by John Wilson
“Because they are rogues, thieves, and scoundrels,” Jack said. Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “But that is not all. Not every one of the mutineers is such. Some are good men. Robert Bylot for one. He is a fine navigator and a man who will go far in exploration if he so chooses—and if he survives. Abacuck Prickett for another. He kept a journal of our voyage, which I pray may survive. And if I look to honesty, my father was not without blame.
“He is a great man, but he has a headstrong spirit. The Northwest Passage has been an obsession with him as long as I have lived, and Greene’s story merely fuelled his passion. To be the discoverer of the route to Cathay, he pushed his crews farther than men were like to go.
“We suffered much last winter. The hunting was poor and we could find no salvages to trade with. When the ice freed the Discovery, we were in sore straits, near to starvation and sick from scurvy. We had but food for fourteen days more. Everyone—I admit myself, too—was desperate to make the greatest speed home. But Father delayed. He had made great and wondrous discoveries, but he had not reached the shores of Cathay and was loath to return without a hold full of spices and gold. He also felt assured that we were so close to the Orient that we would obtain succour the more quickly by sailing west to the islands of the emperor of Japan.”
Jack fell silent, and I didn’t want to disturb him. After a few minutes, he looked at me. “Al, you are a Christian, although of a strange sort. Do your people live their lives as Christians?”
“They try to,” I replied, wondering where the conversation was going.
“My father does, too,” Jack went on, “at least as far as he is able. He would rather turn the other cheek and reach an agreement by compromise than fight with sword and club and impose his will. Some take that as a sign of weakness, and perhaps it is on a ship in a desperate situation in the wilderness.
“He played favourites, giving to Greene a coat that by the traditions of the sea should have been auctioned to the crew. He threatened men with punishment and then was loath to carry the punishment out. He asked advice in the belief that all on such a perilous undertaking should have a say, yet it was looked upon by some as a weakness in one who should be commanding firmly.
“This last spring, when the ice released us, we were most in need of strong leadership. Father tried to provide it, but he was much broken in spirit and kept his counsel to himself, not even sharing it with me. There was a feeling among some that, if our lives were to be saved, others would have to take direction of the ship.
“Father distributed all the cheese that remained and counselled the men to save their portions, but some, Greene included, ate all theirs immediately, leaving nothing aside for the morrow. Then Greene began putting about tales of hoarded food and saying that only some could be saved and that others must be cast adrift. I think not many fully believed him, but in desperation and with Greene’s and Juet’s threats, there was not much sick men could do.”
Jack’s eyes took on a faraway look as he gazed out into the darkness, remembering. “It was a Sunday morning, the twenty-second day of June. My bunk was outside the galley, between the two Wilsons, Edward the surgeon and William the boatswain. The latter was heavily in with the mutineers, and I had noted that he had not come to his bunk the night before. I awoke once to the sound of his voice issuing from the neighbouring gun room and being quickly silenced by Juet, who kept quarters there. I thought nothing at the time. Perhaps if I had...
“The first I knew was awaking with Wilson’s hand over my mouth and his voice in my ear: ’Stay silent, young Master Hudson, and no harm will attend thee.’ Drowsed by sleep, I obeyed and followed the man forward. The first I knew of treachery was coming on deck to see Father with his hands bound behind his back. Shaking free of Wilson, I ran to Father and asked what was going on. He said to be of stout heart, that there were those who thought to run the ship better than her rightful masters, but that they had promised no harm should befall us.
“Just then there was a commotion from the hold and Juet’s voice screaming for aid and saying that he was being attacked by King and like to be killed. Thomas and Wilson ran to assist, and King was brought up, much bloodied but still defiant. ’Ye shall all hang,’ he said.
“Greene answered that he would rather hang at home than starve in the wilderness. Then we and those too sick to resist were bundled into the shallop and lowered over the side. Prickett spoke up for us but was silenced by threats from Greene, and Staffe alone voluntarily joined his master.
“We were all allowed to take only a few clothes except Staffe, who took his chest, a pot, and his matchlock fowling piece. And grateful have we been for even those meagre wares, for without them how would we have caught or cooked even the poor game we have found?
“We raised the sail on the shallop and near caught the Discovery so intent were the devils on plundering our goods, but they spotted us, raised their sail, and swept from view. Some were of the view that we should follow and attempt our own way back to England, but in our sickened condition it was a false hope. Thus we came to this place, and your arrival proves we decided right.”
I felt suddenly very worn by the weight of having these men’s hopes resting on my shoulders. “I’ll do my best,” I said weakly.
Jack smiled. “That is all any can do. But I think Master Staffe was correct and we will be needing what rest we can achieve tonight. My task is to sleep by the fire and keep it built through the night. If the rain holds off, it is not too bad. Will you join me?”
“Yes,” I said.
With that Jack built up the fire to a sizable blaze, and we settled down as comfortably as possible within the circle of its warmth. Only then did I realize how tired I was. My last thought before I slept was a question—what year would it be when I awoke?
From the darkness the warrior watched the two boys settle down. The light of the fire did not extend far, and he had been concealed close enough to hear clearly every word of the talk. It had meant nothing to him, but something he had seen had sent a quiver of recognition through him.
At one point Hairy Face had given a glinting circle to one of the boys. It had caught the firelight like the reddish metal that sometimes came from the north, but it reminded the warrior of something else. The okimah had one the same. It had been given to the previous okimah who had died ten winters ago. He had told a tale of getting it from a band of Omashkekowak— Swampy Cree—that he had found dying in their village of a strange sickness. The old okimah had not wanted to approach too closely, but one of the sick men had called to him and thrown the bright circle to him.
The dying warrior had said the circle was a powerful gift from gods who had visited in a flying ship. He said whoever kept the circle would be visited again by the gods, who had many wonders and who would make themselves known by showing the people another circle the same as the one he threw. The sick man said his people must have offended the gods since they were now all dying of this strange sickness, but that the okimah should keep the circle safe against the gods’ return. Now the gods were back.
The warrior did not believe these strangers were gods. Gods would not starve in a land of plenty. They were men like him. Men with strange habits and many wondrous things, but men just the same.
The warrior knew what he must do. This news would change the okimah’s mind. Now he would have to trade with these people. Tomorrow the warrior would start back for his village to give this startling news. Tonight he would bed down nearby. Silently the warrior turned and worked his way into the deeper darkness. He was so intent on his progress that he did not notice the dark figures threading through the trees.
NINE
I awoke just as dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern sky. I had slept surprisingly long and deeply and felt rested and comfortable—at least until I opened my eyes. There was the hut, with the small fire in front of it, and Jack’s shadowy form bending over the main fire, which was reduced to glowing embers. I was still out of my own time. Somehow
having spent a night here made the whole experience more real—and more serious. It seemed less likely that it was a hallucination and, if it wasn’t that, what was it? How long would I be here? How much time was passing in my world? What was Dad doing?
My questions were interrupted by the appearance of Wydhowse from the hut. He didn’t look as if a night’s sleep had refreshed him at all. With barely a look around, he dragged his hunched form toward the trees and prepared to relieve himself. I supposed that if there was nothing I could do about where and when I was, I should at least get up and help Jack with the fire.
A low hiss and a soft thunk were all I heard. Wydhowse straightened and took a step backward. The sounds were repeated. This time Wydhowse staggered visibly. Slowly he turned. He had a puzzled expression on his face as he looked down. Obviously he couldn’t understand what two long, thin, feathered shafts were doing sticking out of his chest. Ineffectually he pawed at the arrows. Then, with a surprised gasp, he collapsed in a heap.
I was on my feet before Wydhowse’s body hit the ground. Jack didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong.
“Jack!” I screamed. “We’re being attacked.”
He looked up at me. As he did so, an arrow clanged off the rock at his feet. Another hissed uncomfortable close to my right ear. Leaping over the fire, I grabbed Jack’s sleeve and ran toward the hut. Staffe appeared in the doorway.
“Get in!” I yelled at him. He stepped aside just as Jack and I bundled into the dark interior, scattering the remains of the small fire. We were accompanied by an arrow that embedded itself in the flimsy wall, its wickedly pointed stone tip protruding a full twenty centimetres inside.
“What...?” Hudson began.
“We’re being attacked,” I said. “Wydhowse is dead.”
An arrow found a gap in the wall, flew in, and fell to the floor beside Jack. Automatically he picked it up. Another buried itself in a branch, making the whole wall shake. Jack and I huddled on the floor, while Hudson looked about in confusion. Fanner crouched in a corner, his lips moving frantically in what sounded like a prayer. Only Staffe’s activity was focused. He had his ancient musket across his knees and was concentrating on the complex mechanism above the trigger.
“Why doesn’t he fire it?” I asked.
“He must light the match first,” Jack answered.
I didn’t understand, but I didn’t want an explanation right now. Crawling to one side, I peered between a couple of branches. It wasn’t an encouraging view. I counted six figures advancing from the trees. They were crouched over and moving slowly. Their bodies were almost naked, covered only by rough leggings and breastplates of wooden slats. Their heads were shaved, leaving topknots that were tied behind and from which assorted feathers dangled. Every exposed centimetre of skin was painted, usually black or red. Four of the warriors carried bows with arrows strung in them. The others held wicked-looking, curved clubs. Even moving slowly, they would be here soon. As I watched, one of the warriors drew his bow and loosed an arrow at the hut, where it lodged in a branch.
“Hurry!” I said urgently. Staffe ignored me. He had an ember from the small fire and was blowing on it. A thick taper was attached to the top of his gun, and I assumed this was what had to be lit before the contraption would fire. It would take too long. A bizarre thought crossed my overstressed mind. What if I died here and my father dug up my bones four hundred years in the future? It didn’t bear thinking about. Fortunately I was interrupted by Fanner.
“Seek ye the Lord and he shall take ye unto his bosom!” he shouted. I turned to see him standing beside Jack, although he was hunched by the low roof. Jack was looking up at him, still holding the shaft of the arrow in his hand. For some reason he had broken the stone tip off.
“Sit, Fanner,” Hudson commanded, reaching out to grab the man.
Fanner brushed his hand aside and headed for the door. “Save ye the heathen in the wilderness,” he shouted, stepping outside.
“Come back, you fool!” Hudson cried, but Fanner ignored him.
I returned my attention to the hole in the wall. At Fanner’s appearance the warriors stopped. Fanner was now shouting biblical phrases at them. The men looked uncertainly at one another. Slowly they began to retreat. I held my breath. Perhaps they had a taboo against killing someone as obviously crazy as Fanner. They were certainly unsure what to do. As Fanner raved, they moved backward, bows and clubs held low.
“I am the mouthpiece of the Lord God of Hosts,” Fanner shouted, throwing his arms wide. “List unto me and ye shall be saved. Ignore the Word and ye shall be smitten just as Joshua smote the walls of Jericho.”
One of the warriors stopped retreating. He was the tallest and carried a long club with a knot of wood on the end into which a piece of sharp rock was embedded. His face was divided by a horizontal line of paint. It ran across his cheeks, just under his eyes. Below the line was midnight-black; above it was blood-red. He began shouting at his companions, his teeth startlingly white against the paint. The other warriors hesitated but made no move. With a yell the tall warrior leaped forward and faced Fanner. The two men stood, their faces mere centimetres apart, each screaming unintelligibly at the other.
What occurred next happened so fast that it was difficult to distinguish individual elements from the blur of motion. The warrior let out an unearthly shriek and jumped a full half metre into the air. As he did, he raised his club and brought it crashing down on the top of Fanner’s head. Instantly the biblical torrent ceased. Fanner’s body collapsed onto the ground as if his bones had suddenly turned to water. With a second shout the warrior was on top of Fanner’s prone body, kneeling across his shoulders. Dropping his club, he reached around his belt and extracted what looked like a long, sharp piece of black rock. Grabbing the limp Fanner’s hair in his left hand, he began working with long, sweeping strokes. In an instant he was back on his feet, waving a lock of blood-caked hair around his head. He shook his grisly trophy at his companions, yelling and pointing at the hut. Given new courage by their companion’s violence, the other five warriors rejoined the attack.
In shock I watched the band approach. The air was filled with bloodcurdling cries and the sound of arrows thudding into the wall of our fragile fortress. I was terrified. A horrible death was only metres away from me, and yet I was too scared even to run away. Not that I could see that doing much good. These men knew these woods. Even in the unlikely event that I got to the trees alive, they would probably only regard it as sport to hunt me down at their leisure. What could I do?
My question was answered by a thunderous roar from beside my left ear. The tall warrior, who was now only about five metres from me, was violently thrown backward and crashed to the ground. His companions stopped and gazed in shock at his motionless body. Then, as the smoke from Staffe’s musket wafted across my view, they turned and ran into the trees.
With my ears ringing from the musket’s report, I turned back to the scene in the hut. Staffe was already busily beginning the complex process of reloading his weapon. Jack, like me, was standing by the wall where he had been watching the drama unfold, and Hudson was crouched in the centre of the floor. Crude sleeping mats, rough blankets of hide, and a few pitiful personal possessions littered the ground. Against the opposite wall stood a dark wooden chest, and beside it was a wooden spear. Hudson broke the silence. “Why did they attack us? We mean them no harm.”
“What man can say why salvages do anything?” Staffe replied, “But attack us they certainly did and, as poor Fanner proved, the Lord will not help us. It is up to us to help ourselves.”
“You think they will attack again?” Jack’s voice was worried.
“Aye,” Staffe said, standing. “Once they recover from their shock, they will return, and I doubt if my musket will send them running next time.”
“Then you must leave with all haste.” Hudson rose to his feet as he spoke. “While the salvages are yet in confusion, you may find a way unnoticed into the woods. Philip, le
ave me your musket, which in any case I think will be of little use in the forests, and with that and my knife I shall attempt to delay them while you make good your escape.”
“No!” Jack’s shout echoed in my still-ringing ears. “I will not leave you, Father. Either you will come or I will stay, but we shall not be separated.”
Hudson took a step toward Jack. “Your loyalty to me I have never doubted,” he said, putting an arm around his son. “And as you well know, I have never forced upon you a course of action you did not wish. But in this I must be obeyed. I cannot walk the many miles it must be to our young friend’s home. You cannot carry me. The only result of my attendance with you would be to slow all down. In that case, either these salvages would overtake us within but a few hours or, if we by some miracle avoided them, we would be doomed to a slow and painful starvation in the wilderness. Here, I can at least give you a chance. We must not all pass away without our story being told. That must be your goal, Jack, and my staying can help you toward it.”
Jack clutched his father, sobs wracking his body.
“Your mother said I should not bring you on this voyage,” Hudson continued. “She had a premonition that I put down to mere vapours. But I see now she was right and I should have attended her words with more care. I shall make amends the only way I can, by giving you a chance to return to her. Am I not right, Philip?”
“You are,” Staffe replied quietly. “There is no other way, Jack. The world must know of your father’s greatness, and you must be the one to tell of it. But we must not delay. Each moment the salvages recover some of their courage.”
“Aye, you must go.” Hudson pulled away from his son. “Come, Jack, help me to break a hole in the back wall farthest from our enemies.” With his arm still around Jack, Hudson moved across the littered floor, and the pair began picking at the loose branches of the wall.