A Dark and Promised Land

by Nathaniel Poole

  “’Tis the Indians, sir,” adds one of the Baymen. “And a few of them Highlanders. They’s scarpered with some of the rum.” They all watch as a keg moves around the circle.

  “That does not look good to me,” says Lachlan, suddenly appearing. “And where is Rose? Hellfire and damnation, she was not with me when I woke up!”

  An Indian grabs the keg from a Highlander and pulls it to his mouth. They begin fighting, the rest of the Highlanders standing in a dark group a little ways off from the Indians, grinning and swaying slightly.

  Turr straightens his back. “Well, as you are responsible for the company’s supplies, Mr. McClure, I believe it falls upon you to retrieve the liquor, at once.” Another shot is let off.

  Alexander considers this. “No, I do not think so. It would be worth my life. And I need not remind you that discipline in the brigade is your responsibility, Mr. Turr. But it is best that we arm ourselves.”

  Lachlan puts his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Explain to me, what is this? What is happening?”

  “It is the liquor; a madness comes over them. I’ve seen it ravage the Indians almost as badly as the smallpox. Worse maybe.”

  “So they really are Savages …” says Lachlan.

  “Do not say that. Their ways may seem strange to you, but that is your ignorance. I lived many years with the Ayisiniwok, and the evil always came with the traders and their drink. Do not say that!”

  Several of the Baymen quietly retrieve their guns from the boats and crouch down, resting their weapons on their knees and watching the revellers.

  Quietly, while attention focuses on the fire, Rose leaves Alexander’s tent and moves unnoticed into the crowd of watchers. The Indian women are also drunk, and Rose sees Isqe-sis stumble toward her husband, grabbing at the keg. Iskoyaskweyau strikes her across the side of the head, and she falls hands-first into the fire. Shrieking, she rolls away while her husband yells at her, kicking her in the side.

  Over the last few weeks, Rose and Isqe-sis had become close. She had learned that talk while travelling is frowned upon, but once ashore and the work of setting camp and cooking is completed, conversation, flirting, and much banter is the order. The two of them had passed many evenings deep in conversation. She had been shocked and deeply disturbed to discover that the Indians knew all about her trysts with Alexander, and that they gave it no thought whatsoever.

  She also learned that the Indians did not share European ideals of love, and the women offered themselves to all, seemingly without regard or discrimination. They laboured like farm beasts while their men sat around drinking their horrid tea, gambling, prating about their bravery, and abusing them. She thought it monstrous, but Alexander had often cautioned her not to interfere with nor judge the Indians’ ways.

  “Rose!” Lachlan shouts as he sees Rose burst from the crowd and runs toward the fire. Several men hurry after her. When they reach the fire, Iskoyaskweyau is kicking his wife in the head, still yelling, spittle spraying from his mouth. Rose shoves him hard in the back and he trips over Isqe-sis, almost falling. His moccasin strikes a burning log, and sparks and fire roar about him. He twists in the flames, a knife appearing in his hands. He lunges at Rose as Lachlan jumps in front of her, and it sinks deep into his side; with a grunt, the Orkneyman falls to his knees. Declan sweeps up a great branch from the beach and brings it down on Iskoyaskweyau’s head.

  When Lachlan awakes it is morning; a canvas has been stretched over him, and he can hear the chatter of rain on the dripping cloth. A fire burns nearby, and smoke fills the small space. Someone has placed a wet cloth over his forehead. Alexander and Rose sit next to the fire and behind them he sees the dark shape of Iskoyaskweyau, his head wrapped in a bandage. Lachlan struggles to sit up.

  “No, Father, you must lie quiet.”

  “That Savage …”

  “You are safe, Mr. Cromarty,” Alexander says. “The drink has left him.”

  “His soul to the Devil! And what say you now about these Savages that you defended not a day ago?”

  Alexander looks uncomfortable. “What I have always said. It is the drink that makes them mad.”

  “Get him out of here!”

  “I cannot. He is here to minister to you.”

  “Eh?”

  “Yes. Iskoyaskweyau is the best healer that I know. I asked him to see to your wound.”

  “I’ll not have that damned Savage touching me. Be gone, you loathsome creature!”

  “Then you will die. Look!” Alexander pulls away the pad of linen pressed against Lachlan’s side. Lachlan’s shirt and the pad is soaked in blood; from a long cut protrudes a tongue of liver. The cloth sticks to it when pulled away.

  “Without his treatment, you will die. With his treatment you may still die.” Rose chokes. “We have no physic here, nor surgeon.”

  “And what assurances do I have that he will not simply finish what he failed at last night?” Lachlan says, his strength leaving him.

  “A rope around his neck.”

  A silence falls. Iskoyaskweyau moves beside Lachlan and as he kneels, mutters apologies. It was the drink, he says. It sets fire to him, takes over his spirit. He meant no harm to his friend’s friend. He is shamed. He has lost his wife and his friend is angry with him.

  “What does he mean he has lost his wife?”

  Alexander sighs. “Isqe-sis died in the night.”

  Lachlan rolls over. He cannot believe what he is hearing — the same man who almost killed him is going to heal him. And everyone thinks this is a capital idea, despite the fact that this Savage murdered his wife not many hours ago. What an ugly, insane brutal country this is. What had he been thinking to bring his daughter here?

  “It is not how you think it is,” Alexander says as if reading his mind. “This is a different world than the one you know. It seems cruel, but women — women do not have the same value as in your country. But families are strong, and the men faithful and loyal. The missionaries try to change the attitudes, but it is tradition. A man may kill his wife, if he so decides. He must apologize to her family, and they may take revenge, but it is their way. We cannot interfere.”

  “And this is acceptable to you?” Rose says turning to him, her mouth a tight line.

  “I did not say so. I am just describing what is. It is always best to accept what one cannot change.”

  “Like Isqe-sis’s death?”

  “Like Isqe-sis’s death. Like Iskoyaskweyau’s drunkenness. Like the presence of the traders who bring drink to the Indians. Like the disease brought by the Whites that killed my mother, and many of her people. I have told you before that there are many ways to die here.”

  Rose shakes her head, but does not argue. It seems to her that while there were indeed many evils in the world, the responsibility of the civilized person is to not accept them, but to move against them wherever they might be found. Is that not what raises us above the Savage level, that we aspire to be more than the mean situation we might find ourselves in?

  She looks at the Indian sitting beside her father. She hates his foul presence, that he will be Lachlan’s physician. As she watches, he gets up and mumbles something to Alexander and leaves the shelter.

  “What did he say?”

  “He will make a sweat lodge for your father.”

  “What shall we do with her,” one of the Baymen asks Turr, indicating Isqe-sis’s body.

  “Damned if I know. As husband, she is his responsibility. Leave it to the Savage to decide what to do.”

  “It’s making the men upset.”

  “So I see. Damn my eyes, there’s always something, isn’t there? You there, Mr. McClure!”

  “Yes, Mr. Turr?”

  “Speak to the Savage, will you? He must do something with this body.”

  “What would you have him do, sir?”

  “She must be buried or disposed of in the river or something. The men are quite upset about what has happened, and I wouldn’t be surprised if our noble provider
over there found himself hanging from one of these trees before nightfall.”

  “Many Highlanders were also involved last night. Sir. It would do well to remember that.”

  Turr takes him by the arm and leads him away. When they are out of earshot, Turr leans towards him. “There is trouble festering here, Mr. McClure. I fear that this brigade is on the verge of rebellion. And it is not just the colonists; even our own men are as surly as I have ever seen.”

  Alexander looks over the camp. “You are right, Mr. Turr, I have not encountered such malaise, nor such wretched ill luck on any similar brigade. It should not happen this way. I am not sure — we are behind our time, but it is more than that. I no longer trust our journey.”

  “Oh, indeed?” says Turr, giving him a surprised look. “And what is the source of this misgiving? Is it the regrettable losses we have sustained? Or is there more? Perhaps the ferrying of Selkirk’s trespassers into your lands sits poorly with you?”

  Alexander stares at him. “I have nothing against these people, Mr. Turr.”

  “Then you are unique among your kind. It was your tribe who threatened the settlement last year, if I recall.”

  “I believe that was Nor’westers, sir,” Alexander replies, keeping the edge from his voice with effort. “And Half-breeds. But I ask you to speak plain; do you believe me intent on sabotaging this brigade?”

  “Hardly. But what a man thinks, and the choices he makes can oft be at odds with what lies hidden within his heart, hidden even to himself. I wonder if you are not so tormented with your current charge?”

  “You may rest assured that there is no such conflict. The welfare of the brigade is my only concern at the moment. Though I wonder if it is not against God’s will that we do this; perhaps He disapproves of Lord Selkirk’s grand plan?”

  “Who can know? But I am glad to hear of your allegiance; in times such as these all must choose sides: Scots, English, Savage, and Half-breed alike will be called to make a stand. The fate of the Company, and therefore England in Rupert’s Land, hangs in the balance, and it will surely be war. Mark my words.”

  “I mark them, but it already is war, Mr. Turr. Word has long since caught my ear that the settlement has been burned out, the Nor’westers threatening death against any who return.”

  Turr stares at him. “My God, you are sure of it? The settlement has been dispersed?”

  “I am not, but it would hardly be surprising giving the mood of the land.”

  “But the governor may be walking into a trap. We must inform him!”

  “We cannot go any faster than we are now. I have been driving the people as hard as I might, to little effect. And now we have a wounded man to consider.”

  “There must be some way …”

  “I will speak to Iskoyaskweyau. We can send him with a letter. I doubt the governor is far ahead of us.”

  Iskoyaskweyau tends the fire as Alexander pushes the door cloth aside.

  “You look terrible, my friend,” he says.

  “I am a fool. Look at what the Machi Manitou in me has done.” He rests his head in his hands.

  “Yes, you are indeed a fool, Iskoyaskweyau. A coward who has done great harm, and for this you must make amends. Why do you cringe in here? There are things that must be done; you must complete the journey that you started last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your poor wife lies outside like carrion for the dogs to pick at and you sulk in here like a child. You must attend to her.”

  “I had forgotten that in my grief.”

  Both men leave the lodge. Iskoyaskweyau begins peeling birch bark to weave into a coffin. He will lace them together with hemp and cover it with several soft sleeping-furs.

  He and Alexander lift the body and place it near the river. Iskoyaskweyau kneels beside Isqe-sis and smears her swollen and burnt face with vermilion. All of her possessions are arranged at her feet. Iskoyaskweyau takes a small printed sheet of paper from out of his jacket, an English wood cut of a fisherman with a creel bulging with fish. He places the prized talisman on Isqe-sis’s breast.

  When they are finished, Alexander looks down at her. Her broken jaw is grotesquely swollen, her hair rolls partially burnt. He wishes for something pretty to accompany her, but there is nothing at hand. Not even a flower. But then he sees Iskoyaskweyau’s silver earrings, and he points to one.

  “Leave that with her,” he says. Iskoyaskweyau nods and places it in her hand.

  Alexander stands up. “Everyone, gather around, please,” he says to the watching colonists. “Mr. Turr, perhaps you might say a few words?”

  The brigade shuffles up, with several black looks to Iskoyaskweyau.

  Turr rubs his jaw. “The twenty-third psalm, I suppose? Has anyone a Bible?” There is an embarrassed silence. “I see. Well, I shall do my best.” He clears his throat. Everyone except Iskoyaskweyau lower their heads. The Indian sits on the ground beside his wife, and looks out over the river

  “We are gathered here to mourn the passing of this poor woman. Her life was like that of most of her kind: full of savagery and hardship and brutally cut short. Such is the lot of those who live without the grace of our Heavenly Father …” Rose walks over and places her hand on his arm and speaks into his ear. “Are you sure?” he says, looking startled. Rose nods.

  Frowning, he addresses the company again. “I have just been informed that our sister here has been baptized, and was in fact a Christian. Praise …” At that moment, a crow discovers an owl hidden in a nearby spruce and begins a frightful racket. Several other crows immediately gather, perching on nearby trees.

  “Our Lord,”

  Caw-caw-caw

  “That He found this …”

  Ca- caw-caw

  “Child in the …”

  Caw-caw-caw

  “… wilderness …” Turr’s face turns a bright scarlet, but still he perseveres.

  Caw-caw-caw “… and in his …” caw-caw-caw “… mercy …” caw-caw-caw …

  Declan takes two long steps, and before Alexander can react, the Highlander grabs his carbine and fires into the trees. The suddenness of the report makes everyone jump, and the crows burst protesting into the forest. The report chases itself with an echoing crash down the river valley. Declan hands the carbine back to Alexander.

  “Thank you,” Turr says. “Where was I? Oh, yes. And so we thank our merciful Lord that he has shown his light to this poor sinner, that she might indeed be part of His holy harvest. We pray that he forgive her evil and Savage ways. Amen.”

  “Amen,” they all chorus.

  “Where shall we bury her?” someone asks.

  “We shall not,” Alexander replies. “Iskoyaskweyau shall stay behind to build her a coffin. He will carry her into the forest, where she will be placed in a burial mound. This is their way.”

  Muttering breaks out among the men. One of the Highlanders approaches. He stands in front of Turr, feeling the weight of his fellows behind him. He is a small, round man with a yellow face and a greasy horseshoe of bluish-grey hair about his temples. His eyes are the colour of ashes. As he stands in front of the officer, he spreads his legs a little.

  “Mr. Turr, we canna allow this; if she were Christian, she be deserving of Christian law. It is not right that man be left free.”

  “Since when did you care what these people do to each other, Mr. Burgess?” says Turr, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I never liked those bastards, Mr. Turr, and there be a good man lying in there with his guts hanging out. That savage should be stretching hemp.”

  “Oh, indeed? But Mr. Cromarty has not yet succumbed to his wounds, and there are circumstances that you have not considered. Like where the Indian came by the liquor in the first place. We all know the Savage does not tolerate drink, which is the reason I limit the distribution of spirits. But someone pilfered a keg last night, with tragic consequences. I would like to know who that person is.”

  “The Savage …”


  “Does not go near the boat. Ever. No, it was one of you, a verminous scoundrel who has not the balls to step forward and take responsibility.” He glares at Burgess, who stares right back. “She is the Savage’s wife and will be dealt with according to their custom. I will hear no more of it!”

  Lying in the steaming heat of the sweat lodge, Lachlan spends the day drifting in and out of sleep. When he at last fully awakens, he cannot tell what time it is, the only light coming from the coals of the fire. The smoke burns his eyes, although he can see the lodge is empty. His side feels as if on fire and perspiration beads his face and forehead. He yearns for his daughter to be with him, but is too weak to call for her. A twig snaps in the fire.

  He remembers that day in Stromness, the day his life changed. It was cool and raining, the spring grass growing in the cracks of the cobbles and the rain-polished stone houses. The air was filled with the rich smells of peat and kelp fires wrapped in the muddy aroma drifting down from the tidal flats of Hamla Voe.

  Sitting at his window, he had the shutters open, listening to the rain and staring at the Whitehouse Rock lighthouse across Stromness harbour. He had been composing that afternoon’s Greek lesson when the sight of the harbour distracted him. He often looked down at the comings and goings in the harbour, at the lovely ships and the green islets of inner and outer Holm bejewelled with countless white seabirds. Like a scholar, he often wished he was elsewhere, yearned to walk across those heath-covered rocks, stealing eggs and frying them on a peat fire overlooking the great barques, sloops, whalers, and frigates crowding the harbour.

  The sound of footsteps echo in the narrow, winding street, and he saw the figure of the father approach, his black cassock swinging. Tall and gangly, the priest often reminded Lachlan of a black stork. But he could tell by the man’s quick steps that there would be no smoking in front of the fire that day, as they often did, musing on the finer points of philosophy and Greek poetry.

  “Good morning, Lachlan,” the priest said, spotting him in the window. “You seem like one contemplating truancy, if I am to judge the wistful manner in which you stare out your window.”