Reckoning of Boston Jim

by Claire Mulligan

  He ponders again the idea of forgetting. If he were capable of it, one day he would no longer know what she looked like and her every gesture would be impossible to conjure. One day he would no longer see twin flames reflected in the darkness of her eyes. He would like that. He crosses his arms over his chest, for the scars ache near as much as when they were newly made.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “Need the wages.”

  Illdare glares at him. “What do you mean, wages?”

  “Been here twelve years, three months. Take off three years for an apprenticeship. Owed for nine then. Figure thirty-five pounds a year for the clerking and translating and trading. That’s less than you’d have to pay any other. You know it. Makes three hundred and fifteen pounds. Take nothing less.”

  Illdare stands. His voice is low, his fists clenched. Boston has seen him angered, but never has Illdare’s anger been directed at him. “How dare you come into my chambers unasked? How dare you beg for money? You have received food, a roof. You have been allowed to conduct your own trade. I have given you monies from my own profits. You ungrateful bastard. You came to me like a bloodied cur and I saved you.”

  “Need the wages.”

  “You are not on the books. As such you do not exist. You are more like a noxious odour that has vanished. Are you aware of that quandary?”

  “The wages. Worked for them. Don’t matter if not on the books.”

  “You might have left with her, you stunted idiot. Did you consider that?”

  Boston says nothing.

  “Hah, you see, that is your trouble. Your head is so stuffed with the pointless details of life it leaves no room for imagination. Well, then. Here is the deal, Jim, my boy. Either take your belongings and leave now, or cease your begging and stay. Think on it. Now get out! Out!”

  Boston stares at him. Illdare drops his gaze. “Out, Jim,” he says almost gently now.

  Boston leaves without another word. Illdare would only deny the assertions of Fleury and of the five Kwagu’l that Boston questioned. Kloo-yah was not traded to a noble for otter skins. These came from Illdare’s private hoard. Boston was a fool to believe otherwise. He knows that now. For what noble would take to wife a woman said to be of the spirit world, no matter what rank she had formerly? “He trade her for a sword, rusted one, not fit to chop wood,” Fleury told him. “Bad deal. Woman like yours be sold to the Indians at new fort down south. Sixty pounds, that is the going rate. The Whitemen, they use them for whores.”

  The new headman listens carefully to what Boston proposes. He is young, this headman, and known for his prowess as a warrior. Lately he has been insisting that the fort men owe the People for the wood they have taken and the water drawn and for the birds shot from the sky, which is their sky and ever has been. The old headman gave away his privileges for nothing, not even for status. And in return the Whitemen—King George men and Boston men both—have brought the pox and the coughing sickness and have infected their women, and for this the new headman wants that the fort men should be gone from his lands entirely.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “Want the old pallet back,” Boston says to Illdare.

  “Ah, so you’ve given up on your ridiculous demands.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim, I was perhaps harsh. Perhaps . . .” Illdare is about to say something more, then shakes his head, as if to ward off the thought.

  Later Boston stretches out on his old pallet behind a partition of canvas. Listens as the engagés settle in for the night. A new engagé, a young Irishman, cries in his sleep, a victim of that sickness for home that afflicts many of the newly arrived. Boston waits until the crying subsides, until snores are constant throughout the room. Now he crouches and lights a shielded candle and picks up a hand mirror and applies the black grease and then puts the red painted clamshell ’round his neck, all as the headman instructed him. Next he wraps his boots in cloth and takes a mallet and three lengths of coiled rope from out of his trunk. Walks past the sleeping engagés to the compound. It is a half-clouded night, the moon waning. The tide is high and is lapping at the western wall of the fort. Smells as always of sea brine, of rotting things.

  He climbs the ladder to the northwestern bastion. The watchman is already half-insensible from the rum Boston left for him and drops without a sound when Boston swings his mallet. Boston gags him and then binds him with cording. Next he secures the three ropes to the spikes of the palisades. The ropes thud against the fort walls as he hurls them downward. He takes a long breath, then gives a soft whooping call to the men ranged in the darkness beyond.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  They tear the goods from the trade room shelves. A sack of flour spills open, covering all in a pall of white. Once or twice a warrior nearly falls upon Boston but halts when he sees the red clamshell, the black grease on Boston’s face and remembers that he is the one they have been told not to harm. Boston waits until the shouts and screams subside and then returns to the compound. It is lit with oolichan torches now. The body of the watchman lies hacked to pieces. The bodies of many engagés are in bloodied heaps. The wives of the fort men have been herded to one side, are rending their hair, holding fast to their wailing children, are cursing their own people for what they have done.

  Shots and shouts. Whoops of triumph. Someone cries out to God and all that is holy. Another curses God in French. Another gives a strangled scream that ends abruptly.

  It takes several rammings for Illdare’s door to splinter open, so well is it locked. The headman and his brother drag Illdare from his chambers. He is not screaming or shouting, only grunting as he struggles against them. He wears a night shift, a nightcap, and stockings. His legs and forearms are thin, show a fish-belly white where they are not covered with purple-red stains. The men point, rip his shift from him. Laugh. The stains continue up his groin and chest. It is as if has been splashed with wine.

  Illdare tries vainly to cover himself. His hands are grotesquely gnarled and darkly splotched. The nails are oddly white.

  Illdare does not recognize Boston until Boston steps past him with axe in hand. He reaches out, mouthing some words that Boston cannot hear above the din. Boston hesitates. No. It is too late to explain that allowing the People to attack the fort was the only way to get inside Illdare’s well-locked chamber, into the strongroom. The only way Boston could think to get what is rightfully his.

  The headman is true to his word: Boston is allowed in alone. He thrusts aside the table and hacks at the trap door that leads to the strongroom. No time to search for keys. The door gives way. In the cool depths of the strongroom he finds only barrels of rum, bales of furs, the rations for the next quarter. He clambers out. Rights the table. Puts the pipe rack back in its place. Picks up the pieces of the writing set that have fallen—the closed box of sand, the blotters—then sits at the table. Illdare says. “Well done, Jim, you have read all of Candide.” Read, yes, and now kept whole in his memories. He has only to imagine the leather binding and the pages fold out before him. But he cannot say he always understood what he read. Likewise he does not understand why he so wanted to please Illdare, would have done anything for him, and without desiring anything in return

  Enough of this. He has not much time. He opens a company journal to the entry of several weeks past. Illdare’s hand is upright, heavy-inked. In places the page is punctured by the pressure of the nib.

  September 14, 1847. Drizzle in the morning. Thick Fog in the evening. Traded 20 made beaver skins for 3 two-point blankets. A bolt of red baize for twenty salmon. Boserviet again ill with Venereale.

  There is no mention of Kloo-yah. No mention of Boston.

  He flips backwards, reads of Jackinaw who stole tobacco and so had to be clapped in irons. Of the combination that lasted until Illdare agreed to one half-hour less of work a week, though not to the full hour the men demanded. Of the water supply again cut off by the Indians, of the lumber stolen from the stockade, of the broken fur press and the amount of furs traded
. Never a mention of Boston, though it was he who knew the diplomacy to stop the People from stripping the stockade to nothing, and he who saw to the repairing of the fur press, and he who acquired so many of the furs and other goods that were needed to maintain the fort and reach this quota that had once seemed of such terrible importance.

  He flips through the journal of 1835, the year he was brought to Fort Connelly. No mention of him here either. Only that the fort is nearly finished, only the mundane details of the weather and trade. Only observations on the Indians and on the conduct of the engagés.

  He has never been in Illdare’s bed chamber. The bed is made of iron and is covered with a rumpled patchwork quilt. A trunk. A lamp. A basin with a water jug. Except for the continuing noise outside it would seem as if nothing were amiss. He finds Illdare’s personal journal in his trunk. All men, red or white or black are vessels of folly and despair. Some calamity will wipe the earth clean of us. And so on. Ideas of his own, of others. There is no mention of Boston. Illdare was telling the truth, then. It is as if Boston does not exist and never has. Good, then no one will ask him what he knows of the pillage of Fort Connelly. No one will ask him what he knows of Illdare.

  The headman will not wait much longer. Boston upends the trunks, slashes the mattress, the quilt, the pillows. Feathers float through the air, settle on his hair. He smashes the glassed picture of an English field. Nothing behind it. He grabs a poker and pries up the floorboards. Still nothing. He stands perfectly still, his breathing harsh. Recalls Illdare at the map of New Caledonia, recalls him reverently touching its shorelines and parchment seas.

  Boston rips the map aside. Finds a seam in the woodwork. Pries at it with the flat of his axe until the large cavity is exposed. Finds what he seeks—the treasures of Malcolm Illdare. Before him is an ivory statue, a basin of jade beads, rusted armour, a single worn coin that bears the face of a queen, and there, a sword that still shows evidence of exquisite craftsmanship though barnacles are encrusted on the hilt, though the blade, as Fluery said, is rusted. A burning wetness fills Boston’s eyes. He presses the heels of his hands to them, then searches further, finds a fold of pound notes and some coins in a tasselled smoke pouch, an image of Raven embroidered upon it with beads. He counts the money quickly—one hundred and twenty-six pounds, ten shillings. Not enough to cover his wages, but more than enough to buy her back. He will not even bargain. It is at this instant he realizes that Kloo-yah is not a memory like others; her absence is nearly tangible, and has a constant presence, a dragging weight.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  He travels to the lands of Kwagu’l. Learns, as he feared, that she has already been taken South along with other women captured in raids or cheaply bought.

  At this new fort called Fort Victoria he hears that Fort Connelly has been attacked and overwhelmed and all the men butchered though they fought bravely, surely.

  The man who tells Boston this is young and English. His eyes are wide-spaced and pale grey, as if sucked dry of colour. “A gunboat was forthwith sent, a mighty ship with splendid guns, and flags . . .”

  “The People. How many dead?”

  “The People? Ah, you mean the damned savages. Several hundred I should say. The guns have a fine range.”

  It is all Boston can do not to spit on his hair and buttons and boots and cutlass, all of which gleam in the sun. This gleaming, as far as Boston can tell, is what makes these Englishmen believe they are of greater worth than any other creature that walks on two legs.

  “Only sixteen at the fort.”

  “They were Englishmen and others. They were butchered.”

  “Hundreds for sixteen. No reckoning there. Any damned idiot can see that.”

  The man rests his hand on his cutlass. Glares at Boston as if he has just recognized an enemy from long ago. “Which tribe is yours then?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Which tribe? I assume you are something of an Indian yourself. A half-breed perhaps?”

  “The Chief Trader. What of him?” Boston asks, though he knows the answer well enough.

  The Englishman looks at him askance. “Dead like the others. He was tortured it seems, and for a good long while.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Later Boston looks again about Fort Victoria. It is larger than Fort Connelly. The buildings are numerous and well-built. A flag snaps crisply on a pole. Perhaps he has overlooked her. Perhaps she is tilling potatoes in the field. The one hundred and twenty-six pounds, ten shillings is safe in the tasselled smoke pouch in a sewn-over pocket of his shirt. The small weight of it is like a talisman. It is for Kloo-yah and only Kloo-yah that the money is meant. Once he finds her and buys her back it will not matter that he caused the death of the fort men, that Illdare was tortured. Nor will the quota of the company matter, nor the demands of the Christian God, nor the demands of the spirits and gods of the People. All will be balanced again.

  She is not to be found. None have heard of her. “If this is the best of all possible worlds. What are the rest like?” These words of Candide come unsought, leave him with the sensation that he is tilting in a gale.

  Thirty-Three

  On the day of the hiring Boston waits in a queue for the better part of an hour. Now stands before The Hume who sits at a makeshift desk near his cabin. It is the first time Boston has seen the man up close. His eyes are amber flecked with green, and are fairly bloodshot. His moustaches and beard are short-cropped, as smooth and shiny as mink pelts. Below his hat brim are wisps of brown hair. “Handsome, he is,” the Dora woman said. “Handsome as the saints, the devil even.” Boston studies the straight nose, the fine teeth, and supposes this is true.

  The Hume asks questions in quick succession, barely waiting for the answers: “Do you have experience? Do you speak English? Do you have any ailments?”

  “Some,” Boston replies. “Yes.” “No.”

  The Hume scribbles at his papers.

  “Work cheaper than the others. Work harder.”

  “I do not doubt it. I’ll keep that in mind. Yes. Thank you for coming.” He looks past Boston to the man behind him. Boston stands before the Hume a moment longer. The Hume’s hands are patterned with freckles; his forehead has three distinct lines. In all, an older face than the one from the tintype the Dora woman showed him.

  “Good day then,” the Hume says and motions Boston aside.

  Boston follows the path back to the towns. He curses himself for not having dropped his gaze, for it unsettled the Hume, that was obvious. He might have hired Boston otherwise. And then Boston could have kept a proper eye on him, could have made certain he came home safe, just as the Dora woman so wanted him to do.

  He looks about, then veers off into the trees and crosses the stream. On a slope he finds a vantage point behind some boulders and bramble. Takes out a telescope. He bought it with the last of his money, not with the one hundred and twenty-six pounds ten shillings still in the smoke pouch, still in the sewn over pocket of his overshirt. That is not truly money anymore, is more a portion of Kloo-yah’s spirit that presses against his chest like a small fist. He finds the mine and then the Hume’s partners busy at this task or that, and then the Hume himself, talking now to a Chinaman. Boston holds the Hume steady in the round of glass.

  Dusk, and the long queue of men has gone. They have hired two Chinamen and a Canadian. The Hume sets off to town with the blond young man and the Swede. Boston follows at a good distance, keeping the figures the size of his hand. He cannot let the Hume out of his sight, that much he knows.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  In the next two weeks the Hume goes to the towns six times—twice with the black men, Napoleon and Lorn, four times with the Swede and the one called George Bowson. On three of these occasions the Hume visits the Denby saloon. But he does not indulge in Madame Blanc and her women, as do Langstrom and George Bowson. Out in the street the Hume roars that he would rather be boiled in oil, rather be drawn and quartered and his entrails left for buzzards than b
etray his love. This comforts Boston some. “He’s faithful to me, he is,” the Dora woman said. And if the Hume is not faithful? Does Boston’s task extend to keeping him safe from other women? He hopes he will not have to decide. He is being kept busy enough following the Hume and his partners about, keeping a discreet distance, shifting himself behind the crowd that gathers ’round the Hume wherever he goes. For the Hume is known to give a hundred dollars’ worth of gold to down-and-out miners. He has used champagne bottles for bowling pins, has wrapped a ten pound note ’round a cigar and smoked it. Boston overheard Lorn Hallwood, the scarred black man, reprimand the Hume, and Napoleon Beauville, the tall one, nod in agreement, saw George Bowson stare in astonishment at the Hume’s spending. The Hume’s antics, however, do not surprise Boston. It is the sort of generosity expected of those with wealth, particularly those who find it in the earth, or win it, or gain it suddenly, for no apparent reason. The Hume’s giving is providing him with status, a name, with admirers who vow, for the time being, to follow him. It is ever so in the world. The headman Wa’xwid smashed the copper Quail Before to show his power and to defeat a rival. The copper was worth twenty lynx blankets and twenty slaves and thirty wide planks and forty boxes of grease. He burned three canoes that day, and he gave away four machines that stitched clothing, eighteen rifles, and a hundred three-point blankets, each person receiving according to his station. Boston has heard the missionaries call the potlatching wasteful and knows they are keen to stop it. But it is no different from what the Whitemen practice when they receive bounty, unexpected or otherwise, any idiot can see that.

  No, what worries Boston is that the Hume is drinking without restraint and does not seem to notice the ones who glare at him with envy instead of hope. On the last occasion the Hume went on a spree to the towns he stumbled back to the cabin alone, singing drunkenly. Langstrom the Swede and George Bowson were still at the Denby. The night was full of wind and odd rustlings. The Hume, drunk as he was, did not notice the two men following behind him, closer than Boston ever dared. They carried no lanterns and walked with the stealth of thieves.