by Larry Stuart
Cameron did his best to show some enthusiasm for this announcement, but as he walked back to his tent, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever stop being reminded of the perpetrators of all of his country’s misfortunes.
Three days later, the three of them re-packed their carts and moved on again. Their food supplies had again been topped up, but this time with incredible delicacies such as chickens, beef and bacon, all provided by Mr Van Horne’s extensive supply wagon.
By the end of September, they arrived at one of the major tributaries of the South Saskatchewan River, where evidence of a great number of previous visitors abounded. Numerous circular, flattened areas were dotted about the place indicating the previous sites of tepees, and many stone circles filled with the blackened remains of cooking fires were dotted about the place.
George knew this site well – he and his tribe having camped here many times before. The water was clean, cool and teeming with fish, which in the evenings could be seen leaping from the water in their quest for tasty morsels of dragonflies and moths.
In fact, as far as Cameron could see, the only drawback would be the crossing of the river itself, as it was a torrent, crashing over rocks and swirling in eddies around the deeper pools. And although there was already a Native name associated with this place, Cameron decided it was time for him to have his say, so on his map marked down the name Swift Current.
The dark circle of the new moon floated on the eastern horizon, and the stars sparkled in the tranquil air, as the three exhausted travellers relaxed near the circle of rocks enclosing their campfire. Setting up camp was always a tiring exercise, but was now made even more so by Catherine’s inability to do all but the most menial of tasks. She was starting into her last month of pregnancy; and adding to their problems, Cameron’s concern for her was on the verge of becoming all consuming.
Occasionally, when she winced from a stitch in her side or particularly hard kick from the baby, he would rush to her, only to be rebuffed in an increasingly brusque manner. So early the next morning, George mounted his stallion. And with clods of mud flying from its hooves, galloped off in search of his family.
Over the next two hours, Cameron fussed about the campsite, going out of his way to
delay his departure to the survey line.
‘Cameron...would you please stop fidgeting about. I’m fine. Now get off and do your work…I’ll see you this evening.’
Cameron was about to open his mouth. But when he saw the look of determination in her eyes, and the bunched fists at her side, he mounted his horse and cantered off.
That evening, the heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread led Cameron home. His wife was amazing, he thought. Eight months pregnant and stuck out in the middle of nowhere, yet she still manages to find the time and strength to bake bread.
For the next two days, Cameron surveyed the line by himself until finally reaching the river’s crossing point south of their encampment. Now he had the excuse he’d been looking for, because it would be impossible for him to cross the river on his own. So, whistling to himself, he packed up his equipment and headed for camp.
Soon after rounding the jutting outcrop of rock east of their temporary home, Cameron abruptly reined in his horse. In the distance were two Indian braves sitting on ponies, only yards from his tent. From where he was, they appeared to be naked apart from breechcloths and moccasins, while at the same time he could just make out quivers full of arrows hanging from their shoulders, and bows held almost menacingly in their hands. With the flick of his reins, he encouraged his horse forward, and as he drew nearer reached down for his Colt 45.
On arriving near the outer perimeter of their campsite, he slowed his horse to a walk and casually eased his hand away from his firearm. The fearsome braves had turned into two young boys, and George’s grey stallion had now come into sight, pawing at the ground and shaking its head in recognition of Cameron’s mare.
‘You look rather hot and bothered dear. Why don’t you get down and come over and meet George’s family?’
At that same moment, a young Native woman with high cheek bones and deep-set almond eyes stepped out from behind the tent. She wore a beautifully beaded deerskin dress reaching down to the top of her moccasined feet, and her jet black hair, which was parted down the middle and held close to her head by a beaded band, was drawn into two tight braids hanging down to her waist.
Cameron tied off his horse at the corral and then, trying to appear as relaxed as possible, strolled over to his wife.
‘This is Lomasi…and on the ponies are their two sons… Running Deer and Swift Antelope,’ said Catherine.
‘Oki,’ said Lomasi, prompting the same response from her two boys.
Cameron wasn’t sure what greeting was expected from him, so he replied with the slight raising of his hand and a ‘hello’.
Moments later George appeared, walking over to where Cameron was standing.
‘I bring boys…to help cross river.’
By the time two more weeks had passed, the women had become quite fond of each other. Catherine had begun to learn a few words of Blackfoot, such as ‘Oki’ meaning ‘hello’, and ‘giga waba mimbama’, which roughly translated into ‘I’ll see you later’. In return, George’s wife had learned a few words of English, and was learning how to make white man’s bread.
It was another beautiful autumn day, when on the following afternoon the two men rode back towards camp after a day’s hunting. Although they’d not had any success in shooting a deer, they at least each had a pair of rabbits hanging from the horns of their saddles.
The late autumn sun warmed the back of Cameron’s neck under the brim of his hat, while high overhead squadrons of honking Canada Geese, with almost military precision, formed huge Vs in the sky as they headed south to their winter feeding grounds.
Cameron’s horse suddenly stumbled, its left foreleg descending into a burrow dug by a prairie dog. A cacophony of dog-like barks sounded out, destroying the late afternoon peacefulness and spooking both horses into flight.
Within moments, both men had brought their steeds under control, but not before Cameron’s mare had damaged her leg. After dismounting, Cameron held his mare’s reins while George lifted its foreleg to check the injury.
‘She damage leg…behind knee,’ George said, gently placing the hoof back on the ground. ‘We walk now…camp not far.’
Finally, their tents came into sight.
‘George…something’s not right. Look! There’s no smoke. The fire should be stoked up and cooking our evening meal.’
‘Here…take horse,’ George said, handing over the reins of his stallion.
Vaulting onto the unsaddled stallion, Cameron dug in his heels and galloped off towards their campsite.
It was a miracle he stayed on the stallion’s back. Never before had he ridden a horse without a saddle, and it could only have been the adrenaline pumping through his body that had given his legs the strength to hold on.
In the end, his inexperience and inertia proved his downfall. And as he jolted to a halt in front of his tent, he flew over the stallion’s neck.
With a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, he dusted himself off and hurried into the tent.
Catherine lay unmoving on her side, her head facing the back of the tent.
‘Sh…shush,’ Lomasi whispered, putting her finger to her lips. ‘She sleep now.’
Lomasi got up from where she had been sitting on the floor beside Catherine’s cot and crept out of the tent.
Cameron threw his dusty hat into the corner, and then took over sitting by the head of the bed. Picking up his wife’s small, pale hand, he placed it against his cheek, brushing
his lips against her fingers. To him, her breathing seemed rather uneven, and she’d obviously been in some distress as her hair was lying matted against the side of her face.
Not long later, Cameron picked up the sound of George leading his mare into camp.
The stor
y that eventually unfolded did nothing to waylay Cameron’s fears. Apparently, soon after the men had left that morning, Catherine had started into labour. As the day had progressed, the frequency of the pains had increased. But during the afternoon they had started to diminish, and now seemed to have disappeared altogether. According to Lomasi this sometimes happened. But Cameron was not convinced. He now feared the worst. Guilt reared its head again, and inwardly he cursed himself for allowing Catherine to stay out on the trail.
After the sun had disappeared behind a thickening layer of cloud, a sudden groan from Catherine raised his anxiety further. Lomasi hurried back inside, while George, having been through this twice before, casually strolled off to settle the animals for the night. Returning to their campfire, he knelt in front of the dormant embers encouraging them into life. Having successfully accomplished that task, George filled the iron pot with water from the river, knowing it would soon be needed.
Over the next few hours the rain began to pelt down, while at the same time lightning flashed and thunder roared as if trying to compete with Catherine’s intermittent wailing. As the night wore on, her cries became more and more frequent, and with each muffled cry Cameron’s look of anguish increased. Eventually, Lomasi turned to Cameron, and with her hand pointing towards the opening in the tent, ordered him to ‘bring water’. Returning with the iron pot, he set it down beside Catherine’s cot, but as he was about to lower himself beside his wife, Lomasi’s finger this time pointed directly at him.
‘You…go!’
Cameron plodded out through the opening in the tent, not even noticing that the rain had stopped. Twice he stumbled over rocks, before finally reaching a large flat boulder on the edge of their campsite; and as he sat there with his mind in turmoil, the tragedy of Alex’s birth came rushing back to haunt him.
Sometime later he sensed a presence behind him.
‘Here…maybe help,’ George said, handing Cameron a small pewter flask.
The whisky burned its way down his throat, and after another gulp he did the almost unthinkable and offered it to his friend. George knew better, and after taking the flask returned it to the bottom of Cameron’s saddlebag.
After what seemed an eternity, their peaceful surroundings were shattered by a loud, persistent wailing.
Had it been light, Cameron might just have seen the smile break out on the normally placid face of the man beside him. As it was, it took a few seconds before his brain recognised the sound. Then, leaping to his feet he ran to the tent and stood outside the entrance, unsure of what to do.
Cameron nearly jumped out of his skin when, ten minutes later, the flap flew open to reveal Lomasi holding a wrapped bundle in her arms; and to dispel any further anxiety,
she smiled.
‘Your son.’
Cameron opened his arms, and as the baby was laid against his chest, a tiny face appeared from within the folds of the blanket. Momentarily, he was overcome with joy, until a small dark cloud intruded into his thoughts.
‘But…but…Catherine. What about Catherine?’
‘I’m just fine, you big oaf!’ she yelled from inside the tent. ‘Now bring that baby in here and come and sit with me.’
Lomasi fussed and fretted as she cleaned up mother and baby. In her world, the men would be sitting around the campfire bragging and talking about hunts, or whatever it was men talked about at times like this. And it would only be much later that the mother would present the child to its father. They would certainly not be in the way as this one was. But white people were strange, she thought. Sometimes, like now, the men seemed soft. Almost like children. But then, maybe that wasn’t so bad either, she decided, as she stole a glance at the parents, laughing and playing with their newborn son.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The plains had taken on a different complexion now that autumn had faded and the nights were drawing in. The golden colour of the gently swaying grass had given way to a patchwork of rotting vegetation, interspersed with small green patches, while some low-lying conifers, and other evergreen bushes such as Balsam Fir and Creeping Snowberry, did maintain their year-round lustre. But they were few and far between. And the rains had now become more frequent, flattening the long grass to allow it to embark on its final journey back to the soil.
As the railway pioneers continued west, a noticeable increase in woodland signalled a change in their surroundings. Great stands of Spruce, Cedar and Fir began to decorate the hills and valleys, filling the air with their pine-scented bouquet. At the same time nature tried her best to cater to man’s every need, for scattered amongst these conifers could also be found hardwoods such as Alder, Maple and Birch, their denuded branches now stark in their bleak winter dress.
The new encampment had just been established on the side of a shallow valley, through which a small stream burbled on its relentless journey towards the north. Catherine had resumed sole responsibility for the running of the camp now that Lomasi had returned to her family, but there was no doubt she missed her, and at times was beginning to question her decision to be out here with her baby. It wasn’t so much the increase in work since Callum’s birth, but the fact that she was always so tired. Her sleep at night was continually interrupted, while during the day there were too many chores to be getting on with to allow her to get much rest.
As if to remind her of her plight, Callum began to cry. Right on time, she thought, as she removed the ladle from the simmering pot. Standing up, she slowly stretched and twisted, before wiping her hands on a cloth and going to the tent to feed her son.
That night after dinner, Catherine lay with her head on Cameron’s lap, while they relaxed on a blanket in front of the fire. The dying embers shot sparks into the air, momentarily lighting up their faces before being carried aloft into the still night sky. This was their time, Cameron and Catherine’s only private and peaceful part of the day.
‘Cameron…Look! Did you see that shooting star? Wasn’t it beautiful? The sky is so clear.’
‘Yes I saw it…But apparently there’s a reason the sky is like this. George told me that he thinks the wind is about to swing around to the north. And if it does, it’s going to get an awful lot colder.’
‘Never mind…I’m sure we’ll be nice and cosy in our tent now that the stove is back in there.’
‘By the way, Cath. Have you got that list of supplies you need? George is going to be leaving early in the morning for the bridging team’s camp.’
Catherine was still sleeping, as Cameron crept quietly out of the tent to see George before he rode off.
‘Listen, George…When you get there just ask for Sean McIlvey…and then give him this letter. He’ll make sure you get what we need. While you’re gone, I’m going to stay in camp with Catherine. I’ll restock the survey wagon and then top up our firewood. We’ll see you in a couple of days.’
George nodded, and with a snap of the reins on the horse’s hindquarters, set off towards the east. He knew Cameron was staying near camp to give Catherine a rest. And by the looks of her it was probably a good idea. In his world, a new mother would have the support of the whole village, and he now realised it had probably been a mistake to send Lomasi back as soon as he had.
In November, as the daylight hours became fewer and fewer, the mileage they were achieving began to drop significantly. And as Catherine’s strength waned, it was now only a matter of time before the men would be forced to take over most of the domestic chores.
Cameron had originally hoped to continue surveying until the end of December. But as the cold added another degree of misery to Catherine’s already wearing existence, he accepted this was no longer feasible.
At the end of the first week of December, the three adults sat around the stove in the Stuarts’ tent. The hissing sound of the kerosene lantern was almost lost in the background noise, as the ever-increasing wind buffeted the canvass of the outer shell. Although double tents were now being used, cold drafts still found their way inside, while outs
ide, the icy grey rain was turning their campsite into a quagmire.
‘George, I think we’ve got to decide how much longer we can risk being out here. I know the men laying the track will keep going until the weather makes it impossible, but I don’t want to get caught in the middle of nowhere if a big storm comes our way.’
George sat quietly, his head down, while he carefully considered their current situation. At one point he raised his eyes, furtively stealing a glance at Catherine before once more returning to stare at the floor. Finally, he looked up.
‘In December…if it snow…it melt in few days. Bad storm normally not come till next month. But if want…we stop at Fort Walsh…only thirty miles west.’
Cameron looked at Catherine once more and then nodded his head.