recognized from her description the moment she stepped down from a coach. Dove, the nurse, was as tall as a man and as broad as a ship, with a voice that carried like a copper bell through the evening’s cooling air. Her skin was tawny and her coat was too light for the weather. The other two were harder to tell apart. Both were of an average size, shorter than Virginia but not as short as the illustrator, with dark blond hair and faces on the narrow side of average. The translator was listed on the manifest as Irene Chartier, but she looked not in the least French. Of all of them, she seemed the most tired, not even speaking when addressed, merely nodding along. The remaining blond woman—the imprint of middle age clearly stamped on her face, now that Virginia got a better look at her, with her wide eyes framed by round spectacles—had to be Margaret Bridges, the journalist.

  She welcomed them in and walked to the back parlor with them, and once she stepped over the threshold into the room of women she would be traveling north with, she was stunned speechless for a moment.

  It was a motley group, cobbled together from women who would never even have spoken to one another in the course of their regular lives, but then again, what woman here had a life that could be described as regular? In a way, thought Virginia, this was like the freak shows that occasionally made their way to the California frontier. These women were as strange to society as tattooed ladies and sword swallowers. She could imagine the talker giving his spiel to the crowd, selling these exotic sights—See the Mexican nurse! See the dog woman! See the lady journalist!—all too easily.

  Every woman’s face turned toward her. Everyone waited to hear what she had to say.

  Virginia had led more than five hundred people from danger into safety. These women were different. These she was leading from safety into danger. God willing, once they found the men they were looking for, she would lead them from danger back to safety again.

  She covered her sentimentality with bluster, and once she found her words again, she kept her speech short. She only told them how glad she was that they had all come, that on this first leg, it was still possible to send them back to civilization if they could not bear the strains of the wild, and if anyone here felt they would make a better authority than her—she did not look at Caprice as she said it—they should be advised the position was not available. There were a few uncomfortable laughs but no protests.

  After the other women went upstairs to settle for the night, Virginia chatted with the innkeeper, who asked which steamship they’d be leaving on. It was the first Virginia had heard of steamships to Sault Ste. Marie. In the moment she managed to hide her surprise, but the revelation troubled her. Surely Lady Franklin would have wanted them to move through this part of the journey as quickly as possible. What reason could there be to go more slowly?

  Once in bed, Virginia lay staring at the ceiling in the dark, and the answer came to her. A ship meant a manifest. A manifest meant a record. No one would know about this mission unless they came back successful. She’d bet anything that both the voyageurs here on the lake and the captain of the Doris had been paid not to write these passengers down in their records. They would move toward the North like ghosts. That was the bargain they’d all made.

  The next morning, they were off to the lakeside before the first rays of sunlight touched the deep blue sky.

  She was sure that as soon as the sun rose, the glassy surface of Lake Erie would be inspiring, but in the dark, it was disconcerting to hear the water without being able to see it.

  The scene felt wild, theatrical. Even the light from the torches made her think of the footlights at the only theater performance she’d ever attended, a bawdy showcase put on by bored soldiers at Fort Bridger. Clutching their precious, small bags, her group of women came forward, dressed for the first time in their issued clothes and coats, the divided skirts swirling around their heels the same color as the darkened sky. The crowd of heavily bearded voyageurs loomed out of the darkness, giants straight from a child’s storybook.

  But the chief voyageur extended his hand to her, shaking it briskly, with a grin on his face. “I see you must be Miss Reeve!”

  “Thank you, I am.”

  “All is arranged, all is arranged,” he said, holding his torch high and gesturing so she could see the canoes waiting for them, already loaded and balanced, their substantial food stores heaped high in the centers of the open craft. She knew from discussions with Brooks that the stores were heavy on pemmican and flour, foods that could sustain their energy while taking up as little space as possible, and even so, they would be carrying a great deal of weight.

  “I am sorry to say,” she said, speaking clearly and loudly to make sure Caprice could hear, “there has been an unexpected change to our party.”

  “Change?”

  “One member of the party has requested to bring her maid. I’m sure you’ll agree there will be very little chance to dress f
or dinner on the lake, yes?”

  His laugh was booming, but when it settled, he said, “Lovely ladies are a decoration no matter what they wear.”

  “But it makes our party thirteen,” said Virginia abruptly. No need to dance around the point.

  Caprice broke in then, her voice just as forceful and clear as Virginia’s. “I’m sure some accommodations can be made, can’t they? Elizabeth is not so very large, and as you can see, neither are most of our companions. Delicate little things, you see? I’m certain just one more addition won’t overload these fine craft.”

  His eyes were on Caprice, not looking away, taking in the tilt of her head and the firm hand planted on one cocked hip.

  “Well, certainly, miss. And what do they call you?”

  Extending her hand, Caprice made a girlish, musical laugh. The smooth lake’s surface sent back a faint echo, disconcerting in the darkness. “Miss Caprice Collins, at your service, kind sir. With you in charge of the party, I am certain we are in capable hands.”

  Virginia could not believe the absurdity of what was unfolding. The voyageur bent to kiss Caprice’s hand, as elegant as any gentleman in a ballroom, except surrounded by utter darkness.

  “Now it goes without saying,” Caprice continued, “that for the additional trouble, I can extend you some additional compensation. You let me know what you think is fair. Shall we discuss?”

  And off she sauntered with the chief voyageur, leaving Virginia behind with the other women, working with broad-shouldered men to add the women’s packs to the carefully stacked and secured supplies.

  When next Virginia caught sight of her, just before departure, Caprice was perched in the center of the second canoe atop the supplies. She alone of all the women wouldn’t even have to paddle. She grinned broadly at Virginia with the exact expression of a cat in cream.

  Virginia made the conscious decision to let it go. Let Caprice feel victorious, spending her money; it would do her little good where they were going. Virginia herself was still the leader, still the one who commanded respect from the women. When they boarded the Doris, she was the one who would work with Captain Malcolm, and Caprice would have to fall in line. That would set the tone for their sledge journey on the ice. Not every skirmish needed to be a battle and not every battle a war.

  Sunrise began as a distant glow, and as they worked, a thin gray light began to reveal the broad, silvery lake. When all the preparations were done, the women sorted out into the two canoes, the men’s grumbles dying down as they set to work, only then could Virginia begin to relax. But it was a short-lived relaxation. The voyage had begun.

  “Allons-y!” called the chief voyageur from the head of the forward craft, and as they lurched forward, Virginia fixed her eyes on the horizon.

  They were on their way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Christabel

  Lake Erie, leaving Buffalo

  April 1853

  Four dozen paddles cleaved the water, and Christabel Jones raised her chin to gaze out over the glistening, rippling water of the lake as their craft began its voyage northward.

  Christabel had sailed to America with her parents when she was too young to remember it—her younger brothers had both been born on American soil—and her travels since had rarely brought her to the water. There was something both thrilling and daunting in these shallow, open crafts surrounded by water in every direction. In her explorations searching for plants to sketch, she had undertaken more physical exertion than most women of her acquaintance, but she knew the paddling would test her.

  At first, she felt nothing in her muscles but excitement. A surge of power with every stroke, a bracing cool in her throat and lungs as she caught the breath that would fuel the stroke after. An hour later, her shoulders ached. An hour after that, everything hurt so much she desperately sought escape in her thoughts, and when she let her thoughts drift loose of her body, her body receded, and she was able to deal with the pain.

  That Virginia Reeve, she was a sly one. How comfortable she looked, thought Christabel, as if she sailed off toward the frozen North on a canoe every damn day, tucking her paddle into the lake with a regular, unruffled rhythm. Cool as a block of ice fresh from the icebox.

  Christabel had never sat in the midst of a group of women so unusual and varied. Was she staring? She was afraid she could not help but stare. But others were looking around too, even if they pretended nonchalance. They were all going to be bound together, irrevocably, who knew how long. And none of them knew one another from Adam—or, she supposed, Eve.

  With her artist’s eye, Christabel caught the differences and similarities between her fellow adventuresses more quickly than some others might, and even in the brief time the women had spent together at the inn, she’d taken in dozens of details. She’d seen that the tawny-skinned woman—named after some kind of bird, wasn’t she?—dressed too light for the weather. She was the most likely to have come from some southerly region. She’d seen that the journalist had an eagle eye and a ready pen, already scribbling notes when she thought no one watched. She’d noted that the Irish woman stood, at times, like a man. And there was something about that Stella that Christabel didn’t like, a discordant note in the way she could go so quickly from knowing to innocent and back again.

  “What do you think?” came a voice from the other canoe, unmistakably addressing her. Virginia’s. Christabel turned to see the party’s leader looking straight at her, her expression open and curious, even as she continued to keep perfect rhythm with her paddle.

  “Well,” said Christabel, “there certainly are a lot of us.”

  “Safety in numbers,” said Virginia, then turned away, putting her attention back on the lake.

  Christabel took the cue and turned her attention forward, but her thoughts remained on Virginia. The young woman—how young was she?—seemed smart enough, with confidence to spare. She was plain, and it was Christabel’s experience that plain women had to work twice as hard to get half as much respect as pretty ones. Those English ladies, for example, with their crumpets-at-high-tea accents, were lovely enough that the voyageurs’ heads turned toward them with brief, birdlike movements of a comical regularity. The next prettiest was the young one called Stella, whom she gathered had been some kind of servant, and then Christabel herself.

  Christabel was a student of faces. She’d been brought into the expedition to record its doings through drawings and sketches, and though Brooks had explained in correspondence that would often mean drawing whatever vegetation they experienced, not to mention the landscapes and views from different static places, it would sometimes mean capturing the faces of her fellow travelers. It was with that eye that she had already evaluated all the women on the expedition and decided who more classically fit the model profile—that blond Englishwoman, for example—and whose beauty was, how to put it, less conventional. Dove was the largest woman she’d ever met, six feet if she was an inch, though her face was still delicate and soft enough to be called pretty instead of handsome. These women were outliers, unusual specimens. She could not wait to draw them all. She no longer remembered her brothers’ faces or her parents’ well enough to draw them, which caused her pain whenever she thought of it. Time had blurred their features. Perhaps this was part of the reason she hungered to draw these women so desperately that whenever she took her hands off the paddle, her fingers twitched automatically into the position of holding a pencil.

  In the center of the canoe, she’d stored her precious collection of personal belongings, the small pack each of them had been allowed to bring. Virginia had explained that their food would be provided and their clothes. Now they each wore an identical divided skirt in navy wool, full enough to look like a dress from a fair distance, though in practice, the adjustable skirts looked very different on a slip of a girl like Christabel than on a veritable giantess like Dove. Since the issued clothes were stored s
eparately, the packs they’d brought were mostly for sentimental possessions. And they’d been warned that once the going got rough, some of those possessions, no matter how precious, might have to be left behind.

  So the most precious thing she’d brought, wrapped in a protective oilskin, was her second-best copy of Maria Graham’s Book of Botanical Illustrations. In the evenings, she imagined herself consulting Miss Graham’s drawings of culen, lamb’s tongue, twenty-two species of fern. Miss Graham was her inspiration. She’d traveled so far—India, Chile, Brazil—and brought back dramatic, important drawings and descriptions of flora her readers would never see firsthand.

  Christabel was going about things somewhat differently, not entirely by choice. While she certainly would have found a wider array of more colorful plants in the tropics, no one had offered her a place on an expedition going in that direction. So even if she would only discover lichen, moss, and scrub in the frozen North, at least she would be the first woman to draw them.

  She let her gaze wander over the women in both canoes again. She would learn their ways. Lose her loneliness. Perhaps some of them she could grow close to. Probably not Ebba and Althea, who already seemed to form a complete unit of two, but someone on the expedition must be a kindred spirit. Perhaps even Caprice Collins, who must have some fascinating stories. Christabel had heard whispers in last night’s gathering that she was a mountaineer, that she wanted to take charge of the expedition, that she and Virginia—the leader insisted they all call her Virginia—had already quarreled about authority and direction. Couldn’t hurt to make friends with everyone, even those who weren’t friendly with one another.

  Her gaze met that of Miss Collins, and thinking of how they might make some sort of connection, Christabel gave Miss Collins her best smile.

  Miss Collins looked through her, past her, as if she were no more present than a haint.

  Christabel turned her eyes back to the vast, open lake all around them and wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, joining this expedition was an utter mistake.