A Dark and Promised Land

by Nathaniel Poole

  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.

  Chapter Five

  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.