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.
“What is it?” Rose asks as a piece is handed to her.
“Pemmican, lass,” the subdued cook replies. “Imagine the floorboards of an abattoir mixed with old candle tallow and a few dried berries! Best given to thy worst enemy, but it is the food of the river.”
She agrees with him about the taste; the texture is both oily and chalky at the same time. She spits it overboard. The corners of Alexander’s mouth twitch.
“It’ll come to you all in time,” he says. “When you are truly hungry. But you will all be living on it soon enough.”
Fortunately, Rose, Lachlan, and Turr are soon invited by the governor to share a shipboard picnic of bread, buffalo tongue, and cheese, for which Rose is extremely grateful.
After dinner they continue rowing and by now Rose’s bladder is full to bursting. The oarsmen occasionally stand up and make water over the side, but the needs of the women are forgotten, and she sits on the hard thwart, her knees tight, too embarrassed to mention it. She clenches her hands and focuses her attention on her throbbing bladder, willing it to remain under her control; but with a sudden lurch of the boat, and to her great shame and relief, a warm stream runs down her thighs to combine with the ever-present bilge water at her feet. Her face remains a stony mask she stares forward, the grunting of the men and the creak of the sweeps loud in her ears.
When the sun is low, the boats turn at last toward shore. The long prows slip over the mossy bank as men jump overboard, dragging the boats after them. The passengers, stiff and sore beyond all measure, silently climb out. Some oarsmen can barely move, their women helping them ashore. With an amused glance at the brigade, Alexander grabs his powder horn and Baker carbine from the baggage, and, accompanied by a pair of Indians, moves off along the bank.
The crew starts a fire and unloads provisions, blankets, and oilcloths from the boats. One of the Indian women climbs the steep clay walls, and, attacked by diving swallows, reaches into holes to pull out eggs and young. The bank of the river rises over twenty feet above them and is shadow cool; swarms of mosquitoes materialize, requiring everyone to wrap themselves in blankets and sit close to the smoky fire.
Several shots carry downwind and the colonists huddle closer to each other and wait. The river gurgles and the fire snaps as they stare at the flames in weary silence. The Bay men smoke their pipes and cross their bulging arms and stretch their moccasined feet toward the heat. Laughing among themselves, they trade uncouth yarns while the cook boils water for tea in his great iron pot.
After a long wait, the three men return, carrying several geese. They roughly pluck the birds and pass them over the fire, singeing the remaining feathers that blacken and wither against the white carcasses. They are buried in the fire, and too soon brought back out. Partially cooked and burnt, the carcasses are passed around, and each man cuts away a piece of the fat, dripping flesh with his knife.
Lachlan approaches the captain of the brigade. “Beg pardon, Mr. Turr, but will we not be dining with the governor this evening?”
“I am afraid not, Mr. Cromarty. You see, the governor’s private stores are really quite limited. There are also important issues that he and I must discuss this evening regarding the new colony: trivial, administrative issues that are much too dull for entertaining guests at the table. Perhaps when we arrive at Jack River house. The governor is very sorry.”
Lachlan returns to sit beside Rose, ignoring her questioning look. A goose carcass is lobbed at him: it tumbles from his hands, falling into the edge of the fire. A neighbour lifts it out, brushes off the ashes and sand,
and offers it with a craggy, gap-toothed smile.
He breaks off a leg and hands it to his daughter. They have not eaten in more than eight hours and ignore the sand that crunches in their teeth. The wet, sloppy sound of the ravenous brigade reminds Lachlan of feeding dogs. After they have eaten, they pass a keg of trade liquor around. Turr is insistent that only one tot per man is allowed, against the disappointed protests of several Highlanders, and all of the Indians.
Rose leaves her father resting against a driftwood log and walks down to the river to wash the goose grease from her hands. The cold water does little to clean away the oily film and she rubs them on her dress, which smells of urine. There is no way to bathe in privacy, no way to wash her dress. She has hardly felt so far from even the rudest comforts of civilization. Standing on the edge of the loathsome river with darkness descending in a hellfire of voracious insects, she loses the daylong battle against her tears.
When she at last gathers her composure, she returns to her father to find he has fallen asleep, his blanket having fallen away. His face is grey with a pelt of mosquitoes. She wipes them away, leaving behind thin lines of blood. She pulls up his blanket and covers his face, and it feels as if she is wrapping him in a shroud.
Rolling in her own blanket, Rose lies beside him. There is still an orange glow along the western edge of the river and above her Vega shines brilliant and small. She reaches from her blankets and squinting her eyes, tries to grab it with her thumb and forefinger. Mosquitoes whine about her.
The next morning Rose is awakened by a kick. With a groan, she opens her eyes, seeing that most of the camp is up and about, the men loading the boats. Someone must have stepped on her. She pulls her blankets about her shoulders, and shrinks back out of the way. The chill air is damp, and the night’s accumulated dew rolls down the oilcloth onto her shoes. Her father is still propped against the log, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. His face glows with red welts.
“Morning, lass,” he says. “How do you feel?”
“Sore. I must have slept on a rock.” She looks at the bustle around her. “Are we leaving so soon?”
Lachlan nods. The sun has not yet climbed the bank and the river is still veiled, mist climbing out of the valley and glowing in the morning rays high above them. With a painful popping of joints, Rose rises to her feet, depressed at the thought of yet another day jammed into the uncomfortable, crowded boat. She walks to the riverside and bends over; her hair, matted and tangled with dry grass, haloes her face. Her cheek is muddy, forehead spangled by many insect welts. Furious, she splashes her image away.
She realizes that if she is to spend another day in the damned boat, she must be prepared this time. She needs to make water and move her bowels, and requires privacy to do so. Without a word, she walks away down the river.
Evidenced by the fly-crusted piles, others had made good use of the cover of darkness the previous night, something she will have to remember. The river is maddeningly straight and without obstruction, and when the camp is far behind, she comes upon a slab of granite protruding into the river — at last something between her and prying eyes.
When her toilet is finished, she feels better for her cleverness. She pulls her dress over her shoulders and steps out of her shift. Moving into the water she gasps, and her skin feels as if on fire from the cold. Her toes dig into the soft bottom and she wraps her arms about herself. At each step, the river deepens and she rolls onto her back; the twin lines of her thighs stretch out before her, dipping and rising as she kicks. Her belly and breasts are round, pink islands, the nipples tight knots.
As Rose drifts on the cold water, she turns her face to the morning sun, allowing its light and the river’s current to wash away her fear and pain. Soon she begins to shiver and becomes aware of the increasing distance between her and camp; effortlessly she rolls onto her belly and swims back.
Rose is a strong swimmer and quickly finds her private spot beside the rock. In the shallows she grinds her dress into the sand, rolling it and squeezing it. When she is satisfied it is clean, she prepares to spread it on the rock, and finds the Half-caste squatting up there like a great toad, a grass stem in his mouth, his rifle resting on his knees. He is not looking at her, just gazing off into the distance. She grabs a large stone from the river’s edge and hurls it at him, hitting him just over his left ear. With a whoof, he vanishes from sight.
She flings on her wet dress and peers around the rock. He is lying spread-eagled on the beach, blood running from his head, and his right foot waving in the water. Lifting the hem of her dress, she steps over him and runs down the beach to the camp.
The men are very angry, and shout at her.
“It’s aboot bloody time ye got here, we bin waiting half the bloody morning!” yells the steersman for one of the boats.
“Get away!” Lachlan says, pushing the man back. He turns to his daughter. “Where have you been, Rose? We have been calling this past hour. Mr. McClure went looking for you. He said it’s very dangerous to wander off by yourself.”
Rose drops her eyes. “Mr. McClure? I … he was watching me. I hit him with a rock.”
They find him propped against the boulder, dazed and holding a handkerchief against his head. The Bay men roar with laughter.
“Better watch out, she’s got a mean arm that ‘‘un.”
“Aye, but only when in love.”
“Don’t know as I want to be loved that way. Me head ain’t that hard!”
“Please accept my apologies, Mr. McClure,” Rose tells Alexander as his head is bandaged with strips of linen. “I was unaware that your presence was due to concern over my welfare. But you certainly should have announced yourself.”
Alexander looks at her, and, to her surprise, begins to blush. “I did not know you were there when I climbed up the rock. The view was as startling to me as it was to you, Miss. I was wondering how to sneak away without being seen when you clipped me with your stone.” A faint smile crosses his lips. “Like bloody David and Goliath, begging your pardon.”
It is Rose’s turn to blush. She reaches up and touches his bandage. “I don’t accept that kind of behaviour from any man, Mr. McClure …”
“Call me Alexander, Miss. Now that we are so acquainted.”
“All right, Alexander. I hope there are no hard feelings.”
“None at all …”
“‘Ard feelin’s right ‘‘ere,” a man says as he walks past, grabbing at his crotch. Several others snicker.
“I beg your pardon?” Rose asks. The colour in her cheeks rises again.
“None at all,” Alexander repeats, having missed the insult.
He stands again in the stern of their boat with the men at the oars and Turr sitting in the bow like a gnarled figurehead. As soon as they leave shore, Alexander drops his scull and draws out a bag from beneath his jacket.
“I forgot this,” he says to Rose, pulling out some tobacco and a coin that he drops into the river. Seeing her look, he shrugs. “Always a good idea to give thanks at the beginning of a voyage. For good luck.”
“I imagine prayer would work better, Mr. McClure.”
“Alexander,” he replies. “I think it is prayer. What else could you call it?”
Lachlan frowns. “It strikes me a heathen ritual. We observed many such superstitious gestures aboard the Intrepid, and I did what I could to put a halt to it. One would expect that Christians would know better.”
“Come father, you must not speak like this to Alexander; you are not a schoolmaster here.”
“Hush, daughter, you will not speak thus to me,” Lachlan says to Rose, his voice lowering. He turns towards Alexander. “Excuse me if I seem rather over-pious, Mr. McClure. I suppose I still yearn for a room filled with scholars.”
“No offense at all, Mr. Cromarty. We seldom hear the words of God preached in Rupert’s Land; there are few priests, and none west of Albany Factory. You will find our religion is apt to be rather slipshod, I’m afraid.” As he speaks, Alexan
der marks the exchange between the Orkneyman and his daughter, and wonders what it means.
The day carries on much the same as the previous, with the unrelenting squeak and splash of the sweeps, the weary grunts of men. Alexander leaning on his scull, smoking his pipe and staring at the river with his eyes half closed as if lost in some distant dream. Sometimes they are at the head of the brigade, sometimes at the rear; often a canoe drifts alongside, Alexander talking with the Indians about hunting and the weather and furs, their conversation drifting between Swampy Cree and English. The Indians are ill at ease; despite the geese they had shot, there has been little sign of any other game. They drag baited hooks and occasionally catch a pike or walleye, but even the fishing is not what it should be. So it is with great excitement when they emerge from the lee of an island to find several large animals fording the river.
“Ituk, Ituk,” the Indians shout. Rows of enormous antlers move along the surface of the water, like a raft of floating willows. Black backs and snouts shine wetly; one by one, the animals pull themselves from the river, shake water off in a scintillating corona, and climb the slippery bank. All watching think them magnificent, and in a few moments, the animals vanish onto the tundra, leaving behind a churned-up cutting in the riverbank.
Both canoes pull alongside, and the Indians begin an excited discussion with Alexander. In the end, it is reluctantly decided that after the day’s slow start and the necessity for stopping for the ladies, the need of which Rose had communicated to her father, who had passed it to Alexander, to the enormous gratitude of all the women, they cannot afford the time it will take to hunt and butcher, and so they row on. As Alexander reassures them, each day is a new one; each turn of the river, a new hope.
As they leave the coastal lowlands behind, emaciated spruce, cottonwoods, and the occasional jack pine begin crowding the river’s edge. They had heard so much about the Northern forests that their first few days of wizened scrub and flat, monotonous muskeg had been a disappointment.
A Dark and Promised Land Page 7
