by Sarah Maine
He looked across at his friend as he cast again. Charles Ballantyre, by contrast, was still in his prime, vigorous and energetic, the restlessness of youth tempered now with a wisdom borne of experience, but still with that essential integrity which had first drawn him to the man— He too seemed to be in his element today, shedding his concerns as he cast his line, revelling in the simple delight of fishing with a friend.
Larsen turned back to his own rod and cast, wondering again what had been troubling the man.
‘Niels.’ Perhaps the thought had reached him, for he turned to see that Ballantyre had reeled in after the last cast and was standing at the water’s edge, looking out across the sparkle of the lake. ‘Do you remember, I wonder, that a man was shot on my estate some years back?’
Larsen nodded, taken aback, but he remembered something of the sort. ‘Your keeper, wasn’t it?’
Ballantyre shook his head. ‘The keeper was killed the same night; knifed, though, not shot. It was a poacher who was shot, an old man, a reprobate, a veteran offender. Recalcitrant and remorseless—’ Ballantyre laid down his rod and went and sat on a boulder a few feet away from Larsen. ‘He tried to burn down my stables once, then netted my river when the salmon were running, the wretch – a regular old nuisance. He’d come before me on numerous occasions, each time more defiant than before.’
Larsen cast again, his head half-turned to listen; something told him this was important but that his attention should perhaps be oblique, giving Ballantyre space to confide— A fish rose, causing shallow ripples.
‘Once,’ Ballantyre continued after a moment, ‘after he’d been caught on my neighbour’s land, I remonstrated with him for appearing before me again, for exactly the same offence, and he simply threw back his head, and looked me in the eye. He too was my neighbour, he said, my equal, living off the same God-given food taken from the same God-given land. So where was the offence?’
Larsen smiled. ‘Ah. A philosopher.’
‘Yes. He was.’
Larsen’s line tautened and his rod bent. Both men gave it the required attention, but despite their efforts the fish escaped. Then after a moment Ballantyre carried on: ‘And when you’re out here, in a place like this, you can see his point of view … Anyway, he went on to say that he felt well-disposed towards me, and asked why I didn’t feel the same about him. And he asked why he had been taken up for trying to fill his stomach from the estate’s land when I regularly invited those who already had full bellies to come onto the same land to shoot and fish.’ Ballantyre stretched out his legs. ‘And it was a fair point.’
‘I suppose it was—’
‘All I could say in return was that I was charged by the authority vested in me to bring him to account, and through example and correction to make him repent of his misdoing. I felt like a pompous ass as I said it – and he damn well knew it.’
Larsen smiled, and continued to reel his line slowly in. ‘And so?’
‘I started to pass sentence but he put his head on one side and raised a hand to stop me, and then proceeded to point out that the penalty was entirely disproportionate for the so-called offence, and instead of charging him, I could choose to make some changes, to bring real justice into the court. By now, of course, everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense.’ Larsen said he could imagine that was so. ‘Part of me wanted to know how far the man would go, so I decided to give him his head. What a mistake that was! The ruffian was eloquent, a born orator! He spoke of natural and unnatural justice, insisting that neither my neighbour nor myself owned the salmon as they were only passing through to spawn, and they had come from the sea, where they belonged to no man and to every man. It was, of course, unanswerable.’
‘But, even so, you couldn’t acquit him—’
‘No. But I wanted to! I could only point out that by doing so I would be sending an open invitation to every thief, rogue, and scoundrel to come onto private land and take whatever they felt was owed them, and he had to accept the justice offered by the court. The man countered by saying that what I served up as justice was an organised form of oppression which did not command his respect, and he would be governed only by his conscience. His conscience, Niels—’ He paused, as if to drive the point home, and then softly repeated the words. ‘His conscience—’ Ballantyre stared grimly out over the lake. He was silent for so long this time that Larsen thought he would say no more. Then he picked up and tossed a pebble into the water, and followed it with another. Larsen reeled in. So much for fishing— ‘He carried on in a similar vein until old Farquarson, my neighbour, could take no more and got to his feet in what he believed to be my defence, pointing to what he called my many benevolent acts.’ The bitterness was unmistakable, and Larsen, all at sea, looked at his friend with concern, but Ballantyre was now unstoppable. ‘He demolished that argument by claiming, quite rightly, that he gave away a much greater proportion of his wealth than either Farquarson or I, and that he asked for nothing in return. We, he declared, used benevolence to add gloss to our characters and salve to our consciences for having claimed so much for ourselves.’ Ballantyre gave a sardonic smile. ‘Poor Farquarson was apoplectic by this time and ordered him to be taken away, and as he went the old rogue capped it all by saying that imprisoning him was an unnecessary cost to the nation as he was perfectly able to support himself.’ Larsen laughed out loud. ‘But he got six months’ hard labour just the same, and I, that day, learned the meaning of an unquiet conscience. Began to, anyway,’ he added.
Larsen reeled in and came and sat beside him on the rocks, still struggling to understand where this was leading. ‘You’d have freed him if you could?’
‘Yes, I wish I had. And what might we all then have been spared—’ That too was added in a low tone. ‘And he was right! It was a travesty to imprison him for taking a few salmon, his reasoning was impeccable, and after that, each time I sat in a court, or in some gathering of a philanthropic institution, I would see his mocking smile and hear his contempt – and knew things for the sham that they were.’
A zephyr of wind blew across the pond and the mirrored surface shattered into rippling shards. On the far side Larsen could see that Skinner had risen and was stretching; he would return soon and this conversation would be over, but Larsen felt that it had not yet been played out. ‘You operate in a world that is not of your making, my friend, obeying rules which must, however imperfectly, govern the actions of others.’ It was the best he could do.
Ballantyre turned to him, with an odd hard look, stripped of his usual urbanity. ‘Imperfectly, you say? That man, that tattered philosopher, was then shot in cold blood on my land, Niels, in an unforgivable act of butchery. Where was justice that day?’ He paused. ‘And what followed was worse—’ This time the silence lasted longer, and Larsen could only wait. ‘Jacko will never know, but that day in court he gave me weapons I would soon need, and a resolution that I too would be governed only by conscience, not by the self-serving laws of privilege.’ Larsen frowned, quite bewildered but distressed by his friend’s obvious pain, and searched for a response, but Ballantyre continued. ‘He told me that day that if I would only look through his eyes I would see a different universe.’ He turned to Larsen with a twisted smile. ‘And here, my friend, in this wild place of yours, I believe that I do.’
Larsen recognised that they had reached to the margin of Ballantyre’s troubles, and if he would come to the core he must now tread carefully. More of the incident came back to him, the killer had been a stable hand, he recalled, a lad whom Ballantyre had taken under his protection, an orphaned child. Such a gesture had been typical of the man, and that betrayal must have wounded him deeply.
‘Did they ever catch the boy who killed him?’ he asked, and he saw the muscles tighten in Ballantyre’s jaw.
‘No.’
Across the pond Larsen could see that Skinner had started back, working his way slowly round the pool towards them, and he cursed the man’s timing. Ballantyre had seen
him too. ‘And now, Niels, I must ask you a favour.’ He spoke in a different tone, more briskly. ‘Two favours, in fact. The first is that you ask me no questions.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘None at all. And the second is that you take this letter and keep it close, only open it if you have to, and believe me, you will know when that is.’ And he took from his inside jacket pocket a crumpled letter. ‘It is merely a safeguard. I wrote a letter which was posted for me and it awaits you in Boston. It will explain things that must have puzzled you, and I ask in advance for your forgiveness, as you will not like what I have done—’ Ballantyre held out the letter. ‘And, I beg you, act upon the contents if you have to.’
With great reluctance, Larsen took it from him. ‘My dear fellow—!’ He was deeply apprehensive now; there was a look on Ballantyre’s face that he disliked exceedingly. ‘Whatever this matter is …!’ he began but the trees beside them rustled, then parted, and Skinner appeared, asking if something was wrong, as neither of them was fishing. Ballantyre swung round to him, his face composed again, and genial.
‘Why no! We were simply—’
He stopped abruptly at the sound of a gunshot. Its echo was amplified by the high cliffs, and a cloud covered the sun.
Two more shots followed, then a short gap, and then another, and another. ‘What the devil—’ But as they continued Skinner seemed to relax, and began chewing again.
‘Shootin’ targets,’ he said, nodding with conviction.
‘How can you know that?’ Ballantyre’s face was bloodless.
‘Stands to reason. What else’s it gonna be! An Injun massacre?’ He gave a high-pitched giggle, but Ballantyre moved past him and disappeared rapidly down the trail.
The other party had arrived at the site of the ancient rock paintings when the shots rang out. Louis had climbed up onto the rock face to pull aside the branches which concealed where, centuries ago, the rock surface had spalled away to create a smooth stone canvas for the native artists. Paintings of animals and monstrous fish, lines and zigzags outlined in black and red ochre, covered the surface. ‘See, a hunter with a bow and arrow—’
He broke off as the sound of the first shot reached them, and Evelyn felt her heart lurch. It was followed by a second.
‘Shots—!’ remarked Melton, unnecessarily, and looked up at Louis. ‘Why would—?’ Then he too broke off as the shots continued and Louis jumped down, rubbing the grit from his hands.
‘I imagine it is milord Dalston,’ he said, with studied unconcern, smiling at the two women.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Evelyn quickly, then turned to George. ‘We must go back—’
‘Or Marcel—’ Louis continued. ‘They were laying bets about marksmanship, I heard them this morning. That’s all it is.’
But Evelyn had started down the track. George called to her to wait but she continued downhill apace, seized with a sudden reasonless panic, and she ran, stumbling over roots, grabbing at branches which whipped at her face, and caught at her hair, filled with an awful premonition.
She had not gone far before Louis reached her and caught her by the arm, swinging her round to face him. ‘Whoa! I tell you, mamselle, all is well! And as you do not believe it to be so, then you must allow me to go first, eh?’ He pressed her down onto a fallen tree trunk. ‘So sit there, wait for the others, and then go more slowly.’ And he was off, down the trail, and soon out of sight.
The argument had sprung from nowhere. James had been crouched down beside the damaged canoe, spreading pitch on the repair, and barely registered that Marcel had returned to the camp bringing two men with him, two strangers. He looked up again and saw that Marcel was examining Dalston’s hunting rifle, his dark eye squinting down the sights. He balanced it in his hands a moment, and then put it aside with obvious indifference and began to walk away. Quite what he said, James had not heard, but Dalston retaliated with some remark of his own. James saw Marcel stop and turn, and then shrug, and carry on walking, but Dalston got in front of him and it was clear that a challenge had been laid down. Jesus! Of all the damned foolishness—
And then targets were being set up down by the shingle.
He put aside the pitch pot, wiped his hands on his trousers, and straightened. It needed only this. ‘If the others hear shots, they’ll be concerned,’ he said, addressing Marcel. ‘Leave it, man. At least until they’re back.’
Marcel assumed deafness.
‘Step aside, will you,’ said Dalston.
‘I said leave it until the others get back,’ James repeated, keeping his temper in check. It was the first time he had looked directly into Dalston’s eyes, and he felt his gore rise.
‘And I said step aside.’ Dalston pushed past him, immediately raised his gun, and fired, hitting one of the targets, barely giving Marcel time to get clear. The half-breed hissed a curse as he leapt aside and Dalston fired again, hitting the second target. Marcel grabbed the gun from him and took several paces away from the target and fired two shots in rapid succession; both found their targets. Exasperated, James protested again and was again ignored. He stepped aside then, and leant against a tree, his arms folded, and listened to the sound of the shots echoing from the rocky cliffs, and imagined Ballantyre’s reaction.
There was no stopping them now. They let off a few more rounds, and having scored evenly Marcel tossed the gun into the bushes and went for his bow and arrow. He set the target up again, shot off two arrows and then, straight-armed, thrust the bow at Dalston. The men that Marcel had brought back came close, all attention, grinning and urging Dalston to take it, to try his hand, their mockery all too evident. James straightened slowly and prepared for trouble.
But then fate, in the shape of a stranger, intervened. The bushes beside him rustled and parted, and there he was, a man in a slouch hat and stained clothes, appearing as if from nowhere. ‘Pretty shooting,’ he said.
Dalston stopped, bow in hand, and goggled at him. ‘Where the devil did you spring from?’
The stranger ignored him and looked towards the empty campsite. He was a tall rangy man and his clothes seemed moulded to him, the battered hat was pulled down low and his boots were laced up his calves as the natives wore them. He had a small bag slung on his shoulder. ‘This Skinner’s camp?’ he asked.
James answered him. ‘It is.’
The man continued to look around ‘And is Mister Ballantyre here—?’ He stopped and turned as Ballantyre himself broke cover, breathless and red in the face. He had evidently been running, but he halted abruptly at the sight of the stranger, and drew a breath.
‘Good God! Kershaw.’
At almost the same instant Louis appeared from the opposite direction, and he too halted. Ballantyre’s gaze swept the scene, passing over James to Dalston, and then returned to James. ‘There were shots—’ he said.
The stranger raised his hands in denial. ‘Not me, mister. Jest these two and some tomfoolery with targets. That’s how I found the camp. Heard the shots.’ He pushed his hat to one side of his head and scratched. ‘I came looking for you, sir. I got your messages and I got news.’ James heard Louis send Tala back up the trail to reassure the ladies, and watched him draw close, his eyes on the stranger. ‘Achak’s camped jest a few miles away, with his family. I talked to him and now he wants to speak to you, so I said—’
Ballantyre’s face had brightened but he cut him off quickly: ‘Well done! That is good news. But have we offered you food? Or a drink? Eat first, and then we can talk. Is there coffee in that can?’
James went over to the fire and a moment later Louis joined him, bringing more fuel, and as he bent to mend the fire he looked up at James, and their eyes met.
Evelyn and the others returned to the camp to find a stranger sitting beside the fire finishing a piece of bannock and a slice of venison, tearing the meat with his teeth and chewing with his mouth open.
She looked at him a moment then addressed her father. ‘There were shots—’ she said, but her pulse was steadying. Nothin
g here seemed to be amiss. Tala had come to meet them but she had only needed to see for herself.
‘Target practice, I am told.’ Her father smiled at her, but it was a tight little smile. ‘Nothing more. Now, allow me to introduce Dan Kershaw, a business associate of mine.’
‘A business associate?’ Clementina laughed. ‘Honestly, Mr Ballantyre. Only you—’
‘Everything OK?’ asked Mr Skinner as he and Mr Larsen emerged from the trail.
‘It was just as you said, Mr Skinner,’ her father replied. ‘But now, if you will excuse us, since Mr Kershaw has taken some trouble on my behalf, I must hear what he has to say. No, no, bring your coffee with you, Dan.’ And he led the man down onto the shingle and along the bank, stopping a little distance downstream.
Rupert came over to join them. ‘So what’s all this?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows at Evelyn.
‘With Papa, one never knows,’ she replied.
Louis and James spun out the job of mending the fire as long as they could, glancing occasionally towards the two figures as they stood talking on the shingled shore. ‘This man Kershaw has a lot to say,’ Louis said in an undertone as they watched.
‘And if he’s tracked down Achak …’
‘… what has he been told—?’
Keeping an eye on the two men, James sent Tala to fetch water with instructions to listen if he could. Was it his imagination or did Ballantyre keep looking back at them, or was he simply ensuring that no one approached them unseen? What exactly did Ballantyre want with Achak? Same as everyone else, presumably, and would they now find themselves in competition with Ballantyre? God forbid—! He watched Ballantyre draw the man aside as Tala approached with the water buckets, and it seemed to James that sharp questions were being asked. Kershaw kept shrugging, and once he too had looked back at the camp.