by Derek Yetman
I saw the figure in the leaves just as we were about to overtake Reverend Stow. It was not more than twenty feet from me and almost hidden by a curtain of foliage. I could see the partial outline of a body, or so I believed, for as I stared, the wind disturbed the leaves and the shape was no longer there. The sight had stopped me in my tracks and Froggat came to a forced halt behind me.
“For God’s sake,” he gasped. “Don’t stop now. Let us get him back to the river.” He moved around me and caught the tail of Reverend Stow’s coat. I continued to stand and stare until I thought I detected a movement. Was it a trick of the wind or had I glimpsed an upraised hand?
“Jonah,” Froggat called. “I could use your help. It will take the two of us to manage him.”
Ignoring the plea, I moved cautiously towards the shifting leaves, my eyes glued to the spot as I freed the pistol from my belt. Had I checked the priming in the pan? Were ball and wadding still in the barrel? Like a conjuror’s trick, the shape had dissolved again. Was it a man? I had a skin of gooseflesh as I reached out and pushed the leaves aside. There was nothing there but more branches and leaves. My eyes searched the forest floor in vain for any sign of a presence as Froggat called to me again. Should I tell him what I had seen, I wondered, or had I in fact seen anything at all?
My friend was urging the reverend to stop singing, and after another lingering moment I joined them. My presence seemed to calm the poor chaplain, and he smiled at me as if we had just met on a stroll round the quarterdeck. He hummed quietly to himself as we led him back to the river. Our journey from that point was slowed considerably, and after we met up with the others we had both the preacher and Greening to help along. The rain had not lessened and the river spilled its banks, forcing us at times to walk farther inland through the trees. We had nothing to eat on the third day or for most of the next, until I chanced that evening upon a large salmon trapped and splashing in a rocky pool. My first instinct was to jump on it before it escaped, for I could have eaten it alive. Reason prevailed, however, and I called the others to consider how best to capture it.
Froggat proposed shooting the fish with his pistol but I reasoned that the ball would refract in the water and miss its mark, and we had no desire to frighten the salmon into the river. I regretted not having a cutlass to run it through and it was then that Cousens suggested the method of fishing used by the Indians. A long, straight pole was hurriedly cut and to this we bound a knife with a strong cord, so that in a few minutes we had fashioned a spear. The fish was neatly impaled on the first attempt and it took all of my strength to hold the pole as it thrashed and threatened to cast itself into the river. Greening had already started a fire and the salmon was little more than warmed before we cut it into equal shares, unable to wait a second longer. How wonderful such a thing can taste to a starving man! And for a few hours it gave us strength, though it was more spiritual than physical.
That night we slept where we were and the next morning, as I roused myself for another tortuous day, I looked more closely at the pool in which the salmon had been trapped. Only then did I notice the stones that had been carefully laid, one upon the other, to keep the fish imprisoned. It was the work of human hands, I had no doubt, and my first thought was of the wraith-like figure I had seen the morning before. Could that mysterious presence have left the salmon for our sustenance? Was it a gesture of peace or compassion for our famished state? It was impossible to know. Perhaps it was a practice that the Indians employed for their own benefit, and we had merely stumbled upon it. All I can say is that it likely saved our lives, for we would not have been able to walk another mile without it.
But walk we did, the whole of the fifth day until we shot two ducks on the river and nearly drowned ourselves retrieving them. We ate as we had before, impatiently and with little ceremony. Even Reverend Stow had ceased his humming and tore into his food with as much rapacity as the rest of us. That night we slept a little, our hunger appeased for the moment, the rain having lessened and the howling of the wolves becoming more distant. We were less than a day from Start Rattle and I prayed that some of the crew would be waiting there. Otherwise we would not have the strength to row ourselves to Peter’s Arm.
We awoke to fog, a sure sign that we were nearing the coast, and by noon Greening swore that he could smell the sea. By mid-afternoon we could hear Start Rattle and a short time later we rounded a bend in the river and came upon a peculiar sight—a kettle hanging high up in the leafy green of a birch tree. It was suspended from a limb that overhung the bank and the soot had been carefully washed away so that the polished tin could be seen up and down the river. This was, we soon discovered, exactly the intent of the person who had placed it there. It was the kettle that Sam Cooper had been carrying.
Samuel Cooper
The Lord works in wondrous ways. No truer words was ever spoke. Take this providence that was laid before me now. The Lord put it in my reach, knowing I’d make the most of it. He surely did. But why would the Lord do such a thing for Sam Cooper, you might ask? Because He wants Sam to be the master of his own fate, is why, and be free to walk the path of the Almighty. And what does Sam have need of, to become his own man and follow the word of the Lord? Why it’s plain and simple—he needs hard coin. It’s hard coin that buys a man his freedom, and nothing else.
Merchants like Pinson pays us furriers in kind, with grub and traps and the like. Or rum for those who’ll take it, and the devil’s wages it is, too. We’re slaves to them and their rum, our feet tied and never free to walk the path of righteousness and freedom. We can never leave this heathen place, but go on living in the woods like animals to make Pinson and his protectors rich. And we’re always watching for them savages, watching all the time, lest the treacherous servants of Satan catch us unawares.
Oh yes, a man needs ready coin and to get it he got to make the most of what the Lord puts his way. The Almighty told me that. Told me straight out, He did. “Sam Cooper,” He says, “you wasn’t put on this earth to be a slave to the likes of Pinson.” That’s what He said. He also said I had to make the most of what He sends, which is why a man’s got to have his wits about him, so he can grab the chance with both hands when it comes along. I knew I had that chance when I got to Fogo a fortnight past. Oh yes, as soon as I heard about the governor’s reward I was back on the water and chasing that shallop. This is it, Sam lad, I said. Keep your wits about you.
And that’s what I been doing all along. Keeping me wits and calculating me moves. And soon that hard coin will be mine, though first I had to get rid of that sinful Grimes. It was easy enough, I only had to tell him he’d hang for a deserter if he didn’t go back. I told him we’d meet up later to share the reward, and off he went. Ha, ha! The Lord works in wondrous ways. Oh, He does indeed.
Jonah Squibb
The Indian woman had been dead for several days. She lay face down in the brush beneath the shining kettle, a neat round hole through the back of her skin dress. The rocks beneath her were dark with dried blood and I held my breath as I gently turned her over. The natural putrefaction was well advanced, but I judged her to have been of childbearing age, slim and rather tall. Her long, black hair hung loose and red ochre stained the flesh that remained on her forearms.
The process of decay was terrible enough, but nothing to the hideous mutilation. Her hands had been severed at the wrists and her face had been disfigured by what could only have been a very sharp knife. The butchery made me think of Joseph Banks and his journal, which I had read at Fogo. The naturalist had heard of similar outrages but dismissed them as nothing more than rumour. Now the terrible proof lay before our eyes. And if that were not enough, her final indignity had been provided by the wolves, which had eaten a good deal of her flesh. Young Greening retched in vain behind me, there being nothing in his stomach to lose. The others stood in silent horror, their exhausted faces twisted with the pain and strength of their emotions. That their fellow man could do such a thing was too unnatural, too loathso
me to comprehend.
The girl had dragged herself a short distance after being shot, no doubt hoping to gain the sanctuary of the trees. Whether she had been dead when the knife pierced her flesh was impossible to say but I prayed to God that it had been so. I removed my neckerchief and covered her face before organizing the others in a search around the body. It took some moments for them to move and when they did it was with the dazed and wooden steps of men afraid of what they will find.
Froggat was the first to spot the footprint. It was the outline of a boot heel in a dried patch of mud. Nearby was a second imprint from a man’s skin boot, much like that worn by Thomas Rowsell. And then there was a third. It was so insignificant that I failed to see it at first, but there was no mistaking the tiny mark of a child’s bare foot, lightly embedded in the damp sand. I called Lieutenant Cartwright and he stared in dismay at the indentation. I estimated the child’s age at no more than seven or eight years and when I said as much the full import of what he was seeing struck home. Grasping at false hope, he ventured that the child might have escaped into the forest. Escaped to what, I wondered aloud, with hungry wolves all around? In desperation he tried again, saying that other Indians might have fled to safety with the child. I could not share his optimism, if that was the word. There were no other footprints.
John Cousens finally put voice to what each of us was thinking— that Grimes and the two furriers were responsible for this atrocity. Cousens blamed himself for having recommended them in the first place. It was the remorse of raw emotion, felt by each of us in our own way. The lieutenant said nothing and was like a man turned to stone, crouched beside the tiny imprint with a fist pressed to his forehead. A moment passed before I spoke, saying that the blame lay only with those who had committed the crime and that it was now our duty to bring them to justice.
“But what of the child?” asked Reverend Stow. The shock of our grisly discovery seemed to have moved him to greater awareness. He may have been the only one amongst us who could not conceive of the worst. “Surely they would not kill such an innocent?” he said.
No, I thought, perhaps they would not. The prize would be far too valuable. Another morbid silence fell over us until Froggat intruded upon our dark thoughts, saying that as long as we lingered we lessened our chances of catching the murderers. He was right, but what were we to do with the body? We had no digging tools and we were too weak to use them if we had. Even the moving of rocks to cover her was beyond our physical ability. In the end we could only ask the chaplain to say a prayer for her departed soul, wherever it may now be. We stood with bared heads while he recited the burial verse from memory: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”
During the prayer I looked up at Lieutenant Cartwright. Sorrow and defeat weighed heavily upon his features. He had the look of a man whose spirit has been crushed, leaving him devoid of the fire and determination that had carried us so far on so noble a purpose. I bowed my head, unable to look into the face of his despair.
“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be fulfilled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Greening, bless his soul, could not keep from weeping. Even John Cousens ran a finger across his eye. Froggat and I had seen far too much pointless death to feel anything beyond anger and the desire for quick justice.
“Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed, too, are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” The leaves whispered softly in the treetops, like nature’s choir in the church of God’s creation. The tall, white birch trees encircled us like solemn mourners, each a reverent and silent witness to what had passed below. The river played its endless hymn for all to hear.
Before we departed I sent Greening aloft to bring down the kettle. That it was placed there to attract attention I had no doubt, and in that final hour of our march to the sea I could think of only one thing—Sam Cooper’s answer when I had asked him the purpose of the sewels, those tassels of birch that the Indians had hung from the trees. I heard his voice as plainly as if he were with me, saying they were meant to catch the eye “of what ye intends to kill.”
John Cartwright
My state of mind cannot properly be described; I do not have the words for it. I am now convinced that the men who perpetrated this evil deed were those whom I myself had hired to be our guides. And to make it all the more disheartening, I suspect that one of our own sailors was an accomplice to the crime. I have no proof of this but there is little doubt as to where the compass points.
The events that followed our discovery of the body have done nothing to lift my spirits. We came upon Nehemiah Grimes at Start Rattle, full of deceit and swearing that he had descended the river alone. I did not believe him for an instant, especially in light of the question that he put to me soon after. Men of his kind are never able to conceal their greed and so he asked me, as bold as day, how the reward of £50 might be claimed for a live Red Indian! God forgive me but I nearly struck him down.
As for the furriers, our returned crew had seen their bye boat sailing down the bay days before. I have not been able to determine why Grimes was left behind, but I will wager that it is a part of their scheme. Lacking real proof of the man’s involvement, Mr. Squibb put the question to him directly. He received nothing for his trouble but blasphemous denials, for Grimes swears that he saw nothing of the furriers after he parted company with us. Still, I am convinced that Rowsell and Cooper have the child and that they plan to collect on Captain Palliser’s reward. Whether they intend to include Grimes in the spoils is a question that must occupy the petty officer a great deal.
But in the name of Heaven, how were we to know that it would come to this? I am in anguish at the thought that our noble intention could be exploited in so base a manner. My heart grieves to think that they could have murdered and kidnapped for the money alone. Had I not seen it with my own eyes I would never have believed that such cruelty was possible. I have instructed Lieutenant Squibb to pursue the culprits without delay, as they may yet be caught if no further time is lost. To better serve this purpose I have given him command of the Dove, while I remain at Toulinguet with my brother to await the Guernsey.
It was my duty to inform Mr. Squibb that he has no legal basis for the arrest or detention of the furriers. They have broken no laws and all previous attempts to prosecute such cases have failed. Governor Palliser has drafted a proclamation but London has yet to act upon it. And so Squibb is tasked with reclaiming the child only. He has been given a free hand to do what he must, even if I have little hope of his success. There are a thousand coves and rivers along this coast that will hide a boat, and these villains are able to disappear into the forest at will.
So there the matter lies. The expedition that was entrusted to me has failed, and in so spectacular a manner that I wonder at what the governor will say. Nothing can put it right, not even the unlikely possibility of Squibb apprehending these men. It will not alter the fact that I have gone to the very heart of this island without laying eyes upon a live Red Indian. To say nothing of making peace with them. And the reward that we have been trumpeting along this coast has now become an enticement to further violence. It is no less than the fruit of a poisoned seed that we had so carelessly planted. Mere words cannot describe the darkness into which my heart has descended. The devil himself could not have engineered so perfect a disaster, nor so complete a humiliation.
Jonah Squibb
I regret to say that much time was lost in convincing Lieutenant Cartwright of my plan. I believe his objections lay more in giving me command of the Dove than in the merit of swift pursuit. Every moment of delay jeopardized our chances of finding the furriers and rescuing the child, and it was not until John Cousens intervened on my behalf that he relented, and even then, reluctantly so. Under duress he also agreed that Grimes should come with me, for I had
reason to believe that the facts of his involvement would be made clear when we caught up with Cooper and Rowsell. I was convinced that Grimes knew the truth of what had passed on the river. Whether he had knowledge of where the furriers had taken the child was more difficult to say, for I suspected them of intending to cheat him. The rest of the crew believed that he had been complicit in the crime, and if that were not enough, they soon had another reason to despise him.
We found the Liverpool frigate departing Toulinguet as the Dove entered the harbour and we bespoke her as she was gathering way. Her master was on the quarterdeck and he said they were still searching for the French brig, which might have been a phantom for all they had seen of her. Froggat asked after his messmates and was told that all were well and that the news of his recovered health would be well received. He also asked the master if his sea chest had been put ashore with him at Bonavista. The man said that it had, most assuredly.
It was the answer that Froggat had suspected. Six months of his pay had been in that chest, which did much to explain where Grimes had gotten his ready cash. I took it upon myself to question Jenkins and Rundle on this, and they were mute and evasive by turns. I could see the guilt in their eyes, however, or in Rundle’s case, in his one good eye. The warrant officers were all for flogging the truth out of them but I resolved to bide my time. I would wait for proof, both of this and of the far more serious allegations against Grimes. As for Froggat, I was able to convince him that justice, like a good meal, is best enjoyed after some anticipation.
