by Sarah Maine
‘Might’ve guessed,’ he snorted, when his gaze fell on them, and he spat, hitting a spittoon with deadly accuracy.
‘C’mon, Skinner.’ Louis was unmoved. ‘We did the job, caught some fish, didn’t drown anyone. Have a drink, eh?’
Only Louis addressed Skinner in this manner. ‘One drink’ – the old man said, with a token growl, and the floorboards creaked as he crossed to the bar – ‘then back to the lodge. And if you three’re headin’ off for a week you don’t go until everything’s ready.’ Heading off? This was news … but he caught Louis’s eye and said nothing. ‘I told ya there were women coming with the next lot, and women mean extra work. An’ with the amount they’re paying, they get whatever they want.’ Louis made a gesture with his fist and a crooked elbow which Skinner ignored. ‘Whisky then, if Louis’s payin’. Make it a large one.’
Chapter 6
Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893
Next morning the air was thick again, and sultry. The bunting hung limp from the masthead, and there was a pale, milky quality to the lake water. Larsen, an early riser, had just set aside his rod when Evelyn came up on deck, and he greeted her with a smile. ‘Ah, the resilience of youth.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Did you sleep well, my dear?’
‘I did, thank you.’
He called for fresh coffee and rolls. ‘And an omelette, perhaps? Or a perch pulled fresh from the lake this morning?’
She gestured to the rod. ‘By you?’ she asked, and he recognised her father’s dry smile.
‘Of course. But in truth I find the perch is a bony and tasteless creature. The fun is in the catching, not the eating – which must make me as contemptible as our new friend. I recommend the omelette.’
Rupert Dalston had occupied his thoughts as he fished that morning. Last night he had invited the young man to dine with them this evening, on board the Valkyrie. He seemed to be travelling quite alone and had accepted the invitation with a grateful alacrity, and this fact, together with the success of last night’s dinner, had planted the seed of an idea in his head. But would Ballantyre approve? His friend’s relationship with Dalston’s aristocratic father went back many years, but it was a complicated one.
He looked across at Evelyn. ‘Your papa and young Dalston’s father are good friends. Did you know?’ he ventured.
‘Are they?’ she asked, between mouthfuls.
Only the very surest of friends would have continued to bail the man out to the extent that Ballantyre had done, underwriting large debts to the bank long after Larsen would have called them in. ‘In fact it was Earl Stanton who introduced your father to me, in those heady days when everyone was investing in railroad stock, and could do no wrong. They were part of the same syndicate, and he was even more obsessed with railways than your father.’ Indeed, it had seemed to Larsen that the earl had invested in every high-risk branch line with an enthusiasm which was little short of reckless. Ballantyre had been more cautious and, as it transpired, more shrewd, steadily repaying a hefty loan from Larsen’s bank and quietly disentangling himself from the earl’s affairs, investing in the gold fields of South Africa instead.
Larsen stared out over the lake, his eyes grave and unfocussed. And now, as railroad companies were leaving the tracks of solvency in a spectacular manner, there was every reason to be concerned. The tone of the earl’s letters, sent in response to Larsen’s probing, had changed from an initial bluster and unfounded confidence to what lately had amounted to stiff-necked pleading, requesting additional loans and time to get his affairs in order. Earlier in the year Larsen had felt it necessary to alert Ballantyre to this as he was, by then, for all intents and purposes, a silent partner in the bank. Larsen had been intending to refuse the loan and establish a fixed timetable for repayment. It had been a difficult decision—
‘Don’t do it, Niels. Trust me. Indulge me,’ Ballantyre had insisted when they discussed the matter. ‘I’ll stand surety, but don’t tell him so, his gratitude would embarrass us both. If it troubles your banking instincts, increase the interest a little to rein him in; he can afford to pay that, at least. And he can mortgage half the land south of the Tyne if he needs to.’
‘I believe he already has.’
Ballantyre had raised his head. ‘He has?’
‘With Jeb Merlin, as I understand.’
Ballantyre had stared at him. Then, ‘Good God. If he’s in the Wizard’s clutches he needs all the help he can get. Give him the money, Niels, and see if he can fight his way out.’
‘Amidst this carnage?’
‘Let the man try.’
Larsen looked again at Ballantyre’s daughter and wondered if he had perhaps stumbled upon the reason for his friend’s uncharacteristic recklessness. Was he perhaps considering an alliance with that aristocratic family? Rupert Dalston might be a younger son but he seemed personable enough, and Ballantyre would not be the first to trade his fortune for a titled connection. It hardly seemed in character, though, and Larsen felt a mild disappointment as he entertained the idea.
Evelyn too was thinking about last night as she ate her omelette below a cloud of circling gulls. It had been an agreeable evening, and after the launch had taken their guest back to shore, Clementina had slipped into her cabin and curled up on the bottom of Evelyn’s bed, as if settling in for a cosy chat. ‘Rupert’s charming, don’t you think?’ she had asked.
‘Yes—’
‘He always was good company, and has a fund of such amusing stories. I suppose it comes of travelling such a lot.’ She paused. ‘He’s hardly ever at home these days, he gets restless, he says. This time he was away for almost a year, and we rather missed him. Or at least I did – having Rupert around livens things up. He always has some diverting scheme or other—’ She picked up the hand mirror to inspect her face. ‘George says that he used to be forever in some sort of scrape, quite the despair of his papa. But I expect he’s grown out of all that, and he’ll be looking to settle down.’
Subtlety was not Clementina’s forte. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want to.’ Evelyn removed the string of her mother’s pearls from around her neck.
‘He’ll have to one day, though. George says he’ll inherit a nice little property in Yorkshire through his mother’s family. He’s not sure of the acreage but says it’s enough to provide a decent income.’
Evelyn snapped shut the lid of her jewellery box and began brushing her hair. ‘We really ought to know, don’t you think? I’ll ask him myself, shall I, as Papa isn’t here.’
Clementina had not stayed long after that. And while Mr Larsen returned to his newspaper, Evelyn finished her breakfast, wondering if this was how it would be in the future. Had her father instructed Clementina to draw up a list of suitable young men, having first established acreage, from which he would choose? And she wondered if he would trouble to consult her.
The day continued overcast and humid, and having explored more of the Exposition, Mr Larsen brought them back to the yacht early, drawn by the cooler air on the lake. Evelyn decided that she had seen as much as she wanted to of the Fair and would not be sorry to go.
Clementina annoyed her as they wandered through the exhibits in the Woman’s Building, expressing herself well pleased with everything they had seen, but Evelyn had still been oppressed by her morning mood and been rather disappointed.
The central theme of the exhibits seemed to be that it was in the domestic sphere that women found their natural place, and from there they should foster the seeds of civilisation. The much-lauded murals contrasted the lives of Primitive Woman and Civilised Woman, and Evelyn had frowned up at them. ‘Primitive woman seems to be having a more interesting time,’ she said.
Clementina had looked around in dismay and bid her lower her voice, but Mr Larsen had thrown back his head and laughed.
Dalston and George had not gone with them but had spent part of the day at a performance of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show which had set up on the margins of the Fair, and arrived back, well pleased with their exp
erience. Perhaps she should have gone with them rather than with Clementina—
Dalston threw himself down beside her and pulled something from his pocket. ‘Sitting Bull,’ he said, handing her a postcard. ‘The great Lakota chief. It was his little wooden cabin, you know, yesterday—’
She took the card and examined it. It showed the chief wearing an extraordinary eagle-feathered headdress which cascaded down his back to reach the ground. A beaded band was slung across his chest over a tunic decorated with further beads and quills, and the tails of small creatures formed tassels at the edge of his sleeves. Next to him stood a moustached white man in a heroic pose. ‘And that’s Buffalo Bill himself. Sitting Bull was once part of his show, you know, and travelled all through Europe with him.’
‘Part of his show? Surely not—’ She looked up and saw that Mr Larsen was watching her with a quizzical expression.
‘He was with them for several years, I believe,’ said Dalston, and Mr Larsen nodded confirmation.
Evelyn sat back, finding the matter quite incomprehensible.
Dalston meanwhile had begun describing the staged buffalo hunt. ‘Their hooves really did make the ground shake. Extraordinary creatures! Made me wild to get out there before they’re all gone— And then came the grand finale where the Indians attacked a wagon train, rounding up the women and children, whooping and caterwauling.’
‘Good Heavens! And what happened?’ asked Clementina.
‘Guess—’ drawled her husband.
Dinner had been set out on the aft deck in order to catch a breath of cooling air, and the crew had rigged up strings of paper lanterns overhead which gave the meal a festive appeal. Other parties had had the same idea, and laughter and snatches of music floated across to them from nearby yachts. The Morgan-le-Fey, however, remained in darkness.
‘And did the Woman’s Building meet your expectations?’ George asked her once they were settled around the table.
She made a polite reply as they were served chilled champagne and exquisite little canapés, but Mr Larsen shook his head at her. ‘That really won’t do, my dear. Courtesy at the expense of honesty? No, no. Say what you really thought.’
She took a sip from her glass, choosing her words carefully. ‘It was a little trite, perhaps. In places.’
‘Trite?’ Dalston’s eyebrows shot up, and again he seemed amused by her. ‘Go on.’
How could she explain? She was not quite sure herself. ‘The exhibits were well done, of course, but a bit predictable.’ She paused. ‘It was as if the women had put on a clever performance, and everyone was patting them on the head.’ She had everyone’s attention now, and felt her cheeks colouring. ‘Like children.’
‘But it showed all sorts of things that women can do these days!’ protested Clementina. ‘You can’t argue with that surely?’
‘No—’ she agreed, crumbling a lobster canapé on her plate, and wished that words came more easily.
‘Others have said the same,’ said Mr Larsen, smiling as he passed her another selection. ‘Some were outraged by the fact that their work was presented in a separate building, rather than being integrated into the whole. There was a mighty row about it, and then the suffragists got involved too. Half the women demanding to be heard, the rest determined to silence them.’
Evelyn gave him a grateful smile and allowed her glass to be refilled.
‘Well I thought the displays did everyone credit,’ said Clementina. ‘And it showed how women can have a civilising influence, through nurturing their own families but also by all sorts of charitable work. Something I feel sure your father would have applauded.’
Evelyn dropped her eyes to her plate.
‘Come and hunt buffalo with me, Miss Ballantyre,’ said Dalston, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, breaking the sudden silence. ‘You could aim to miss ’em, if you preferred, and still have the thrill of the chase.’
‘And I do believe she would go with you!’ Mr Larsen said. ‘But you’re quite right to question what you see, my dear, and the Exposition has stirred up a lot of passion! There’s been as much controversy amongst the women as there was amongst the Negroes and the Indians—’
‘Perhaps they all felt the same,’ said Evelyn; the champagne was giving her courage. ‘As if they had to ask to be included.’
‘Very astute, my dear,’ said Mr Larsen. ‘I see you’ve inherited your papa’s perceptiveness, along with his disdain for the counterfeit.’
Throughout the meal, Larsen had been watching Evelyn and thinking that Ballantyre was surely going to have his hands full. The girl had a mind, and ideas, even if she lacked experience and the confidence to express them. She needed a chance to bloom, and maybe she could do it better in his absence; the shadow of Ballantyre’s cynicism could be quelling.
By the time the covers were removed he had come to a decision, and when their young guest had gone, he took Lady Melton to one side and put his scheme to her. ‘What would her father say, do you imagine? His stateroom is empty, you see, so accommodation is not a problem, but you must advise me on protocol. In America it won’t raise an eyebrow if I asked Dalston to join us. You’re here as duenna, after all, and I am too, by way of a paternal figure, and the families are well acquainted—’
Lady Melton had been enthusiastic. ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea! Charles would be delighted, I feel sure. Evelyn has had so few chances to meet suitable young men.’
‘And is Dalston suitable?’ His eyes followed the departing launch as it approached the landing place.
‘My dear Mr Larsen! How can you ask?’
Chapter 7
North of Nipigon
In the forest north of Nipigon the light was fading fast. The tops of the pines were darkening against a crimson sky as James eased the pack off his shoulders and dumped it at the edge of a clearing. He stretched his muscles, then looked up to see a great double V of geese flying south with the sun under their wings.
They had covered a lot of miles these last few days, first by canoe, then on foot, and he was footsore and weary, but at least tomorrow night he would sleep in his bunk back at Skinner’s lodge. He went to gather fuel from the forest floor, small stuff, just enough for one night, while Marcel gutted the partridges they had caught earlier, setting them on spits to roast. Bright mosses marked the way to a small spring and he tracked its course then filled the kettle from a pool of clear water. They worked wordlessly as the evening chilled and grew still, then sat in the arc of flickering firelight, their faces lit by the glow, and the darkness closed around them.
They ate quickly, the roast flesh salted by their hunger, and then stretched out their legs, nursing tin mugs of coffee, and they smoked.
And talked.
There was only one topic. How big would the seam prove to be? How deep, how wide, how long? Did it extend for a yard, a mile, ten miles? Did it branch and fissure? Would they need to sink a shaft or could they work a trench along the seam?
‘How do we get the metal out of the rock?’ asked Marcel.
‘There’s a process,’ Louis replied.
Marcel looked at James, then back at Louis. ‘What process?’
‘It’s not hard.’
Silence. Then: ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Marcel’s eyes narrowed, and James laughed.
‘We can learn, can’t we?’ Louis pulled the stopper from a flask and drank deep, rolling his eyes as Marcel relit his pipe.
James smiled into the darkness as he watched his companions, their faces shadowy in the firelight as they continued to bicker. Louis passed him the flask and James took a swig, grimacing as it seared his throat. It was a mystery to him where Louis managed to find such poisonous brew. And for an instant he let himself remember the smooth taste of whisky back home, that sweet amber fire which coursed through a man’s lifeblood to reach his soul—
But Ballantyre’s was a treacherous nectar, so he’d take Louis’s rotgut any day.
‘We’ll pan in the streams too,’ said Lo
uis, taking the flask back from him. ‘I expect it’ll be outcropping all over.’
Marcel shrugged. ‘But we can’t claim it all for ourselves. Achak would not agree, you heard what he said. And there are many men in the forest again – prospectors and railway surveyors, and more talk of another railroad line, farther north, above Long Lake and the north shore of Aminipigon. If the gold outcrops there—’
James looked from one to the other, and shook his head. The whole thing was sort of a mad game they had devised and now believed all spawned from that little word: gold! It was like a breath of promise, but a promise which drove men to a frenzy, addling their brains, as the lure of Silver Islet had done a year ago.
He leant back and thought over the strange events of the day. They had met Achak, who was not only Marcel’s uncle but also an Ojibway chieftain, and talked. He had been an impressive man, and an intelligent one. He understood perfectly his particular rights which included the unusual circumstances of absolute ownership of his land, and all its mining rights, outside of the terms of a treaty which had restricted such matters for native peoples. Marcel had told them that sometime in the past a white Montreal trader had married a chieftain’s daughter and had the foresight to purchase a significant tract of land to secure it for his descendants. The official document recording the sale, now yellowed with age, had been so well drawn up that it was still a barb in the flesh of surveyors and prospectors and had been passed down the generations with reverence. Until, that is, it had reached Achak’s father, Chief Dan, and it was then that trouble had started. Chief Dan had been an avaricious man and over the years his greed, and a growing taste for the white man’s whisky, had led him to sell a large part of the land to small mining enterprises. Too much land, and too many enterprises, was his son Achak’s view as he watched the old ways disappear.
And then had come rumours of a large outcropping seam of white quartz, wired and leaved with gold, and Achak had grown anxious. A year ago he had confided to Marcel his fears that mineheads would soon blister the cleared forest, and that railroad tracks would crisscross the old hunting grounds linking shabby townships with their bars and brothels. He had seen it happen elsewhere— So Achak’s grief at his father’s sudden passing had been tempered by relief when he discovered that none of the land-sale documents had been signed, nor had the pending claims been registered. Having established this to his satisfaction, Achak had withdrawn into the forest to grieve for his loss in the old way, to take stock and to reflect.
