A Dark and Promised Land

by Nathaniel Poole

  “Get that fucking boat off!” Alexander hollers.

  Men struggle to obey, but the pressure of the water is too great. An axe works its way forward from hand to hand until it reaches the bow. A man chops at the pointed stern of the offending craft as they bound and leap and twist their way through the rapids. The chunk-chunk of his axe and his prayers are swallowed by the thunder of the water; he is veiled in flung spray and mist.

  Alexander knows when the man has succeeded when they abruptly swing in line with the current. The abandoned boat strikes a rock broadside and leaps skyward; it twists and rolls, grey belly shining, and falls upside down in the water like a harpooned whale. Packages and bales fly about them.

  “Row, you sons of dogs, row for your lives!” Alexander shouts. The men grab the sweeps and run them with a clatter into the locks.

  Rowing is nearly impossible with the current and protruding rocks and shallows, and they are constantly knocked off-stride when someone jams his oar or skips it uselessly across the face of a boulder.

  A sweep jams, and it rips from the lock and the rower’s grasp, hurling across the deck as the boat rushes downstream.

  Lachlan flings himself on top of Rose. The oar tears the back of his frock coat as it hurls past. Alexander jumps down just in time as it whips over him. He turns and stares in bewilderment as the oar disappears astern, poised quivering over the surface of the frothing and foaming river.

  But they are at the bottom of the rapids, slowly drifting to shore. Men are shouting and weeping; their wives have fallen overboard, vanishing into the river.

  Chapter Six

  They gather what they can of the spilled gear and retrieve the damaged boat from under the tangled branches of a cottonwood that had fallen into the river. Although a few planks are cracked and sprung, the vessel is still serviceable and Baymen paddle it back to the foot of the rapids and re-stow it with salvaged goods.

  Declan’s arm is broken and will need attending before he can go any further. Two men set out in a boat to look for the bodies of the missing women, while Alexander and the Indian Iskoyaskweyau — Isqe-sis’s husband — minister to the injured. Turr has a small amount of laudanum, and hands a tot to Declan to sip.

  Hours pass before the searchers return without seeing a trace of the lost women. The Orkneymen wish to continue searching — at the very least to retrieve the bodies — and the women’s husbands are adamant that they will not leave without them.

  But their guide is impatient; they have already lost much of the day and have been swept back almost to the campsite of the previous night. The White Mud portage is still ahead, and it will take many hours to get the boats and gear through, which means carrying long past nightfall.

  The steersman, from a boat that had successfully climbed the rapids ahead of them, returns along the riverbank, and they hold a council. Many are anxious to carry on, some demand to stay, and the Baymen dismiss it all with a shrug, sitting on the gunwales smoking their pipes.

  After much argument, they decide that the boats already above the rapids will carry on upriver, while the rest of them search for the missing women for at least the remainder of the day. They will have to row that much harder the next several days and catch up to the brigade at Swampy or Knee Lake.

  There is little time to decide, and Lachlan informs Rose that they will stick with their guide. Declan is unable to make the climb on shore and Cecile Turr is adamant that his heart is not up to such an effort, and God rot it, a gentleman does not scrabble like a goat along cliff faces and mud banks. But some of the passengers from Alexander’s boat will not remain behind, and these are allowed to go with the steersman and carry on with the boats waiting upstream.

  It is with heavy hearts that those remaining behind watch their compatriots disappear into the willows.

  “Damn my eyes, I do not think much of this, Mr. McClure,” Lachlan says with a frown. “Dividing the brigade — is this wise?”

  Alexander looks down river. He can’t agree with the Orkneyman more, but what the hell can he do? A widower sits on the edge of the river with his head in his hands, the other behind him, weeping like a child. He shakes his head, unable to abandon them to grieve themselves into their own graves, nor to force them at gunpoint to follow. There are enough experienced men in the other boats to temporarily lead their part of the brigade. Choice is a luxury they do not have. Not for the first time, he curses the factor for burdening him with the colonists. His heart yearns to be free again: drinking, brawling, and hunting buffalo on the open prairie.

  “Their wives are here somewhere, and so we must search, for whatever ease to their hearts such effort will provide,” he says to Lachlan. And to what fate awaits the rest of us? Christ only knows, he thinks.

  They search several miles down the western shore while the boat explores pools and backwaters and the far bank. A blue shawl is found slowly rotating in a whirlpool, but nothing else. Night approaches and Alexander calls off the search.

  They sit in the smoke of their fire; no one has much of a mind for eating and not even the indomitable Declan can lift his sprits above the damp misery of the camp. A widower lies rolled in a blanket like a shrouded corpse while another sits staring in silence at the river, as if his gaze could release his woman from its clouded depths.

  “I think we can all use a drink,” say Turr, retrieving the rum keg. This time all offer their tin cups, and he pours a double ration for the two men waiting by the river.

  Rose sits beside her father, her head resting on his shoulder, staring into the fire. She thinks about their hearth in Stromness, the warmth of their cottage on the Ness, overlooking the harbour. Their cat would be on the rug, her purring a gentle counterpoint to the whisper of the peat flames.

  The wind along the river picks up, and the trees in the darkness above them begin shushing. A few falling leaves flash across the firelight, golden and flickering like tiny angels.

  Alexander lifts his carbine and walks into the darkness. Frowning, Rose turns to her father, but he is fast asleep, his lips slightly parted. His face is closed, heavy with age and weariness. She hopes the dream he walks within is a pleasant one as she pulls the old blanket up and over his shoulders.

  Looking around to see that no one is watching her, she follows after her guide. She hears the voice of the river; it has changed for her that day, seeming more menacing. Water can wash away sins and pain, but can also inflict great suffering. She has read of the Mother River of India, the Ganges, and sees the Hayes as also carrying secrets and dread and powers beyond what ordinary men are allowed to comprehend. A holy river washing away the dead, returning them by secret ways to their own country. Maybe they truly are trespassers and the Hayes is cleansing the land of them. She wonders how many other souls lay entombed in her silt, waiting for judgment.

  She turns to see how far she has gone; the fire is a distant orange spark surrounded by black forest and a glowing night sky filled with wind-blown stars reflecting in the smooth breast of the Hayes. She hesitates, remembering her father’s command.

  “Why are you here?” demands a voice from the darkness, startling her.

  “To see what might be found,” she replies, willing her voice to be strong.

  “But it is dangerous.”

  “If such is the price of knowledge, I am willing to pay.”

  “Aye, but maybe you have not yet answered for the full toll.” But the voice is that of Alexander. “Why do you follow?” he asks.

  “For the same reason you once followed me.”

  “You wish for a glimpse of forbidden beauty?”

  “Indeed not. Although in this land, I would give much for even a trifle of loveliness. Pray, where are you? I cannot see anything in this wretched night.”

  “Over here. Sitting like a foolish squirrel on a log, chattering at passers-by.”

  As she approaches, she sees the dark form, a shadow against the night, a shine reflecting on his cheek.

  “You weep?” she asks
softly.

  He does not answer, just pulls his knees up and rests his chin upon them. Rose sits beside him — close, but not overly so. She picks up a leaf and twirls it between two fingers. The wind sighs over the surface of the river.

  “There is no blame spoken by anyone,” she says.

  “I am guide and master of this brigade.”

  “But you are not master of fate. And the One who is would feign have you usurp His role.”

  Alexander looks at her, but cannot see her clearly. But then the moon escapes from the wind-blown trees, and her silhouette emerges sharp against the silver glow. He feels the heat of her body, the sound of her breath. He frowns, curls his toes in his moccasins, feeling them pop and snap. A sudden urge compels him to reach out and lay his hand on the back of her neck where a few loose hairs dance in the moonlight.

  He remembers the first night he saw her: the Indians were raising hell, and she had wandered into the main hall, looking scared and angry and defiant. Her hands gripped one another, as if she were afraid that she would strike someone, perhaps her father, hovering over her as if he were guarding the Royal Jewels. He had brought her out from Scotland, had these dreams of a new land. Like all the rest, he did not understand that the only land is the one you carried inside yourself, carried in here. The rest is just geography.

  They are always the same, believing that the new must be better than the old. But they bring the old with them, so find it where they arrive, and blame it on the land, the Indians, the Company.

  “I see you do not believe me,” Rose says. “It is more manly to suffer, no doubt.”

  “People have died here. And I am responsible.”

  She moves against him now, her hip pressing against his. He can feel the heat in his face.

  “You are responsible for bringing us to the settlement as best as you may. You are our guide. People have died on the river before, and more will do so in the future, but that is not in your hands.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Rose looks out over the water. “I can feel it, Alexander. The river whispers to me; she mourns those spirits that she carries in her bosom. Look there in the water — see the lights of the dead?”

  “But those are just reflections … stars …”

  “They are just stars, and a man is but a man, and God is … what? There are more things in heaven and earth, Alexander.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Rose smiles to herself and takes his hand. “Perhaps I will teach you.”

  There is a crack of a breaking twig. Alexander whirls, pushing Rose aside, and grabbing his carbine. He cocks the hammer and levels it.

  “Who comes? Speak, while you still have a head to do so!”

  A shadow moves between them and the distant fire. “Put down your gun, Mr. McClure, afore you hurt yourself. Indeed, I think you have forgotten the ramrod in the barrel. It is myself, Declan.”

  “Declan? Why are you skulking there?”

  “I skulk not. I seek the lady, Miss Cromarty.”

  “I am here, Mr. Cormack.”

  The shadow stops. “Miss Cromarty?” he says, surprised. “Your father awakened without your presence to comfort him. He is wroth.”

  “If it isn’t the most confounded nuisance — will you people not leave me be?”

  “It is nae safe …”

  “She is indeed safe, Highlander, as you can plainly see.” Alexander steps forward. He does not lower the gun.

  Declan pushes the barrel aside; Alexander sees the flash of polished metal. “Drop the knife! By Christ, I’ll blow you to hell!”

  “I’ll see thee and thy mother there first,” Declan says. “But there be nae threat here.”

  “Then why approach a man in the dark with drawn blade?”

  “As I spoke to the lady, it be dangerous in these wild lands.”

  “For God’s sake, Alexander, put away your weapon. He means no harm.”

  “Harm does not always reveal itself, not at first,” Alexander replies, lowering the gun.

  “If I bore you ill will, you would already know it, by Christ.”

  “Oh, God rot you both,” Rose says. “I am leaving, and do not either of you follow me!” She jumps off the log and hurries back towards the camp, her dress swishing. Both men watch her run off. They stand in uncomfortable silence, like the proverbial wolverine and lynx, wondering who will strike first and whether it would be worth all the fuss.

  “If I might ask, Mr. Cormack,” Alexander says at last. “Why are you here? What is your interest in the girl?”

  Declan turns towards him. “I could ask the same of you, Half-caste. It is nae proper that Miss Cromarty be alone with you.”

  Alexander sighs and drops his gun. He sits with a thud on the log. “The girl came to me for what purpose she did not explain. Perhaps it was not I that she sought.”

  Declan thinks about this a moment. “The girl wanders much. It is a wonder the father allows it.”

  Alexander lifts his head and looks back towards the fire. “I doubt that is a bird that can be caged, Mr. Cormack. You may as well confine a raven to a dovecote — it will chatter miserably, and drive its companions mad.”

  “You may be right, Half-caste, but perhaps she wanders because she seeks. Perhaps when she finds what needs drives her, she will be content to roost with the other doves.”

  “I will defer to your experience, for of women I know little, and like as not have made a fool of myself. Please excuse my foul temper.”

  “Dinna fash yourself over it. I still think you were at the greater danger, but perhaps I am mistaken? Can you truly use the weapon with effect?’

  “I can, if need be.”

  “So a man might say. May I beg for a demonstration?”

  Alexander shakes his head. “The people are at their wit’s end and the sound of a gun would have them scattering for holes.”

  “I see your point. Still, can this musket skill be taught?”

  Alexander assures him that the Baker is no mere smoothbore, but that with patience anything might be taught. At this, Declan pulls himself up before Alexander and promises undying love, fealty, and friendship in exchange for training in the use of the gun. Alexander is uncertain whether this ragged and maimed man is presenting an honest offer, according to some strange clan custom, or is attempting ribaldry. He points out that with a broken arm, it will be many days before Declan will be able to hoist a gun.

  Declan looks down at his arm hanging in the sling as if he had forgotten it was still there. “My offer still stands,” he says, reaching out a hand. Alexander receives it, feeling the man’s thick, cool fingers wrap around his own.

  At that the Highlander wanders off, and Alexander is left to ponder his choices. But his thoughts keep returning to Rose. He wonders at this and like a badger in a rabbit run, his mind hungrily follows a winding trail of inquiry: She is different from the rest, he tells himself. Maybe it is her youth, but more likely her posh life is responsible for the lightness of her step, the way she seems to not even make in impression in the dust. The daughter of a schoolmaster, so want is something she’s never known. She has never watched someone die, the way they claw and struggle, the eyes staring, blood foaming at the mouth. The desire of the dying to not die; there is nothing quite like it. It would be so much easier for people if they just let go. So much pain for nothing because if you are going to die, you might as well get on with it. Hanging on just to shit yourself doesn’t seem like much of a life, even if it is only for a few seconds more. The smart thing is to die — and quickly. What is there to fear?

  She is pampered and spoiled like one of the factor’s damned roses. Not such a bad thing in Scotland, perhaps, but it won’t help her out here. Her father is already doomed, began dying the moment he set foot on the Bay. Is she fated like these women at the bottom of the river, to feed crayfish and worms?

  Only the strongest make it. And the most vicious. These peasants that came with her look more beast than h
uman, slouched and gnarled like old spruce. They might survive if they aren’t shot or don’t freeze or starve.

  He looks down the river to the glow of campfire, to where the woman had fled so haughtily, so complacent, her head as high and proud as an old, bull buffalo. I’m afraid for this girl, he thinks. She is so close. She blew in on the winds of a storm, like a goddess, a seed, blown from far-away lands. A Manitou, perhaps, that’s what my mother would say. There was anger on her face that night at York Factory, but I saw through that. Fear and a bit of wonder. I can’t imagine what it must be like to leave those bare, green Scottish hills they talk about, with their great stone cities and castles. Imagine abandoning all that majesty to get lost in this land.

  He is afraid for her and cannot afford to be. He sees the shadow of hardness in her face. One day she will be like the others if she isn’t careful. A pox on her father.

  Nothing else must be in my mind than this voyage, he chides himself. The trees, the bend in the river, the shoals. Too much danger. Damn these colonists, damn them all to hell. I do not know what to say. I do not know the graces. I can shoot the eye out of a flying raven at a hundred yards, can run without rest for hours, swim rivers, find my way home in the darkest night, in the foulest weather. But I cannot say Good morning to a woman. What a fool I am. Her wrists move like the neck of a swan. Her eyes trace your exact movements like an owl watching you from across the stillness of a moonlit, frozen lake.

  From the moment I saw her, I loved her.

  When they prepare to depart the next morning, there is again a chill in the air with the threat of wet weather on the wind. The sky is grey and low, adding to the oppression of the brigade. August has moved into September, and the surface of the river moves with countless yellow leaves, each gust of wind sending a new cohort spinning into the water. Fairy-boats, Rose calls them, and Alexander shivers at the sentimentality of her words.