Rendezvous
Page 1
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Author’s Notes
By Richard S. Wheeler from Tom Doherty Associates
Praise for Richard S. Wheeler and Rendezvous
Copyright
For Frederic Bean,
treasured friend and fine novelist
Chapter 1
The moment had come. For this moment the jack-tar Barnaby Skye had waited seven brutal years. For this moment he would risk being hanged from the nearest yardarm or being hauled back to London in irons to a life in a cage.
All that had kept him alive was the dream of this moment. Night and day, on the high seas, or anchored near a shore, he had nurtured this dream until it roared in his head. The Royal Navy knew it and had set a watch over him whenever His Majesty’s Ship Jaguar raised land. It was so this time. They had thwarted him in the past; this time they would not.
The Royal Navy had been his warden ever since a press-gang had “recruited” him at the age of fourteen, not far from the Thames and his father’s redbrick warehouse. They had snatched a lad off the cobbles of London and stuffed him into a frigate of war. They had made him a powder monkey, his task to haul casks of gunpowder from the powder safe deep in the bowels of the warship to the gunners on the decks above. And they had turned him into a bloody slave of the Crown, howling curses at his powdered and periwigged captors.
He never saw his parents or his brother or sisters again. Neither did the Royal Navy admit to his existence, or grant him a seaman’s rights, or give him a hearing. He became a whisper, a rumor, an amusing secret as the lordly captains rotated command, one after another. He also became a legend, a storied villain who schemed, who defied, who spent much of his short miserable life locked in irons, who scarcely ever set foot on land—the one exception being the Kaffir wars in Africa—and would never again set foot on land if the admiralty had its say.
Now the moment had come. He needed a moonless night or deep fog and had neither, but he would take his chances. The torrents of yearning, the need for freedom overwhelmed him but did not this time erode his caution. The Jaguar lay alongside Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River of the Oregon country, at the farthest reach of Empire. This was simply a courtesy call, a visit to the newest outpost of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and another proof of British domination of Oregon. Even now, late in the evening, the commodore and most of his officers were feasting at the board of the hospitable Dr. John McLoughlin, the post’s factor, no doubt toasting not one, but two empires, one of them mercantile, both of them predatory.
The watch had been doubled and Skye had been confined to the fo’c’sle as usual. Two sharp-eyed men roamed the deck of the frigate, waiting for such as Barnaby Skye to alter the light and shadow on the moon-washed teak. They patrolled the midships, rounded the taffrail, expecting a deserter to go over the side or off the stern. But that was not where Skye waited on this moon-clad night. He lay on the bowsprit, wrapped in canvas, looking like a fat sail. Just under him, suspended from the bowsprit, was his kit, his few possessions stuffed in a waterproofed bag.
The watch circled close—this time the bloody bosun McGivers—his gaze raking everything that was in or out of order. But it wasn’t his fate to see anything unusual about the bowsprit, and he passed by with a weary clop of his clogs.
The gates of the distant fort opened, spilling yellow light. The commodore was returning. Skye judged this to be the moment, now or never—go now or lie in seagoing hulks another lifetime. The watch stood fore and aft, observing the oncoming shore party, McGivers not far away. Skye edged out from under canvas, dropped onto the rigging under the bowsprit, untied his kit, and stared at the inky water that gurgled past in the night, glinting moon back at him. He heard clipped English voices. The shore party was clambering into the jolly boat.
A beautiful spirit flooded through him, something akin to ecstasy. He eased into the furious cold of the river, his bare feet first, and felt the icy blast crawl up his legs and belly and thick chest. The shock stunned him. He let himself drift downstream, treading just enough to keep his head above the surface, feeling the cold suck the strength out of him. He knew he must not swim until he was lost in the night, a hundred yards at least from those watching eyes and keen ears. His young body could barely endure the murderous cold but his spirit soared like a soul rising to heaven. He could see the officers settle in the jolly boat, see oars probe the glinting water, and then he could neither see nor hear them. He dog-paddled urgently toward the bank until he could stand, and then staggered up a mucky grade, his body numb and his soul afire, water sluicing out of his heavy winter blouse and trousers. He shook violently, unable to stay the convulsions of his body. But that was God’s good earth under his naked feet, clay and grass in his toes.
He intended to penetrate deep into the interior of mysterious North America, into a wilderness scarcely known to white men, inhabited by wild savages, wild animals, and governed by wild weather. And after that, who could say? But now he walked north, because an eastbound vector would take him to the fort and under the surveillance of the watch. Shivering, he raced across croplands where the powerful Hudson’s Bay Company grew its post provisions, stubbing his toes on stalks and weeds. He wanted a horse but saw none. Slowly he arced his way around the great fort, which now lay dark and silent in the night, a mausoleum of empire, and headed eastward well back from the river. After another mile or so, he paused to pull dry clothing from his kit, pleased that the oiled and waxed bag had turned the water. He wrung out his jack-tar woolens, donned his spares, and slid his wet feet into his boots. When he laced them up, he felt a surge of power: he was on land, he could walk, he was free. He pulled a sailcloth poncho over him, and trotted swiftly into the night, rejoicing, his heart tumultuous in his chest.
An odd feeling engulf
ed him. This was a sacred moment. Here in the deeps of a moonlit night, he tarried a moment to perform an act of emancipation. He tugged at some dead grasses, marveling at the feel of the brittle stems, and then he scooped up some of the soft soil and let it filter through his hands. This was the soil of a great continent: his soil, his grasses, his wilderness. He claimed the land, prayerfully and joyously. Henceforth he would be more than Skye, a last name spoken with contempt by the officers over him; he would be Mister Skye, a title the Yanks bestowed on any man here, even a commoner like himself, a mark of each person’s innate dignity and worth. Mister Skye he would be ever more. This wilderness was his, he claimed it for the empire of his heart, and no force on earth would take it from him while he lived. The Royal Navy or Hudson’s Bay might yet capture him but they would not take him alive.
They would come, of course. The Royal Navy would hunt him down, and soon. Hudson’s Bay would come for him, too, and put word out among all its allied tribes. McLoughlin would hear of a wild man and felon, and not of a boy pressed off the banks of the Thames and treated as a slave. McLoughlin and all his traders would join the hunt and think of themselves as rendering a valuable service to the Crown. The prospect was daunting. So was the vast interior of this continent. So was the loneliness he faced.
Skye trotted eastward along a river road, hoping the dry clay would not record his passage. For now, distance was his sole objective. He wanted a dozen, nay a hundred, miles between himself and his pursuers. But he knew that ere long he would face new ordeals, feeding himself with nothing more than two hooks and a line, two ancient knives, and his hickory belaying pin. He had given much thought to his kit and now it would have to do: navy pea jacket and skullcap, raincoat-bedroll improvised from purloined sailcloth, a flint and striker pilfered from the galley, his razor and shaving mug, a large tin cup, some ship biscuits, tea, an awl, shoe leather, thong, fishing gear, and a small coil of manila. That was all. And even that had been hard to gather and hide in His Majesty’s frigate.
He fled eastward, trotting, running, stumbling, barely pausing for breath. With the first gray of dawn he ascended massive bluffs until he was far back from the well-traveled river road, and continued onward, never stopping, his body responding to liberty even as his feet responded to the good earth. As the sun ascended on that April morning of 1826, he found himself in a vast land. An enormous snow-capped mountain vaulted upward from the south side of the river, and green slopes, mostly forested, rose from both sides of the river. He had scarcely remembered that land is rarely level. But again his limbs responded, as if they hadn’t been punished by the hard night or the icy bath. Such was the rejoicing of his spirit that his stocky body knew no weariness. He danced on a ridge. He was free.
From time to time he eased back to some promontory where he could survey the shimmering river far below, and saw nothing on its banks. He was tempted to rest but refused to do so. He toiled eastward again, aware that his tortured passage along the bluffs would be much slower than passage along the river road below, and that his pursuers would gain on him this day. He wished he had stayed on the road, counting on speed to keep him hidden. But it was too late for that. He struggled through brush and forest, up and down giant shoulders, until at last he could go no further. He found a pine-clad promontory overlooking the Columbia and made a camp there where he could see for miles. He gnawed some ship biscuits and then he dozed.
They came in the afternoon, a well-armed party of seamen and officers along with some leather-clad men, no doubt Hudson’s Bay guides and scouts. He couldn’t make out which of the officers were commanding this little expedition or which of his shipmates were hunting him. But they marched by, pausing at every ravine to probe it. They were thorough and relentless, and no doubt cared little whether they brought Skye back alive or dead. Even from his aerie, he sensed their contempt for him, saw it in their thorough, studied manhunt. Then they passed upriver and vanished.
Something had altered. Now, once again, the Royal Navy stood between him and his liberty, and he didn’t know which way to turn. His only weapons were his belaying pin and his wits.
Chapter 2
Skye waited restlessly until the jury of his peers vanished upriver. Thirst deviled him but he chose to ignore it. As a last resort he could descend some cleft to the river, drink and retreat. Instead he continued eastward along the ridge, so effervescent with joy that he scarcely noticed the protests of his body. Never in his life had he felt such ecstasy. The very earth was his father and mother and brother and sister and friend. His protector, too, hiding him in its rocky fastnesses.
He hiked warily, wondering whether he would run into some jack nastyface, perhaps a salt he knew, probing the ravines or studying the bluffs for signs of passage. He crawled out on promontories and saw nothing below but the glinting river hurrying its burden to the sea. He paused, letting the majesty of the place seep through him. This was better than seeing the horizon from a swaying crow’s nest.
Thirst savaged him, and he knew he would have to descend and take his chances. He turned into a pine-shot ravine, sliding downward to a grove of new-leafed trees, yews he guessed, but he knew so little of those things. And there he discovered a seep dribbling clear water down a rocky facade and into the grove. He cupped his hands and drank, learning something valuable from the moment: a burst of emerald foliage might be a sign of water. He would see the wilderness with wiser eyes henceforth. He had no doubt passed dozens of such springs.
He gnawed on hardtack, knowing it wouldn’t last long or subdue the howl of his belly, and resumed his eastward journey. Eventually he reached a saddle divided by a tumbling creek that raced toward the Columbia far below. At the confluence of the creek and the Columbia stood a native village with some sort of fishing apparatus projecting into the river. From his vantage point he could make out brown natives wearing little more than loincloths—and the Royal Navy in blues among them, roasting what would no doubt be a salmon feast.
There they were, his shipmates, old hands, wolfishly hunting him down because they feared the lash. They were less than half a mile below, and all his leagues of walking had not freed him from the clutches of the King’s avengers who wanted to make an example of him. He could not cross that arid saddle without being seen, and someone among them would raise the alarm. He pitied them. They wished him no harm but the Royal Navy knew how to bend humble men to its imperial will. Lads who had holystoned the teak deck beside him would be in that party below, balancing the harsh powers of royal officers against their rough sympathies. He studied them, discovering the unmistakable bulk of Smitty and the bent-over form of Hauk. Men he knew, set against him.
He peered about, looking for a way around. He discovered animals grazing above, and with them the possibility of village herders. To the north and east stretched treeless plains, offering little shelter.
He could not circle around by day. He could only wait or retreat. He edged back a hundred yards, making sure not to leave bootprints, and found an area of shelf rock veiled by brush where he could hide unless someone stumbled on the very spot. There he spent the rest of the afternoon, making occasional reconnoiters to a point where he could peer down upon the fishing village. The Royal Navy didn’t budge. His shipmates had eaten, smoked, and were enjoying the sight of bare-breasted native women. Maybe that was all for the good, Skye thought. Their minds were on a different sort of chase.
He weighed his chances. He needed to eat and find a way past the tars. But what good could come from hastening upstream with the search party hot on his heels, guided by scouts who knew the country? He studied the fishery, a trap of poles that steered the salmon into seine nets. Beached on a gentle bank were several pirogues, dugout canoes, their paddles lying in them. With one, he could escape to the far shore—if he had the courage to walk through the village at night and take it. His instinct was to cross and then shove the dugout into the river so his passage would not be remarked.
He needed darkness. Moonlight would be
tray him. Give him the north star and he would navigate the inky river. He studied the village some more, noting a rack where salmon were being smoked. He waited impatiently for dusk—the itch to run, run, run mounting in him. But at twilight he was rewarded with information he needed: his erstwhile shipmates were settling down west of the fishery. The native huts clustered to the east. He spotted dogs, many of them gorging on the offal of the catch, and they shot fear through him. He didn’t quite know when the moon would rise, only that in this phase it rose an hour or so later each night, and he would have to act early and fast after true darkness settled.
Restlessly, he bided time until he could no longer see the last band of blue in the west. The cookfires had dimmed. Midshipman Cornwall Carp—Skye recognized the choleric officer commanding this detail—would post a watch and the village mutts would form another sort of watch. Skye wondered what he would do if the mutts howled. Run for the pirogues, he supposed. But would he be strong enough to drag a heavy dugout into the river and escape?
He weighed, one last time, the alternative: hike around the village by night and continue up the Columbia on its right bank, a fox running ahead of the hounds. That made sense, too. And yet … the crossing appealed to him. The thought of some smoked salmon did, too. He wrestled back his terror and set out, retracing his way to the saddle and then cautiously working down it in taut darkness, his senses raw. The flutter of a night bird startled him. The scurry of an animal froze him. He reached the edge of the village, wary of the dogs, and studied the gloom for the Royal Navy’s watch, but he saw nothing. His pulse lifted. The place was redolent of fish and smoke. He waited a long while, his gaze seeking the glow in the east that would signal the rising moon. He listened to the rhythms of the night, eyed the hulking native huts and fish trap, his senses filtering the shifting darkness that would tell him of the approach of a man.
Nothing.
It was time. He edged out onto the flat scarcely twenty yards from the bivouac, discerned the fish processing area but could make out no fish. He finally found some on a wooden rack, lifted two, and eased toward the river. It reflected pinpoints of starlight off its ebony surface. He chose the nearest pirogue, carefully lowered his kit and the fish into it, felt about until he grasped a paddle and another and another. He lifted the stern of the vessel, found it heavy, and pushed hard. It slid a few inches, scraping loudly. His pulse catapulted. He tried again, and it slid some more. He peered about him, ducked behind the pirogue when he thought he saw a shadow emerge. But the shadow was only in his fevered imagination. He pushed and tugged some more, wild to break free, and at last eased the craft into the sucking water and hopped in just before losing it to the swift current, which caught it and drew it west. He settled himself, staying low, looking for signs of alarm and finding none. Then, safely away, he slid a paddle into the river and began his crossing, keeping the north star at his back.