Grimes grew impatient, shifting from foot to foot. His hand caressing the grip of his cutlass. He kept his goggles on.
“This is getting us nowhere.” I sighed, gathering my courage. Then I took the first decisive step onto the plank. My high boots clanged against the metal plates, sending a signal across the prairie like a church bell warning of invasion.
I saw a Métis gentleman with bristly red hair that clashed with his old-tuppence-coloured skin. His eyes were the strangest part of him: blacker than the coal that fuelled my ship, but glazed with white cataracts.
As I took another loud step downward, he clenched his left fist, while he shifted his long rifle. He held the grip against his hip, raising the muzzle from the ground to my chest.
I had cannon with smaller bore than that buffalo gun.
The fine hairs on my nape rose in atavistic dread. He frightened me. But I would not show it. I’d bullied Indian Maharajas and African cannibals with my self-confident arrogance, while my guts turned to slurry.
One step after another I trod down the gangplank, hands held away from my weapons, breathing deeply each time my heels reverberated. Clang and clonk. My steps drowned out the natural sounds of birds singing, insects buzzing. The river rushed in as musical a tune as any sweetly-running engine.
I expected a shot through my gut at each step.
I’d made it this far, therefore I presumed I was safe. For a time. I allowed myself to drink in the fresh scent of newly turned soil from nearby fields, budding trees, and wild river churning northward; none of it tainted by sulphurous coal fire that dominated so many of our ports of call.
“What brings the likes of you to French Prairie?” asked a dark-haired man. He wore a cloth suit with a subdued calico shirt. He hadn’t added the nuisance of a collar. I couldn’t blame him since I never bothered with the restriction of a corset or skirts. I let my sister obsess over fashion and lace.
The half-blind, red-haired Métis drifted beyond my peripheral vision.
“Captain Trude Romanz of the White Swan,” I introduced myself. With a grand flourish I doffed my feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed deeply.
“Robert Newell.” The settler’s spokesman bent awkwardly from the waist, as if caught off guard by my civility. I’d heard of him in my occasional dealings in this part of the world. Gossip and rumours followed thoughtful leaders who commanded loyalty without resorting to violence.
Courtesies done with, I closed the distance between us so that we could speak without shouting.
“I seek to trade honourably and peaceably. I have a cargo bay full of metal nails and gears.”
Newell’s eyes opened wide and his brows rose in question. “What can we trade you that the Hudson’s Bay men don’t already claim as their own?” Suppressed undertones in his voice told me he’d heard of me, too. There aren’t many pirate queens in this part of the world.
I glanced around at the cows grazing in the enclosed grassland and the ploughed fields beyond. “My crew would relish hot victuals. And some information, for ten pounds of nails,” I replied quietly.
“We know nothing Dr. John and his bosses don’t tell us.” Newell said loudly, looking around, letting his gaze rest a little longer on the red-haired, half-blind Métis. Then he continued his survey of the crowd.
“I beg hospitality for my crew, Mr. Newell. Perhaps you and I can retire to your local pub and talk over a cup of ale.” I gestured toward the cluster of buildings laid out in a geometrical grid. An efficient use of land, yet it grated against my sense of beauty, which demanded an organic outgrowth conforming to the contours of the land around a central edifice, like a church. Or a fortress. This little town was too new, planted all at once.
And yet fire pumper wagons pulled by mechanical horses could race from one end of town to another without hindrance — if they possessed such modern miracles. I knew that the HBC would not consider these settlers worthy of such luxuries as fire fighting equipment anywhere but perhaps their own grist mill and warehouse. With the river so close, a bucket brigade might prove equally efficient and speedy as a steam-driven pumper wagon. Less costly, too.
I walked beside Newell, matching him stride for stride. We stood shoulder to shoulder in height. My men and his fell in behind us, separated by a distinct aisle the width of two horses. My spine itched as numerous sets of eyes followed my every move.
“Fine weather today,” I remarked casually, keeping my hands well away from my weapons.
“Aye. The fields are ploughed and sown. Most of our work now is weeding and keeping the wolves away from the lambs and calves. But they slink down out of the hills at night, looking for an easy meal.”
I wondered if he meant the four-legged predators, or the agents of the HBC, or even the red-skinned natives. Though with the number of settlers of mixed races and nations guarding Newell’s back from my crew, I figured the local tribes had made peace with this town.
“Do you post bounties on the wolves?” I asked.
“Aye. We’ve been having meetings about that, couple times a month. Closest thing to a government the Company allows us.” He flicked his gaze back toward the red-haired man again. That bit of information was more for his ears than mine. Later, with a bit of privacy, I might hear what was really discussed at those meetings.
“I’m surprised Sir George hasn’t sent you some automata to work the fields and stand guard at night. They don’t need sleep, just a little extra coal, or firewood, and water to keep them running.”
Newell stiffened as if affronted. “We don’t need automatic men. We settled here to get away from them. This is our land and we work it ourselves.”
“A lot of you are retired from the HBC,” I said casually.
“Hmf,” Newell snorted.
I raised my left eyebrow in question. He gestured me into the cluster of buildings. Newell’s own storefront faced the town, docks and warehouses hung out over the river. A sign over an interior doorway of the store announced “Saloon” in neatly painted letters.
I ducked through the narrow, inconvenient portal to the dark room, illuminated only by a few whale-oil lamps on the crude plank bar and rickety tables. Upturned barrels sufficed for chairs. Sawdust on the plank floor absorbed the thunk of my boot heels. The place smelled of spilled beer, stale sweat, and baking bread. My stomach growled.
“Why did you refer to your retirement from the HBC?” I asked as we straddled barrels on opposite sides of a square table in the middle of the small room.
Newell scanned the room cautiously before resting his elbows on the table. It wobbled until he spread his arms a bit and found new balance. “We’re alone, but not for long. Ask your questions quickly.”
“Sir George lands an express-class dirigible at the Fort right about now. I need to know why he’s here.”
The barkeep brought us each a frothing mug of beer. “Anything else I can get you, Doc?” he asked Newell.
“I’d like some bread and meat. Something fresh from the garden as well. Same for my men,” I replied.
He nodded. Then, at a gesture from Newell, he backed away rapidly.
“Ask Sir George. He comes when he comes and leaves without notice,” Newell said without a trace of emotion on his weathered face.
“I’ve heard rumours that he wants to be king of the Columbia Department. Separate from Montréal or London.” I threw out my sister’s phrases.
Newell paused with his beer halfway to his mouth. His eyes shifted warily. “No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
“You’re not one of us.” He stopped any further words with a long quaff of beer. A dozen men strode through the door. Moccasins and boots shuffled uneasily as each man surveyed the empty tables and benches.
I waved my six men to sit beside the doorway, so that they could make an easy and unhindered escape. Newell’s men ambled toward the far wall, comfortable in their home territory, and not far from the double swinging doors that presumably led to warehouse and dock. All
kept their hands near their ever-present weapons.
The red-haired man was missing from the group. Unwelcome? Or standing guard outside?
I dropped a small purse onto my table, allowing the coins within to clank noisily. “A round on me,” I announced loudly.
The settlers crowded forward, queuing up along the two planks supported by two barrels that formed the bar. My men held back. We’d done this before: waiting to lull the enemy.
“What if I want to settle here? Seems to me a growing community could make use of an independent shipper,” I suggested.
“Sir George would order Dr. John to shoot you down the first time you underbid the Company.”
“Neither the HBC nor the British government own this land. The entire Oregon Country is open to citizens of both England and America,” I said. “No military interference from either Government.”
“Not according to Sir George. He funds and therefore rules the International Secure Shipping Lane Police. They answer only to him.”
I quirked an eyebrow again. Newell frowned at his near-empty beer mug. I drank mine down to give him a few moments. A plate of fresh-baked bread slathered in butter, not drippings, and a heap of sliced beef appeared at my elbow. A bunch of fresh greens with bacon drippings filled a second plate.
“I fought long and hard to stay independent of both the HBC and Chinese pirate lords. I fly when I want, where I want,” I said after the first few bites. “I’m as interested as you in breaking Sir George’s hold on your settlement.”
“That’s going to be difficult. You see, when a man wants to retire from the Company, he has to return to the city of his recruitment. That’s so no man is left stranded in the wilderness. A lot of Dr. John’s voyageurs married locals and wanted to stay here. He kept them on the books as millers, farmers, and timber men employed by his mill here. He gave them tools, seed, and livestock. We pay the White Headed Eagle back in produce. So technically the HBC owns over half the men in this town because Dr. McLoughlin gave them the chance to stay with their families. Of the others, me included, we owe Doctor John our lives for the supplies he gave us cheap when we lost everything just getting here. More’n the missionaries up river offered. All they hand out is prayer.”
A low whistle escaped through my teeth. “So even if you voted to separate from the Company, the Americans here won’t have enough voices to carry the day.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Some came here to escape government and taxes and rules. They won’t vote. Some want peace and order and the means to enforce it. The vote depends on a man’s hate for Sir George overcoming his love for Dr. McLoughlin.”
I looked around at the restless men, wondering at their priorities. My guess was that everyone in the private saloon had come on Newell’s invitation and backed him.
“Blind Red?” I asked under my breath.
“Calls himself John McLoughlin, Junior.”
“But Dr. John’s son died years ago!”
“Who’s to say? No one here wants to open old grief in our friend. So no one asks.”
“What’s the best way to get me into the Fort without drawing too much attention?” I asked.
“Not in that ruddy big galleon,” Newell snorted.
“Or the dragon harriers,” I added.
“You know The Clearing?” Newell asked.
I nodded, recalling the spot on the Willamette River about ten miles below the falls, where river boats tied up for a rest on the journey north to Fort Vancouver. An enterprising farmer sold refreshment and sometimes rented rooms there to benighted travellers.
“Wait there with one man at noon tomorrow. A sternwheeler will make a routine stop. You can buy passage to Fort Vancouver. Tell everyone you are part of the Methodist Mission. There’s too many of them for McLoughlin or Sir George to know them all. You can make up your own excuse to see the doctor.” Newell thumped his empty mug onto the table and swung away from the barrel. “If you’re asked, I have never met you and don’t know anything about you. Dress like a lady, not a bloody pirate.”
I decided to await the sternwheeler at the base of the big falls in Oregon City. At The Clearing we would be the only newcomers, subject to scrutiny by many curious eyes.
“Pacing won’t make the boat come any faster, Captain,” Jimmy Seaforth said on a yawn, as he lounged upon a flattened boulder on the narrow beach beside the loading dock for the downriver sternwheeler. He looked almost respectable in his canvas trousers, calico shirt, waistcoat, and slouch hat.
I wanted his keen observation beside me on this mission. He might look half asleep but he saw everything. Grimes’ nervous need to prove himself often led to impetuous attack when I needed stealth and subtlety.
“Pacing keeps me from ripping off this damnable corset,” I snarled at him. I used my frilly parasol, loot from some former raid, as a walking stick, jabbing it into ragged tufts of grass. With my free hand, I tugged at the high neckline of my calico dress. My sister Elise would have turned up her nose at the plain frock. But she would approve of me finally shedding my masculine knee breeches and tall boots.
“The sun is a couple hours past noon. We can’t make the Fort until after sunset,” Jimmy observed. “The boat is late.”
“Long twilight in these latitudes. Calm river and waxing half-moon. An experienced captain won’t need to stop over at The Clearing for the night.”
We’d secured the White Swan on the plateau above the town and walked down. Marko could buy supplies and spare parts quite readily in town. I counted at least three steam plumes from mills on the first plateau. The ten mills at river level used clean water power.
A shout went up as the Matilda, a trim little sternwheeler, hove into view and aimed for the docks.
Jimmy and I walked up the gangplank onto the bow of the ship, flanked forward and back by businessmen. Within moments, the captain tugged on the steam whistle to signal departure. The huge paddle wheel engaged with a clank of gears and pushed a whoosh of water beneath the bow, allowing it to float free of the bank.
My restlessness kept me pacing around the deck. I moved from conversation to conversation, listening for anything that might give me clues about Sir George and the purpose of his trip to the Columbia Department.
“The Company has bought up all our wheat and commandeered every sea-going vessel as far south as Yerba Buena,” a short, lithe man complained. “He’s sending it all to Russia. Every last bushel. Didn’t give us as good a price as last year, either.”
“Have you tried to sell to the Chinese?” I asked. Not much of a clew to Sir George’s presence at the Fort, but it gave me an entry into their discussion.
The men stiffened their shoulders and tightened their string ties, all the while looking me up and down with questions, disdain, and insecurities. Apparently females of their acquaintance did not address males without a proper introduction. I stood my ground, leaving the question in the air.
Eventually the oldest of the men, with wings of white hair at his temples in sharp contrast to his dark auburn locks, tipped his tall beaver hat to me. His nicely-fitted black suit showed no signs of going green at elbow, collar, and knees “Doctor Forbes Barclay.”
“Mrs. Gertrude Seaforth, and my son James,” I replied without dipping a curtsey. “Widow,” I added. Not totally a lie. I had a husband once, didn’t know where the bastard was or if he still lived. And didn’t care. Last I saw of him, he tried to steal my ship!
In polite society, widows had more freedom than any other female. Now that I had reached “a certain age,” I could get away with throwing niceties to the four winds.
“What are the Chinese offering for wheat this year? I’ll have a crop to sell, come August.” I let some impatience bleed through my tone. “I’ll need money soon. I have an appointment with Dr. John McLoughlin.”
“I am the chief medical officer now at Fort Vancouver,” Dr. Barclay said. “May I be of assistance?”
I looked him up and down, noting his relative youth and sniffing a
bit of disapproval. “I doubt you can help me.” I twitched my head toward the other men, as if indicating my reluctance to discuss a delicate matter.
Doctor Barclay offered me his arm and tipped his hat with the other hand. “Perhaps we may pass the time with a promenade about the deck.”
I hesitated only a little before slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow. Jimmy unfolded himself to follow close at our heels as we strolled around the crowded deck.
“We have privacy now, Mrs. Seaforth.”
I looked pointedly toward Jimmy and the crowds of strangers. “Not as private as you might think. I’ll not make myself vulnerable to exploitation based on half information.”
Dr. Barclay nodded. He continued our stroll anyway, chatting amiably about the abundant spring rain for the crops and an expected shipment from England of fine cloth and fashion sheets for Mme McLoughlin.
“I don’t have time to make fancy clothes. I have a farm to run and only my son to help,” I replied curtly.
I listened more acutely to the random conversation of the other Company men.
“You think this past winter was bad, why the blizzard of ’22 up along the Continental Divide trapped me in a snow cave for nigh on six weeks with nothing to eat but a couple of beaver tails....”
“Them Modocs took our horses in trade for beaver pelts, then stole the whole boatload out from under us and sold them to the next brigade for more horses....”
We passed Jimmy and he shrugged. He’d heard nothing of local politics or policies either.
The sun set before the Willamette spilled into the mighty Columbia where we met a soaking drizzle. My parasol proved useless. Dr. Barclay lent me half of his stout black umbrella. Another hour passed before we made landing at Fort Vancouver. By this time my thin cotton gown clung to my skin, holding the cold dampness. My teeth chattered, very unladylike. I was chilled to the bone, wishing for my study leather coat instead of the inadequate shawl I’d brought.
Dr. Barclay shepherded me past the guards at the river gate of Fort Vancouver, and thence into the white house that dominated the enclosure of the HBC headquarters compound. He sent Jimmy to bunk with male Company servants across the open compound from the house. Mme McLoughlin herself greeted me in the entryway. She wore black taffeta like any proper London matron, despite her copper colouring. She clucked in French over my sodden state, ushering me upstairs to the living quarters. In the guest quarters, she and her black-eyed teenage daughter, garbed in a fashionable pink gown with a full array of petticoats, undressed me, warmed me with a vigorous rub with rough towels, wrapped me in a Chinese silk robe, and put me to bed with a brick at my feet.
The Shadow Conspiracy II Page 9