He did not know what sort of bear probed at him, black or grizzly. And then an odd thing happened: the bear licked his face, and Skye felt something had changed. For all his time in the mountains, he had sensed that he shared a brotherhood with bears, and this bear was being a brother to him. The bear whoofed softly and retreated, leaving Skye shaken and grateful to have survived such an encounter with Old Ephraim, as the men of the mountains called him. The stars returned and the night breezes calmed him. He could not say what mysterious thing had happened that moment but he knew that things would soon go better for him. It was as if that bear was a messenger of hope, sent only to him in that sleeping camp.
His fear and desperation left him, and he knew they would not return. All these things that had afflicted him in his short life had purpose, and had happened to him to strengthen him and prepare him for a life he could not yet discern. He fell into a sweet sleep, resting body and soul even on the hard ground, better than he had rested for a long time.
And he woke refreshed.
His captors came and rolled him over and untied his hands, which were lashed behind his back, and then his ankles. He rubbed his hands, restoring circulation.
“Well, mates, did a bear visit you in the night?” he asked them. But they didn’t reply. Governor Simpson was sitting on a log nearby, watching closely.
“A bear poked his nose into my robes.”
“No bear that I know of,” said an HBC man. “But they’s tracks, yes?”
Skye studied the grassy flat and found no sign of an animal’s presence. The print of a bear looked oddly like the print of a stubby human foot, but the few barren places revealed nothing. And none of the packs lying about had been disturbed.
“Skye, you are not to talk with these men. You will not fill them full of stories or win their sympathies.”
“A bear visited me.”
“Dreams. Nightmares. Your past is catching up to you.”
Maybe a dream. But Skye knew it wasn’t. Maybe it was his spirit-bear. He thought back to what Red Turkey Head had once told him: he and the bears had an affinity. All he knew was that something had changed, and he had somehow won a bit of leeway, or tolerance, from these men.
“If I can’t talk to your men, I’ll talk to you. I feel like talking this fine morning,” Skye said. “If you were at all interested in who I am, you might start with my upbringing. My father was a London merchant …”
Oddly, Simpson didn’t stop him. He sat sipping tea, eyeing Skye with those penetrating eyes of his while his men boiled some gruel for breakfast and packed gear. Skye told his entire story—within earshot of the rest—and the governor let him do it. It was as if Simpson was seeing Skye for the first time.
“Very interesting, Skye, but not a word of truth in it. You’re a clever one. You’ve read a few books in the ship’s brig and learned to mimic your betters. I can’t place your dialect, but Billingsgate comes to mind. London for certain. Born there, eh?”
“Yes, sir, Westminster, Kensington High Street.”
“Rubbish, rubbish, Skye. You were born in the East End.”
All that day Skye toiled under his heavy pack, saying little, his spirits actually buoyant. His body did not complain as much. His traveling companions seemed friendlier now, though none of them could converse with the prisoner. Something had changed.
They passed into country that was more level than not, and less forested than before. The Belly still took them northeast, toward its confluence with the Bow, and then the Oldman, and the South Saskatchewan River and ultimately Hudson’s Bay. From one upland ridge, Skye discerned a valley choked with trees and suspected they were reaching the Bow, or perhaps the Oldman. He wasn’t sure of anything now. Maybe they would load the canoes there, in much deeper water, and all crowd into the two vessels. But they would not reach the place until that night. Once the whole party was entirely waterborne, passage eastward would be swift and he would leave the mountains behind. The paddles would dip into the northern waters, and the canoes would race away from the country where he had spent several joyous years. Everything was coming to an end. Maybe his spirit-bear was telling him that.
That afternoon Simpson abandoned his canoe and fell in beside Skye, and Skye sensed that something was afoot.
“Skye, you tell an interesting yarn,” the governor began.
“It’s not a story, sir.”
“I fathom that. Nonetheless, you’re a deserter. In war you could be executed on the spot. The Crown wants you, and it’s my patriotic duty to send you to your well-earned reward. However, Skye, there might be a different sort of future for you. I suspect a dungeon or another warship or maybe an Australian penal colony isn’t quite what you had in mind for a life.”
“No, sir.”
“Maybe all that can be avoided.”
“What is it you’re proposing?”
“Perhaps nothing. It depends on you. HBC needs good men with wilderness experience. We never have enough.”
“You’re proposing that I join the company, is that it?”
“Maybe. Let’s say that Barnaby Skye doesn’t exist, but a man named Billy Blue does, and only I know the secret. Let’s say that Billy Blue chooses to indenture to Hudson’s Bay. Billy Blue gets all his needs provided for by the company; he agrees to ten years of service, after which he is free. He behaves himself, contributes labor and skill to the enterprise. He brings in the beaver. Billy’s a young fellow. At thirty-five or so, he’d be a free man. Free to go live among the Yanks.”
“And what’s to keep me at my post, sir?”
“Your honor. I fathom you’re a man of your word. Once given, it’s kept. That’s my gamble, not yours.”
“And what would my wage be?”
“Your eventual freedom. We’d provide for your needs, outfit you. It would be quite costly, actually”
“And if I did well, would I advance?”
“Unfortunately, given the circumstances, we couldn’t do much for a while. But maybe after six or eight years, we might offer some inducements. You could make a life career of it.”
“And how do you feel about betraying the Crown?”
“Tut, tut. Life is expedience. If you wish, I will gladly return Skye to the Crown and consider it my patriotic duty.”
“And what if there were—say—infractions? Billy Blue didn’t measure up?”
“There would be no infractions. Billy Blue would measure up or face his fate, the fate that every step is now carrying him toward.”
“And what sort of labor would this require?”
“Camp tender with a brigade. Or, since you’re literate, clerk and supply depot work. Bookkeeping. Maybe other things. You’re an Englishman. Your presence would help keep the Yanks out of the Oregon country. It’s a matter of some concern.”
“Ten years is a long time.”
“Well, if you’re especially valuable, we might parole you after seven. I could hold that out to you. Incentive, you know.”
“I spent seven years in slavery to the Crown, sir. Isn’t that enough?”
“Moot point. Accept or go to London and face the Admiralty.”
“On the one hand, Governor, you seem to accept my story. On the other hand, you hold me for the Crown. Why don’t you just let me go if you believe me?”
“Impossible. You’re a common seaman and a blackguard.”
“Whose word is his bond.”
“You are toying with semantics.”
“You don’t see me as a person, but just as one of a class of commoners whose labor you wish to exploit.”
“Of course I see you as a person, and I’ve given you a most generous opportunity, if I say so myself.” He paused, pregnantly. “Maybe on good behavior I’d let you go after five. Give the company five good years and I’ll review your case.”
Simpson’s offer sorely troubled Skye.
An HBC mountaineer named Belfast Berkeley halted the sweating voyageurs, and Skye gladly unloaded his burdens and stretched.
The governor was clearly awaiting an answer, and Skye was ready to give it.
“The answer is no, sir.”
“Then be damned, Skye.”
“It’s Mister Skye, sir.”
George Simpson whirled away in a rage.
Skye watched him go. Simpson had tempted him. But he would not submit to seven years of slavery to Hudson’s Bay, or even five, toiling for no wage and kept in line by fear of exposure to the Crown. It might even be a pleasant and robust slavery, out in trapping brigades. But it would be servitude, and he had had enough of that for several lifetimes. The decision should have saddened him, but it didn’t. He felt elated. He would not give his word of honor or commit himself to a prospect he despised. Let them call him Skye; they would find out soon enough—somehow, some way—that he was Mister Skye.
forty—six
Victoria raced down the Belly River, driven by some urgency she couldn’t entirely fathom. She abandoned caution, and no longer scouted the bankside path ahead or slipped into cover where she could. She had the feeling that time was running out, that she must find and free Skye at once—or lose him forever. She pushed her ponies hard, sitting light and lithe in the saddle, speeding them along as much as she dared. The ponies had not been well cared for, and they lacked the energy for sustained speed.
With every slight rise she peered ahead, hoping to glimpse the Hudson’s Bay men—but she saw nothing. She had come across their campsites, saw where they had beached the canoes, and noticed that some men among them—Skye included—had carried heavy packs. She saw only moccasin prints, and knew they had given Skye some footwear.
Then she rode across a neck where the river oxbowed, and she did spot them, miles ahead, a tiny moving party, like so many ants, crawling along the Belly, while two canoes, black dots, rode the river well ahead of the ones on foot. There was Skye, if she could catch him. Now caution flooded her. She had to get close, but this was open country with few trees except in pockets along the river. Far ahead in the summer haze lay a green-clad valley of another river. She was approaching a confluence. Now she knew why she hastened: there would be deeper water after that, enough to float heavily laden canoes. She paused a moment, gauging the land and distances with an eye that understood space. The Hudson’s Bay men would probably camp at the confluence. Even now Father Sun was setting. And in the morning, they would all crowd into the canoes and shoot downriver, propelled by currents and the mighty arms of the voyageurs.
She returned to the river bottoms, hoping she could stay close and yet avoid being seen by those sharp-eyed men. She hadn’t the slightest plan, and didn’t even know how to find Skye among them, free him if he was bound. She didn’t know whether they posted guards through the night.
This was the land of the Crees, and she didn’t much like it. The mountain vistas had given way to undulating prairies, with one or two buttes on the horizons. It seemed gloomy even in the hot summer sun. No wonder the Crees were such terrible people. They lived in a bad land. The Belly had cut deep chasms into the plains here, and the banks had eroded into fantastical shapes that chilled her and reminded her of spirit-places. Yet she would brave even these habitations of souls if it meant finding and releasing Skye.
She scared up pronghorns and coyotes and white-tailed deer that found their home in the bottoms. She saw countless meadowlarks, and the wild rose bloomed everywhere. Ducks filled every slough. The Belly flowed mysteriously eastward, carrying the waters from the Backbone of the World far away. Back in the land of the Bloods the water had been cold and clear; now it was murky and slow-moving, working through gravelly bars and shallow channels.
At dusk she knew she was close, and she walked her horses cautiously, lest she stumble upon the camp of the yellow eyes. She found a turnoff where she could ascend the bluff and took it, wishing to survey the terrain. She rode one horse upslope and tugged the other until she topped the bluff and beheld the vast, lonely plains. She let her eyes adjust to the gloom so she could see how the country lay. Just beyond was a wooded river valley, and she knew she was very close to the place where the Belly joined the Bow. She thought she smelled smoke on the night breeze. On foot, she led her horses along the bluff, and a while later was rewarded. Below, just beyond the confluence of the rivers, was the camp. A fire burned, and she could see the yellow eyes working around it. Two long canoes had been beached and turned over beside the large river.
Where was Skye? How would this camp be guarded—if at all? She saw no horses, and was grateful. Her own would not betray her with a sudden whinny, answered by whinnying from the camp. She stood now in the open, trusting in the dusk to conceal her small form from their eyes. She ached to spot Skye but couldn’t at such a distance. She wanted to know where the black-suit grandfather was, too. He would give the commands. She eyed the canoes, thinking that if she couldn’t find Skye, she could still delay these Hudson’s Bay men by cutting great holes in the birchbark walls of the canoes.
Her horse nudged her, rubbing its forehead against her back, almost unbalancing her. She liked this horse, even if it was a Siksika horse and ill trained. What did they know about horses? Not half as much as any Absaroka! She realized she had to adjust the packs so that Skye could mount immediately. There would be no time once she freed him to rearrange the load. So she quietly divided the packload between the two horses, tying half behind the cantle of each saddle. She needed to give Skye reins, too, and not just a lead line she had used to pull the packhorse along. So she made a loop of the braided line. Now he could sit the horse and steer it, and that was as much as she could do.
Full dark lowered, and the stars emerged one by one until all the spirit-people twinkled in the bowl of heaven. A night breeze lifted, already chill in these northern plains, and she felt a premonition of autumn although it was still the Moon of Ripening Berries.
If only she could find Skye, and if only they could reach these horses, they would have a good chance. The river men had no horses to give chase. She heard coyotes barking along the hill tops, and welcomed them. Coyotes were brothers, and tricksters, and they liked to laugh. At long last the men below settled down. She no longer saw movement, and the fire gave off less light. It was time. She brought the horses with her, knowing she would need them fast, especially if Skye were hurt or ill after being a prisoner so long. She saw no tents. These were good travelers, even the grandfather, and she knew they could get along with much less than many yellow eyes. She found a way down the bluff and penetrated into the bottoms again, which seemed darker and more foreboding. If they had posted a guard, she might be caught. So she walked gently, not even breaking a twig, as her people had always learned to do. And then, suddenly, as she rounded a bend, she spotted the fire dead ahead. She halted. Now she needed to conceal the horses and then wait for sleep to overtake the yellow eyes, because not much time had passed since the camp quieted. She strained to spot Skye, but couldn’t.
She thought of all the things that could go wrong: wakening the wrong one, tripping over something, being caught by a guard, trapped by someone who had gone to the bushes. But it did no good to rehearse all these things, and she concentrated instead on what was right and what would go well. She decided on a clump of tall trees next to the river, no doubt cottonwoods, as a place of concealment where she would keep the horses. She walked that way slowly, her every sense alert, and wrapped the reins around a low limb. She knelt beside some brush and watched, aware that the constant gurgle of the river concealed her passage. The yellow eyes were careless. None of the People would camp so close to the water that they couldn’t hear other things.
The camp slumbered peacefully. But as she crept out of the trees, she realized it had become much too dark. She could not tell one man from another, and they all looked alike to her anyway. In the blackness of the night she could not tell a bearded Frenchman from Skye. So she returned to the forest, waiting uneasily for the moon. She hadn’t paid much attention to Mother Moon, and didn’t know when she would visit. The horses beh
ind her stirred uneasily, and she sensed that they were smelling something on the wind. Wolves maybe. They tugged back on their lines, making the leather groan and the branches creak. She didn’t like that.
Whatever was troubling the animals didn’t go away; her horses grew more and more restless until she feared they would awaken the whole camp or yank loose and stampede off. She stood, found the neck of one, and ran a hand under its thick mane, calming it as much as she could. Then she found the other, head back, line taut, ready to yank loose at the slightest provocation. She could not quiet that one. It stamped and jerked until she was sure the whole camp had heard.
Her vision was good; her eyes had accustomed themselves to the blackness, and she could make out the trees where they blotted the stars, and the meadow, a vaguely open area that hinted of space, and the orange eyes of the fire’s last coals, which told her where these Hudson’s Bay men were. But there was nothing she could do for the time being. So deep was the blackness that she could easily trip over one of the sleeping men.
There was Skye, so close, and yet so unreachable now, when she desperately needed to reach him. She sensed that someone stirred, but the night shrouded movement. Maybe that was good. What shrouded that one from her eyes would also shroud her from his.
A horse shrieked, pulled loose, and bolted. The other followed. She shrank into the ground with horror. The camp stirred. She could see nothing, but she heard voices, men grabbing their rifles. The glow of embers was blotted from time to time as men passed in front of it. She crouched, feeling helpless against such bad fortune. Had her wits deserted her, her spirit helper misled her? Mostly these men shouted in the tongue she didn’t know, that of the Creoles, so she understood nothing. But the whole camp was awake now. No one threw wood on the coals for fear of making a target of them all, but men were up and about, walking.
“Where’s Skye?” asked the voice of the grandfather.
Dark Passage Page 27
