Campbell's Kingdom

by Hammond Innes

  Someday perhaps he’ll be proved right. In the meantime local people, headed by Mr Will Polder, are organising a fund to raise a monument to the memory of ‘King’ Campbell. It will be erected about a mile from his cabin on the site of the original drilling in 1913. Johnnie Carstairs hopes to pack it up to the Kingdom as soon as the snows melt. It will carry the design of a cable-tool rig and the epitaph ‘There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains.’

  I put the cutting down and sat staring at the wall, seeing nothing of the faded picture of Nelson dying at Trafalgar, only the little log cabin high up in the Rockies and the old man whose hopes had died so hard. There’s oil in the Rocky Mountains. The phrase rang in my head. I twisted it round and said it the way the oil men were using it, contemptuously. But still it had a ring about it. I could see the words etched deep on a marble monument and imagine tourists in later years coming there to mock and eat their oranges. It would be something to prove the phrase true, to wipe out the stigma that had haunted me all my early life, to prove him innocent. Why shouldn’t there be oil in the Rocky Mountains? Maybe I was a fool. I knew nothing about geology or the Rockies. But I had something to bite on now—an objective, a purpose. And somehow it lessened the shock of Maclean-Hervey’s pronouncement.

  And as I sat there thinking about Campbell’s Kingdom high up in the mountains, trying to picture the place in my mind, I was suddenly possessed with an urge to see it, to discover for myself something of the faith, the indomitable hope, that had sent my grandfather back there after conviction and imprisonment. It couldn’t have been an easy decision for him. The newspaper cutting had hinted that many people out there had lost heavily through backing him. It must have been hell for him. And yet he had gone back.

  I got up and began to pace back and forth. Failure and twenty-two years of utter loneliness had not destroyed his faith. His letter proved that. If I could take up where he had left off . . .

  I realised with a shock that I had bridged the gap of 6,000 miles that separated me from Campbell’s Kingdom and was imagining myself already up there. It was absurd. I’d no knowledge of oil, no money. And yet . . . The alternative was to sign that deed of sale. I went over to the table and picked it up. If I signed it Fothergill had said I might get $10,000 out of it in six months’ time. It would pay for my funeral, that was about all the good it would be to me. To sign it was unthinkable. And then it gradually came to me that what had at first seemed absurd was the most reasonable thing for me to do, the only thing. To remain in London, an insurance clerk in the same monotonous rut to the end, was impossible with this prospect, this hope of achievement dangled in front of my eyes. I tore the deed of sale across and flung the pieces on to the floor. I would go to Canada. I would try to carry out the provisions of my grandfather’s will.

  2

  IT TOOK ME just a week to get to Calgary. Taking into account that this included a night’s flying across the Atlantic and two and a half days by train across Canada I think I did pretty well. It did not take me long to clear up my own affairs, but the major obstacle was foreign exchange. I got over this by emigrating and here I had two slices of luck: Maclean-Hervey knew the High Commissioner and the Canadian Government were subsidising immigrant travel by air via Trans-Canada so that the quickest route as far as Montreal became also the cheapest. I think, too, that my sense of urgency communicated itself to those responsible for clearing my papers.

  Throughout the journey I had that queer feeling of detachment that comes to anyone suddenly jerked out of the rut of life and thrust upon a new country. I remember feeling very tired, but physical exhaustion was overlaid by mental excitement. I felt like a pioneer. There was even a touch of the knight errant in the picture I built up of myself, tearing across the globe to tilt at the Rocky Mountains and make an old man’s dream come true. It was all a little unreal.

  This sense of unreality allowed me to sit back and relax, content to absorb the vastness of Canada from a carriage window. The only piece of organisation, apart from getting myself on the ’plane as an immigrant, was to arrange for a friend to look up the newspaper reports of my grandfather’s trial and send a resumé of it on to me when I could give him an address. The rest I had left to chance.

  The night before we reached Calgary, just after we had left Moose Jaw, the coloured attendant brought a telegram to my sleeper. It was from Donald McCrae and Acheson:

  For Bruce Campbell Wetheral, Canadian Pacific Railways, Coach B11, The Dominion, No. 7.

  IMPORTANT YOU COME TO OUR OFFICES IMMEDIATELY ON ARRIVAL. PURCHASERS HAVE GIVEN US TILL TOMORROW NIGHT TO COMPLETE DEAL. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO DISPOSE OF PROPERTY. SIGNED—ACHESON.

  I lay back and stared at the message, thinking of all the cabling that must have gone on before they were able to locate me on a train halfway across Canada. They were certainly a very thorough and determined firm. They’d have me sell whether I wanted to or not. I crumpled the form up and dropped it on the floor. Like Fothergill they found it impossible to accept my attitude.

  We arrived at Calgary at 8.30 a.m. Mountain Time and I went straight to the Palliser Hotel. It was a palatial place, railway-owned like so many of the Canadian hotels, a symbol of the way the country had been opened up. I had breakfast and then rang Acheson’s office and made an appointment for eleven o’clock. That gave me time to have a look round. Calgary is a cow town, the ranching capital of Alberta, but there was little evidence of this in the streets which were cold and dusty. There were good, solid stone buildings in the centre of the town—stores like the Hudson’s Bay Company Store and offices such as those which housed the Calgary Herald—but they dwindled rapidly as the streets ran out into the flat grey of the sky. It was strangely without atmosphere, a quiet, provincial town going about its business.

  The firm of Donald McCrae and Acheson had their offices in an old brick building amongst a litter of oil companies. Blown-up photographs of oil derricks and of the Turner Valley field decorated the stairs and from wooden-partitioned offices on the second floor came the clatter of typewriters and the more staccato clacking of a tape machine. By comparison the third floor was quiet, almost reserved. Mahogany doors surrounded a landing that boasted a carpet, a big black leather settee and a pedestal ash tray, the base of which was formed by the bit of a drill. I sat down for a moment on the settee to get my breath. The names of the various firms who had offices on this floor were painted in black on the frosted glass panels of the doors that faced me. There were four doors, the one on my immediate right being that of Donald McCrae and Acheson. But it was the name on the door to my left that caught my eye, for it was the name of the man who had backed my grandfather. At the top was The Roger Fergus Oil Development Company Ltd., and underneath—operating companies: Fergus Leases Ltd., T. R. F. Concessions Ltd., and T. Stokowski-Fergus Oil Company Ltd. The other two doors were occupied by Louis Winnick, Oil Consultant and Surveyor, and Henry Fergus, Stockbroker. Under the latter and newly painted-in was the name—The Larsen Mining and Development Company Ltd.

  I glanced at my watch. It was just eleven. I found myself strangely nervous. The atmosphere of the place was one of business and money. Sentiment seemed out of place. I pulled myself to my feet and went through the door marked Donald McCrae and Acheson, Solicitors. A girl secretary asked me my business and showed me into a small waiting room. The place smelt faintly of leather and cigars. The furnishings were Edwardian. But through the open door I saw a young man seated in his shirt sleeves dictating into a dictaphone.

  A few minutes later the secretary returned and showed me through into Acheson’s office. He was a big man, rather florid, with smooth cheeks that shone slightly as though they had been rubbed with pumice stone. He had a high, domed forehead and round blue eyes. ‘Mr Wetheral?’ He rose to greet me and his hand was soft and plump. ‘Glad to see you.’ He waved me to a chair and sat down. ‘Cigar?’

  I shook my head. Behind him was a portrait of himself in cowboy garb riding a big chestnut. Round the walls were pho
tographs of oil rigs. ‘Pity you didn’t write me before you came out,’ he said. ‘I could have saved you the journey. However, now you’re here maybe I can clear up any points that are worrying you.’ He flicked a switch on the house phone box. ‘Ellen. Bring in the Campbell file, will you? Now then . . .’ He sat back and clipped the end of a cigar. ‘Fothergill writes that for some reason best known to yourself you don’t want to sell.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not till I’ve seen the place, anyway.’

  He gave a grunt. ‘There’s been too much delay already.’ The door opened behind me and the secretary placed a file on his desk. He opened it and flipped through the documents, the tips of his fingers smoothing his cheeks along the line of the jaw. Then he sat back and lit his cigar. ‘I quite appreciate your wanting to see the property before disposing of it, but in this case it’s just not possible. Did Fothergill give you all the details?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I wasn’t able to get the position regarding mineral rights clear and—’

  ‘Mineral rights!’ He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t worry about the mineral rights, if I were you.’ He leaned back and stared at me out of small, clear blue eyes. ‘It’s oil you’re thinking of, is it? I warned Fothergill to make it perfectly clear to you that there wasn’t any oil. Did he give you my letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re not satisfied? All right. Well let me tell you that Roger Fergus had a geophysical outfit up in the Kingdom last summer and Louis Winnick’s report on that survey finally damns Campbell’s ideas about oil up there as a lot of moonshine.’ He reached forward and pulled a document from the file. ‘Here’s a copy of that report.’ He tossed it on to the desk in front of me. ‘Take it away and read it at your leisure. In any case, the mineral rights don’t belong to you. They belong to Roger Fergus.’

  ‘But I thought I had a controlling interest in the Campbell Oil Exploration Company?’

  ‘Certainly you do. But the mineral rights were mortgaged as security for the cash Fergus advanced the company. Of course,’ he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘that was just a matter of form. They weren’t worth anything. Roger Fergus knew that. He was just being kind to the old fellow and we fixed it that way so that Campbell wouldn’t think it was charity.’

  He paused, evidently to let this piece of information sink in. His manner was vastly different to Fothergill’s—to any solicitor I had ever met, for that matter. It was more the manner of a business man, hard and factual. He was like a battering ram and I could feel him trying to steamroller me into selling. To gain time and sort out my impressions I glanced down at the report and my attention was caught by the final paragraph: ‘. . . Therefore I have no hesitation in saying there is absolutely no possibility whatever of oil being discovered on this property. Signed—Louis Winnick, Oil Consultant.’

  ‘Is a survey of this nature conclusive?’ I asked him.

  ‘Not entirely. It won’t prove the presence of oil. But it’s pretty well a hundred per cent in indicating that a territory is not oil-bearing. In this case, when you read the report through, you’ll find that the strata under the surface is far too broken up to contain any oil traps.’

  ‘I see.’

  So that was that. My grandfather’s vision of a great new oilfield in the Rockies was scientifically disproved. I suddenly felt tired and dispirited. I had come a long way, buoyed up with the feeling that I had a mission to accomplish. ‘I’d like to see the place,’ I murmured.

  He leaned back and drew slowly on his cigar. I think he was giving me time to adjust myself. ‘Ever seen a big mountain range?’

  ‘I’ve ski-ed in the Alps.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, the Rockies are just about as high. The difference is that they extend north and south the length of the North American continent and they’re about 500 miles through. Travel gets to be pretty difficult at this time of the year. It’s still winter in the mountains and most of the roads are blocked. The Kingdom is a goodish way from any railroad. You might not get through for a month, maybe more. Meantime, the company that’s interested in the property has got to get organised so that work on the dam begins as soon as they can get up there. The season is a short one.’ He leaned forward and searched among the papers on his desk. ‘Here you are.’ He pushed a document across to me. ‘All you have to do is sign that. I’ll look after the rest. You’ll see the figure they agree to pay is $50,000. It’s a damn sight more than the property is worth. But they’re willing to pay that figure to avoid a court action on compensation. They already have the authority of the Provincial Parliament to go ahead with the construction, so whether you sign or not they are in a position to take over the property and flood it, subject to payment of compensation.’

  I didn’t say anything and there was an awkward silence. I was thinking that the dam had still to be built. For a few months the Kingdom could be mine. Even if there wasn’t any oil it was a patch of land that belonged to me. I’d never owned any property before. I’d never really owned anything.

  ‘I must warn you,’ Acheson said, ‘that the purchasers’ original plan was to take power from one of the existing companies. This hydro-electric scheme is subsidiary to their main business which is the opening up of some low-grade lead mines. If you don’t sign now the odds are they’ll abandon the project.’

  So the Kingdom could still be saved. I lit a cigarette, thinking it over.

  ‘Well?’

  I stared down at the deed of sale. ‘I notice you’ve not inserted the name of the purchasing company.’

  ‘No.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘A subsidiary will be formed to operate the power scheme. If you’ll sign the deed, I’ll insert the name of the company as soon as it’s formed. Then there’ll be just the deeds and the land registration to be settled. I’ll look after all that.’ His eyes fastened on mine, waiting.

  ‘You seem very anxious for me to sell,’ I murmured.

  ‘It’s in your interests.’ He took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. His tone was one of exasperation. ‘In the letter I sent you via Fothergill I made it perfectly clear to you that my advice was to sell. Instead you come all the way out here, wasting time and delaying the whole project.’ He got suddenly to his feet. ‘I should tell you, Wetheral, that it’s largely as a result of my efforts that these people have become interested in the Kingdom at all. As I told you, their original plan . . .’ He turned and crossed the room towards me. ‘For two pins I’d tell you to get somebody else to handle your affairs. I’ve had nothing but trouble acting for Stuart Campbell and not a nickel for it. If it weren’t for the interests of another client . . .’ He was standing over me. ‘I act for old Roger Fergus. He’s sunk nearly $40,000 in Campbell’s company. Now that Campbell’s dead I consider it my duty to see that the company is wound up and that debt paid off.’ He leaned down, tapping my shoulder with a large, podgy hand. ‘I’d go further. I’d say that you have a moral obligation to see that Roger Fergus is repaid.’ He turned slowly away and resumed his seat at his desk. ‘You’ve got till this evening,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Palliser.’

  ‘Well, you go back to your room and think it over.’ He got to his feet. ‘Take the report with you. Read it. If there’s anything you want to know give me a ring.’

  He paused and then said, ‘I would only add one other thing. Roger Fergus met the cost of that survey out of his own pocket. You owe him nothing on that score, but . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think you will agree that it’s in everyone’s interest that the deal goes through.’ He pressed the bell-push on his desk. ‘Come and see me about five.’

  The secretary showed me out. As I made for the stairs I checked at the sight of the door opposite me. The Roger Fergus Oil Development Company. On a sudden impulse I opened the door and went in. There was a counter and beyond the counter a rather stuffy office with one typewriter and the walls massed with files
. There was an electric fire and some unwashed cups on a dusty desk. A door led off it with the name Roger Fergus on it. The door was open and I got a view of a bare desk and a table on which stood nothing but a telephone. The door of the neighbouring office slammed and a girl’s voice behind me said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Fergus,’ I explained.

  ‘Old Mr Fergus?’ She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t been coming to the office for a long time now. He’s been ill.’

  ‘Oh.’ I hesitated.

  ‘Is your business urgent? Because his son, Mr Henry Fergus—’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t really business—more a social call. He was a great friend of my grandfather, Stuart Campbell.’

  Her eyes lit up in her rather pale face. ‘I met Mr Campbell once.’ She smiled. ‘He was a wonderful old man—quite a character. There was an awful lot about him in the papers when he died.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘I’ll ring Mr Fergus’s home. I’m sure he’d like to see you if he’s well enough. He had a stroke, you know. He’s paralysed all down one side and he tires very easily.’

  But apparently it was all right. He would see me if I went straight over. ‘But the nurse says you’re not to stay more than five minutes. The Fergus Farm is a little way out of town on the far side of the Bow River. The cab drivers all know it.’

  I thanked her and went down the stairs, past the photographs of oil wells and the clatter of the ticker tape and the typewriters on the second floor. The notice board at the entrance, listing the companies occupying the building, caught my eye. The second floor was occupied by Henry Fergus, Stockbrokers. I wondered vaguely how the Calgary stock exchange was able to support a business that appeared to be as large as most London stockbroker’s offices.