“Damn him, damn him to hell. He is always poking and prying and raising mischief. You see, there will be trouble again, more than before. When it smells bad, you look for shit, and it has smelled bad around here for too damned long. Piss on him, I say.”
“Now Jacque, must not speak like this.”
“Who is Cuthbert Grant?” Alexander asks.
“The fornicating son of a cross-bred goat, whelped by a bitch-dog and nursed by a half-penny whore.”
“He our chief,” Elise says with a smile. “One of them. Jacque mad because he not pay debt for pemmican. Grant owes Jacque new musket.”
“Damn right he does, that foreign son of a poxed whore’s left tit. But it is more than that, little pig. When he and his doxy Duncan Cameron are not busying tonguing each other’s holes, they raise so much shit that the redcoats must surely come. He could have let those Scottish half-wit peasants freeze or starve, but he has to burn them out, and now the mad King George will be pissing himself and sending in his troops.”
“What do you mean, ‘foreign’?” asks Alexander, trying to make his eyes focus on Jacque.
“He’s a foreigner, by God. He might have been born an honest Half-breed, but he was sent by his papa to Scotland, grew up on the fucking moors or heaths or whatever the hell it is called. Came back to Rupert’s Land dressed like a doxy with his pantaloons and boots and hats. Shits gold dust and diamonds. Yet, just last month I saw him dressed like one of our warriors, with paint and feathers. I would have shot the fool right off his mount, but I was afraid of hitting the horse.”
“Didn’t you grow up in Montreal, Jacque? Your people so rich you were nursed by saints and had angels wiping your arse?”
“Yes, I did, by Christ,” says Jacque with enormous solemnity. “I went to school for four whole years, before I kicked the good Father in the balls, and they threw me out, the whores. My dear Papa put me on the next brigade westward, and here I have been: a true Voyageur and trader and hunter while Cuthbert Grant was still in Scotland, stuffing his scaly prick up every cassock he could find.”
“What is happening at the Forks now?”
“Merde is happening, my friend. I hear that the fucking colonists have since come back, and they recaptured Fort Douglas, stormed Fort Gibraltar across the river, and even arrested Cameron. Grant is running all over the country rousing our people to war. Piss on it all, I say! Here, little pig, pass the drink, won’t you?”
Alexander is awakened by a grunting in a corner of the room, the place where their willow bed is pushed against a wall. Confused, he turns over just in time to see Elise take Jacque’s penis in her mouth. Jacque looks up, sees Alexander watching, and winks at him. Alexander stares for a moment, in his confusion not understanding what he is seeing, but, as awareness dawns, he flushes and quickly turns away.
After a while the sounds die away; he tries to sleep but cannot, and lies in the darkness listening to the shrieks of owls and the occasional snap from the fire, long since burned down. The air in the cabin is warm and fetid, filled with the smell of birch smoke, tobacco smoke, farts and sweat and another elusive scent that he finds particularly repulsive. He gets up from his blankets on the floor and opens the front door for a piss. As he stands swaying in the doorway, he looks up at the sky and is surprised by a crown of stars. His piss steams and he can tell that the temperature is dropping fast. He hurriedly buttons his fly and returns to the noisome warmth of his bedroll.
Chapter Fifteen
Alexander is roused by Jacque groaning, “Mother of God,” and the sound of vomit splattering the floor. His own head is pounding after the past night’s heavy drinking, and he scrabbles up, heading for the door. His head is swimming and he hits the door hard, sending it crashing back against the outer wall.
“Be careful of the portcullis, you clumsy English bastard,” Jacque shouts at him, followed by a pained screech from Elise. Alexander staggers into sunshine reflecting off a glorious patina of frost covering everything about him. He gulps the cold air to clear his head as he walks toward the corral. His horse is standing there steaming, one forefoot tipped onto the edge of its hoof. He had been frisking about the enclosure in the cold morning, judging by the sweat and proud toss of his neck as Alexander approaches.
“Good morning to you, my old friend,” Alexander murmurs to it as the horse lowers its head and nibbles on his ear. The bubbling song of a meadowlark calls from the top of a nearby cottonwood, and a pair of crows sweep overhead, cawing as they pass by.
He throws some hay into the corral along with a shovel of grain. He is examining Jacque’s colourful bridle hanging off a corral post when he hears the thunder of several hooves approaching at a run. Soon there is a flash of many colours and a group of horseman pound into the yard. Alexander approaches the nearest rider, taking the restive animal’s bridle as it tosses its head.
Some of the Métis are dressed in the capotes and paint and feathers of their mother’s tribes, but most are in beaded leather buckskin and leggings and wear a broad red sash around their waists. Some have jaunty feathers in their caps. All are armed with knives and muskets.
“Hallo, Alexander. Good day to you.”
“Hallo, François, and a good day to you.” He turns to the rest of the band, all lined up and watching him, their horses chewing at bits and capering. “And what is this? Off to find you a wife at last? I think you will need more men to assist you.”
“The hunt, the hunt!” François replies. “There was a council and it was decided that it is time.”
“François!” Jacque shouts from the doorway, dressed only in his long red woollen underwear, the rear flap hanging down. “Come in, come in, we must have a drink. Get up little pig, get up my love, we have guests. Food, we must have food.”
“The last time I was a guest at your house, I had the running shits for a week,” one of the horsemen call.
“That is because you are not used to solids, Théophile. It really is time your mother weaned you. But there is no worry, I will do you a great favour and shoot the ill-bred nag you ride, and there shall be fresh meat for all. Come in, come in, everyone.”
By the time the good-natured party has jammed their way into the cabin there is hardly room to move. The riders have their own kegs with them, and it soon becomes apparent that the buffalo will remain unmolested for at least another day. Elise insists on a roaring fire — likely an ill-fated ruse to ensure that the guests do not overstay — and the space not filled with sweating bodies is occupied by several voices, all speaking at once and loudly discussing everything from the imminent hunt to the spring weather, but mostly the certainty that all-out war will be declared on Selkirk’s settlement.
Somehow word gets out to the surrounding community, and even more riders show up, many accompanied by their womenfolk. The corral fills with horses and the gathering thankfully moves into the barn. Someone has brought a fiddle and the little farm on the banks of the Assiniboine River echoes with lively jigs and rumble of buffalo-hide boots on wood.
The gathering lasts all day and into the night, and after a time Alexander wearies of it, retreating to the house. It is cold and dark inside and he pokes up the fire before taking a burning brand and lighting his pipe. He sits back in the darkness, resting his moccasined feet on the table, the music and drone of the crowd faint through the log walls. He is barely into his second pipe when the door opens, and Elise steps inside. She looks around and seems surprised to find Alexander sitting there in the dark, the fire warm. Her face is rosy and flushed, her dark hair long and hanging down her back. Drops of sweat shine on her forehead, reflecting the fire like tiny suns.
“Excuse me,” Alexander says, preparing to get up.
“Just sit there,” Elise replies, looking around and lifting her damp hair from her face. She takes a tin cup and fills it with rum, collapsing in a chair beside the table.
“Jacque will leave tomorrow,” she says, and sighs.
“Will you not come, too?” Alexander as
ks after a pause. The question feels heavy; she can feel him searching her.
“Jacque does not want me. Want me here for the baby.” She drops her hand on her belly and squeezes.
“I am surprised to hear it,” he replies. Neither Indians nor Half-breeds gave any special exemptions to pregnant women; they pulled their weight along with everyone else.
“He is afraid … afraid for baby. I lose before, once. Baby did not live, you understand?”
“I did not know. I am sorry.”
“I am lonely, Alexander. Jacque, he hunts all days. He is never with me. I am alone in this place. It feels so dark to me now. Once I was happy, so very happy, but not now. I miss my family.”
Alexander clears his throat and begins a few inadequate sentences, then falls mute. His hand reaches across the table and gives hers a few cautious pats. It is wet with her tears. She is suddenly furious with him and turns, staring at him. She cannot see his face in the dark.
“You are just like him!”
“Eh?”
“Another asshole hunter that would rather sleep with buffalo than woman. Or with men. Do you fuck men, Alexander?”
“What the Christ are you saying?”
“You all alike, fuck each other. Probably fuck buffalo too, right? Maybe even bitch coyote. Do you roll on the grass with my Jacque, that why he no come home?” She is shouting now.
He stands up, kicking away the table. Elise leaps to her feet, her eyes glaring in the firelight. He steps towards her with his fists clenched. He expects and hopes that she will pull a knife. Half-breed women could be incredible vicious in a fight, much more so than their men.
He is surprised when she lowers her fierce eyes, and shocked when she pulls a shoulder free of her dress, and then another. With a sigh, it whispers down her body and piles up around her feet. She stands in the firelight, gazing at the floor. Her body shines in that unearthly glow, more shadow than substance, the light flicking across her breasts, small, round dome of her stomach. She pulls her shoulders up and raises her head. Tears are on her cheeks, and she looks so forlorn that Alexander just checks himself from wrapping his arms around her. He takes both of her hands and squeezes them. His head is spinning, but he knows that much is at risk now, and he must be careful. For all their sakes.
To reject her would be dangerous. You don’t fuck with Half-breed women. But Jacque … with her standing so lovely there, so incredibly desirable, he pulls her toward him and the memory of Rose crashes into the room. He freezes, caught in a triptych of fear and grief and desire. Elise looks at him closely and knows that they are no longer alone.
“I … I will speak to Jacque,” Alexander says in a choking voice, his hand of its own accord running along her side, until he feels the weight of her breast on the back of it. He makes a motion as if to leave, but finds that his other hand is around her, moving down. Her lips are on his own in a heartbeat, the pain that fills them both moving across the moist touch like lightning, and they are sure of one another.
“You must let her come on the hunt.”
“Oh, ho, listen to the English telling me, Jacque, what I must do with my wife. Your testicles are big enough for the both of us now, are they? And what do you know of it? You are still a damned virgin, by Christ. What do you know about keeping a wife?”
They are in the muddy corral trying with little success to corner Alexander’s stallion, which is unusually stupid this chilly morning and will not allow anyone to approach him. Several Half-breeds sit on the corral rails watching with vocal amusement.
“Look, my friend, Elise spoke with me last night. She is very unhappy living here alone, and it will be worse now that you and everyone else is to leave for the hunt.”
“Bah, in my home is her place. I will take my belt to her back and then she will know the meaning of misery. I’ve got you now, you great oaf.” He lunges for the stallion with the bridle, but the horse easily dodges and thunders off with a flick of his tail and mud flying from his hooves. The watching assembly cheers.
“Shit on a priest,” moans Jacque, holding his temples. “It feels like there is a brat with a drum inside my head this morning.”
“You know Half-breed women will not endure such treatment, Jacque. If she doesn’t leave you and return to her family, she will cut your throat one night while you lie beside her.”
Jacque pauses for a moment considering. “You really think so? Mon dieu, I must consider this. Elise can be a bitch when the mood is upon her. No, no, I have no horse for her. That bastard Lefebvre tells me he will sell me a horse, but he wants thrice what it’s worth, the Jew. I offered him a musket ball, but he showed little interest. Told me to fuck myself in the ass. I told him it was impossible, as his mother’s tongue was in the way. But I cannot afford one for Elise as well.”
Alexander stops and looks down at the mud. “She can ride with me. My horse is big enough for the both of us, as you well know.”
Jacque frowns and spits on a fencepost. “Ride with you? Fuck all priests and bishops. I do not know …”
“I did not want to tell you this, my friend, but she said that she is so angry that she desires not to slit your throat, but to cut your prick off.”
Jacque blanches and crosses himself. “Why do did you say that? God in heaven! You are an evil man, worse than the English, Half-caste. Why would thee say such things to me, your friend? That damned bitch …”
“Hand me the bridle; you are making the horse nervous with your frightened gibbering. I will catch him myself.”
“Truth, did she really say such a terrible thing, Alexander?”
“Indeed she did, promising to nail the thing to the door, for the crows to peck at.”
Jacque’s hands went instinctively to his crotch. “God save me. But you will do this for me, will you not? You will carry my Elise with you, so that I may not be gelded?”
“I said I would, now stand still! I almost have him.” Alexander manages to corner the horse and is approaching slowly, the bridle held forward. Normally he rides without one, but with all the horses they will be riding with, including many mares, he wants to take no chances. The stallion’s nostrils fill with their scent, and they flare as his eyes roll red; he stamps the ground and snorts. Alexander watches him, thinking himself a fool for ever imagining this is a broken horse. It is as likely to kill him as to let him mount.
The catcalls and hooting at the fence stop as everyone waits to see what will happen when the hide is looped over the horse’s face. All of them, including Alexander, expect an explosion. The watchers are very disappointed when the horse lowers its head and nuzzles Alexander as he slowly pulls the bridle on. He leads the now docile animal back to Jacque. The Half-breed pats the horse’s flank.
“My God, he is a beautiful animal.”
“Not on your life, Jacque. Take that worm-eaten screw of yours and load up. Make haste, as we are late. See, the sun is halfway to noon. Make haste.”
When he awakens, sunlight is already streaming through the saffron canvas of his tent. As he lies on his back, his eyes follow a blue bottle fly as it wanders back and forth along the ridge. Outside he can hear the camp awakening: the bark of dogs, clatter of kettles being filled with water. The smell of buffalo dung fires. Muted voices carried, half-heard, sounding like the muttering of a distant shore.
He sighs and throws off his blanket. Pulling on his moccasins, he sees that the sole is almost through on one of them, and he will have to mend it soon. Hopefully after today, there will be no shortage of the thick hide required. He sighs again.
When he pushes his way outside the tent, he sees that the sun has barely been up an hour, and the dew on the grass shines with all the colours of imagination. The smell of wet grass lightens his heart. Straightening his back, he looks along the trail that they had passed the previous day: a dark broad river of crushed grass and prairie rutted by the passing of hundreds of wooden carts, horses, and dogs.
All the carts have been circled as a defensive perime
ter against the Sioux, and inside this barricade the camp is astir now, with breakfast well on its way. There are dozens of fires burning and Alexander moves to the nearest; with a nod to the woman tending it, he pulls out a burning piece of dung and lights his pipe. She offers him a slab of fresh bannock fried in buffalo fat and Alexander accepts it with a smile, placing it in a pocket for later in the day. Standing up, he sees the captains gathering, and, with a touch of his hat to the woman, he hurries away, finding a spot in the circle of men.
They all sit cross-legged, with their guns on their laps and their pipes burning. Conversation flows back and forth, and although there is concern about the coming war, most of the talk is of a more personal kind, problems with a mate or a neighbour, hopes for the future, memories of the past. Their costumes are as brilliant and varied as the individuals wearing them, and there is much laughter among the elected captains, a light-heartedness that belies the hardiness of the men and the difficult lives they lead.
Soon the conversation flows on its own account to the buffalo, and plans for that day’s hunt. No call to order is given; no chief stands up and addresses them. But gradually, like the collecting of birds in an autumn sky, individual conversations gather toward a common topic, and evolve into a general discussion of plans for their day, and about how the hunt will proceed.
Jacque sits opposite Alexander, the great Half-breed a head taller than his neighbours. Alexander smiles faintly at him, but he does not respond, just continues staring with the same intense look he had given his friend for many days.
Conversation between them had withered until it ceased entirely, his friend forsaking his companionship for the company of others. When Alexander had the rare opportunity to ride alone with him, the man said little, just turning every now and then and looking at him as if considering, as if pondering what he should do. After a few days, Alexander had given up trying to break through his friend’s sudden taciturn mood, and with a sense of both relief and foreboding, had turned to the company of others.
A Dark and Promised Land Page 22