by Larry Stuart
The day of Catherine’s first riding lesson, which both men had looked forward to thinking it might provide them with some amusement, finally arrived. Much to their disappointment it passed off with barely a hitch, because once she realised that the same rules of authority applied to the control of a horse as to a stubborn ox, she got the better of her mare.
The end of May arrived, and with seventy miles already behind them, progress had been better than Cameron had expected. The view to the west was now almost uninterrupted, and what few hills there were showed up as ripples on the horizon. Now the only features of any note were the occasional river cutting through the flat plains, which eventually joined up with the mighty Saskatchewan River, flowing towards the east.
These tributaries would certainly be keeping the bridging teams occupied, Cameron thought one day, as they forded their second river in a week. He knew that, at this moment, the men building the bridges were somewhere to the east of them, between him and the crews gouging out the track beds; and their actual location was soon to be uncovered, because Catherine’s supplies were running low and he and George had already decided that a re-stocking trip was needed.
The sun was setting behind their backs as the odour of salt pork and wood smoke led Cameron and Catherine over the brow of the hill; and there below them, spread out alongside the river bank, was the encampment of the bridge building team.
Drawing to a halt on the outskirts of the temporary community, they both became aware of the staring faces focusing on Catherine’s female form. Feeling somewhat vulnerable, Cameron unbuttoned his leather coat to reveal the Colt 45 strapped to his waist. Stepping down steadily from the seat of their cart, he then reached back up to take his wife’s arm. On hearing the sound of rapidly approaching boots, Cameron’s free hand moved inside his coat, and as Catherine’s second foot reached the ground he released her arm, whipped open his coat, and swung around to face the intruder.
‘Well, if it isn’t Cameron Stuart! How the hell are you? Oh, I do beg your pardon, Ma’am… I…uh…I didn’t…’
Cameron’s stern face dissolved into a warm smile, and his hand came off his weapon to reach forward and shake the man’s hand.
‘Sean…good to see you! I didn’t realise you’d be out with the gang.’
The boss of the bridge building gang was Sean McIlvey, a man Cameron had met once or twice before at planning meetings in Winnipeg.
‘You know what it’s like. I needed to get away from the old…oh you know.’
Cameron and Catherine both laughed; and that evening, after a dinner of pork with dumplings, sweet potatoes and onions, they drank until almost dawn.
Two very sorry looking people climbed into their cart the next day. Catherine seemed unusually quiet, which Cameron put down to the previous evening’s excesses. But as time wore on, he began to suspect there was more to this than just a headache.
‘Okay, Cath...What have I done wrong? If it’s because of last night, then I’m sorry…I admit it…I did drink too much, and I guess I was pretty loud.’
Catherine turned slightly towards him, placing her hand on his upper thigh.
‘It’s not you, Cameron. I’ve got something to tell you that I probably should have mentioned before. Somehow, the right time just didn’t seem to present itself, so please don’t be angry with me…I’m sure everything will be okay.’
Catherine stared into his concerned eyes for what seemed an eternity, and then quietly murmured the two words that throughout history have brought either incredible joy or instant consternation.
‘We’re going to have a baby.’
For the rest of the day and into the evening, Catherine tried her best to reassure Cameron. She knew that after the death of his first wife during childbirth he might be slightly apprehensive. But it had never crossed her mind he would be this anxious.
‘Come on, Cameron. Women have been giving birth in the wilderness since the beginning of time. Besides, there’s no reason to assume my pregnancy…and the birth of our child…will be anything but normal.’
‘I don’t care…If we were anywhere near civilisation I’d send you home.’
Catherine and Cameron were both strong characters, and this had been their first major disagreement. Neither of them was willing to change their opinion, so the rest of the evening and the following day were spent in silence.
George sensed all was not well, when they had silently driven into camp with Cameron and Catherine both wearing expressionless faces. Putting down the ladle with which he was stirring his concoction, he got up and wandered over to give them a hand.
‘Hello, George,’ said Cameron, throwing him the reins as he climbed down from the cart.
Turning back to face the cart, Cameron raised his hand to help Catherine.
‘I can manage on my own,’ she declared, grabbing the side of the cart and leaping to the ground. Then standing up, she threw back her shoulders and marched off towards their tent.
‘Wagon plenty full. You have good time?’ George asked, rather sarcastically.
‘The bridging crew are two days back, and apparently the track layers are about thirty miles behind them. Looks to me like everyone’s right on schedule.’
Looking about the campsite, it was easy to see that George had been busy. The wagon containing all of their survey equipment had been almost empty when Cameron had left, but now it sat by the corral bulging with newly cut stakes. While over near George’s tent, stretched tightly across four round frames, were four rabbit pelts.
‘I guess I know what we’re having for dinner tonight.’
Cameron walked over to the fire, then after lifting the lid off the pot, sniffed the air.
‘By God, George...your rabbit stew is unmistakeable. If you go and have a look in our wagon you’ll find some potatoes and onions, which might go rather nicely with what’s in here.’
Supper began as a very sombre affair, but before long the silence had become too much for Cameron to bear.
‘Okay…enough is enough. Catherine, you may as well tell George what the problem is. He’s entitled to know, especially as it could affect our routine in the very near future.’
To their amazement, George barely reacted to the news.
‘I thought she having baby…stomach get bigger. Why you angry, Cameron? Should be happy.’
‘It’s…well…it’s just so dangerous to have a baby out here.’
‘Why dangerous? If you want…I get Lomasi…she help other mothers have baby.’
And so, what had been seen by Cameron as such a major situation had, with George’s calming influence, been reduced to nothing more than a small consideration.
Catherine’s increase in size now marked the passage of time, while Cameron’s occasional lapse into exaggerated concern ensured that the subject of her pregnancy never retreated far from anyone’s mind. For her part, Catherine stoically ignored any discomforts she felt, her only deference to her condition being to stop riding her mare two months before the baby was due.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The trio’s relentless march towards the setting sun continued. Nearly every week another twenty-five miles was marked out; while during that time, their small encampment would be uprooted twice and shifted further west.
The first week of July arrived, sunny, hot and very dry. The arid plains now seemed to go on forever, and Cameron wondered if they would ever see a hill or forest again. Not for the first time, he began to ask himself how the immigrants following the railway west could ever be expected to scratch a living out of this parched, featureless prairie. Oh, there was grass all right, and thank God there was or else their progress would have been stalled a long way back by the lack of feed. But how could homesteaders be expected to survive out here with the lack of trees and scarcity of water? On questioning George, the answer was always the same. His people had survived for hundreds of years on these plains, and there was plenty of water if you knew where to look.
One day, as their
little convoy reached the top of a small hillock, a brilliant white blemish stood out against the dull landscape ahead.
‘What’s that up ahead?’ Cameron asked, removing his floppy hat and wiping the dust from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
‘This place we call Wascana. My father and his father…and his father before him…they come here. Now we make camp…next water more than ten days ride.’
One thing Cameron had already learned was that Natives called things as they saw them. Places were often named after some geographical feature making them easily recognizable, or at other times given names commemorating special events. Similarly, the Native people themselves were often named after animals or objects from the natural world deemed significant by their elders.
In this case, Wascana was a Cree Indian word meaning pile of bones. That name had been used by Indians for over a hundred years because of the great stack of bison bones lying there in the valley bleaching in the sun. For generations, hunting parties had skinned and disposed of animals here, and then left their bones as a marker to lead them back to this place of clean water. However, it was now midsummer, and this century old watering place had become barely a trickle of water as it meandered through the longer grasses, marking the arid plain like a bruise on a tanned hide.
Cameron was a little unsure how this flow was supposed to satisfy the appetites of their three oxen and horses, never mind themselves; but, as was usually the case, he should never have questioned his faith in George.
He and Catherine watched in wonder as George took a few planks of wood from the side of one of the carts, and a couple of stakes from another, before damming the diminutive waterway. And within a few hours a pond grew out of nowhere, providing them with all the water they could ever use.
Two days later, while Cameron and George were taking a break from their labours to have lunch, a large cloud of dust appeared on the eastern horizon.
‘Looks like we may have a sand storm approaching.’
George watched the anomaly for a few minutes, and then got up and packed his canteen away into one of his saddlebags.
‘No…no storm. Visitor come…many visitor.’
Sure enough, what had at first appeared to be a large wall of dust soon turned into a wagon train. In the lead were four men on horseback, with a further one visible out on either point. Then, a large carriage drawn by four horses came into sight at the head of a formation of five covered wagons. And then finally at the rear, with the unenviable task of eating the convoy’s dust, were four more riders.
Cameron wasn’t totally surprised, when the convoy pulled up and who should alight from the carriage but Cornelius Van Horne.
‘Mr Stuart…how nice to see you again,’ the General Manager said while walking over to shake Cameron’s hand. ‘You’ve made good progress…I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever catch up with you.’
Cameron was taken aback by his boss’s subtle compliment, and for a moment stood saying nothing.
The General Manager gazed towards the north, and then after scanning the horizon to the west, sighed.
‘I think I’m beginning to understand why some people wanted us to route the railway much further to the north. We really do need to establish another town and depot out here, but for the last fifty miles I’ve seen nothing that looks promising.’
‘Maybe we should move on to my encampment, Sir. Then we can discuss the various options available in a bit more comfort. Besides, I’m sure you’d probably like to clean up a little after your long ride.’
Thirty minutes later, they arrived in the shady valley – where Van Horne’s crew set about the task of making their boss’s temporary home as comfortable as possible.
When the wagons had come into view, Catherine had hurried out of sight. But she couldn’t hide forever. Cameron had only been back ten minutes, and had barely had time to update his wife on the day’s surprises, when a messenger arrived bearing a formal invitation to dinner.
The sky was huge and bathed in the pink light of the setting sun as they arrived outside the General Manager’s enormous tent. The tarpaulin was held aside by a jacketed waiter and, once inside, the three pioneers were transported into another world. The interior walls had been hung with silk-like fabrics, to disguise the harshness of the canvass, and gas lamps hanging from the internal framework cast a soft glow of light throughout the interior. Just inside the entrance was a sitting area furnished with a settee, four armchairs, two coffee tables and a beautiful maple desk. This lounging space was separated from the dining area by a number of large, silk screens decorated with golden dragons and ornate eastern palaces, strategically placed to give the illusion of a separate room. A white, linen tablecloth covered the dining table, which was properly laid out with white bone china, silver cutlery and crystal glasses.
It was evident that Cornelius Van Horne did not believe in being without his creature comforts wherever he might be, and in hindsight, it was not really surprising that five large wagons were needed to accompany him. Cameron thought the splendour of Van Horne’s private railway carriage had been a real eye-opener, but this was almost as impressive, especially if one considered its location.
The General Manager smiled warmly as he got up and walked over to greet his guests. Catherine was momentarily lost for words, when he gently took her hand and effusively complimented her on her looks, before leading her to a comfortable chair. She had been totally unprepared for his charming personality, and found it difficult to believe that this was the same man who, supposedly, struck fear into all who knew him. But, what bewildered her most was his complete lack of reaction to her obvious pregnant form.
As this little play was being enacted, Cameron could not help but notice the other two men standing alongside his boss. Both were casually dressed and were holding drinks in their hands.
‘Allow me to introduce everyone. To my left is John Cummings, our new Chief Engineer, and to his left is Thomas Shaughnessy, our Purchasing Agent…whose job, I might add, includes advising me on building projects. Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Cameron Stuart, his wife Catherine, and their guide and assistant Spotted Bear…who, I’ve been reliably informed, also goes by the name of George. Now, shall we all take our seats and get to know each other?’
That evening, Cameron once again marvelled at the capacity of his boss’s mind. Within ten minutes of their arrival this afternoon, he and the other two men had been out pacing off distances and recording facts and figures in their notebooks. There was no such thing as time off when in the presence of Cornelius Van Horne. His thirst for solutions to problems was insatiable, and woe betides any member of staff showing any lack of energy or enthusiasm.
Pre-dinner drinks were followed by a sumptuous four-course dinner, after which Catherine and George took their leave. The C.P.R. men then retired to the sitting area, and over port, brandy and cigars got down to the business at hand. By the time the session ended, the final decision had been confirmed. The route of the railway would remain unchanged, with the prairie crossing terminating at Fort Calgary on the Bow River. The problem of where to build the new town and depot had been solved. Not by university educated engineers and managers, but by Native know-how – George’s small, man-made reservoir providing the spark for Van Horne’s inspiration.
‘Let’s face it,’ remarked Cornelius Van Horne. ‘If there’s water in this valley in the heat of the summer, then imagine how much there will be in winter. We can build a reservoir by damming this valley, which when filled, will provide all the water needed for both the C.P.R. and a future city. Now, as you know, the other major prerequisite for any town or city is timber. And as Thomas has pointed out, there is more than enough twenty miles from here at Fort Qu’Appelle. With their trees, and the resources available from the nearby settlement, we will have everything we need.’
At sunrise the following day, Cameron was woken by the sound of horses, whinnying and stomping their hooves. His head pounded; and as he rolled out of b
ed he was amazed at how the General Manager could survive with such little sleep – and so much drink!
Hurrying over to the lead wagon, he was just in time to hear Mr Van Horne handing out the last of his orders before setting off.
‘Thank you again, Mr. Stuart, for your hard work and good advice. We’re heading straight back to “track end”, so I can get on with organizing the building of this new town and depot. Oh…and by the way…the Governor General called me the other day, and during our conversation just happened to mention how interested Queen Victoria was in our little project. As such, I thought it might be appropriate to remember her when we name this new town...so I’ve decided to call it Regina.’