West to the Bay

by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

  He led the way into the room where Thomas had rolled the barrels after they had been counted. “Open that one,” Wemple said.

  Thomas picked up a bar and pried the lid from the first one. A foul odor rose from the contents. He immediately took a step back and held his breath. The stench was familiar. The last time he had smelled it was when one of the cows in the herd had lain down on a slight hill. She overbalanced onto her back against a large rock and was unable to stand again. She bloated and died, and in the hot sun quickly began to rot. The animals were out in the pasture and were not checked every day, so by the time Thomas found her, the flies crawling on her were as thick as black fur on a cat.

  “We are not going to eat that, are we?” Thomas asked.

  “We will get the Factor in to look at it and he will decide.”

  They opened and checked the rest of the barrels and found only one more putrid container. Some of the meat had maggots on it, but that did not seem to worry the apprentice clerk.

  It was mid-afternoon before Factor Smith waddled into the store room. He grumbled at being called from his office.

  “Where are those barrels?” he demanded.

  “In the back,” Wemple said. “I will show you.”

  Thomas watched the Factor as he leaned over and looked at the meat. The smell did not seem to affect him. He frowned, and then straightened.

  “Get the cook to dress some of it for my supper tonight,” he said.

  Thomas wrinkled his nose at the thought of someone actually eating the meat, but he felt if someone had to, it might as well be the Factor. He knew if it ever was set in front of him, he would go hungry.

  At the evening meal, Thomas cautiously looked at the cooked meat in front of him. It was salted beef that had been cut in chunks and boiled. He bent and smelled it. The cook had put spices in the water and he knew spices were used heavily when the meat was rotten. But from past meals, he also knew the cook liked to use spices in all his cooking. He watched as the other men ate the meat. They did not seem to notice anything different from the usual salt beef. Thomas cut a small piece and put it in his mouth. He could not taste a difference either and decided to eat the meal.

  The next morning Wemple said. “Factor Smith says they are not fit to eat.”

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “He said to take them over to the Indian village.”

  “The Indian village?” Thomas thought he would be told to dump them somewhere away from the post.

  “Factor Smith seems to think they will eat anything.”

  Thomas hated the idea of taking the barrels to the Indians. It was not right to expect them to eat the rotten meat.

  “Do not worry. They will not eat it.”

  “What will they do with it?”

  Wemple shrugged. “That is none of my business. I just have to make sure the Factor’s orders are carried out. Now get busy.”

  Thomas went into the back for the first barrel. He rolled it out of the compound and over to the Indian Village. He was not sure who he was to give it to. The Indian maiden who had watched him on his first day was walking alone near the bush.

  “Pardon me,” he called to her.

  She turned and looked at him and as their eyes met he was startled to see hers were a sparkling blue color. He quickly dropped his gaze. She walked over to him.

  “Yes?” she said, her voice soft and musical. The sound sent shivers up and down his spine.

  “Uh, Factor Smith sent this meat over to the village.”

  “What is wrong with it? Is it rotten?”

  Thomas nodded.

  She laughed. “He thinks we are like wild animals and will eat rotten flesh.”

  “Do you want me to take it back?”

  “No. We have dogs that might eat it.”

  “There is another barrel.”

  “We have lots of dogs.”

  Thomas hesitated a moment, then said. “My name is Thomas.”

  “I am Little Bird.”

  When Thomas returned with the second barrel, the first one was gone, and so was Little Bird. He felt a great disappointment as he left it where the first had stood.

  Chapter 15

  The men had half a day Saturday, and all day Sunday off. They received a quart of gin every Wednesday and Saturday evenings. Drinking had only been allowed in the Gunn house at Christmas time, and then only the punch in the wassail bowl. Thomas tried the gin the first time it was given him and sputtered and coughed at the way it burned his mouth and throat. Since then he had refused his ration.

  On their days off, the men chose teams and passed a small, inflated whale bladder from one to the other along a makeshift field. The team who scored the most goals at the other team’s end, won. Thomas, who was a good runner, enjoyed the game. It got him outside after being cooped up in the stores all day. But one Saturday he twisted his ankle and had to watch from the edge of the field. He cheered for his team when they scored.

  A man sat beside him. He looked up and was not surprised to see Peter. Ever since they had spent the night in lock up Peter considered him a friend. Thomas knew he was probably Peter’s only friend.

  Peter pulled his bottle of gin from his pocket and took a drink. He offered it to Thomas who shook his head.

  “The gin will not make your life here easier,” Thomas said to the older man.

  “This is not to make it easier.” Peter took another drink. “It is to make it disappear for a while.”

  Thomas looked up as flocks of geese honked their way across the skies.

  “We will probably be shooting them tomorrow,” Peter said.

  “We will?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes. Have you not noticed the geese and ducks flying over the past week and how Manchester rushes out to look at them when he hears them honking?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I am in the stores all day.”

  “Well, the first birds are not worth the effort of setting up the hunt. It is when the flocks get as big as these that the muskets are given out.”

  As the day wore slowly on, Thomas watched Peter grow increasingly drunk. This was not new. Peter always seemed to be drinking, or already drunk. When he ran out of gin, he drank the dandelion wine brewed by the men. So far there had not been much for Thomas to do in the way of looking after him, except finding him on the occasional night and helping him to his bunk.

  “I need some more to drink,” Peter said, as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  Thomas wondered if he should follow him then decided against it. His ankle hurt and Peter was just going to the pile of wild hay that was winter feed for the cows. He had followed Peter before and knew he would stick his arm in the mound and pull out a jug of wine. He would then take a long drink, and maybe another, before coming back.

  The game was almost over when Peter returned with the jug under his arm. He dropped down beside Thomas, pulled the plug on the jug, and tilted it to drink.

  “Ah, good stuff,” Peter slurred. “You shure you do not want shome?”

  “No.”

  When the game was over, Thomas tried to get Peter to return to the quarters with him. It was drizzling and getting cold, but Peter chose to stay where he was. Thomas limped off on his own.

  * * *

  Thomas looked for Peter at the evening meal, but he did not show up. Back in the men’s quarters some of the men played cards while others rested on their beds. He half listened to the stories told by Jarvis and Luke about the goose hunts. The rain had turned to sleet and he could hear it hitting the windows. He knew he should go and look for Peter. If he was outside he would be half frozen by now.

  Thomas put on his coat and stepped into the darkness. He had only taken a few steps when he heard Peter stumbling along the sidewalk. Thomas turned around and held the door open for him.

  “Good evening, mates,” Peter slurred, as he staggered into the room and dropped onto his bed. “How are you thish evening?”

  “Do you not think y
ou have had enough?” Thomas asked.

  Peter let out a laugh at the question. He had brought the jug of wine and he took a long drink from it.

  “I hate my life,” Peter mumbled. His hands dropped between his legs and the jug fell to the floor. His head sank to his chest as he slumped over onto his bed.

  Thomas moved the jug then lifted Peter’s legs and swung them onto the bed. The nights were colder now and the cold penetrated through the logs even with a fire in the stove. Thomas pulled the blanket up over Peter.

  Thomas was waiting when Peter awoke the next morning. He knew he would have a fierce headache and would probably want some water. Peter slowly opened his eyes and looked around. His gaze rested on Thomas then turned away. He pulled himself up and sat with his head in his hands for a few moments.

  “Do you want some water?” Thomas asked.

  “I can get it myself.”

  Carefully rising to his feet, Peter stumbled over to the water pail and took a long drink then splashed some on his face. The shock of the cold water seemed to increase his pain. He groaned and went back to his bed. He closed his eyes and soon was snoring.

  Thomas left the room.

  * * *

  Early Monday morning, Thomas was awakened by the rapid clanging of the bell.

  “The bird hunt,” Luke said, when Thomas looked at him.

  He dressed quickly. It was still dark when they headed to the mess for an early breakfast. There was great excitement as the gruel was quickly eaten. They headed outside and mingled with hunters from the Home Guard Indians. As they waited, Thomas heard again the stories of last year’s hunt. Mr. Manchester came out of the stores with a barrel of brandy and doled out a cup to each man to celebrate the beginning of the hunt. The new boys were given a half cup. Thomas managed to get his down without coughing. Then everyone, except Thomas, Francis, and Henry, was handed a musket, shot, and a powder horn, and told to aim carefully.

  “You boys gather the dead geese after the shoot was over,” Jarvis said. He gave Thomas his musket to carry, leaving him with the weight of the shot and powder. Thomas looked at the long-barreled gun. It was taller than he was and quite heavy.

  “Just follow us and we will show you what to do,” Jarvis said. Since the trick he and Luke had played on the boys, they had taken them under their wing, showing them how things worked at the post.

  It was getting daylight when the large group of men walked out into the tall grass and hid themselves as best they could.

  “Keep your heads down,” Luke advised, as they settled in. “The birds do not like to see anything taller than the grass and they do not like movement.”

  Soon the honking of geese could be heard. Everyone searched the sky looking for the V formation. Someone spotted them just coming from the north. They were too high, but they circled and came back, looking for a place to set down. The men sat in silence.

  “These guns do not shoot very far, so we have to wait until they are almost overhead,” Luke whispered.

  As the flock flew over, the honking was replaced by the blasting of the guns as the men stood, aimed, and fired. Birds dropped out of the sky by the dozens. The unhurt geese did not stop, seeming to pick up speed as they headed south. That flock was quickly replaced by another, and another, as the sky grew dark from the millions of birds. The men did not even rush through their reloading. There were plenty of birds to shoot at.

  At one point, Thomas heard a shot followed by a high pitched scream. He looked over to see a man with his hands covering the side of his face. Blood ran down between his fingers.

  “His musket exploded,” Jarvis said. “It happens sometimes.”

  Thomas watched as the screaming man was led away. The shoot was not much safer for the humans than it was for the birds, he decided.

  Sometimes the sky would clear in a lull between flocks. During this time, Thomas, Henry, and Francis walked through the grass looking for the dead birds. They wrung the necks of the wounded ones and carried them to an open area, dropping them in a pile. As soon as someone spotted the next formation, he would call out and everyone dropped to the ground, or went into hiding.

  By late morning the flocks had tapered off and the shoot was over. The men began stripping the feathers off the birds and gutting them. They were washed and set in a brine made of salt and water where they would keep for the winter.

  “If any geese are flying after freeze up, we shoot them and leave them to freeze without the salt,” Jarvis said, as they put the last of the birds in a barrel. “We get tired of salted meat, and by the middle of winter most of the men will be complaining about the salt taste on everything.”

  “Is this all there is to a goose shoot?” Henry sounded a little disappointed.

  “Hell, no,” Luke laughed. “This is just the beginning. We will be out late this afternoon, and again tomorrow, and the next day, until the birds quit flying. And we will get some ducks, too.”

  And so the week continued. Up early, eat breakfast, gulp down a cup of brandy, shoot at the geese and ducks, gather them, clean them, and then relax until the afternoon shoot.

  “When do we get to fire a musket?” Thomas asked on the third day.

  “Not this year,” Jarvis said. “Manchester wants to make sure you understand what is happening before he gives you a gun. He does not want any of the men shot.”

  One day, Thomas was taken off the shooting detail and sent with a group of five men to catch willow ptarmigan. They headed miles away from the fort and were soon deep in the forest that had, as yet, not been cut down for firewood. Even then, because of the short growing season and harsh winters, the trees were barely taller than the men.

  Each man took a turn at carrying a huge net.

  “Where are we going?” Thomas asked Peter, who was also on the assignment.

  “There is a spot where the ptarmigan gather for the winter,” Peter said. “We should be there soon.”

  When they reached the area, they laid the net out on the ground and sprinkled some gravel, which they had brought from the river bank, on it.

  “Why are you doing that?” Thomas asked.

  “The birds like gravel.”

  “Why?” It did not have any value as far as he knew.

  The man shrugged. “Some think it helps with the digestion of their food.”

  The men stepped behind some trees. Two of them held a length of rope attached to the corners of the net. Thomas grew cold and tired as they waited for the birds. It was a couple of hours before a flock of small, chicken-sized birds with short, fluffy feathers on their feet flew out of the bush onto the net. They began picking at the gravel. More joined them and soon there was about thirty. One man gave the signal and the two holding the ropes jerked the net up and over the birds. Startled, the ptarmigan tried to fly, but the net hampered their attempts.

  While Thomas and three other men held the edges of the net so the birds could not get out, the other two reached in a small opening and pulled out the birds, one at a time. They held them by the head and with a twist of the wrist, broke their necks. When they were all dead, the men loaded them into sacks and carried them back to the fort. There, they were de-feathered, cleaned, and put into a brine.

  “We will go again in a week for some more,” Peter said.

  The next day Thomas was back on the goose hunt.

  Chapter 16

  The hunt lasted until the middle of October. A few days after its end, there was an uproar down at the river. Thomas could hear the yelling and screaming from inside the storeroom. He put on his great coat and followed the noise, standing beside Luke and Jarvis on the bank above the river.

  “What is happening?” he asked.

  “Someone has spotted a canoe,” Luke replied, pointing up the river.

  As Thomas watched, the first canoe was joined by more fur-laden ones, until it seemed as if they would swamp each other. The Indians paddling them had no shirts on in spite of the cold weather. They seemed to pause out in the middle of
the river and a few waved to the people gathering on the shoreline.

  Word had spread fast that the Uplanders, as they were now called, had returned and the shore was soon lined with spectators. When the reception was big enough, the paddlers steered the canoes towards shore and leaped out as soon as they hit the beach. They were greeted by hugs from the women, slaps on the back by the men, and children leaping into their arms. Everyone spoke at once, each trying to be heard above the din.

  “Are these the men who went inland last spring?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes,” Jarvis said. “Your brother should be with them.”

  Thomas searched the men for Edward, but they were all Indians. Somewhere on the journey Edward must have died. Thomas stood, feeling a sorrow like the sadness he had felt when John was swept out to sea. He wondered how long it would be before he heard the story.

  * * *

  Little Bird and Spotted Fawn were walking through the woods near the village gathering dry branches that had fallen in the wind when they heard the clamor. They stared at each other.

  “He is back,” Spotted Fawn exclaimed. It was close to winter and she had had a worried look on her face for days now.

  “I will go get Mother and Grandmother,” Little Bird said.

  Spotted Fawn dropped her wood and rushed towards the river. Little Bird carried her branches to the teepee, setting them just outside the door. She pulled back the flap and saw that her mother and grandmother had already put on their wraps. Her grandmother set her pipe carefully by her mat before leaving the teepee.

  They walked slowly to the river, her grandmother taking small careful steps as if unsure of where she was going. At the river bank, they watched the canoes land. Little Bird saw Spotted Fawn run down to the water and jump into White Paddler’s arms. She laughed and shrieked with glee.