by John Wilson
“Here, young Al,” Staffe said, handing me a knife. “We cannot take much on our travels, but this will be of use.”
I took the knife and slid it into my belt as Staffe grabbed an axe from the wooden chest. He also took a curved gunpowder horn with a metal lid, a small grey flint for fire-starting, a ball of twine, and some needles. He placed them in a crude leather bag that he swung over his shoulder. Hudson and Jack had by this time made a hole large enough for a man to crawl through. I looked back through the opposite wall. The bodies of Fanner, Wydhowse, and the tall warrior still lay in the open. There was no sign of movement from the trees.
“Each take a single blanket,” Staffe said, still organizing. “Now we must go.”
I grabbed a hide blanket and folded it roughly into a sleeping roll. Staffe did the same. Jack was slower, his face heavily stained with tears.
“Here,” I said, picking up a second blanket. “I’ll take yours.”
Jack smiled weakly.
“You must no longer delay,” Hudson said urgently. “Go deep in the woods. If in truth the salvages have vanished, I shall wait until I am sure and endeavour to join you there. Now make haste.”
“Farewell, Henry Hudson,” Staffe said. “It has been an honour to be under your command, even though matters have not worked out as we would have wished.” With that, Staffe shook Hudson’s hand and ducked through the hole in the wall.
Hudson embraced his son, who was crying again. “Go now, Jack, and may God be with you.”
Jack didn’t want to let his father go. Putting my arm around his shoulder, I eased him toward the hole. “Come on, Jack, we’ve got to go now,” I said as gently as I could. As I moved past Hudson, I looked up at him. There were tears in his eyes, but he still managed a thin smile. I nodded in what I hoped was a reassuring and adult way. As a last thought, I grabbed the spear from the wall and ducked out the hole.
Outside it was fearfully bright after the dark interior. The trees were only about fifteen metres away. Our route would be hidden by the hut, unless our attackers had circled around. Crouching low, Staffe led the way in an awkward run. Feeling overloaded with the two blankets under my arm, the spear in my hand, and trying to encourage Jack along, I followed.
The trip was slow, but it wasn’t interrupted by an angry shout or the hiss of an arrow. The dark of the trees offered welcoming shelter. Without hesitating, Staffe pressed on deeper into the shadows.
We travelled in silence for a long time. Jack was barely aware of his surroundings, and I frequently had to prevent him from stumbling into tree trunks. He was sobbing quietly. I felt like crying, too. How would I feel leaving my father behind to certain death? It didn’t bear thinking about. Dad and I didn’t get along sometimes, but he was always there for me in his own way. A wave of sadness swept over me as I thought of my situation. Maybe he wasn’t there for me anymore! Maybe both Jack and I had lost our fathers. With an effort I pushed the thought from my mind, steadied Jack, and carried on.
After what I thought must have been about an hour of slow progress over deadfall, swampy ground, and occasionally thick underbrush, we reached a small clearing by a sizable stream. Given the direction I thought we had been travelling, this must be the stream that ran out beside Hudson’s camp. Exhausted, we lay on the bank and drank the cold, clear water.
Staffe finished first and sat up. “I think we have put some distance between ourselves and the salvages. We will wait here a while and recover our strength. Master Al, in which direction must we set off to reach your home with the most expedience?”
“Well...” I began hesitantly, unsure what to answer to the impossible question. “I think—”
I was interrupted by a low, distant thud. Jack was on his feet in an instant. Staffe looked away from me and back the way we had come. For a moment I was confused. Then it dawned on me. What we had heard was the report of a musket, and there was no denying what it meant. Jack sank to the ground, his body ravaged by renewed sobs. There could be no doubt he was on his own now. I felt tears welling in my eyes. Was I alone, too?
The warrior had been travelling for some time when he heard the dull noise of the stranger’s weapon. It pleased him. Perhaps they had managed to bring down a deer. If so, it would have been mostly a matter of luck, but the meat would help them while he was away. He hurried on through the trees and was too far distant to hear the second musket shot a little time later.
The sun was directly over his head when the warrior met the war party. As he crossed a small clearing, it materialized from the trees around him: twenty men, heavily armed with bows and clubs and dressed and painted for war. The warrior had a moment of trepidation and even half reached for the knife on his belt before he recognized the others. They were from his band and they were led by the okimah.
After the usual greetings, the okimah explained what had happened in the warrior’s absence. Apparently a hunter had spotted a party of Iri-akhoiw travelling toward the shore of the Great Water. They were obviously in the people’s lands for one reason only—to capture slaves to take home. To achieve this they would murder and plunder at will and cause much weeping among the people.
Since there were only a few places on the Great Water shore where such a large party of Iri-akhoiw could camp, they should not be hard to find, and the okimah had decided to launch a surprise attack first, kill as many of the invaders as possible, and drive the rest away.
The warrior instantly forgot about the bright circle and the tale he was going to tell the okimah.That could wait. The threat to his land and people from the Iri-akhoiw was more immediate. Exchanging words of greeting with his friends, the warrior joined the raiding party as they resumed their journey to the Great Water. He was completely focused on his new task, except for a tiny worm of doubt working at the back of his mind. Perhaps the weapon report he had heard that morning had not signalled a successful hunt. Perhaps there was a more sinister motivation.
TEN
By an unspoken agreement, we ignored the implications of the second musket shot, at least to one another. In our own minds I think we all knew what it meant. Jack sat in miserable silence while Staffe and I tied the blankets into rolls that could be slung across our backs. This would help free our hands and make the going easier.
“So, Master Al,” Staffe said when we were finished our preparations, “in which way must we go?”
As I worked, I had been thinking. I knew from my father’s maps that the Nottaway River ran into the southern end of James Bay and had been used by First Nations people as part of their trading circle between where we were and the St. Lawrence Valley. I also knew that the Nottaway rose in some lakes inland, but my geography was hazy after that. At least travelling up the river we would be going in the right direction. I didn’t think there was much chance that we’d reach Ottawa or Montreal—in fact, I was sure my two companions never would—but we had to do something, if only to avoid falling into depression.
My plan also had the advantage of allowing us to travel along the shoreline of James Bay, at least to begin with, and that would be easier than clambering through the woods. And the faster we travelled, the faster we’d put distance between ourselves and our attackers. It would also mean passing by the site of Dad’s camp. I knew there would be nothing there, but I still had a strong desire to visit the site. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I hoped that visiting a place I was going to be in the future might trigger travel back to my own time.
“There’s a river to the south,” I told Staffe. “We’re probably far enough inland now. If we curve back around to the coast, the going will be much easier.”
I was surprised at how confident I sounded. I wasn’t used to taking charge. Staffe nodded and, picking up our blankets, we splashed across the stream and continued through the trees.
The going was no easier, and we had an unpleasant hour squelching through a large patch of muskeg, but by midday we reached the coast. Despite the weakened condition of my companions and the fact that
we had only eaten a few handfuls of blackberries all day, our rate of travel increased dramatically.
As we progressed, I began to relax. I was tired, hungry, and wet, but the sun was shining, so I wasn’t too cold and sometimes my footwear almost dried out. Mostly, though, I was simply relieved there was now a good distance between ourselves and the horrors of the dawn attack. I couldn’t rid myself of two vivid images from the morning: the picture of the tall warrior standing astride poor Fanner’s body, waving his bloody trophy and screaming in exultation; and the look of sadness in Hudson’s eyes as I left him to his fate.
I think we were in mild shock after the morning attack. All we could do was plod along as the surrounding world of water, trees, and screaming seabirds blurred to a haze. The only thing that roused me was the familiar feeling I was being watched from the trees. I looked up several times but only saw dark shadows.
At one point I became aware that Jack was singing:
“Sweet smelling beds of lilies and of roses
Which rosemary banks and lavender encloses.
There grows the gillyflower, the mint, the daisy
Both red and white, the blue-veined violet,
The purple hyacinth, the spike to please thee,
The scarlet-dyed carnation bleeding yet.”
On noticing my presence at his side, he looked up. His eyes were red from crying. “For all the time he spent in forbidding places, my father was fond of a peaceful garden filled with the colours and perfumes of plants. He loved the verse of Humphrey Gifford and agreed with him that plants should be grown for their colour, scent, and shape as much as for their medicinal and food value. Of course, many can be grown for both as my father did in the garden of our house in London. He often said that when he returned from Cathay, he would bring with him many strange plants to ornament his garden and please him in his old age.”
“Perhaps he will,” I said, not believing it but feeling I had to say something positive. “Perhaps the musket shot we heard—”
“No!” Jack’s shout was unexpectedly violent. “He will not sit in his garden. He will not see the shores of Cathay. He is gone to another world, if not better than this, then at least free of its cares. I think before we reach this Ottawa of yours, we may all envy him his journey.”
I fell silent. There was obviously nothing I could say to comfort Jack. We trudged on.
As the sun descended toward the horizon, Staffe called a halt. “We must rest. Perhaps we might find some berries or be blessed with a bird for our sustenance. In any case, we must rest. How far is it to this river, young Al?”
“A long way yet,” I answered, though I really had little idea.
Staffe nodded thoughtfully. “Well,” he said eventually, taking his flint from his leather pouch, “let us sit here a while. Jack, if you and Al would go into the woods, perhaps you might find some berries to assuage our hunger. I shall gather wood and commence a fire. It will cheer us and we are far enough from the salvages that we need not fear the smoke.”
Nodding in agreement, Jack and I threw down our blankets and moved toward the trees. I took the spear I had been carrying, just in case we came upon something edible.
The trees were widely spaced here and the ground was dry. There were several open areas covered with a carpet of brown pine needles and numerous low bushes with broad, waxy leaves. The bushes carried crops of dark blue berries. Hesitantly I tried one. It was bitter but not unpleasant. With the taste of the juice in my mouth, my hunger overcame me. Laying down the spear, I began picking berries for all I was worth and stuffing them into my mouth. I could feel the juice trickling down my chin, but I didn’t even pause to wipe it away.
So intent was I on my feast that I wasn’t even aware of my attacker until it was too late. The first thing I knew was when a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind and pinned my arms to my sides. I struggled, kicking and throwing my head back in an attempt to hit my assailant, but nothing worked. I was powerless in the strong grip. All I could do was warn my companions. I opened my mouth to shout, but before a sound came out a sharp pain exploded at the back of my head and blackness swept over me.
I came to back on the beach with a serious headache. I was lying on my left side on the sharp rocks of the shore. My hands were firmly tied behind me. Tilting my head back, I could see Jack crumpled in a heap near my feet. He wasn’t moving, but the fact that his hands were also tied encouraged me to think he wasn’t dead. I couldn’t say the same for Staffe. The lower half of his body was draped over a log, one arm leaning against it and pointing grotesquely into the air. Fortunately I couldn’t see his head, but the handle of his axe protruded over the log and told me the story. In front of him were the pitiful beginnings of the fire he had been working on when he was attacked. Behind him stood four of the painted warriors who had attacked us that morning and who we had foolishly thought we were well clear of. They were talking animatedly. With horror I noticed that one of them had a lock of familiar grey hair tied to his belt.
As if he had felt my gaze, the warrior with the hair at his belt suddenly glanced in my direction. Seeing me looking at him, he gave a fierce shout, leaped over Staffe’s body, and stood above me. I felt my hair grabbed painfully and my head and shoulders pulled off the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I saw sunlight glint off a knife blade I recognized as Henry Hudson’s. I closed my eyes and waited for the blow.
Nothing happened. Cautiously opening my eyes, I noticed a fifth warrior. He was standing in front of me, firmly grasping the wrist of my attacker in his right hand. His left hand and arm hung uselessly by his side, caked from the shoulder down in dried blood. He spoke urgently to his companion, who eventually relaxed and replaced Hudson’s knife in his belt. Turning away, he aimed a kick at the prone Jack who, I was relieved to hear, let out a low grunt of protest. Stepping over the log, the warrior bent to retrieve the axe that protruded from Staffe’s body. Fortunately the log obscured my view of the grisly task.
From what I had seen I could work out something of what must have happened that morning. Once they had overcome the shock of Staffe’s musket felling their leader, they had attacked once more. Perhaps they had spread around the hut this time. In any case, Hudson had managed a shot at one of them, wounding him in the shoulder. After that it would have been over quickly. I assumed the one with the grey hair at his belt had been the one to finish Jack’s father.
What amazed me was the speed with which the five men, even when one was seriously wounded, had travelled down the coast to catch us. They had probably been watching us for some time. Seeing us split up, they had taken their chance. Staffe was obviously the strongest of us and hence the greatest threat to them. He probably never even saw them coming. With Staffe dead it was an easy matter to capture Jack and me.
But what were their intentions? They weren’t going to kill us out of hand. The fact that I was lying here thinking about it proved that. But what did they want us for? Who were they? From their shaved heads and topknots I got a vague memory of pictures of Iroquois and Huron warriors, but didn’t they live way south of here, along the St. Lawrence River and down into New York State? What were they doing up here by James Bay?
Then a chilling memory came back to me. Part of the trading network my father was studying involved slaves. Bands from the south sometimes headed north on raids to capture slaves for their villages. The little I could remember was that the slaves were well treated and adopted as family members once they had been accepted. What caused the chills was the recollection that they were often tortured brutally to see if they were brave enough to be accepted. I doubted very much if I was.
My unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by the approach of two of the warriors. Grabbing me roughly under the arms, they hauled me to my feet where I swayed unsteadily, trying to keep my gaze away from the top half of Staffe’s body, which I could now see over the log.
Jack, too, was hauled up, and I was glad to see he was awake and could stand, even if unsteadily
. I doubted if our captors would waste much time carrying an unconscious prisoner.
The wounded warrior set off along the beach, his useless arm dangling absurdly by his side. The others clustered around us, herding us forward with kicks and painful prods from their axes. It was difficult going, and I wasn’t keen to arrive wherever it was we were being taken.
The warrior crouched in the dense bush, watching the stockade. It was roughly made but strong enough to prevent a surprise attack. This was a large raiding party. The warrior felt no fear, but he did feel unlucky that these barbarous Iri-akhoiw had chosen now, just when he had found a way to persuade the okimah to trade with the strangers, to invade his lands. The Iri-akhoiw did not come up this far often, being tied as they were to the ground where they scraped a pitiful existence. But then this was the great trading circle. It brought useful stone for spear and arrow points to his people, but it also occasionally brought raiding parties, such as the ones who had built this stockade on his shore.
The warrior viewed the Iri-akhoiw with scorn. His life was honourable, moving with the cycles of the animals and seasons and taking what he needed from the wealth of the land about him. It was obvious to him that the spirits of the world wanted the people to take what they needed as long as they did it with proper ritual and respect. Did not the spirits provide the abundant caribou, beaver, and geese; the sparkling lakes rich with fish; the deep, whispering forest crowded with berries? There was no need to steal people from far away. If the corn growers from the long houses to the south needed to do that it simply showed their weakness, and the warrior and his colleagues would make them pay for trying.
The war party had found the Iri-akhoiw camp where they had thought it would be, but it was well established on a wide clearing by the shore and difficult to attack. The Iri-akhoiw had chosen their campsite well. The stockade was strong and built against a large rock. The entrance faced the open area so that attackers would have to run over much unprotected ground before they came to blows. The warrior could see no way in.