by Ann Birch
“Of course. And do you know, Charlotte, that I was—well, not tempted, exactly—but flattered? The European men in my literary entourage appreciate my mind. Toronto men will not acknowledge that I have a mind. To them, I’m just an appendage to my husband. I don’t know exactly what it is about me that Camudwa likes. It can’t be my mind, since we don’t speak each other’s language. Perhaps it’s my body. It’s been so long since a man has accorded me that compliment. I remember once being in the Doges’ Palace in Venice. There were two Italian men behind me, and one said to the other, ‘La signora inglese, che seno magnifico!’ They didn’t think I understood Italian, you know, and were quite abashed when I turned around and said, ‘Grazie.’”
“I don’t know Italian, but I get the gist of what you say. But there’s more to Camudwa’s admiration, I think. He admires your courage, your spirit. The white women he has met in his life have undoubtedly been as tightly laced into their attitudes as they are into their corsets.”
“As I was, too, not so long ago. But I hope I have changed.”
At three o’clock, Anna and the McMurrays went into the council chamber. Two Catholic priests were already seated. One of the priests rose when he saw the women. “Dear ladies,” he said, fingering the cross on his soutane, “I have never before seen the weaker sex at such a gathering. Perhaps you might find other pursuits more to your liking?”
Anna ignored this bit of presumption and kept moving towards the empty places on the bench, but she heard Mr. McMurray say, “Look after your own flock, father, and I’ll look after mine.” They seated themselves close to the platform on which Sam was to make his speech. It was a wooden plank raised on trestles. Near the plank sat Major Anderson and the translator, Blackbird.
Then into the council chamber sauntered the chiefs of the Menomoni, Ottawa, Pottowattomi, Chippewa and Winnebago tribes. They moved quietly and with no fuss. There seemed to be no particular order or ceremony, unlike the bigwigs Anna had seen once with her father at the opening of the British Parliament.
There were men with hair in fringes hanging on their shoulders or tied on top with a single feather; men with faces painted in vermilion and eyes circled in black or white; men with belts of wampum from which hung pouches and scalping knives—and horrors, even a scalp—men in embroidered leggings and headbands ringed with eagle feathers; three chieftains in mourning with faces blacked with grease and soot. “Look at Two Ears,” Mrs. McMurray whispered, pointing to a chieftain who had large clusters of swansdown hanging from both sides of his head.
Then in the midst of all these strange and wonderful figures, Anna spotted Jacob’s father. He saw her at the same moment, came towards her and held her hand for a moment in his strong fingers.
“Bojou, Wah, sah, ge, wah, no, qua,” he said. He wore a surtout of fine blue cloth, under which Anna could see a bright red shirt. Round his head was an embroidered band, in which were stuck four eagle feathers. Though he held a tomahawk in his hand, his face was mild, as Anna remembered it.
“Who is he?” Charlotte whispered as he followed the other chiefs.
“Chief Snake. He had breakfast with me in Toronto in January.”
The room was hot, and by this time dense with smoke. Every door and window was filled with onlookers, so that the fresh air from outside was stifled. The Catholic priest who had dubbed her and Charlotte “the weaker sex” brushed by them and headed towards the outdoors, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose.
“Sorry you can’t take the heat, father,” Anna said. “But we’ll give you a summary later.”
When all were assembled, there was a pause, then Sam came into the chamber. The Major and Blackbird stood up, ready to hoist him up onto the plank, but he quickened his pace at just the right moment and vaulted onto the platform without their help. As always, Anna noted, his clothes were beautifully tailored, and his neat figure set them off to advantage. Really, for a man who professed to be “debt-ridden”, he spent a good deal on his appearance. Today, for this important occasion, he wore a cream linen frock coat, strapped trousers, a waistcoat and a brilliant red silk cravat.
“Nice,” Anna said to Charlotte, gesturing at Sam. “But I wonder if his clothes seem as fantastic to the chiefs as theirs seem to people like me.”
“I’ll ask.”
Charlotte spoke briefly to a chief sitting behind her then turned back to Anna. “He says the Great White Chieftain has a good body, would look better in leggings.”
Anna laughed. Yes, she thought, the Great White Chieftain does have a good body. It might look even better without leggings.
She hoped Charlotte didn’t notice her blushing.
THIRTY-SIX
Sam stood on the trestle like a treed lynx, feeling that he would never get through what he had to say and come down from his perch. The room was unbearably hot and crowded, and he became more nervous when he saw Anna and her friends only a few feet from his platform. He knew his limitations as a public speaker. And this time, there was no Colonel Fitzgibbon to bail him out.
Then he heard Anna laugh. He caught her eye, and she smiled at him, and flipped her fingers at him in an encouraging wave. He felt better immediately.
He’d given this speech a lot of thought. Sir Francis had left him notes, but they were of little use. The man had actually suggested starting each section of his speech with the words, “Children!”
That’ll get their attention, he’d written in the margin of his notes.
But Sam knew that this epithet would be as offensive to the Indians as “the weaker sex” was to Anna.
“Friends!” he began, and with this one word, the assemblage quieted and everyone looked towards him. He told them of the death of the Great Father on the other side of the Great Salt Lake and of the accession of the Great Mother. He complimented them on their quiet, sober and orderly conduct in the camp during their stay, and urged them to take their gifts directly home without dealing with the traders and their firewater.
As he heard his own words, the doubts poured in. Was he being condescending? Too late to revise now. He stumbled on, forcing himself to stop at the end of every sentence so that Blackbird could put his words into the principal languages of the assembly. There was, in fact, more translation than speech. Blackbird’s voice was loud and high-pitched, accompanied by much hand-waving. Sam had no idea of the accuracy of what the Indian was saying— translators always had the upper hand—and from time to time he thought he heard suppressed laughter from the chieftains. Was Blackbird mocking his delivery?
But when he looked down at the people he knew—the McMurrays, Anna, Chief Snake—he saw that they were polite and attentive. And Anna kept smiling at him as if she were enjoying what he said. He took a deep breath and moved into his conclusion.
“My friends, the Governor warns that no more gifts will be given henceforth to our brethren from the American side of Lake Huron. In order to receive the generosity of the Great Mother at the next council, they must move to Upper Canada.”
He waited while Blackbird translated this last bit, noting that a buzz began immediately before the translation. A good many of them understood English, though they might not let on. He looked down at a handsome chieftain signalling him imperatively from the crowd.
“Speak.”
The chief rose to his feet, waving Blackbird aside with a dismissive hand.
“Great White Chieftain, we have always ranged freely without regard to the false boundaries set by the Great Father and the Long Knives. Whether we consent to live on one side or the other of these boundaries is a matter on which our chieftains must deliberate. Why should it be necessary to live within the white man’s boundaries when this land has belonged to all of us for centuries before the white man came among us with measuring tools and paper documents? Our chieftains will ponder on what you say and bring an answer when you come again among us.”
“Point taken,” Sam said, abandoning the stilted diction he’d grown tired of. “I’ll speak to the Go
vernor about your objection. And now, sir, while you are still standing, I give you, on behalf of the white man’s government, the new flag of the Empire.”
It was a beautiful specimen of heraldry—the British lion side by side with the Canadian beaver—and the chief who had spoken out seemed, for the moment at least, mollified.
It was a relief to come to the next item on the agenda. The Governor had given him a discretionary fund from which to buy brass kettles, silver gorgets, medals and amulets for chieftains whose conduct merited them. He now distributed these, making sure that Jacob’s father, Chief Snake, received a medal and a gorget.
As a final gift, he had intended to give Blackbird something extra for his work as translator, but now he decided to put the expense of a brass kettle into his own pocket. No one from the government ever asked for an accounting of the money spent from this fund, and he knew he had come upon an unexpected nest egg. He would take just enough from his stash to pay for his new clothes for this occasion. Business expenses, they were called, and surely he could not get into trouble over such an outlay.
At the end of the assembly, everyone plunged out into the open air. Sam stood with Anna, Major Anderson, Jacob Snake and the McMurrays, enjoying the sunshine.
Blackbird ran up the slope towards them.
He spoke to Sam in his rapid but fluent English with flourishes of his hands and a series of small bows. “Come, come, quick, quick. Trader from Toronto hides in cove near entrance to bay. Trader’s boats filled with firewater.”
“We must get off at once, Anderson,” Sam said. “Come along with us, Blackbird. And you, Jacob, find ten or so strong men you can trust. We must dump the rogue’s cargo into the bay.”
Anderson cleared his throat. “But what if he—”
“Get on with it, man. We’ve got to deal with the swine before the natives come upon him. Go, go.”
Sam set off at a run, Jacob beside him, picking up braves along the way in their dash to the shoreline. In five minutes, they were into a long canoe with Jacob as steersman. They saw Anderson plodding towards the shore. “Push off without him,” Sam said. “No time to lose.”
Another minute, and they had made progress along the bay. Five minutes more, and with Blackbird’s direction, they found the trader’s bateaux hidden in a secluded cove. The man had tethered the two boats with long ropes to a tree near the water’s edge, and he was seated on a log enjoying his pipe.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Sam said to Jacob. “The crew seems to have disappeared.”
The paddlers threw down an anchor, jumped from the canoe and ran to shore. Seeing them come at him, the man rushed towards the forest. But Sam caught up with him, grabbed him by the back of his collar and brought him down. As he tried to struggle to his feet, Sam landed a punch that knocked him back onto a pile of brushwood.
He looked at the bloodied face of his victim. “Good lord. Crimshaw.”
The trader launched into a string of curses.
“Shut up. Stay where you are while my crew finds a market for your firewater.”
The Indians climbed onto the bateaux, each brandishing a heavy stick from the shore. They smashed the barrels and tipped gallons of cheap whiskey into the lake.
“You call this a market for my whiskey, do you? By god, I’ll see you swing for this.” Crimshaw wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and tried to rise. But Sam kept a foot planted on his chest.
“The bass and whitefish will enjoy it, I assure you,” he said. “But if you want restitution, apply to Sir Francis Bond Head. He’ll be glad to hear of your plans to stock your shelves with the government’s gifts.”
“Just wait, you bugger. I’ll throw those unpaid bills of yours before the courts. You’ll rot in debtors’ prison for the rest of your goddamned life.”
Sam leaned over Crimshaw and spat in his face. Then he took his foot from the man’s chest and turned towards the Indians who had come up on shore, having finished their work. Together they waded to their canoe, climbed in and paddled into the channel. Crimshaw’s curses followed them.
Sam felt a rush of excitement. Of all the impulsive things he’d done over his lifetime, this one at least had been right. He’d settled Crimshaw’s hash, once and for all. The Indians would be able to make their way home without his treachery. Anna would praise him. Great White Chieftain. Maybe he deserved that title after all.
Then, slowly, the euphoria passed. He sat, morose, staring into the depths of the water.
“It is a good thing we do this day,” Jacob said, breaking in on his reverie.
“Was it? You know, I’m glad we wrecked Crimshaw’s profits. But part of me is ashamed that we have treated the Indians in the encampment as children.”
“I do not understand, Nehkik.”
“Let me tell you something that happened earlier. You may know about it anyway. That Indian, Camudwa, made an improper suggestion to Mrs. Jameson. McMurray—with my approval—told him where to go. The lady was angry. ‘Do not assume I am a member of the weaker sex,’ she said. She was right, you know. And now, here I am, making the big decision to control the lives of hundreds of Indians.”
“Big decision?”
“To destroy the whiskey they might want to trade their gifts for. Hell, Jacob, I like a glass of firewater myself, and I wouldn’t want anyone—you, for example—to decide I shouldn’t have it. In fact, it’s my bills for firewater that keep me in thrall to Crimshaw. When it comes to drink, I often feel as helpless as any Indian.”
Jacob dipped his long paddle into the water with a twist that sent the canoe towards the shoreline and the encampment. Then he said, “Sometimes, Nehkik, people do not know when they need help. Sometimes they need someone to speak for them. I think of Elijah White Deer. Remember, I tell you in the spring about him. He does not have me beside him when he goes to Crimshaw. He takes drink. Now he is—what do you call it?”
“A drunkard?”
“Yes, a drunkard.” Jacob gave a deep sigh.
“It’s true, friend, what you say. Sometimes we do need someone to push us in the right direction, even if we don’t acknowledge we need their help.” Yes, he reflected, feeling hopeful again for a moment, Anna had given him good advice about Crimshaw, and he had finally taken it.
But he’d had a lot of bad advice in his life, too, and he’d taken that as well. He thought of the duel. Damn it. If he hadn’t had Boulton and Small pushing at him to take his shot, would he have done what was right? Fired in the air? Maybe not. Still...
“You frown, Nehkik. Something is wrong?”
“Just thinking some more on what you say. Sometimes people can push us in the wrong direction, too.”
“Yes. But today we do the right thing.”
That evening, Sam entertained the priests, the McMurrays and Anna at dinner in the council chamber. He was both relieved and annoyed in equal parts when Major Anderson said to him just before the guests arrived, “Sanctimonious clergy or an opinionated blue-stocking, I don’t know which would be more injurious to my digestion. And I can’t deny I’m hopping mad at you, Jarvis. You paddled away and left me standing there, looking like a fool. So you alone could take the glory when you smashed that trader’s stash of firewater.” He paused to wipe his flushed face with his handkerchief. “So excuse me from dinner. I shall take it alone in my room.”
The plank on trestles did duty this time as a dinner table, and the cook, wife of one of the voyageurs, served excellent fried sturgeon and steamed blueberry pudding. In a recess in the magazine, Sam had found some bottles of sherry, which he smuggled in a deerskin sling for his walk from storehouse to council chamber.
Sam gave his guests an account of the raid as they refilled their sherry glasses and ate their sturgeon. “Well done, sir,” Anna said. “Crimshaw has finally had his comeuppance.”
“If only every goddamn trader in this world could be dumped into the lake along with his booty!” Mac said. He paused, then mumbled, “Excuse the language.”
“Did you know the devil when you lived in Toronto, Mac?”
“Yes. He was just starting up in business then. Not doing that well, from all we heard. But my father’s sudden death left a dearth of merchants and gave Crimshaw his golden opportunity. My father was a decent man, but Crimshaw appears to be an unmitigated scoundrel.”
“There is no one the Lord loves more than the sinner,” one of the priests said, a smarmy fellow with bloodshot eyes. Sam couldn’t remember his name.
He was grateful that Mac let the remark pass.
But the peace was short-lived. The priests seem determined to pick a fight. The other one, Father Crue, spoke up. “We Catholics have been much more successful than you Protestants in stamping out polygamy among the Indians.”
Mac had just asked the serving girl for some maple syrup for his pudding and did not hear the comment. It was Anna who replied. “But, father, that is because the Catholic Church allows a man the choice of which of his women he wishes to bear the title of ‘wife’. The Church of England is stricter—and justly so—in this matter. Mr. McMurray told me something about it.”
Mac took his cue. “We have an Indian in our community at the Sault who wanted to become a Christian. He had three wives, and he wanted to keep the latest, a young and beautiful woman, and put aside the other two, and—”
“Perhaps it’s time to tell Mrs. Jameson—Anna—that his name was Camudwa,” Mrs. McMurray said in an aside.
“We informed him, of course, that the woman he had taken to wife first was to be the permitted one. And he stomped off in anger and has not since mentioned becoming a Christian.”
Anna gave a loud laugh. The priests looked at her. “Whatever is funny about this heathen story, ma’am?” the smarmy one asked.
“Forgive me, but...” Anna’s giggles changed to coughing as she choked on her pudding.
Sam gave her a slap on the back. “Take a moment, Mrs. Jameson, and drink some of this water.” He passed the pitcher to her.