Highland Justice

by Larry Stuart

  ‘George, I want you to know that neither of us think it was your fault. It was Cameron and I that made the decision to stay out on the plains after Callum was born. You’re not God, and you can’t control the weather.’

  Cameron then shook George’s hand, while nodding in agreement.

  Both followed George to the door, and watched as he mounted up. Then, as he turned and cantered off towards the gate, Catherine yelled after him.

  ‘Please…give our love to Lomasi and the boys!’

  But he never looked back.

  Rays of sunlight slanted down from a clear blue sky, as a buckboard, containing a small wooden box strapped to the floor behind its seat, made its way through the front gate. Even to a stranger, it would have been obvious something distressing had befallen the couple sitting at the front. The driver sat stiffly, his empty, soulless eyes staring straight ahead, while beside him, a woman shrouded in dark attire and supported by the man’s free arm, wept openly into his shoulder.

  Sergeant MacDonald, resplendent in red serge tunic, beige Stetson-type hat, buff trousers and calf-high leather boots led the way astride a gleaming black stallion. While at the back of the cortege rode Corporal Jones, the NWMP doctor and another man dressed in black, sporting a small wide-brimmed padre’s hat.

  Twenty minutes later, the little troupe reached a grassy knoll framed by a white picket fence, protected on three sides by mature Cypress trees. Tears cascaded down Catherine’s face, and she sobbed mercilessly into Cameron’s chest, as the Sergeant and Corporal lowered the small, pine coffin into the ground; the words said by the fort’s Chaplain being lost to the winds.

  Cameron’s arm was wrapped around Catherine, his hand grasping her waist to prevent her from collapsing if her knees gave way. And his cheek lay atop her trembling head, as he stared off into the distance, unable to look at what was taking place before him.

  Momentarily, his thoughts returned to that moment two days before when, inconsolably, he and Catherine had rocked in each other’s arms after being told that Callum had died; and he had wondered if his life was destined to forever lurch from heartache to heartbreak.

  Finally, the ritual drew to a close; and a tear slid from the corner of Cameron’s eye,

  falling into his wife’s windblown hair. For awhile no one moved. But ultimately, the cool, gusty breeze on top of the hill decreed the time had come to bid farewell. Cameron whispered in Catherine’s ear, and then with the gentlest of tugs urged her to turn away. Slowly, she staggered back towards the rig, so despairing in her grief that it was only Cameron’s support that kept her from sinking to the ground. The four mourners stared at their boots, wringing their hands and shuffling their feet until mother and father had passed. Cameron handed Catherine up to the seat, before turning back towards the gravesite.

  Sergeant MacDonald stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Cameron’s shoulder.

  ‘We’ll put him to rest for you if you like. Why don’t you and Mrs Stuart just go back to the fort and have a warming drink?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  If anything, Winnipeg was more frenetic now than when they’d left. The city was sprawling out from the centre at an alarming rate; and property companies eager to get their piece of the seemingly untold riches, bought and sold real estate at ever more ludicrous prices. Frontage on Main Street or Portage Avenue was trading at prices per foot comparable to downtown New York, and towering six to eight story buildings were being constructed for some of North America’s best know corporations. The first of these huge structures to be completed was for the Bank of Montreal, which now housed the new corporate headquarters of the C.P.R.

  Main Street itself ran for nearly two miles, and every foot was taken up by businesses such as hardware stores, haberdasheries, cafés, and real estate agents. Streets running off of it such as Lombard Avenue and Water Avenue were now becoming just as important, as they accommodated the headquarters of such prestigious companies as Great Western Life Assurance, and the first newspaper to be printed in Western Canada – The Nor’Wester.

  Cameron and Catherine stared in wonder. In nine months the city had become almost unrecognizable. Even more fantastic was that, at this moment, they were sitting in an electric streetcar, smoothly making its way down Main Street on metal rails.

  Workmen were everywhere. Those not involved in constructing something new seemed to be tearing something down. Electric lighting was being installed on all the main thoroughfares in the city, and on every street corner a knot of men could be seen either dismantling the gas street-lamps, or installing their new replacements.

  Almost overnight the future had arrived, and as Cameron was well aware, it was all being built on the backs of the railway. God forbid the line doesn’t get finished, he mused, as with the jangling of the driver’s bell, their transport drew to a halt outside the Bank of Montreal.

  ‘I’m just going in to say hello. I’ll meet you at the Prairie Café when you’ve finished your shopping…then we can go and pick up the horse and buggy.’

  Cameron walked through the impressive double-doors of the new building, heading towards the woman sitting at reception. Her semi-circular desk was beautifully crafted from maple, and was outlined in a light-coloured inlay of some type of pine. Behind her on the wall hung the CPR logo – a shield with Canadian Pacific Railway scrolled along its bottom edge, topped by a beaver gnawing on a branch of maple leaves.

  His first impression of the woman was that she was more akin to a school headmistress, than the image one would have expected of an employee of an up and coming young railway. And as he was soon to find out, she played the part superbly.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked, displaying a slightly condescending smile.

  ‘Yes…you certainly may. Would you tell me where I can find Mr Van Horne?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she inquired, while frowning at him from over the top of her glasses. ‘Because, I’m afraid he doesn’t normally see people without one.’

  ‘No, I don’t. But if you’ll just tell him Cameron Stuart would like to see him… I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said smugly, picking up the telephone.

  A few minutes later, as the General Manager led him from the lobby with his fleshy hand on his shoulder, Cameron momentarily turned his head and winked at the humbled, red-faced receptionist. He certainly had something to have a laugh about with Catherine tonight, because the look on the receptionist’s face when Mr Van Horne had burst into the lobby, was a picture that would remain with him for quite a long time.

  One of the reasons Cameron had wanted to come to the office immediately on his return, was to get the pitiable part of last month out of the way. As expected, Mr Van Horne was effusive in his condolences, and was at pains to establish if there was anything he or the railway could do to help relieve their anguish; all the while, there never being any suggestion of I told you so in his manner or the discussions that followed.

  Thirty minutes later, Cameron raised a hand in farewell to the duly repentant Mrs Evans at reception, before hurrying out the front door to meet Catherine.

  That night, Cameron and Catherine lay on a polar bear rug in front of the hearth, while the fire crackled and sparks flew up the chimney.

  ‘You know something, Cath? I know it doesn’t make it any easier…but I found out today that we aren’t the only one’s grieving. Mr Van Horne told me we lost six men on the bridging gang during that cold snap…including Sean McIlvey. Apparently, he died after going for help…just like George…only Sean never made it to the “end of track” camp. The rescue gang found his body half a mile from safety and by the time they reached his crews’ camp, five other men had died.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about sad things any more. I think I’ve run out of tears, and my chest is still sore from sobbing. Why don’t we just go to bed…and tomorrow we’ll restart our lives.’

  Cameron quickly settled back into the paperwork,
and before long began to come across other problems created by the storm. Two of their locomotives had cracked boilers from being allowed to stand idle for too long out in the cold, and on the line west of Regina, two more engines were stranded due to water towers being frozen solid. Eventually, water was sent out by wagon to recover the precious engines, and new procedures were brought into force. Maintenance gangs were now deployed on a permanent basis, not only to ensure the safety of the track and its signalling gear, but also to light fires at the base of the water towers during periods of extreme cold.

  Of course, these weren’t supposed to be Cameron’s problems, and should have been handled by operations. However, at staff meetings held over the next few weeks the merits of all suggestions were reviewed. And in the end, quite a few “Scottish” ideas were accepted and acted upon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When the spring of 1883 arrived, everything seemed in place for the final push to Fort Calgary. During the previous winter, some of the men who couldn’t be employed laying tracks had been split up into construction gangs. And by the time spring arrived, Regina had the makings of a large town, with a depot on its western edge to which supplies and equipment were being swiftly trans-shipped in readiness for the new track building season. The usual assortment of banks, hardware stores, food suppliers, hoteliers and real estate agents had been planned, with some already nearing completion; and rumours abounded that the government was about to confirm the building of a new headquarters for the North West Mounted Police in the fledgling city.

  One early April evening as Cameron was heading for home, his mind mulled over the upcoming dilemma. The raw edge of last year’s grief had now worn away, but he knew from his own experience it was never far from one’s thoughts. Conscious of the impending confrontation, and with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, he opened the door to their little home.

  ‘Hi, Cath.’

  Catherine walked out of the bedroom, sauntering towards him with a barely disguised grin on her face. For the first time in months, he noticed her cheeks seemed fuller and rosier, and even in the dull light of the lamps inside the cabin, her eyes were bright and sparkling. This time it needed no explaining, and a grin spread across his face.

  ‘You’re pregnant aren’t you? ’

  As Catherine rushed over, Cameron opened his arms, sweeping her off the floor and whirling her around in circle before gently setting her down.

  ‘Oh…that’s great, Cath!’

  ‘Before you say anything else…No…I have no intention of going anywhere with you and George this year. So, if you’re planning to go off with your friend you’d better find a way that we can meet up every now and then so you can remind me what it’s like to be held in your arms.’

  In hindsight, Cameron realised that his boss was probably so happy to be told that Catherine would not be accompanying him this year that he would have probably granted Cameron almost anything. As it was, giving Catherine a free travel pass, and occasionally arranging for a hotel room for the two of them, was still a pretty good deal as far as the Stuarts were concerned.

  This time, the baby would be delivered in the General Hospital in Winnipeg, with the help of the best doctors and nurses paid for by the C.P.R. And as near as they could work out, the new arrival was due during late September to early October, which should allow Cameron sufficient time to finish the survey and be home in time for the birth.

  Cameron stared idly out the window, watching the smoke from the loco’s stack escaping through the split roof over the platform. The roof’s design reminded him of a similar station – Aberdeen – where he had stared out from a window just like this, so many times before. And as the train jerked and began to accelerate away, it drew his mind back to the other interest in his former life, and he reached into his travelling bag to find a pen and paper.

  As time passed, his thoughts alternated between his letter to Margaret and the ever changing spectacle within his sight.

  The service he was on was a milk run – so-called because it stopped at every halt along the way to pick up the local dairy farmers’ output. And the more he gazed at the places they stopped, the more he was amazed at the rate with which some places had blossomed.

  Brandon had already become a small city, its major employers being the new C.P.R maintenance yard, Hudson’s Bay Company, Johnson’s Flour Mill and the Western Feed and Grain Company. Broadview, which had been built on the western edge of the beautiful valley he’d first seen when he and George turned back that first winter, had turned into a large town, mainly supported by hardware suppliers and a tanning mill. However, during the last few months, it had also become a major trans-shipment stop – born-out by the huge grain elevators sitting alongside a siding west of the town. Next on the route, and for the moment the end of the main line, was Regina, already a city in waiting, its most noticeable feature being the massive reservoir nearing completion on its southern outskirts.

  Luckily for Cameron, the railway had pre-booked a room for him, because Regina was like the Winnipeg of old. The place was bursting at the seams with entrepreneurs, businessmen and labourers, all vying for what little accommodation was available.

  The din of saws and clanging of hammers trailed him as he walked down the newly boarded sidewalks, while an all too familiar smell cloyed at his nostrils. Nowhere else in his travels had he come across what could only be described as that true Western Canadian fragrance: that unmistakeable mixture of resin from the pinewood; obnoxious fumes from the tar being slopped onto roofs, and manure, maturing on the street; all mingling with the aroma of male sweat, exuding from unwashed bodies and clinging to clothes that hadn’t seen soap in weeks.

  Finally, he spotted his hotel, strangely feeling an uncommon desire to have a bath before retiring for the night.

  Early the next morning, a quick check at the railway’s office in town confirmed that a supply train would soon be leaving for the “end of track” camp. This year, the start point for the track layers was the other side of the river at Swift Current; and at this very moment their huge mobile village was already underway.

  The sun was sinking behind the hills on the western side of the river as the train screeched to a halt.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, Charlie. Maybe I’ll see you later in the season. Keep that steel coming, and with any luck we’ll be across the prairies by the end of the summer.’

  Swinging his bag down from the shelf at the back of the caboose, Cameron threw it

  over his shoulder, and after a quick wave to the trainman, wandered off towards the

  seething tent city.

  Ten minutes later, he looked up to see a familiar face striding up the slope towards him.

  ‘Hi, George! How are you?’

  ‘Busy… Where you been? I thought maybe I on my own this year.’

  Cameron ignored the jibe, and as he stuck out his hand a wry grin spread across George’s face.

  ‘I’ve missed you, George…and so has Catherine.’

  Two days later, they passed the site of the previous winter’s tragedy.

  George, who as usual was in the lead, kept his eyes firmly to the front. He had already made his complaints to the Great Spirit. The previous week, he and his sons had spent a night at the old campsite, expelling their emotions while dancing around a pyre. Then the following day, they’d cleaned up the site, recovered the wagons and equipment, and taken them back to the “end of track” camp.

  Late that afternoon, they stopped to make camp high up on the side of a beautiful valley in the hills north of Fort Walsh. George picked the spot well. The clearing he’d found allowed the early morning sun to help awaken them, while at the end of the day, it reflected off the carpet of pine needles surrounding their camp, leading them home like a beacon.

  Before long, the surveyed line neared their campsite, so Cameron knew that in a day or two they would be moving on.

  ‘George…how far is it to Fort Walsh from here?’

  �
��Not far …maybe five, six mile south.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I’m going to head down towards the fort. So…can you top up the cart with survey stakes while I’m gone? I won’t be long.’

  Cameron set off early the next day. Initially his progress was slow due to the unsure footing in the snow covered valleys. But once on higher, firmer ground, he cantered to make up for lost time. As the sun came overhead, he spotted the fort in the distance, then getting his bearings, eased off slightly towards the east and pushed on again.

  The spot where Callum had been buried was now just a small, damp patch of earth, as the snow had only recently melted and this year’s growth had yet to get underway.

  Cameron took off his hat and knelt on one knee before the four-foot high wooden cross. Sergeant MacDonald must have arranged this he thought, because at the time, both he and Catherine had been too traumatized to even think about a memorial.