A man appeared running, falling over himself and waving his hands with urgency. He emerged like a wisp all in white, running out from the tree line and obscured by the snow. His fur flailed and beat the air in the wind as a perplexed sentry looked on toward the infinite hinterlands beyond that tree line. The sentry stood close to a rocky cliff, below which was a valley of dwarfish brush and a few baby evergreens but mostly dead pines.
A voice trailed behind that display, rapid and inaudible.
The sentry’s eyes expanded as the runner’s breath was now visible in the frigid air. “Qui va la?” he yelled as the runner approached. “Halt!” he shouted. “Who goes there I say?”
The runner came to a halt. He sat and leaned back on the frozen ground as the sentry looked down, bewildered.
The runner handed the sentry a letter rolled and tied tight.
The sentry unbound the letter keeping his stare fixed on the runner. “A letter,” he said.
“Rocky Mountain Fur, and Northwest too,” said the runner through gasps. “They desire a parlay with the Ordained.”
“I heard nothing of this,” said the sentry as he rolled the letter. “Our lord at the Fort knows nothing of this?”
The runner shook his head and rose. “The Huron dismantle the lines of independent contractors who now serve no company nor nation. They want to reform and merge with Fur and Pine.”
“And I am to believe a low Eskimo trapper is privy to this information!”
“My father was Cree. We who run the southern lines have made a pact with the Cree, who pass those woods. Lest we would not be able to trap.”
“Yes yes our Lord knows of the pact!”
“We offered their chief silver for this information and-”
“Where do these contractors reside? Are they of the Queen’s flag?”
“They reside where Fort Norman used to stand.”
“Fort Norman was raised to ash during the seven years’ war!”
“And from the ashes more rise to siphon what is left out of these dead woods,” replied the runner.
“Vive la France. And who be you? I have seen you and your Eskimo looking sister before. Should you not be trapping? Hardly any remain fort-bound after the last muster. Lest you forget his warning.”
“Our father was Cree, our mother Inuit. As a man you understand that my loyalty lies to Fur and Pine, and as a man I can see an opportunity for our lord and company, both.”
The sentry nodded his head. “That’s right,” he said suspiciously. “There are still bands of you roaming natives under our noses. Fear not, for one day shortly Fur and Pine will root you all out. Like rats from a hearth when the winter finally breaks.”
The Cree looked down and nodded his head.
The sentry tucked the letter into his coat. “You’ll be compensated for the information,” he said. “Maybe with just your life!”
He mounted his horse and took off fast, his hat sailing away in the winds toward the Cree who smiled as he watched the sentry become a smaller dot into the wood.
The sentry rode hard over the windy cliff-face until the sun started to sink. Drunken laughter and brazier fire marked his destination.
“Make way! he yelled as trappers and French soldiers alike slowly walked or stumbled clear of the dirt path.
The monolithic trade post sat at the end of that road. Two armed sentries wore matching black furs and as the rider dismounted, one of those sentries grasped his horse by the reins.
“Move aside!” the riding sentry commanded.
The Ordained sat flanked by well-dressed company.
There were gathered French Naval officers with their golden insignias prominent on their blue lapels and Chief Traders from forts south and east who wore Marten furs which dazzled the most brilliantly under lamplight. The room was adorned with a single bookshelf standing high and proud and steaming was a platter of Char which sat untouched.
The Ordained was the only one sitting. He eyed the sentry as he approached, and others hushed. “What news?” he said.
“Word from a Cree at our southern traplines. Trappers who once served Rocky Mountain Fur and The Northwest Company desire a parley. A letter from one of ours,” he said, handing the Ordained the letter.
“What?” the Ordained grasped the letter out of the sentry’s hand and unrolled it.
The Ordained squinted and examined the letter. He looked away, blinked several times, and re-read the wrinkled and yellowed parchment.
“It seems that at last those who once dominated the trade will beckon to Fur and Pine, sir. At last.”
“This is a ledger from eighteen and twelve, you imbecile. Are you literate?”
“Sir?”
“Are you literate!” screamed the Ordained. “Hang him,” he said before the sentry could answer.
The sentry shrieked. “I reported only what my ears heard sir! I am not a learned man.”
“Very well. Have his ears filled with hot ashes, so that he may be reminded of his failure from the time he wakes until he sleeps.”
Dupan and another grasped the shrieking man and dragged him from the chamber, his boots the last thing visible sliding out the doorway. None spoke and only heard was the growling of Newfoundland hounds quarreling over stripped beef bones near the roaring hearth.
“All for this damned ruse of the silver island!” the chief trader-ordained shouted.
“Ruse?” asked a young French Officer.
“Yes. Droves abandon me to seek out this silver island they say shines in the seas north of this place. Now even the damned Indians leave me as well,” he said slamming a fist down onto the table before him.
A shrill scream came from the distant hall, then another, then a booming laugh.
“The things I must do for God,” said the Ordained.
“For God, and Fur and Pine sir,” said Dupan as he returned to the chamber. The Frenchman wore a smile with satisfaction as if he had completed a day’s work and the hearth and a meal awaited him.
A cough came from one of the guests.
“God takes far less interest in your offerings, Dupan,” said the Ordained.
“As you say sir,” replied Dupan.
“I want you to ride to his post,” said the Ordained, pointing his knife at Dupan. “Take another. See if this Cree is still there and be ready. Though they are likely miles south by now.”
Everyone stood somber, not speaking, not making eye contact with the king of the northerly post.
“I apologize for the pomp, the Ordained said. A wave of acknowledgment rose and fell from the guests as Dupan exited the chamber without words.
“I take it the cheese was to your liking, all?”
All the guests forced smiles and let out grunts of agreement.
“Good,” said the Ordained. “Cheese of all things is awfully hard to come by here. To dinner then,” he said as he rose from his seat. “Beef a la mode and corn-bread as well, I believe.”
Three men rode Northeast for a long time, angular to the setting sun on the blackening sky. Then rain came lightly at first, followed by waterfalls from the sky. They came upon Boston which looked more like a fort against a backdrop of white and grey hills that looked like they extended forever running eastward and westward.
Around the corner tavern there were a few simple homes, their roofs pointed and simple clay chimneys billowing dense grey clouds. A blacksmith slammed down his hammer and bent the elements to his will under a thatched roof. Its ring upon the anvil was still audible even under the heavy rain. All around were tethered animals. Donkeys, horses and dogs attached. A well where one man fumbled drunkenly to pull up fresh water. Hides seemingly hung everywhere; from the very same well, the huts, the tethers and walls themselves. Beaver, a wolf, deer and even two black bear hides, those were displayed with the most prominence. Gold of this land. They were silky and smooth and the wet furs glistened like gems.
“Not what I would expect from Boston,” said Francisco.
“The
se ain’t the nice parts,” said Herb. “This where the weary meet and drink on the southside outskirts. Boston ain’t New York but it ain’t a trade post neither.”
Weary faces passed the riders as they hitched their horses. Men and women from the factories and the mills made way through the thoroughfare. There too were Frenchmen with heavy pelts slung over their backs, Mohicans and Wampanoags carried furs and bundles of dried tobacco. Scores of young travel-weary men who all hitched their horses and shuffled silently passed the run-down church and into the tavern. They made eyes at the three riders just arriving and the tension started before the Boston Rendezvous even began.
Grimy windows hinted revelry within that tavern, and farther down, the dirt path became a road of sorts. Other candles flickered within homes readying for sleep, though dogs still scurried about with their snouts to the ground and ignored their master’s calls.
The three approached the door of the rustic tavern and on that door a single nail held a script with bold black letters: Meet here all them riders for the Boston Rendezvous. Troublemakers be shot. November. The Year of our Lord, eighteen and thirty-four.
Even more beacons lit the place and when the strangers swung open the door light cast about their faces. A few heads turned but the laughter and music never ceased.
“Keep our wits about us,” said the hunter.
Others looked up from candlelit tables then averted their eyes. The men weren’t challenged.
Francisco held the door open with one arm as his eyes studied. He scanned men sitting about the only two tables in the room, patrons chewing on venison and bread, and fur traders and long-haired and long-legged hunting dogs scurrying about, all under one roof. The hearth roared wildly, and laughs rose and fell with the intermittent sounds of a harmonica played by a drunken woman who stopped to breath and laugh hysterically. Then she would play again, and on it went.
“They are ragged and starving, high from ale where misery would otherwise occupy their thoughts,” said Herb.
“It’s quaint,” said Francisco.
“I don’t want quaint, I want a bloody meal, Francisco. And maybe a woman and a warm bed. None of which I see happening here tonight.”
“Have you the coin, strangers, then those things can be acquired,” a voice echoed. The lean inn keeper had been watching keenly since they arrived, and he patted a dining patron on the back as he stepped out from behind the bar, his hand extended.
Francisco received the offer. “Thank you for having us,” he said. A warm roof is more welcomed than the sun. Any talk of the rendezvous yet?”
The man shook his head. “Rendezvous don’t start ‘til tomorrow,” he said. “Travelers be comin in all day since two nights back though, most with no shillings between them.”
The hunter pulled dozens of shillings loose from his pocket. “We want out of this commotion and whatever room you got that don’t stink of sweat,” he said.
“We can see about that,” said the inn keeper.
“See about it from where?” asked the hunter. “The bloody ether?”
“Come. Follow me.”
“Lead us into a trap, friend,” said Herb, “and I promise you will be among the dead,” he said as he slung his elephant gun behind his back.
“A good host doesn’t threaten his guests,” said the inn keeper, waving the men toward a narrow staircase winding down into what appeared to be perpetual darkness. “I take three month’s standard earnings for hosting these criminals and trappers and whalers, be lucky if they don’t burn down the place first,” he said.
The stairs reached an end at last, and the inn keeper pulled open two tall doors of heavier, oaken wood. Inside it would seem paradise after a northerly ride through the breadth of October.
Half a dozen people lounged on a mound of silken pillows and dual fireplaces roared. There were books, candles in which to luminate them, and a laughing drunk couple kept pressing down the keys of a grand piano which rang discordantly as they did so.
“Have we died?” said Isaac. “I think we must have died.”
“Quiet,” said Francisco. “We just want food and sleep,” he said to the innkeeper, “not the revelry.”
The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders and Isaac extended him paper currencies bundled in a short stack.
“Keep your worthless notes,” said Francisco. “I can offer two silver rounds for all of us, our meals, our drink and our stay,” he said to the innkeeper.
“I pay my way,” said Herb.
“You pay your way with that,” Francisco said, pointing at the elephant gun. “After chow take the first watch.”
“Watch!” the hunter blurted. “We ain’t at sea yet.”
“In spirit we are,” said Francisco, handing the coins to the innkeeper.
“Good enough,” said the innkeeper.
Isaac stared at Francisco, who put the remaining silvers into a pouch and tucked them into his lapel.
“Thought you had no coin.”
“I am your friend, but still a scoundrel of the sea, Isaac,” said Francisco with a grin.
“Right then,” said the innkeeper. “You men enjoy. I’ll bring supper,” he said as he ascended the stairs with haste.
“You going to inquire as to what we’ll have first?” asked Herb, unslinging his elephant gun and tossing it on the nearby settee.
“Aye,” Isaac said. “I would fancy fried potatoes and sausage, if available. Codfish would be fine, otherwise. Custard to finish it off if I may be bold.”
The innkeeper stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Boiled ham,” he said. “But enough whiskey and cider to make you forget about the taste.”
“That’ll work,” said Francisco. And the drunken couple raised their glasses and giggled, the grand piano still singing.
VII
Dawn hinted redly from the one earthen window and the men awoke to a knock from above. Smoke filled the room as the men stirred and made their way upstairs, bellies still full and blood thinned by bitter cider. More had gathered now in the tavern, as a quiet sort of whisper filled the ether.
The innkeeper scanned the scene nervously as the door swung wide again and again, the sound of pouring rain roaring and then hushing abruptly. And soon the place was filled out with unfamiliar faces, eyes darting about rapidly amid hushed whispers.
With soaked furs about their shoulders and heads the scene looked like a pack of animals that should never mingle together and were soon to erupt into a storm of bloodlust. Francisco led the hunter and writer towards the head table, while tired eyes looked from that very same table.
The three sat without words and eyed the leader.
Centered he sat, thin ring of brown hair around a smooth head, black boots laced up high and breaches glittering with silver studs. His shoulders were broader than all others about him, and his face seemed to be twisted in a permanent scowl. At his hip he wore a gold handled Kukri sheathed in leather.
Around were a rough bunch, other pirates and land-locked sailors, all of scarred faces and faded eyes. A messenger boy stood holding a letter by the head pirate’s side. A piano began a sleepy melody as the liquor and chatter flowed freely.
“You say Baffin Bay?” barked the head pirate. He downed an entire tankard and his squinty blue eyes scanned the room constantly, never settling. “What are we the Merchants of London?” he quipped. “To hell if I sail into a frozen death.”
“You’re a fucking pirate,” said Francisco. “North even of the bay, to where no more coastal towns sit nor merchant vessels sail, to where neither coast of The New France nor the island they call Greenland can be seen by the naked eye. That is apparently where it be.”
“The naked eye!” someone screamed like a boy with a man’s voice.
Men looked on, confused at the interruption. The man had the build of an adult but the demeanor of a child. He stood taller than most, save the head pirate, and he wore plain greyish cottons and had a head of messed brown hair which hung over his blue eyes.
<
br /> The head pirate’s eyes moved side to side. “Quiet, Julius,” he said, putting a hand on the man’s arm.
“Julius my brother!” the Mexican exclaimed.
The pirate shook his head. “A northward trek as such is nigh impossible for even the strongest ships with a full crew. To think we can navigate the ice this time of year, no Francisco.”
“Callar!” hissed Francisco. “The Inuit say it will be a warm winter. They say the ice is thinner than usual which is rarely the case.”
“So we go on Eskimo lore!”
“What’s that around your neck pirate?” asked Francisco.
The pirate grasped a long, translucent sea-blue crystal held by a silver chain. “Aquamarine,” he grunted.
“A charm for any sailor,” said Francisco.
“If the fucking Barbarys stowed their loot there,” blurted the pirate, “understand that there will be a response to what we are to do.”
“How can there be a response if we are gone?” replied Francisco. “I do not think they gambled on the Inuit trekking southward to spread word of a silver gleam. And I will gamble on you being a ghost at sea again.”
“Because I know their captain. United the corsairs then went into hiding somewhere in the Algeria land in ‘thirty,” the pirate said as he fingered the aquamarine. It had a smooth groove down its center, the curvature of which radiated a constant stream of sparkling light as if thousands of tiny falling stars trapped in perpetual stillness.
“Who is he?” whispered Isaac to Herb as the head pirate rose and fetched Julius.
“That’s the pirate,” Herb whispered. “Even trappers west of the Missouri know of him.”
“What is his name?”
“Nobody calls him by his name,” said Herb. “They say he was never named. They say he meets all the chief traders from Quebec to Albany once a year with stolen bounty and blood-money. Even the Marshalls can’t touch him as he does his work in the pacific. He’s a hard man, in any case.”
“I assumed you were a hard man,” said Isaac.
“I am! And I can ascertain hardiness in just a glance.”
“I see. And the other one, he speaks like a child.”
Sea of Two Suns Page 4
