The Sergeant-Major sat behind his desk, smoothing out his thick black moustache and studying a file while Ben stood at attention, arms locked straight at his sides. With all his heart he wished he could be anywhere but where he was at that precise moment.
Scott continued. “You’re top of the class in marksmanship, you’ve mastered everything from first aid to those tricky questions of the law, and you’re the best damn horseman I’ve ever seen. You would be a definite asset to the Force if only . . .”
Ben focused on remaining calm, staring straight ahead, keeping his mouth shut. He knew what was coming.
“It’s your temper,” the Sergeant-Major said, tapping Ben’s open folder. “You know that. Listen, Turner, it’s simple. If you can’t learn to hold it in check, we can’t have you in the North-West Mounted Police.” He raised an eyebrow, peered across the desk at the cuts on Ben’s knuckles. “To your credit, at least you took it out on a fence post this time, not the fellow who upset you. Still, your inability to control your anger is of great concern.”
Ben knew Scott was right, and that frustrated him more than ever. He’d gotten carried away again, annoyed by Constable Hill’s constant complaints as they’d marched that morning. In the instant Ben had barked at Hill and called him lazy, he had known he’d made a mistake. It wasn’t his place to discipline anyone, and he’d already been reminded of that many times. The Sergeant heading up the march had given Ben a tongue-lashing for it, and Ben had been so angry at himself that he’d wheeled around and punched the fence post behind him. It had been a stupid thing to do. And now he was here.
Rage came as naturally to Ben as breathing. It was the only thing he’d ever learned from his father. Had he followed his father’s lead, Ben’s life would have been much simpler. He could have remained on his father’s poor excuse for a farm, lashing out when the need arose, relishing the pain of split knuckles, roaring until he saw red, and no one would have come after him for it.
But he had never considered staying at the farm. After his parents died, Ben had fled the place. He’d lived rough for about five years, squatting between occasional barns and scattered trees, hunting and trapping just enough that he didn’t have to beg. He’d lived on and off with the Blackfoot, and he’d worked as a cowboy, doing whatever needed doing. He’d adjusted to life as a tumbleweed, rolling wherever the wind pushed him, and he’d never felt sorry for himself. Because even when the skies opened or the wolves circled too close, nothing could ever be as bad as his life on the farm had been. Out on his own, no one beat him. No one looked at him as if they wished he’d never been born.
“I am well aware,” Sergeant-Major Scott said, twisting one edge of his moustache, “that you are hating every second of this interview. And I appreciate the fact that you haven’t flown over the desk, intent on murdering me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Should I take that as a sign that you’re working on controlling that temper of yours?”
“Permission to speak, sir?” Ben asked.
Scott lifted an eyebrow. “I am not a ‘sir,’ Constable. I work for a living.”
Ben had been so tense he’d forgotten. Only commissioned officers were addressed with “sir.” “Of course, Sergeant-Major.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“I’ve known anger my whole life. It’s what I grew up with, and it’s what I’ve always used to get by. Wasn’t ’til I got here that I found out my temper was a problem, and now I’m working to fix it. I am getting better. Just like Mack with his riding. He can stay on a horse a lot longer these days. In my case, I’m sorry for beating on that fence post.” His knuckles were still swollen, but he resisted balling them into fists. He wasn’t permitted to move when he was at attention. “Even sorrier today. It won’t happen again, Sergeant-Major.”
Scott nodded. “Depot Division is here to teach men like you how to be a Mountie, but I’ll be honest with you. We’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, and we’ve learned that not everyone is cut out to be one. Mounties have to be the best they can be, every single day. They are here to earn respect and keep the peace, and they look after people. But if you don’t fix this problem of yours, folks aren’t gonna feel safe around you. Frankly, we don’t need a man like that on the Force.”
Ben’s stomach was in knots. Being a Mountie was all he had ever wanted. Just a few months ago, he’d finally worked up the courage to wander into the outpost at Fort Macleod, where he’d stopped in front of the poster nailed outside the door. He’d never been a strong reader, but this was important, so he took his time and slowly put the words together in his mind. Join the North-West Mounted Police! the bold print had beckoned, and he’d leaned in to make sure he understood the requirements. Yes, he was active and able-bodied. Yes, he could tend and ride a horse. Yes, he was sober. He had no idea what having a “sound constitution” or an “exemplary character” meant, but he had known right away this was the life for him. Now Sergeant-Major Scott was questioning that, and rightfully so.
“You know you’re gonna make more mistakes, right?” Scott continued. “Everyone does. It’s part of living. What matters is how you handle those mistakes, and what you do the next time a problem comes up.” He closed the folder and got to his feet. “Tell you what. You have six weeks left in your training here. Show us we can rely on you.”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major. I will.”
“But you’re on dangerous ground, Constable,” he said, reaching for the door. “If you take one more step out of line, you’re finished here.”
Burning with humiliation, Ben strode from the office to the stables, then stepped inside his horse’s stall. The tall black gelding jerked his head up, sensing Ben’s dark mood, but a moment later the horse relaxed and huffed out his approval as Ben worked through his frustration with the curry comb. As he brushed, Ben felt the anger drain from his own body, and he breathed more easily, grateful that at least here, with the horse, he could use his strength for good.
Once horse and saddle were gleaming, he mounted and rode to the large paddock where the others were already in formation.
“Ah, Constable Turner.” Corporal St. John’s nasal sarcasm cut through the air. “Good to see you. We were hoping you would honour us with your presence at some point today.”
Ben’s retort was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit down on it and joined the others without a word. No time like the present to work on his patience.
Ben had ridden horses for as long as he could remember. Having left Fort Macleod, he’d spent five days in the saddle and arrived in Regina. There he’d stepped into Depot Division, where everything had been new, from the spurs to the saddle. In his cowboying days, he had only ever ridden bareback, and he was used to throwing his body carelessly over a horse before galloping away, then leaping off before the animal had stopped running. A saddle was a completely different thing. It took away the sensation of being connected to the horse—though he had to admit that it did feel a heck of a lot better on his backside. The saddle and the riding drills reined him in, forcing Ben to focus on order and formation rather than give in to his natural tendency to ride hard and fast. Keeping both him and his horse restrained at every step was a slow form of torture for Ben, but he stuck to it, and over time the exercises became more natural.
The hours Ben and the other Constables spent training with the horses were nothing compared to the endless exercises required of them. The men underwent exhausting endurance tests, learned fighting skills, and practised shooting. When they weren’t sweating and panting out in the field, they sat at desks and learned the law. Everything was done with a sharp “Yes, Sergeant-Major! No, Sergeant-Major! Whatever you say, Sergeant-Major!” and at night they couldn’t wait to fall into their cots. Ben had seen men start to nod off at the supper table before being swiftly reprimanded, and he’d heard more than one muffled “Yes, Sergeant-Major!” in the middle of the night as someone dreamed about training. A couple of weeks in, a few of the Constables quit, but Ben kept on, hoping he
was strong enough, fast enough, and smart enough to make it to the end.
I’m almost there, he thought.
“Work together! You’re a unit!” Corporal St. John shouted at the men, breaking Ben’s reverie. “You must know the man and the horse beside you like you know yourself.”
Ben faced forward, but his eyes darted to the side, checking to make sure the man across the paddock from him was lined up properly. Their paths needed to intersect without forcing either horse to slow or stop. He hoped Mack, who was bumping along behind him, was doing the same, but he knew Mack generally spent more time worrying about staying in the saddle than he did about the drill. Mounties did everything together, so if one man made a mistake they all suffered for it. As the drill continued, Ben watched Mack from the corner of his eye and was glad to see the older man’s expression was set in concentration. By the end Ben was impressed. Mack had completed the exercise without any problems.
“Nice work out there today,” Ben told him as they walked the horses back to the stable.
Mack smiled. “Thanks. I’m getting there.”
Ben nodded. Me too, he thought.
In the final week of Depot, the Constables were informed that they would be individually tested on their ability to use their training in real-life situations. Ben was sitting in the classroom one morning when Sergeant-Major Scott appeared in the doorway.
“Constable Turner,” he said, and every head swivelled to look at Ben. “This way.”
Nerves rushed through him as he got to his feet. This was it. If he passed this test, he would be a Mountie. Trying to keep his breathing steady, he followed the Sergeant-Major outside and saw that one of the small outbuildings was engulfed in flames. The staff in the area were paying no attention to the inferno, so Ben figured it was part of the test.
Scott led him to a spot about twenty feet away from the fire. “A citizen is trapped inside,” he said.
They would have used a dummy for this exercise, Ben knew, but he’d be expected to treat it like a real person.
“You are to find the victim and administer first aid. The victim is your sole responsibility, Constable. In this scenario, I want you to assume there are other Mounties out here with you, even though you cannot see them. They will do their job, and you will do yours. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant-Major.” So this was a team exercise, he realized, even though he was actually alone. This about trusting the other men to do their jobs while he did his. I can do this.
“Go ahead.”
Ben didn’t hesitate. He dashed to the building and leapt through the flames licking at the door frame. It was smoky inside, and the heat was intense, but if he could get this done quickly he’d be all right. In under a couple of minutes, he found the dummy beneath a fallen beam, pulled it from under the debris, and carried it outside. After laying the body on the ground, he followed every lesson he’d been taught while Sergeant-Major Scott watched. It was up to Scott to determine when the victim was “breathing” on its own.
Then a woman screamed, and Ben’s focus shattered. He spun in place, instantly on high alert, and scanned the field for the source. There—beyond the fire, by the cookhouse. A man was shaking a woman, and she was flopping around like a rag doll. Ben leapt to his feet and took a step towards them.
“Where are you going?” Scott asked.
“Sergeant-Major, behind you, there’s a woman—”
Scott didn’t even glance in the direction Ben had indicated. “Your assignment is here,” he said.
The woman shrieked again, stumbling backwards as she tried to wrestle out of the man’s hands, and Ben’s heart raced. She needed help. He knew from experience that if the man started hitting her she might never get up.
“Sergeant-Major, I—”
“If you leave your post,” Scott said, “you might as well leave Depot today, Constable. Empty-handed.”
The agony of not racing to the woman’s aid was like a physical pressure on Ben’s chest. He dropped to his knees and continued treating the dummy for its imagined injuries, knowing the sooner he finished this assignment, the sooner he could help the woman. After another minute, Sergeant-Major Scott told him he could stop what he was doing, and Ben jumped to his feet. Before he could set off running, Scott held out his hand.
“What are you doing?” Ben asked, bridling at his interference. “I have to—”
Scott turned towards the couple in the distance, who were now standing apart from each other. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Purcell!” he called. “You both did an excellent job.”
Ben gawked at the pair, who were now waving cheerily at them, then looked back at the Sergeant-Major, baffled.
“That was part of the test, Constable Turner.”
“What?”
Anger pulsed through Ben as he pieced together what was going on. The woman had never been in danger. She was only there to make a fool out of him. How dare Scott bait him like that? Didn’t he know what that would do to Ben? He squeezed his hands into fists, clenching them so hard his nails bit into his palms, and the sting cut through his daze. No, he didn’t know, Ben realized slowly. Scott couldn’t have known how difficult it would be for Ben to stand by while a woman suffered like that. No one would, because Ben kept that part of his life locked deep inside him. All Scott had done today was present a real-life challenge, nothing more than that. One finger at a time, Ben relaxed his hands.
“You did well, Constable,” Scott said, studying him. “We’ve all taken note of how strong you are independently, but what we needed to test you on was how you would react knowing you were backed up by your fellow Mounties. We needed to make sure you could accept being part of a team. As difficult as that test was, you were right to leave the other, seemingly more important incident to one of them.” The shadow of a smile curled beneath Scott’s thin moustache. “I bet you’re angry about the deception, but I had to push you. I had to see if you could control your temper, and you did. Well done.”
Ben closed his eyes briefly as the last dredges of anger ebbed from his body. “Heck of a test,” he admitted.
“We’re proud of how far you’ve come,” Scott said. “Congratulations. You’ll make a great Mountie, Constable Turner.”
No one had ever said anything like that to Ben before, and the tight grip of emotion he felt in his throat was unfamiliar. “Thank you, Sergeant-Major,” he managed.
• • •
On the morning of Ben’s graduation, he donned his uniform then paused to study his reflection in the barracks’s small mirror. Gone was the softness of his cheeks and the childish confusion in his expression. His eyes were clear, his posture strong. Of course some things would never completely disappear, and he leaned closer to examine the faded scar carved beneath his left eye, given to him by his father ten years ago. Something to remember me by, the old man had said. As if Ben needed any kind of reminder of what it was like to be hit in the face with a board.
He shook his head to scatter the memory and focused instead on the vivid red of his coat. It was the finest, most sturdy article of clothing Ben had ever seen, let alone worn, and even though he’d worn it many times during his training, he still had to resist the urge to touch every one of the eight brass buttons gleaming against the wool. The coat’s collar, cuffs, and hem were edged with a striking yellow cord, and matching stripes ran down the sides of his navy trousers before they disappeared into his black leather boots. That morning Ben had shined those boots until they practically offered a reflection.
“Come on, now,” Corporal St. John teased, handing Ben his formal white helmet. “No need to be goggling at the mirror all day like a lady.”
Ben adjusted the gilded chain of his formal helmet under his chin and glanced one more time at his reflection. He looked a lot like the Mounties he’d seen at the outpost when he’d dared to enter their building for the first time. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Inside the hall, Ben took his place in line with his fellow gradu
ates, all of them standing tall and ready to serve. One by one they were called forward and recognized, and as Ben’s own name was called he lifted his chin with pride, a new sense of confidence coursing through him.
This, he thought with satisfaction, is where I belong.
Liza
THREE
Liza leaned over the cold metal rail of the SS Islander, scanning the wide expanse of the Inside Passage as the clamour of the ship’s engine filled her ears. Stan, standing beside her, didn’t seem to mind the noise or the monotony, but the novelty of travelling by ship had quickly worn off for Liza. They had set off from Victoria four days ago, and now they were travelling to Dyea, the entryway to the Yukon and the first stop on their trek to Dawson City. Liza had heard somewhere that the Islander was the most luxurious vessel on this route, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how it had gotten that sort of reputation. If the Islander truly deserved it, Liza had no desire to see the competition.
“Look there!” Stan suddenly yelled. “Killer whale!”
Liza squinted. “Where?”
“Just watch. They have to come up to breathe.”
“Yes. I know that.”
It hadn’t even been a week and already Stan’s constant display of knowledge was wearing on her nerves. Being educated about a subject was all fine and good, and he could be quite useful when she needed information, but what he didn’t appear to grasp was that Liza wasn’t exactly ignorant. She knew whales—
She gasped with delight as a slender fin cut through the water not twenty yards away. The orca skimmed the surface, giving them a glimpse of its sleek black head and the distinctive patch of white on its cheek, then sank again. Two more fins followed in its wake, cresting for a moment then disappearing, as if the creatures were connected to an underwater wheel.
“Three!” Liza cried, pointing. “I saw three of them! How beautiful!”
She was distracted by a sound beside her, and when she looked over she saw a dirty white dog standing on its hind legs against the rail, tongue lolling from its mouth.
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