The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  He looked at Sima crazily. “So I have no home there, either.”

  “You must follow your medicine,” said Sima emphatically.

  “The whites would kill me,” the boy said simply. “I like very big men, big or fat. Much older than me. Like Mr. Skye.” He shrugged. “Mr. Skye would probably kill me.”

  He looked at Sima affectionately. “I just wanted you to know,” he said. “You are my friend.”

  Sima was late, and it was dawn. Flare didn’t feel much like drinking the coffee in his hand. He could have used a brandy. He didn’t dare, but he felt the need of it. When he quit drinking, he told himself he’d have a cup of cheer on every St. Paddy’s Day, to honor his ancestors, and that would be all.

  The coffee was ready. Where was Sima?

  He’d promised the lad a treat, and a real treat it was. He was going to take him to Yves Balmat and buy the boyo an American horse to replace the decrepit Messenger. Old Balmat had some good horses, and Flare had more money, at the moment, than he knew what to do with.

  Surely, St. Paddy’s Day. If he never drank at all, he’d have to look down on himself as a teetotaler, like Dr. Full. Flare had never met a teetotaler he could bear.

  But here it was, dawn, and Flare was on watch. Sima must be preoccupied with that lass, because the lad was looking forward to his surprise. Flare raised his cup and sipped. Cold already.

  Dr. McLoughlin had asked Flare to take some watch because Flare would be sober. The HBC didn’t trade liquor to its employees except from Christmas to New Year’s, but no one could control the whiskey, not really. Especially now, when a ship was in, and the sailors were celebrating a few days in port.

  Flare remembered when he’d thought it was fun, all that boozing and brawling and gambling and whoring. To sober eyes, it didn’t look like fun. He was sure those who got bashed up, or knifed, thought it less than amusing. Not that Flare would mind a wager or two, for sport.

  He’d best make some rounds. Flare got up and started walking. His legs worked stiffly in the cold. He’d walk through all the camps and clumps of huts and see who’d gotten half frozen and get them to a fire.

  He’d taken care of his own before going to sleep. Mr. Skye had gone on one of his epic drunks and was now in the second day of an epic sleeping-it-off. The man got drunker than anyone Flare had ever seen—anyone who lived through it—and stayed drunk longer. And when he passed out, he seemed dead, and it took him longer to sleep it off. Then the hangover required longer to get over. Everything about Mr. Skye was double-sized.

  Flare saw a figure huddled in blankets, stretched out on the ground. It was old Langlois. Flare stirred him with a foot. The old man slapped at the foot. Well, if he’d survived the night, the sun would bring him around. Good thing the winter here was mild.

  Sima was in Flare’s lean-to with one of the Frenchie girls, which was no doubt why he was late. At least it wasn’t a whore. Flare had encouraged this liaison as much as he could. He’d even used the gift of red cloth and the lass’s parents to encourage it. Nothing to keep a young lad close to camp like a willing lass.

  True, Sima had promised to go to the mission. Meant to go right after the new year. Meant most earnestly.

  True, Flare had a sort of wager with Dr. Full about who would sway the lad, Dr. Full to the way of heaven, or Flare to the ways of the world.

  What was more the way of the world than a lively piece of poontang?

  And if Sima never got to the mission, why, perhaps one heaven would be lost but another found. Perhaps.

  Flare thought it was a mountain cat crying at first, wailing its strange sound that parodied a baby’s cry. But it came from the dock. Then it grew, and grew, and became a series of raucous, hacking sobs. And then a scream. A bellow of wound and rage.

  Then it scared Flare to his bones. The voice was Sima’s.

  They were down by the pilings, in the mud.

  Sima was on his hands and knees, like he wanted to touch the figure and couldn’t bring himself to do it. He sat back on his haunches and hollered at the sky.

  The figure was Palea.

  His skull was bashed in. It had bled quarts into the mud.

  His face was cut and bruised, as from fists.

  His cock was cut off and stuffed in his mouth.

  “Aye,” said Skye, “bloody sure, one of their bloody sailors.” He threw it in McLoughlin’s face for no reason. The anger was only half volume for Mr. Skye, subdued by his hangover.

  Sima sat and stared out the window, his face glazed.

  Flare didn’t know what to do for Sima. Right now the only thing Flare could do was insist on an investigation, which McLoughlin was doing as well, so no point in pushing. The question was: What would Captain Plummer do?

  Flare was already weary of it all. Weary of McLoughlin’s trying to overawe with his size and demeanor. Weary of having two huge men in one small room at the same time. Weary of the pitiful story told by a body found in the mud. Weary of trying to persuade the captain to do something and that hadn’t even begun yet. Plummer was taking his time, taking his bloody time, a way of saying, I’m the captain of a great ship, and you are nobody. Just like a stinking Brit.

  Skye said he knew damn well what happened. The king’s Navy—no, queen’s Navy, he kept having to correct himself—was full of Rogers, which was nautical talk for buggerers. Jolly Rogers, indeed, Skye called them. One third of the seamen were queer, another third weren’t queer but weren’t too particular about what they fucked, and the last third spent their time fighting off the first two. Skye said this last with both his hands on his belaying pins.

  And bloody sure the lad Palea had propositioned one of those seaman who fought. Since Palea was a wog, a nigger, an Injun, or some other inferior of an Englishman, as they considered it, the seaman did what was in his heart many a time: He murdered.

  Captain Plummer rapped softly and came in without waiting for an answer. He was a ferocious-looking man of an imperious eye, a slash of beard, and a substantial belly. In full uniform, thought Flare, so he intends to overawe us, too.

  McLoughlin made the introductions. He included Sima, but Plummer offered the lad just a nod, not a hand.

  “What news, Plummer?” demanded McLoughlin. So the emp wasn’t kowtowing to the fellow.

  The captain’s face went huge with pleasure. “Gentlemen, we have the culprit. The midnight watch noticed a scuffle”—the bloody bastard termed it a scuffle—“made note of the fighter’s name, and made a report. This morning the first mate and I confronted the man, an able seaman, with the facts, and pointed out the marks on his knuckles and the blood on his clothes. We have our methods. He’s confessed.”

  “You’ll bring him here,” said McLoughlin with a snarl. “I want him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Dr. McLoughlin.”

  Now the lad will see British justice, thought Flare. No sea captain will turn one of his crew over to someone else’s justice.

  “I’ll have him and I’ll have him now, Captain Plummer. He’s committed murder in the dominion of the Hudson’s Bay Company, which I represent.”

  “Perhaps a word in private, Dr. McLoughlin,” suggested Plummer.

  “These men will stay,” answered McLoughlin. “They were his friends, and want to see him get justice.”

  “Yes, well,” said Plummer with affected breeziness. “Perhaps they want to administer so-called justice themselves. Perhaps they don’t know what justice is.”

  Not being bloody gentlemen like yourselves, thought Flare, and one of us a wog, a nigger, or an Injun.

  “He must be punished,” said McLoughlin.

  “The Royal Navy will punish him,” said Plummer.

  It was simple, Flare knew. The Hudson’s Bay Company would try the man and hang him, quickly. The Royal Navy would give him twenty lashes. Or forty, depending on the whim of the captain.

  “He committed the crime on land, under my authority,” said McLoughlin.

  Sima spoke up. “What is wro
ng? You know who killed Palea, yes?”

  Flare smiled to himself. Good for you, lad. True, you don’t have enough coup to talk in council, but speak up for your friend.

  Plummer got apoplectic-looking. Flare hoped for a stroke. Sima kept at him. “Now we must get rid of the murderer.”

  Plummer burst out, “McLoughlin, this is intolerable.”

  Dr. McLoughlin held up a flattened palm to Sima. “If I know the lad’s customs as I think I do, Captain Plummer,” began McLoughlin, stressing the title, “he does not mean hanging the seaman. Do you, Sima?”

  Flare loved it. McLoughlin was insulting Plummer by inviting the Injun lad to talk.

  Sima shook his head hard. “He must be banished.”

  Flare excused the boy for the quaint pronunciation. He did that to words he’d only come across in a poem or a Scripture Miss Jewel read to him.

  “I’ll be d-damned,” said Plummer, sputtering, “if I’ll let…”

  McLoughlin held up both hands to silence everyone. “Yes, Captain Plummer,” he acknowledged, “this has gotten irregular. My friends are overeager in their pursuit of justice. Understandable. It is perhaps beneficial, though, to hear what local customs require. Indians generally banish those who shed the blood of their tribesmen. They do not kill them.

  “Nevertheless, what I now ask from you, Captain Plummer,” McLoughlin went on smoothly, “is the person of this seaman, delivered in chains to me. Would an hour be too short a time?”

  Ah, it warms the heart, thought Flare, to see McLoughlin insult the fellow. The Scots have a little of the Irish spirit.

  Captain Plummer rose. He had no tolerance for affront, especially deliberate affront.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I advise you to be at the dock in one hour. You will see the culprit punished.” He eyed them one by one and gave a smile of pleasure. “It may interest you to know that since the victim was a Wog, the punishment will be reduced by half. Since he was a pervert, half again.” And he stalked toward the door.

  “Captain,” called Flare. Plummer turned his head in his pompous way.

  “I have something for you.” Flare stepped forward with his hand extended. Plummer looked at the hand, puzzled.

  Flare cocked it and slapped Plummer in the face. Hard.

  Plummer grabbed for Flare.

  A huge pair of hands clamped him by the shoulders. “Don’t!” commanded Skye. “I suggest, Captain, that you keep your person on board from this hour forward. It wouldn’t be safe to come ashore.”

  “Nor safe for your men, either,” added McLoughlin.

  Sima, Flare, Skye, and McLoughlin stood shoulder to shoulder on the dock, watching the great merchant ship. She readied lines and sails. When all seemed in order, an officer gave commands. A seaman was hoisted by a rope tied around his hands. Another officer took a whip and lashed the man’s bare back.

  The seaman screamed. Blood washed his back. Sima imagined nearby sailors got splattered.

  Sima forced back the dry heaves and trotted away. Flare caught up with him. “Barbaric,” said Sima.

  When they looked back, from far up the hill, she had weighed anchor and was moving.

  “What now, lad?” Flare asked quietly. Sima was coming along, but he still acted dazed.

  “I want,” Sima began. “I want to go to the mission.”

  Christ.

  Bloody Christ.

  Flare forced self-control. “And why the bloody hell not? Be hot around here for a bit anyway.” Funny, it was Skye who always worried about getting into trouble with the Royal Navy.

  Sima turned full to Flare, his face stiff, full of knowing what it meant. “I want to stay the winter there. At least.”

  Flare said weakly, “So why don’t we the bloody hell get going?”

  Part Four

  LEARNING EXPERIENCES

  Chapter Sixteen

  Flare made jokes to himself about delivering his son unto somebody’s God, like Abraham or some bloody patriarch he couldn’t remember. That’s the way he felt about it.

  Delivering him on a fine new horse, too. Sima was very pleased about the big American horse Flare bought him from Balmat. A young horse, not yet well broke, but Sima looked forward to training it.

  He seemed morose about the death of his friend. He mentioned white-man’s disease several times, words he and Palea evidently had for the eradicable prejudices of whites. The lad’s learning, Flare thought sadly.

  On the way up the Willamette River to Mission Bottom, Flare also played out awful scenes in his mind. The worst was that Dr. Full had married every woman at the mission, installed them all in different bedrooms of his mansion, and Miss Jewel wore her bustle in front. That was a jokey way of saying she was very pregnant.

  The route was simply up the Willamette a couple of days to what was infelicitously known as Mission Bottom. Flare was irritated with how the country had changed. Now there were two little settlements of Frenchies along the way at an area called French Prairie, men retired from the HBC. Flare knew almost every man jack of them, and was glad to see them.

  He told Sima why. They all had Indian families, and wouldn’t abandon them for civilization. The wives and their offspring wouldn’t like civilization a bit. Flare didn’t mention that the civilized people wouldn’t like them.

  They went straight to find Miss Jewel, and to hell with Dr. Full.

  Though Full was already married, it was almost as bad as Flare dreamed.

  “Meet my housemate, Billy Wells,” said Miss Jewel, indicating a gangly, embarrassed-looking boy in his mid twenties. Sima shook the fellow’s hand, so Flare had to force himself. You acted better when you were showing your son how.

  Housemate? Was Miss Jewel married?

  Flare watched him shake hands with Sima and make conventional noises. The fellow had the shy-smiling, I-ain’t-nothing humility of the Bible-poxed American backwoodsman. He practically scraped and bowed when he met anyone. And he was damned good-looking in a boyishly American way. Flare despised him on sight.

  “He and I live most scandalously,” Miss Jewel said with an impish smile. “Come see.”

  It was as small a structure as you could call a cabin. It made Flare long for an honest tipi, which would have been bigger, warmer, and more comfortable. A divider of flour sacks stitched loosely together hung down the middle. There was room for a cot on each side, and almost nothing more.

  “The family I was with, the Leslies, tried to make me a servant. I told Dr. Full I wouldn’t put up with that,” Miss Jewel said. “When Billy proposed, Dr. Full thought this would be all right for a while. I think, actually, Dr. Full wanted me under the sway of a man, even a little bit.” She gave a merry smile to tell Flare how much good that would do anyhow. “Turns out to be more private than being in with a man, wife, and three children.” She winked at Billy. “Billy and I will be married, probably next summer. He’s finding it hard to wait that long, but he will.

  “Billy is a carpenter,” she said proudly, “and he’s in training to be a minister of the Gospel.”

  She took time to explain to Sima what engagement was, how marriage was something sanctioned by God, and the like. She was good about that, and had a way of explaining that treated Sima as an equal. She didn’t say why they were waiting six more months to marry.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” she told Sima. “Let me show you where you’ll live.”

  They were putting Sima in with Alan Wineson, the blacksmith, and his family. The cabin was a little bigger than Miss Jewel and Billy’s, and was split into bedrooms for the couple and for the children, who would now include Sima.

  She showed them the schoolroom as well, just one room. Sima would be her fourth student, Miss Jewel said, and they were all teenage boys. Sima was ahead of the other three.

  “The prodigal son returns, I see,” came the voice. Dr. Full-of-Himself.

  Full made them coffee. It was weak, but he gave Sima long sweetening to please the boy. Full made himself ingratiating, wi
th an edge of mockery for Flare’s benefit. Flare wondered if Sima saw that.

  Oh, the man was high on himself. Surely he’d feared Sima wouldn’t come. Now he would be full of bribes. Flare had to tell himself some of them would even be good for the boy. Sima would get all the instruction and attention he wanted. And then some. Fattening the goose for the slaughter.

  Well, there wasn’t going to be any slaughter.

  After a while Full made his excuses, and said goodbye to Flare. “I hope you’ll come back for services on Sunday,” said Full. “I’m going to invite Sima to tell the story of his miracle.”

  Miracle, after all, was it? The man was unconvinced until he saw how convenient the idea of miracle was.

  “I’ll be there,” said Flare.

  “And where will your wanderings take you next?” said Full, smiling hugely at the thought of getting rid of Flare.

  “They will bring me near the influence of the prophets of heresy,” said Flare. “I mean to stay the winter at French Prairie, where me friends are. Perhaps I’ll be undone by one or two of your heretical sermons.”

  Full looked downright mean. Flare wondered if Sima saw the look and understood. “Attending our church will give you something more for your next confession, as I understand it,” said Full with a phony smile.

  Flare supposed killing was forgivable if you did it to save your son.

  Miss Jewel covered for Dr. Full by gushing with pleasure at Flare’s staying. She and Sima walked him to his horses.

  Flare had to ask. “And why is it you and Billy are waiting so long to marry? I’d have ye bedded tomorrow.”

  She blushed. Flare had never seen her do that before. It was as becoming as everything else she did.

  “He has asked another for her hand,” Miss Jewel replied. “Before I arrived last fall, he wrote back to the States to ask a Boston woman who wants to come here as a teacher to marry him. He’s barely met her.” She fussed with a button. Flare wished she’d let him fuss with her buttons.