Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  ‘Teatime, I imagine,’ said Dalson, offering her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’

  In the shadow of the awning, Evelyn played with a slice of cake while the others marvelled at the speed they were making. As soon as she could she rose and made an excuse: ‘I think I’ll just lie down for a while before dinner, I’ve the beginnings of a headache. The wind, I imagine, and the sun—’ No, no really she had no need for headache powders, the tea had helped. ‘Just half an hour and then I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  She smiled briefly, slipped away, and went below. Closing the door of her cabin behind her she threw herself onto the bed and flung an arm across her eyes.

  Ballantyre House, Five Years Earlier

  ‘Come away, miss! You must! Come now—’ Miss Carstairs pulled her away from the long window on the landing but Evelyn wriggled free and ran downstairs, calling out for her father, with the governess in hot pursuit. She pelted across the hall to reach the study door and flung it open, her breath coming in gulping sobs as she catapulted into the room. ‘Papa!’

  But he was not alone. He was standing with his back to the fireplace and had a face like thunder. It seemed that he had been addressing an older man who sat smoking in one of the leather armchairs, but he swung round at her sudden entry and then stared at her as if she were a stranger. Her stomach turned over at his expression. ‘Papa—?’

  ‘Take her away, Miss Carstairs.’

  ‘No! Wait, Papa. They’re saying—’

  ‘Now, if you will, Carstairs. Now!’ He was white-lipped, and this was a tone she had never heard before.

  Miss Carstairs gabbled another apology and pulled Evelyn out of the room and back up the stairs in tearful revolt. ‘It wasn’t James. I know it wasn’t.’ But she was told to hush, and her shaking body was bundled into a nightgown and unceremoniously into bed. Warm milk and a biscuit were sent for and Miss Carstairs stayed, as if on guard, until, still gulping fitfully, Evelyn fell asleep.

  Some hours later she woke to darkness and a sickening weight of dread. It took a moment for her mind to recall its cause and then the ghastly image she had seen came into focus – the cart with the bundle wrapped in oilcloth, the boots protruding, the uppers curling away from their soles. And then the whispers that had spread through the house like a yellow poison. No— It all snapped back into place and she sat up. No! She must find her father … and make him listen.

  She could hear Miss Carstairs snoring through the closed door of the adjoining room so she pulled on her dressing gown and sped barefoot down the dark corridor to her father’s room – only to find it empty, his bed not slept in. She was momentarily nonplussed, then became aware of voices below, and laughter, and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was not yet midnight.

  Slowly, soundlessly, she retraced her steps and then slipped down the back stairs and into the passage below, encountering no one, and emerged through the green baize door and stood a moment listening. The sounds were coming from the drawing room, and she remembered the guests who had been arriving in the course of the afternoon. The shooting party—! She had quite forgotten. That was where he would be, of course, with his guests. And yet how could it be? There was a man lying dead on a cart in the courtyard, a man known to them, and yet people were drinking and laughing, carrying on as if nothing had happened! But even so, she could hardly go to him there, amongst them all – and yet she must talk to him. He was wrong!

  And he had sent the hounds out after James, which was a terrible thing to do.

  Then she remembered the look on his face, the white-lipped fury, and felt sick. A shiver went through her.

  It couldn’t have been James. He had loved Jacko, despite everything that had happened, he loved the old man. She knew he did. She hopped from foot to frozen foot, chewing at her lip as she considered her options. Leaving matters as they stood was impossible – but what could she do? Then an idea came to her. Her father often went to his study for a last read of the newspaper, or a final cigar, and there might still be a fire in the grate. She could wait for him there, all night if she had to.

  She glided down the corridor, like a small ghost, raising a passing interest from the dog who lifted a lazy eyelid as she crossed the hall to reach the study. At the door she paused and pressed her ear close, anxious to avoid a repetition of her earlier encounter there. No voices. But there was movement— He was in there! Relief flooded through her and she turned the handle, keeping her eye to the crack as she opened the door.

  But why was he in the dark—?

  The gap widened and she saw him bent over the desk, intent upon something there. ‘Papa?’ she whispered, and his head flew up. And then there was a knife in his hand, and the moonlight played along its blade—

  A scream caught in her throat, and became a gasp. ‘James!’

  The silhouetted figure stared back at her in disbelief. Then: ‘Go back to bed, Miss Evie,’ he said. The blade flashed silver, and her eyes fixed on it in horror. He laid it quickly on the desk, holding up his empty hand for her to see. ‘It’s alright. But go! Quickly now …’

  She couldn’t. She had turned to stone.

  Then she took a step forward, instinctively pulling the door closed behind her, and started trembling again. As her eyes grew accustomed to the pale moonlight, she saw that a saddlebag lay on the desk, coins spilling from it – coins from the green metal cash box which her father kept locked away, occasionally taking it out to produce a penny or tuppence to reward her schoolwork. He kept it in his desk drawer, a drawer which was now wide open, its walnut veneer splintered and broken around the lock. The lid of the cash box had been wrenched off too, and its contents were scattered across the polished surface of the desk. Coppers, silver and gold sovereigns.

  James was robbing her father—

  ‘Go back to bed, Miss Evie,’ he repeated as indignation swelled in her. ‘Don’t cry out. Don’t make a sound. Just go.’

  He resumed his task, his eyes not leaving her as he continued filling the bag. He glanced just once at the long window behind him and she saw that it too had been forced, a pane broken to release the lock.

  She felt winded, hollowed out, and sick again, as she watched him push another fistful of coins into the bag, his eyes still on her.

  If James could rob, could he also kill? She took a step backwards, licking dry lips, her dressing gown bunched in her hand, ready to flee, and looked down at the splinters of wood at his feet, and then back at the leather bag in his hand. And beside it, the knife. ‘They’re looking for you,’ she whispered, uncertain now. ‘They say you shot Jacko.’

  The cash box emptied, James pulled the strap of the saddlebag through the buckle, his movements quick and angry. ‘Is that what your father told you?’ He slipped the knife into his belt.

  She shook her head. Not her father, no, he had sent her away, his face a mask of unfathomable fury, but it was what she had heard whispered through the household. ‘You were at the river, helping Jacko set his nets, and you quarrelled …’

  Moonlight lit an ugly expression on his face. ‘So that’s the story, is it?’ The light also revealed a dark stain on his shirt front and sleeve, and she stared at it, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. James moved so that he was in shadow again. ‘He died in my arms, Evie,’ he spoke quietly, ‘but not by my hand. I swear it.’

  ‘Then why—?’

  He hitched the bag up onto his shoulder, and took a step towards the window. ‘Because a bloodstained shirt and your father’s lies will be enough to hang me, don’t you think?’ He looked down at his discoloured sleeve. ‘Then he’ll have my blood on his conscience as well—’

  They both started as the stable clock began to strike midnight and James swore. The sound was followed by a great whooshing noise and then a succession of loud bangs as the first of the fireworks lit the sky. Evelyn squeezed her eyes closed to shut out the terrible sound, and the even more terrible words. Cries of appreciation and laughter reached them from the terrace where the
guests had gathered to watch the display, and Evelyn opened her eyes again. ‘You’re lying—’ she said, but James already had one leg astride the windowsill, and was pulling the bag after him. She flew to the window and grabbed at his sleeve. ‘You’re lying, James Douglas. Tell me what happened!’

  He detached her fingers impatiently. ‘Ask your father,’ he replied, and with that he slid over the edge of the sill and was gone.

  Evelyn began to shake. ‘He wouldn’t have—’ she whispered into the darkness. Another burst of stars punctured the night sky, and the smell of cordite became the smell of nightmare.

  Chapter 9

  Through the Great Lakes, 1893

  ‘There, see it! That line of smoke on the horizon? Port Arthur.’ Mr Larsen had ordered the yacht’s engine to be cut, and they were scudding across the water, like a great white bird. It was all quite lovely! ‘Canada’s little Chicago of the North; from tents to boom town in the blink of an eye.’ Evelyn felt a surge of excitement, looking up at the swelling expanse of white sail, listening to the creak of the rigging and rejoicing that the thrumming of the engine at last had stopped. They had been steaming well into the night these last few days, and she had begun to crave silence. She smiled at Mr Larsen’s enthusiasm, and he patted her arm. ‘You’ll soon see, my dear. Hotels, depots, stores, and even an electric streetcar. Port Arthur will still be growing long after the White City is forgotten.’

  Dalston joined them, invigorated after a spell at the helm, and stood beside her at the bow. Quite close. ‘But there’s nothing up here but trees!’ he said, and it was true. They had stopped once or twice en route but there had been little to see except haphazard settlements spilling down to the shoreline, their jetties and wharves reaching out into the lake. They had passed islands, some little more than bare rocks, none of them inhabited, with only the roots of shapely pine trees clinging to them. Occasionally they saw a puff of smoke rising above what seemed like unbroken forest; Mr Larsen said they were probably native settlements. ‘So what’s making the place boom?’ he asked.

  ‘Furs, then silver, and now it’s the railways bringing wheat from the west.’ He handed Dalston a telescope. ‘See those big high buildings? Grain silos. Canadian grain will soon be feeding Europe, my friend.’

  Evelyn stood between Mr Larsen and Rupert, only half-listening as she lifted her chin, turning her cheeks to savour the wind fresh on her face, careless of her hair streaming behind her.

  George came up behind her. ‘You have a new figurehead, Mr Larsen,’ he said, with a smile.

  Mr Larsen turned to see. ‘And a very fine one too, though not for this ship. I can’t imagine Evelyn as a Valkyrie.’

  ‘What are Valkyries?’ asked Clementina, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm.

  ‘Beautiful harbingers of death, dear lady. They choose which warriors live and which must die, and then bring the chosen ones to Valhalla to prepare for the final battle.’

  ‘An interesting choice of name, then—’ George remarked.

  ‘Not if its owner’s a banker.’ Rupert spoke softly, his head turned towards George but forgetful of the wind which blew his words back.

  Mr Larsen chuckled: ‘And not if that banker was raised on Norse myths, and is a devotee of Wagner.’ Evelyn felt mortified on Rupert’s behalf, but their host was continuing, apparently unoffended. ‘Do you see that island?’ He pointed ahead of them to a long low island. ‘From the town it looks like a sleeping giant guarding the entrance to Thunder Bay. Legend has it that he was turned to stone because of man’s lust for riches. His name—’ He broke off as one of the stewards came up to suggest that they take tea inside. The wind had shifted, he said, and was freshening, and they would have to tack; the skipper thought that a squall was on its way.

  Evelyn followed the others inside, reluctant to leave the exhilaration she had felt on deck, but the waves were now flecked with white and the bow had begun plunging deeper.

  Mr Larsen continued his story as they went below: ‘His name is Nanabijou, the spirit of the deep seawater. He guarded a rich seam of silver which ran below the lake. Only his people knew about it, but the white man’s firewater loosened tongues and the secret got out, so Nanabijou was turned to stone. He pays the price of betrayal in eternal sleep.’ He reached for his cup and smiled at them. ‘But as the white man has known of the silver vein for less than half a century, I think some of the legend is of recent crafting.’

  ‘So there is such a mine?’ demanded Dalston.

  ‘Oh yes. It produced two and a half million ounces of high-grade silver, averaging one dollar and twenty-six cents an ounce.’ Larsen refilled Evelyn’s cup, then offered more to Clementina. ‘And when the shafts flooded a few years back the Ojibway claimed Nanabijou was taking his revenge.’

  ‘But he didn’t waken?’ said Evelyn, as she tried to focus on the story, finding the motion of the ship unsettling now that they were inside.

  ‘Ah! No, my dear. And only when he wakes will his revenge be complete.’ Mr Larsen turned and pulled a bell-pull to summon a steward, and as he did Evelyn saw Rupert take a hip-flask from his pocket and dash some of its contents into his teacup.

  ‘But why weren’t the shafts pumped out again, if the lode is so pure?’ he asked, deftly returning the flask to his pocket and raising the cup to his lips.

  ‘Some fresh tea, I think,’ Larsen addressed the steward, adding blandly, ‘unless the gentlemen prefer something stronger?’ He passed Evelyn one of the sugared pastries, and she took it without thinking. ‘Getting the water out was one thing, but rebuilding the crib to keep it out was another. We had to accept it was no longer worthwhile.’

  ‘We?’ Dalston looked up. ‘You were involved, sir?’

  ‘One of many.’

  ‘But if there’s still silver down there, then surely with the right equipment …’ he persisted.

  ‘Don’t imagine you’re the first to think of it.’

  Conversation halted as the yacht altered course, swinging round to approach the entrance to Thunder Bay, and they now rode with the swells, the hull rising and falling in a slow mesmeric rhythm. The sails were lowered, the engines restarted, and the smell of oil and soot was blown into the cabin; Evelyn regretted the sugared pastry after the first bite and felt a sudden need to be back on deck.

  She excused herself and staggered across to the rail, gripped it tightly, and took in great gulps of air. The wind had risen and the sky was darkening, the clouds were shredded to rags across its wide expanse, and every now and then, far in the distance, flashes of sheet lightning split the charcoal skies.

  ‘Alright, old thing?’ Rupert appeared beside her, pulling off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders, resting his hands there a moment. ‘You’ve gone a very pretty shade of green. Mr Larsen has sent for a remedy and said I was to bring you in before you froze. Clemmy’s gone below.’

  ‘I’ll come in a minute. The air helps.’

  He chafed her back vigorously, and then rested his hand on the small of her back. ‘It’s a rotten feeling …’ She gave him a tight smile and breathed deeply, closing her eyes. It was nice of him to come out to her, but if she was going to be sick she would rather be alone. A rumble of distant thunder reached them above the noise of the engines, and the wind blew in sharp gusts, spots of rain pitting her cheeks. ‘Poor old girl.’ At the touch of his fingers on her cheek she opened her eyes again. ‘Such a rotten feeling …’ he murmured. His face was only inches from hers, and she smelled brandy on his breath.

  She drew aside, nausea replaced by a sudden startled apprehension that he was about to kiss her. ‘I’ll go in now. I’m feeling so much—’

  ‘— better?’ He gave a crooked smile and straightened. ‘Good girl. Come along then, but hang on to me, the deck is slippery.’ And tucking her arm into his, he led her back to the saloon.

  In the end the yacht had to spend the night sheltering behind the solid presence of the sleeping Nanabijou, but by morning the weather had
cleared enough to allow them to steam the last short distance across the bay. Long wooden wharves stretched out from the town, and a complex smell of pitch and coal drifted towards them, mingled with woodsmoke and an evil aroma from what George said was probably a tannery.

  ‘The reek of commerce,’ said Mr Larsen as he joined them at the rail. ‘Gracious me! Half those buildings weren’t there last time I came.’ Old wooden structures, silver-grey with age, stood gable end to the shore, while new ones of brick, large and built to impress, loomed over them. Beyond them was the railway track and beyond that a large square structure with ornate ironwork balconies. ‘That’s the Northern, the best hotel between Winnipeg and Toronto, and that’s where your papa is waiting for us. We’ll stay for a couple of nights there to get over the journey and visit the outfitters. You’ll like it, I’m sure.’

  The Northern had been built on a surge of confidence which had come with the railway, he said, along with dozens of smaller hotels and boardinghouses needed to accommodate a tidal wave of entrepreneurs, prospectors, and rogues who came to the head of the lake seeking their fortune. His enthusiasm for the place was infectious, and Evelyn, now fully recovered from her seasickness, studied the scene with interest. An old side-wheeler was churning the water beside them and from somewhere close by came the regular clang of a steam hammer, interspersed with the sound of men shouting and the whistle of a distant locomotive. There was a vibrancy to the place, and a sense of purpose, and she smiled at a pair of small dark-skinned boys who stood fishing on the end of an abandoned jetty, their mouths agape as the yacht drew close.

  She had half-expected her father to be on the wharf to meet them, but he was not, and Mr Larsen had despatched a member of the crew to the hotel to tell him of their arrival. She turned to go below.