The Spaniard, the Frenchman, the assorted Yanks and Canadians, the Norwegians, the Balkan, all voice thanks. Some slap Eugene on his back. His head is pounding. His underarms are sticky with sweat. He must smell as wretched as these others. He must look as wretched as well.
“I must protest the bill. It is outrageous.”
The men are now hurrying off with barely a sympathetic glance. Mules are being loaded. A whip cracks in the yard. Mr. Mactavish calls out the window and several farmhands promptly enter. They smell of manure and hay and are standing about with an air of cheerful menace.
“ ’T’ain’t outrageous. It’s what you owe, damnit.”
The farmhands move in closer. Mrs. Mactavish comes in from the common room. “It’s the mess I kinna abide,” she says to no one in particular. “I like a place spic and span.”
“I apologize for the mess, madam. If I may assist in any way.”
“You kin pay, that’s what,” Mr. Mactavish says.
“ ’Tis better now. ’Tis clean and fit for anyone to see,” Mrs. Mactavish says.
“Ten pounds. You’re lucky I dinna charge ye more . . . well?”
“Mr. Mactavish. May I ask? Do you intend to expand? Provide separate rooms at some future date?”
“What in damnation business is it of yours?”
“I am only asking because I am writing a guidebook.”
“A what?”
“A guidebook. Surely you have heard that coaches will be in use as soon as the road is fully complete. Soon there will be many more travellers and, if I may say, of a higher quality and with thicker purses than the ones to which you are accustomed.”
“I heard that, Pete, ’tis true,” Mrs. Mactavish says.
“And in this guidebook I could most certainly include your establishment. Your meals, madam, are the finest I have yet had. Finer than Madame Hautier’s, if I may say. My God, I can still taste those meat pasties! Those sausages!”
“Oh, ’tis nothing. But you’re not the first to compliment them. No, sir.”
“And your raspberry cordial. It is ambrosial. Nothing less.”
“My grandmother’s. I make blackberry as well.”
“And your preserves! They are as sweet as sunshine.”
“Losh! I make five kinds. I only had three on the table this morning. The mess, ye see. Usually we have five, nothing less.” She pats her hair and gives a dimpled smile. “Pete, get yourself into the common room for a minute.”
While the Mactavishes confer, Eugene congratulates himself. A guidebook, indeed, why had he not thought of it before? Good then that he so often stops to refresh himself and rest Ariadne. He will warn of dissembling blacksmiths and vicious camels. He will clarify the confusing mileage. He will write of the Cornwall brothers and their hunts that make use of Indians got up in red coats and a coyote instead of a fox. He will write well of 47 Mile House in the Cut-off valley, for it had pulu mattresses free of vermin and a fine bar where any manner of spirits could be purchased. He will write well of Pollards, just north of 47 Mile House. He will reserve his highest recommendations for Saul, the kindly proprietor of 59 Mile House at the Painted Chasm. Such a vista. The chasm, blued into the distance, was layered with rustic colours like some tertiary pie. Once he has finished his guidebook he will write of this Painted Chasm to some geological society or other. By then he will have the money to take up a hobby or two. Why not geology? Rocks have the advantage of being sedentary, of not taking one on a merry chase as might beetles or birds. No more merry chases for Eugene Augustus after this. No indeed.
The Mactavishes have returned. Mrs. Mactavish’s hand is on her husband’s elbow. He looks well and truly defeated. Already he is folding the bill and putting it away.
“What ye ginna call this book, then?” he asks grudgingly.
“Ah, quite so, sir. It will be called A Gentleman’s Guide to the Goldfields of the Cariboo Including Recommendations and Advice on Supplies, Most Favourable Routes, Modes of Travel, Hunting, Dangers, and a Full Description of Creatures and Natural Wonders as well as Colourful and Informative Descriptions of Way Houses and Settlements, and in Which of These the Discerning Traveller May Find the Finest Meals, the Cleanest Beds and the Trustiest Proprietors.”
“ ’Tis a mighty long title.”
“Well, my good sir, ’tis a mighty long road.”
Seventeen
The shacks on the inner harbour are braced partially on stilts and stand one apart from the other. They have verandas of driftwood, chimneys of tin. Two fly the union jack. A seal heaves itself onto a rock then flops back into the waves as Boston comes near.
The shack he stops before is mere detritus arranged into a semblance of a dwelling. Boards protrude at odd angles. Tin siding faintly glints. No windows, not even one of greased paper. The doorway is torn burlap arrayed with mud and mould. Boston brushes it aside. The warmish light of the afternoon vanishes. A whale oil lamp gutters in the dimness. Inside, smells of spilled whiskey and spoiled milk, of damp, unwashed wool and rotting, un-dried fish. A place, in all, of Whitemen.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Ah, Mr. Jim? Yes? The terror of shopkeeps. I did not much recognize you. You look a gentleman. Trimmed so, and cleaned. Compared to you we must appear as vagabonds or cannibals, yes? No matter. I am glad you have found us. Not difficult I trust. Sit with us. A drink, yes? Whiskey? A glass. Where’s a fucking glass?”
Petrovich stands up from the lopsided table where two other men sit sprawl-legged. One is Tom McBride from the chain gang. The other is a thick-armed Kanaka with wisps of black moustaches and an inscrutable gaze. All three are armed. On the table is a bottle of murky green glass, a rind of bread, a mess of cards, and a chicken carcass without a platter.
“Like cannibals. Hah, good one, Petrovich,” McBride says, chuckling.
“You recall Mr. McBride, yes? Tommy, we call him. And this is Lano from the Sandwich Islands. He was telling us of a black bird that can speak like a man, and a lizard that can walk in the air. Remarkable. Yes?”
“Forty-five dollars. Here for that. That’s all.”
“Ah, a man of few words, so it is not just the sorry victuals and melancholy decor of our Majesty’s hotel that makes you so . . . so . . . taciturn. That is the word, yes? Compared to you we must be as chattering monkeys.”
“Chattering monkeys, that’s right, hah,” McBride says. Lano thumps his glass on the table and McBride falls quiet.
“Took a thrashing for you, that was the deal. You paid fifteen. Agreed on sixty. Makes forty-five more.”
“Mr. Jim, you have been free for only a day or so, yes? And so, please, take a drink. Our finest.”
“Don’t drink fucking tanglewood.”
Petrovich sighs mightily. “Would we serve such a thing to a guest? For the Indians, it is elixir, for us we keep the Scottish whiskey.”
“Not here for drinking or talking, for dealing neither. Forty-five more. That’s what we agreed on.”
Petrovich chews the stem of his pipe. McBride nervously runs a finger across his teeth. Lano yanks out a chair and gestures to it. Boston considers, then sits, keeping his knees free from the edges of the table.
Petrovich says: “We have a fine business here. Yes, boys?”
“That’s right, Ivan, that’s right,” McBride says. “Just like you said, if it weren’t for the son of a bitch bluejackets we’d be so rich we’d be wiping our asses with money.”
Lano rocks back in his chair. Boston gauges him as a man who plots and patiently waits, who gives no warning before an action, as indeed, the most dangerous of the three.
Petrovich is nodding sagely. “You intrigue me, Mr. Jim. And thus I have inquired about you. And I was told many things. You understand the languages of the Indians, yes? And you have many dealings with them. And they have some trust in you. What else have I heard? You are a likely half-breed of some kind, though one who lends himself to neither side. And you are a man who would uphold a bargain to the death, but who must no
t be crossed. And I said, Petrovich, such a man may be interested in a business proposal, yes?”
“Who you hearing this from?”
“Different sources. You have some minor fame. A reputation. Yes?”
Boston has observed how others speak endlessly of this man’s actions, that woman’s proclivities. He understands it as their attempt to fix in their minds what has occurred as they are unable to conjure the past with any ease, and rarely with any accuracy at that. Yet he has never thought that when he leaves another’s presence they dwell on what he has said or done. Whisper of it. He does not like the thought of this at all. Has the Dora woman spoken of him to the people of the bay? To the Smithertons, Mrs. Hickson, Mrs. Bell, and to others who come visiting to see how she is getting on? Has she called out his name through that bull’s horn? “It booms over the bay, Mr. Jim. The ducks are scattering when they hear it. And then you hear an answer back on theirs. Without seeing the person, mind, because them are too far off. It’s like you’re winds calling to each other, or clouds, or spirits. It’s queer, and marvellous, too. But it keeps the loneliness from eating at you, it surely does.”
“Not interested in your damned fool bootlegging, only the money you owe.”
Petrovich stares at the wall, says: “I heard of Mr. Obed Kines’ misfortune.”
McBride snickers. “Misfortune. Hah, me too.”
“Shut your trap. I was speaking to Mr. Jim.”
“Forty-five dollars,” Boston says.
“Ah, then perhaps you have not heard. Perhaps I should tell you. He was found terribly beaten, in Poodle Alley, yes? A sacking was thrown over his head and so unfortunately he did not see his assailant. On his coat was tacked a paper and it read that he was a traitor to the Queen. A letter was in his pocket. And what was in the letter, Mr. Jim? . . . Ah, such silence. The details of a plot, yes, a plot led by him and his clerk to explode the Governor’s mansion, to arrange a revolt by the Americans and so take our blessed isle for the American cause.”
“The money.”
“And so he and his poor clerk are to stand trial for conspiracy and such, yes? Alas, though the circumstances are suspicious, he will have few to vouch for him; his hatred of our lovely Queen and all monarchies is too well known. Indeed, I hear he has many enemies among the British, yes? And so, fortunately, the finger of justice will not point straight to you.”
McBride looks uneasily from Boston to Petrovich. Lano pours himself a measure of whiskey, swirls it in his glass.
“Forty-five dollars,” Boston says.
Petrovich is about to answer when the burlap sways open and a wind funnels along the planks. The girl has a pole slung over her shoulders. One bucket swings from either end. She is dressed in a torn calico shift and in black stockings that at second glance become a layer of fresh mud. She is perhaps ten years of age, certainly no more than twelve. Her skin is the shade of a coal lamplight turned low. Her hair is cut raggedly to her ears. Lice move along the strands. Still, she is pretty, remarkably so. Her nose is exactly like that of a girl Boston saw once in the village near Fort Connelly. That girl played with an English doll and wore a skirt of bark. A raven clucked nearby her. A small cloud crossed over the sun.
≈ ≈ ≈
The girl sinks to the floor and ducks out from under the pole. Catches her breath. Petrovich jerks his head and the girl squats between him and Lano. Petrovich gently squeezes the back of her neck. Lano hands her the chicken carcass. She glances up warily at the surround of men, then retreats to a space beside the stove and chews determinedly on gristle and bone.
“You are interested in our young charge, yes? We keep her safe from the Indians who would have her as a slave. We keep her safe from the nuns who’d lock her in their orphanage, and teach her all the popish hokum. Isn’t that the truth, boys?”
“Sure is, Petrovich. Sure is,” McBride says.
Petrovich taps the table. His fingers are long-nailed, seamed with grime. He smiles in the manner of someone going along with a joke. “But what of my business proposal? At least hear me out, yes?”
“You can bugger your offer, yourself while you’re at it.”
Petrovich looks at a point over Boston’s head. “You see, we are having difficulties in our dealings these days. The authorities are always making new laws about the trade of spirits with the Indians, and some of their muck a mucks do not like our trade either. You could help us, yes? I speak that bastard Chinook, of course, but some of the Indians do not. Or pretend they do not. You could speak to them in their own tongue. You could make clear we are only businessmen. We will pay you, what say? Ten percent of any profit of which you are part? Yes?”
Boston curses silently. Petrovich might well not have the money the way he is going on, or else will not give it up without violence done.
Boston’s hand is already close to his gun, has been since he arrived. He could certainly kill Petrovich, most likely the other two as well, though Lano may give him trouble. Three bastard lives for his own, for he would be shortly hung if he left the shack blood-splattered and body-heaped. A poor exchange, certainly, but unavoidable perhaps.
He notices the girl out of the corner of his eye. She has cast aside the chicken carcass and is crouched over her knees as if to make herself as small as possible.
Boston says: “Take the girl instead of the money.”
McBride chuckles nervously. The girl looks up, her expression unreadable.
Petrovich’s hand rests on his belly just above the butt of a revolver. He stares unblinking at Boston. Lano puts his glass down slowly. McBride’s eyes shift from Petrovich to Boston and back. His swallow is audible in the silence.
There is a clear space in Boston’s head, something akin to joy. He makes no movement
Petrovich whispers: “I am very fond of her. She came to me one night. She came from out of the dark woods. She was naked, caked in filth. I cleaned her, yes? I fed her. And now in return she brings water. Cooks for us. Her worth spans time.”
That fixed stare. Boston has seen it on others. Madmen. He has no time for the breed. They find ways to complicate the simplest of transactions.
“It good trade,” Lano says calmly. “Injun girls her age only twenty dollars. Thirty most. We buy another.”
“That’s right, that’s right. And she’s a biter. Nearly took my finger off the other day,” McBride says.
Petrovich looks at the girl. She ceases chewing.
“She not worth trouble,” Lano says.
Petrovich speaks as if to himself: “Why does she watch us? I have told her not to watch us.”
“Give her Mr. Boston and she not watch us. We buy you better girl,” Lano says.
“She is only alive because of me. Her life is mine, yes?” Petrovich says.
“Sure is,” McBride puts in. “Sure is.”
“Won’t hurt her. Throw that promise into the deal,” Boston says.
Petrovich pulls off his glasses, wipes his eyes, is suddenly cheerful. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll take fine care of her. What do you think, boys? Mr. Jim drives a hard bargain, yes?”
McBride reaches for the bottle. His relief is nearly palpable. “A hard bargain. Sure, that’s right.”
Lano says: “She free, anyway. You get best deal.” He takes the bottle from McBride. How long before Lano cuts Petrovich’s throat and takes the business for his own? Not long, Boston supposes, and reaches for the girl.
≈ ≈ ≈
She begins shivering once they have climbed the bank. Boston wraps his coat about her shoulders, not wanting her ill. He looks over the bay to the Songhees village. The smoke from the long houses tunnels into the dimming sky. Three figures move along the shore. He hesitates, then turns and walks toward the town. The girl follows along beside.
“Speak English, do you?”
“Little.”
“Good. Taking you to a lady. Do what she says. She had a girl near same age as you. She died. You’ll be her new girl. Help her out. Be good company. She�
�ll look after you, then. Understand? English all she speaks except for bits of Chinook. So speak it, hear. For practice.”
The girl says nothing. Her shoulders curve in further. The wind lifts her hair.
“Won’t hurt you. Don’t fear that. Not like them, understand?”
“Yes. Far?”
“Two days. Maybe more. Your people, who are they?”
“People. No.”
“Your name then.”
“Girl.”
“Half-breed?”
“Girl.”
“Talk in your first lingo.”
“No.”
Boston is quiet for the space of four steps, then says. “Call you Girl, then. Don’t know what the lady will call you.”
“Friend?”
“She’ll be your friend, yes, if that’s what you want to call it,” Boston says, then lets a silence fall. He is weary of speaking, weary of dealing with madmen and children. Friend? What difference does that make in matters of owing?
They walk back through Humbolt Street. An old woman in a company blanket grimaces at them. A constable passes and Boston draws Girl back into the shadows. Likely the constable would not even notice them, but if he did? It might be difficult to explain what he is doing with a barely dressed Indian girl.
A man on a ladder is lighting a street lamp. They are a new addition to the town, these few gas lamps with their piss-yellow lights. And in their light Boston sees anew her tangled hair, her dirt-streaked face, the sacking that barely covers her bony shoulders, the filth of her legs. She is nothing like the well-groomed half-breed and Indian children he saw through the jail yard gates. What will the Dora woman make of this dredged-up offering? The Dora woman’s petticoats flapped bold and clean on the line. Her blue dress shimmered faintly, as if shot with light. There was the smell of lye about and her teeth were white as polished shells. She might well refuse Girl as no fit substitute for Isabel Lund. Such is her right. She might well shut the door on them both.
Laughter swells out from some distance, then fades. It is never as he plans; it is as if some force is out to thwart him. He would not be surprised to see the great form of Raven alight on the high buildings of the Whites. Plotting and chortling.
Reckoning of Boston Jim Page 18