Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  Breakfast consisted of a thick sort of porridge and coffee. Evelyn took hers over to a tree stump, the table and chairs having already been packed away, and sat there eating and watching as the men began to strike camp. They worked with the same swift efficiency, emptying the tents and stowing their contents. Bedding was pushed into oiled dunnage bags, the cots taken apart and the washstand folded up, and then all was taken down to the shore and packed into the canoes. The same performance was repeated with the gentlemen’s tents, the cooking awning, and the folding chairs.

  All that for six guests, while the guides themselves had managed perfectly well sleeping in their clothes under upturned boats or in simple shelters.

  Once back on the river they made slow but steady progress upstream. James had not so much as glanced at her as he saw her settled into the canoe beside her father, nor did he look at her when he helped her ashore some hours later when they arrived at a small, half-broken jetty. This, Skinner told them, was the beginning of the Long Portage, which would take them around a series of rapids and shallows that stretched for almost three miles. The men would continue a little farther, he explained, poling the lightened canoes through the rocks for a while; it was easier than portage.

  She stood between her father and Rupert and watched as James, together with Louis and Marcel, climbed back into the boats and then, stripped to the waist, began the strenuous business of poling the canoes up through the rocks while Machk and Tala walked on ahead, dragging on ropes secured to the front. She could hear them shouting to each other across the noise of the river.

  ‘Backbreaking work,’ remarked George.

  ‘They’re young,’ said Mr Skinner, ‘’nd fit.’ And he turned away to oversee the remaining guides who shouldered the off-loaded packs and started up the trail. The rest of the party followed at a more sedate pace.

  It was a well-worn track which climbed steadily uphill through the forest. At first it was wide enough for them to walk two abreast and every now and then they had a glimpse down through the trees to the sparkling river where the canoes were making their laborious progress upriver. ‘How long will they keep that up?’ she heard her father ask.

  ‘Half a mile, maybe more if they’re lucky, the river’s high since the rain. They’ll come ashore when it shallows, and then pull ’em out.’

  ‘But do they carry the boats as well?’ asked Clementina.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But empty they’re light; it’s the tents and gear that weighs heavy.’

  And the folding chairs and the table and the awning, Evelyn bit her lip, and the cots, and the wretched washstand. Did their party really require so much cosseting? Or was it because she and Clementina were there? Why was it always thought that women required more! She used to complain to James that she would ride so much better if she was allowed to wear trousers and sit astride, and he had laughed at her. ‘Get yourself breeks then, and shock old Carstairs.’

  ‘In India we had a string of bearers a mile long when we went out hunting.’ Rupert dropped behind to walk beside her. ‘They’d have carried us too, if we’d asked them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised at her tone. ‘Hardly.’ The trail narrowed and they were forced to walk single file awhile, and he dropped behind again. He seemed entirely untroubled by the exertions that were being made on their behalf, and she had heard him complaining to George about the food last night. A little way farther up and the path widened. ‘Anyway, they were glad of the work,’ he said, drawing level with her again.

  ‘Who were?’

  ‘The native bearers. Same here, I expect, these chaps. It gives them a livelihood.’

  ‘But they had a livelihood before.’ How must they feel, fetching and carrying for white men and women, the very people who had taken it from them. ‘I don’t suppose this is what they’d choose to do.’

  ‘No, probably not. But it was the same in Africa. It takes a generation or two to adapt to civilised ways. Bound to, of course.’ And she thought of the Indian who had been sitting at the door of Sitting Bull’s cabin, a human exhibit scratching in the dirt, and these men now, earning their living by carrying the pointless trappings of those civilised ways on their backs. Adapting, as Rupert would have it. She had begun to refute his position when she heard the sound of rustling in the woods and the thump of footsteps behind them. ‘Step back, miss, and let them pass,’ said Mr Skinner, and the first of the canoes came into sight along the trail, carried shoulder high by James and Louis, moving fast.

  ‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Clementina as she caught up with Evelyn and Rupert a moment later. George had dropped behind to walk with her as her boots, she said, were pinching.

  The men had been sweating and breathing heavily, the canoe itself still packed with gear, but they hardly paused, except to wipe their forearms across their brows and confirm with Skinner that they would send the others back for what remained at the landing. As they disappeared along the trail, the second canoe appeared, and passed them.

  ‘This is the longest portage we have to do,’ said Mr Skinner as that too disappeared ahead of them. ‘The others ’r soon passed. On the way back downstream, if you like a thrill and don’t mind a wettin’, some of you might want to stay with ’em and go through the fast water.’

  A little farther along, they met Tala and Machk returning to collect the last canoe, and after another mile they reached the end of the portage to find the first two canoes were already in the water, half-stowed with equipment, and the men stretched out on the rocks smoking, or sleeping under the shade. Louis had his neckerchief spread over his face and it rose and fell with his snores.

  James, she saw, was sat on a rock down by the water tossing pebbles at a half-sunken branch, and he looked up as they appeared out of the woods. Mr Skinner gestured to the small fire they had lit. ‘How about some coffee? Is that can hot?’ he asked, and James rose to obey.

  Her father had picked up one of the poles and was examining the iron tip. ‘That was an impressive performance,’ he said as James passed, but he was ignored.

  ‘Ach, they’re fit,’ Mr Skinner repeated, dismissively. ‘The others’ll be here with the rest of the gear in half an hour, and then we can get going again.’

  And then, thought Evelyn, these men must paddle the laden canoes upstream against the current, and pitch camp again, arrange the wretched washstand and cots, draw water and cook supper before they could even think of sleeping.

  She went down to the river to rinse out her own cup.

  ‘This new railway line that’s spoken of. What route will it take?’ she heard her father ask as she rejoined them.

  ‘Other side of the river, with a whistle-stop at the lake a few miles to the north. So then we’ll have fishermen coming downriver as well as up.’

  ‘And one day perhaps a very different river.’ Her father looked out across the water to where the current was strong. ‘If what we learned at the Exposition is anything to go by.’

  The old man looked puzzled. ‘Meanin’ what?’

  ‘Meaning dams, sluices, and turbines, Mr Skinner. Water-power.’

  ‘On this river?’

  ‘I imagine someone is considering it.’

  Mr Skinner looked aghast.

  ‘Are you investing in the electricity companies too, Mr Ballantyre?’ asked Rupert. ‘I understood these new long-distance currents can be lethal.’

  ‘They will be,’ he replied. ‘For the Nipigon as Mr Skinner knows it.’

  Evelyn looked about her to where the sun lit the bright autumn colours along the riverbank, watching the poplar leaves tremble in the breeze before spiralling down to join the current, dropping like so many gold coins to the water. So the modern world would encroach here too, would it? Where the canoes resting on the shingle and their tiny fire were the only signs of human life—

  ‘Ah! What took you?’ Skinner’s shout broke into her thoughts. Tala and Machk appeared from the woods, panting, weighed down by the
last canoe. ‘C’mon, get moving,’ and he gave Louis’s recumbent form a quick kick. ‘We ain’t done yet.’

  Chapter 15

  Up the Nipigon River: Second Campsite

  The second campsite was at a bend in the river.

  Evelyn stood on the shore and watched the men begin to unload the gear again, then carry it piece by piece from the boats up to the cleared area where, wordlessly and efficiently, they re-created the camp. The new site was on a little knoll where the land fell away on both sides, and was reached by a short wooded trail. Once up on the knoll the rushing sound of the river surrounded them, absorbing the softer tone of the wind passing through the trees.

  Bedrock had been exposed over much of the site and so tent ropes were secured to rusting iron hoops, or were slung between trees and tied to branches. The tents themselves were arranged as before with the three for the guests on the flattened area, separated by Skinner’s tent from the Indian shelters set slightly to one side. Two worlds, divided—

  And would James and Louis sleep under the canoes again? It would be hard and cold down on the rocks by the river.

  In what seemed like no time at all fires were lit and a meal prepared, and again the party divided to eat around two separate fires. The guides looked dog tired by then, as well they might, and even Mr Skinner was less garrulous than usual, content to suck on his pipe. There was good fishing here, he told them, so they would stay at this camp for two nights.

  At least the men could rest a little, Evelyn thought, and she sensed them waiting with ill-concealed impatience for their charges to retire.

  But the gentlemen seemed content to sit beside the crackling fire and talk on into the fading evening. Her father and Mr Larsen sat on one side, smoking their cigars, and Mr Larsen addressed occasional remarks to Mr Skinner. Her father, she saw, was staring fixedly into the fire, absorbed by his own thoughts. Whatever they might be—

  She had not seen him speak to James at all today.

  Rupert, flask in hand, leant across her to talk to George, who sat on her other side with Clementina’s head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Like I said before, now’s the time. Before word spreads …’ he said.

  ‘Word about what?’ she asked.

  ‘Rupert’s going to make his fortune in diamonds,’ George replied, with a smile.

  ‘Scoff, George, by all means! But there was plenty of talk around the tables in Port Arthur, I tell you. Mostly about some big gold strike, but of diamonds too—’ Rupert paused as Marcel came over to collect the tin plates, and his eyes followed him until the half-breed was out of earshot. ‘I’ll bet these fellows know a thing or two, but getting them to tell you anything is another matter.’

  ‘You can hardly blame them, if there are fortunes to be made,’ murmured Clementina.

  Rupert appeared not to hear her, and his face adopted a mulish expression. ‘A gold mine would come in pretty handy just at the moment,’ he said, and began tossing pine cones into the fire.

  ‘Just the one?’ asked George, with a wry smile at Evelyn.

  Money mattered to Rupert, it seemed, and mattered a great deal. But was it a natural avarice, or debts? He had told her that his father’s investment had been badly buffeted by The Panic that had so concerned Papa and Mr Larsen.

  ‘You know,’ he continued a moment later. ‘I’ve half a mind to go back to Port Arthur after this trip and see what I can discover. Maybe get some backers—’ He glanced towards Mr Larsen and her father, and then murmured to her, ‘Your papa has connections here, doesn’t he? And Larsen too?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ she replied.

  Mr Skinner called out to James to build up their fire and she watched him rise from the other group to obey. Conversation died again as he brought more logs over to them and raked the fire’s dying embers into a heap.

  Rupert watched him, wordlessly, then: ‘Have you heard about some big gold strike just north of here?’ he asked.

  James did not immediately answer but shrugged, his face half in shadow. ‘Gold this year, diamonds last year, there’s always something.’

  He made as if to withdraw but George addressed him. ‘You hail from Kelso, I understand?’ Evelyn stiffened. James grunted a brief assent but she was unable to see his expression. ‘I know the place well,’ George continued, ‘or the racecourse anyway, and certain beats along the Tweed.’ James made another noncommittal sound as he bent again to the fire. ‘You must have known the Ballantyre estate then?’

  She sensed her father switch his attention to them.

  James straightened and looked steadily back at George. ‘Of it, yes.’

  ‘And what was it that brought you over here?’ Clementina asked, in a social tone that managed to sound patronising. ‘A chance to see more of the world?’

  Evelyn sensed another tiny pause. ‘Something like that,’ he replied.

  ‘And have you found it was an advantageous move?’ Rupert asked, looking around the camp, his gaze lingering on the scruffy shelters. His tone was condescending too, and she saw a spark in James’s eye.

  Rupert could not know what he asked—

  ‘Aye, it was.’

  James turned to leave them but Rupert held out a pack of cigarettes, offering them to him, and blocking his route with his outstretched arm. ‘So what was your work in Kelso? Before you came over.’

  James ignored the proffered pack. ‘Whatever I could find,’ he replied, and as Evelyn searched for a way of deflecting the conversation, she saw that her father was slowly rising to his feet. If James was aware of this he gave no sign but said, ‘My master was a corrupt scoundrel, so I came out here.’

  Heat burned Evelyn’s cheeks, but she felt her father’s hand drop onto her shoulder. ‘A prudent move, I feel sure.’ He pulled over his seat and sat down beside her. ‘So you dream of gold, do you, Dalston?’ he asked, and she watched James withdraw to the other fire and turn his back to them. ‘Worse poison to men’s souls, or so the bard would have it.’

  ‘It’s all very well for the bard—’

  ‘And what would gold bring to you, do you think? Freedom and benefit, to quote Emerson?’

  Dalston gave a short laugh. ‘I’d be free from my creditors at any rate.’

  ‘And benefit?’ her father persisted, the firelight playing over his features. ‘To what purpose would you put your fortune?’

  Dalston lit a cigarette and flicked the match into the fire. ‘The same as any man, of course. To support myself.’

  ‘Ah.’ It was a little word, but it managed to convey contempt. She saw Rupert’s expression change, and this time she bridled in his defence. What right had Papa to judge any man? He no longer had the right to judge! He, who presented himself to the world as a generous benefactor, an upright man of principle, and yet by his own actions had …

  And there her thoughts faltered, at that point where they always stalled. A corrupt scoundrel James had called him, and the old sick fear rolled over her as she looked across at him. He had absorbed James’s insult without demur, as if accepting that portrayal of himself, and his face was now a mask.

  And she recalled that day in Edinburgh when the mask had slipped: I’m beyond redemption, he had said.

  The temperature dropped low that night and she awoke chilled, the furs having slipped off her cot, and her breath was misty as she emerged from her tent. She returned at once for a shawl, warning Clementina that the day was colder, and then returned to stand a moment and watch patches of low cloud drifting across the distant cliff face, hanging like lambs’ wool amongst the trees.

  Whatever must it be like here in winter—?

  ‘Mist’ll burn off in the sun,’ Louis told her as he passed. And true enough, as she sat huddled close to the fire eating her breakfast, patches of blue sky appeared between the clouds and the sun’s rays filtered through the trees to reach the camp. She moved her chair out of the shadows into a patch of warmth where low-growing plants cushioned her. The green of the leaves was spl
attered with autumn reds and yellows, and sheltered plum-dark berries, while spreads of moss and bright lichens covered the bare rocks. If they were staying in camp today perhaps she might paint—

  The men must have been up for a while. She saw them down by the water’s edge where the canoes had been lifted back onto the water, all ready for the day’s fishing. James was there too, talking to George, and examining his rod.

  ‘Will you go with them, Evie?’ Clementina asked as she emerged from the tent and came to sit beside her.

  ‘No. Will you?’

  ‘Heaven forbid! I shall stay here and try to keep warm.’

  So what would they do, the two of them? What would be their sphere of activity today, out here in the wild? Their duty was to be a civilising influence, but how should they approach it, when all their needs had been anticipated by these rough men who served them? They had completed all the domestic tasks of the camp well so she and Clementina were entirely without purpose.

  ‘And what will you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll catch up with my journal,’ Clementina replied. ‘It’s days since I wrote anything.’

  So at least their continuing existence would be recorded—

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ Rupert called up to Evelyn.

  ‘Next time, perhaps,’ she replied, catching a brief glance from James.

  ‘That’s a promise, then,’ Rupert called back, and smiled at her as he stepped into one of the canoes.

  And so, with nothing else to do, and having tidied themselves up as best they could, the two women settled themselves at the table, Evelyn with her paints and Clementina with her journal. And as the sun rose higher, it burned away the last of the mist, just as Louis had predicted. Tala brought them coffee, but then he and the others stretched out beside the fire, dozing or smoking their pipes, and ignored them – mere women without their men.