Beyond the Wild River Read online

  In the other boat Clementina gave a peal of laughter at something Rupert had said, and Evelyn looked across at them. ‘Alright, my dear?’ her father asked softly. She made no reply and turned back, her eyes fixed again on James’s waistcoat, at a patch carelessly applied, stitched in a thick black thread, probably his own work. The diving bird rose a little way in front of them and let out a weird trembling call, and a response echoed from somewhere across the lake. A sudden gust blew the drips from James’s paddle onto her skirts and he half-turned, grunting an apology over his shoulder, and she saw that his neck was dirty and there was stubble on his chin. At home he had always been well dressed in accordance with the high standards her father demanded, handsome in his groom’s livery when he drove them to visit neighbours. She would study his back then too, ridiculously proud of him. She knew every detail of him, the set of his shoulders, how his hair grew over his collar, and remembered how he would smile at her, a conspirator’s smile, as he assisted her from the carriage.

  But there had been murder in his eyes just now, when he had come towards them on the platform—

  That evening James ate with the other guides in their own cabin which was set back a little from the lodge. He ate quickly, not joining in the usual discussion of the newly arrived guests, the amount of baggage they had brought, or of the physical merits of the two women – and the food stuck in his throat. When they had finished eating Louis pulled out a pack of greasy cards and began dealing them onto the top of an upturned barrel which served them as a table.

  James pushed back his stool and got to his feet. ‘I need to check that patch.’

  Louis continued to deal, glancing up at him. ‘It’s fine. I looked.’

  ‘It was leaking on the way back.’ A lie, but never mind. He picked up his jacket and left before Louis could protest further.

  Letting the door slam behind him he went down to where the smaller canoes were assembled, ready for the morning, slowing as he passed in front of the lodge window where the guests should now have finished eating. He glanced that way just once and then went down to the shore.

  He pulled out his knife and slid the blade along the seam he had repaired so carefully the evening before, opening it again, just a small tear but enough to provide an excuse to be there— And he could spin the job out for as long as it took, certain that Ballantyre would come to him. He crouched down and lit a small fire in the fireplace built for the purpose, and began heating a tin of spruce gum, pulling a length of sinew from his backpocket to resew the tear. And, if necessary, he could tip the nearest canoe into the lake and he would be gone, letting the current take him.

  He did not have long to wait. A few moments later the door of the lodge opened and Ballantyre came out onto the porch and stood looking across the lake with a studied nonchalance. Distracted by his appearance, James let hot spruce gum drip onto his hand and swore, and when he looked up again Ballantyre was strolling slowly towards the jetty. James bent again to his task, the burn heightening his anger, and he moved his knife closer, covering it with a strip of birch bark.

  He straightened as Ballantyre approached. ‘What game is this—?’

  ‘You said you didn’t know him.’

  ‘I had a face, no name. Who is he?’

  There was a tiny pause. ‘Rupert Dalston. Earl Stanton’s younger son.’

  ‘So now I have both.’

  ‘He doesn’t know you, though, does he?’

  ‘He soon will.’

  Ballantyre frowned. ‘James – if you take matters into your own hands …’

  ‘I’ll not play your games, Ballantyre. Why did you bring him here?’

  Ballantyre shook his head. ‘I didn’t. I’d no idea he was coming until I got that telegram, this morning, on the jetty.’

  ‘You lie. You knew.’ And he bent to spread the dark pitch over the resewn seam, seeing a blister rising over the burn on his hand.

  Ballantyre shook his head. ‘No. They met him in Chicago. Believe me or not, as you will, but this changes things. It’s too risky. You must go back to Port Arthur and wait for me there, at the Northern. I’ll give you some money and I’ll come to you after—’

  ‘No.’

  Ballantyre considered him, then pulled his cigar case from his pocket, took one out, and tapped it on the case. ‘James, listen to me—’

  ‘No, you listen. I want answers. And then I’ve scores to settle, first with him, and then with you.’

  Ballantyre continued to contemplate him. ‘You’d more sense at thirteen—’ He took out a silver penknife and began trimming the cigar, then lit it, blowing the smoke at the mosquitoes which were dancing in the air around them. ‘So what will you do, James, murder us both?’ He put away the penknife. ‘If you take matters into your own hands you’re sunk, and there’ll be nothing I can do for you.’ James threaded the length of sinew through holes punctured in the birch bark, his hair falling forward, his hand shaking with suppressed fury.

  The silence stretched out. Then: ‘How is it that you did know him?’ asked Ballantyre.

  He would have known the man anywhere. That perfect sculptured face, those cold blue eyes scanning the riverbank, his well-dressed figure surrounded by the hounds, frantic as they sought the lost scent. James had looked down from the cleft in the oak tree trunk, watching as McAllister joined the man, servile and fawning, knowing that the hunt was a sham. Once they had looked up into the branches, and James had lain close, his face pressed hard against the bark, not daring to breathe.

  Briefly he told Ballantyre.

  ‘So. Jacko schooled you well,’ was his only comment, then he swung round as the screen door banged again. Skinner and the stout gentleman had emerged from the lodge and started down the steps towards them. Ballantyre pulled on his cigar and spoke quickly. ‘So he’ll not know you then, and I’ve told my daughter to ignore you. She knows nothing of this, or of him— And if you insist on staying, for God’s sake keep a hold of your temper and let this play out.’

  ‘That’s not good enough.’

  ‘No? Well, make it so.’ Ballantyre turned to greet the two men as they approached. ‘Eh, Mr Skinner? Make it good and tight for those rapids you told us about. Preparation and planning, that’s what’s needed – and then a cool head in fast water.’ And he led the stout man away, leaving James to answer Skinner’s incensed enquiry as to what he was doing leaving repairs until now.

  And as he looked over Skinner’s shoulder, back towards the lodge, he saw that Louis had come out of the river guides’ cabin and was standing, arms folded, leaning against the doorjamb, looking back at him.

  Evelyn too had been watching the exchange down by the landing from her room in the lodge. Whatever were they saying—? James had had his back turned to her, and her father was calmly smoking, giving nothing away. She was tempted to go down to them, now, and demand answers, and be done with it all.

  But which did she fear the most – the truth, or the lies they might tell her?

  She had never known her father to look anything but entirely in control, yet all through the meal that evening she had sensed the tension in him. It had been cramped in the little room where they ate, and the hurricane lamps set on the window ledges had created shadows, darkening the corners and illuminating the dusty rafters. In one corner a pot-bellied stove took the chill off the autumn evening, and a pair of thick candles lit the centre of a table. In any other circumstances she would have been enchanted.

  A dark-eyed Indian girl had served their food, padding across the floor in dirty moccasins, bringing plates to each guest while Mr Skinner outlined his plans for them, describing the route upriver, and telling them to keep their belongings to a minimum. Rough clothes, he had said, just a change or two in case things got wet, something warm, long sleeves to keep the bugs at bay. ‘Although I’ve got a concoction which I swear—’ She was only half-listening, letting Clementina ask the questions, remembering to smile occasionally when the others laughed. The Indian girl had retreated i
nto the shadows and Evelyn wished she could join her there, and be swallowed up by the darkness. At one point Clementina had leant across and asked if she were quite well, and her father had switched his attention to her, his eyes searching her face. Under his steady stare she had dissembled, confessing to just a little fatigue, and made a greater effort to appear engaged.

  ‘So there’s gold and silver here too?’ Rupert was asking.

  ‘Gold, silver, copper, iron, nickel … you name it, we got it somewhere,’ Mr Skinner replied. ‘Diamonds too.’

  ‘Diamonds!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, as big as yer fist. A prospector dug up some old Indian and found a band of pure copper round his neck with a diamond the size of a chicken egg strung on it. Sold it fer a thousand dollars.’

  ‘And since then?’ persisted Rupert.

  ‘’Nother Indian came into town with his family.’ Skinner spoke between mouthfuls. ‘Kid was playing with a rattle thing, rock crystals and stuff tied to it. ’Cept one wasn’t rock crystal.’

  ‘And no one knows where they’re from?’ Skinner had shaken his head, and Rupert had turned to her father. ‘You’d know where to look though, wouldn’t you, sir? With your South African connections. What sort of terrain—?’

  ‘My dear Dalston! I’ve no knowledge of diamond mining.’

  ‘No? But I understood—’

  He had stopped, discouraged perhaps by her father’s sardonic expression. ‘Dreaming of another Kimberley, are you?’ he had asked.

  ‘If Port Arthur can dream of becoming Chicago’ – Rupert grinned at Mr Larsen – ‘why not?’

  Her father had sat back in his chair, and given him an appraising look. ‘Was it the idea of doing some prospecting that brought you over here?’ he asked, after a moment.

  Rupert had flicked his fingers at the Indian girl and gestured to his empty glass, waiting until she refilled it before replying. ‘Big game hunting, actually. I was going out west to hunt buffalo, until I chanced upon your party. But if I thought there was the prospect of gold I might linger—’ Evelyn saw that his gaze was following the girl as she moved around the table.

  ‘So the Exposition was by way of a diversion?’

  ‘Sort of. I came over with my father, you see. He was here on railway business.’

  ‘Ah.’

  A shadow had crossed Dalston’s face as he took a long drink and he had fallen silent, staring at his plate. During the voyage through the lakes he had confided to Evelyn his exasperation that his father had continued to invest in railways long after they had ceased to be profitable. It had been a bad year, he had told her. Worrying.

  ‘Tricky things, railways.’ Her father continued to look at him.

  ‘Yes, but in the long run they’re bound to be profitable—’ He glanced hopefully between her father and Mr Larsen.

  ‘And is your father still over here?’

  ‘No. He returned home a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘What a shame.’ Ballantyre held up his glass to the girl as she made her way around the table with her jug, carrying it carefully in two hands, her plait dark against the shoulder of her cotton blouse, and nodded his thanks. ‘He could have seen that stretch of track you travelled on today. Just a rackety ride now, but probably the costliest you’ll ever see.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Mr Skinner, and drew their attention to a series of notches cut into the doorjamb. ‘See that? One notch for each five miles. But no one kept score of the dead men, what with rockfalls, accidents and disease—’

  ‘Not to mention fortunes lost and reputations ruined.’

  ‘Worst stretch of the whole goddammed railroad.’

  Larsen had retired to pack. He had watched his friend across the dinner table, and seen that the strain was back behind his eyes. He had assumed it was concern over the unresolved gold claim, but when Ballantyre told him that he had failed to make contact with either the young chief Achak or his own agent he had simply dismissed the matter with a shrug. And yet he had seemed distracted, remote— Whatever was eating the man? Not the bank’s business, it was as sound as a bell – that much he did know. This fishing trip had been planned initially as a celebration, an opportunity to reflect on their successes at this watershed moment. Accommodating Evelyn and her friends had changed things, of course, but something else was troubling his old partner. Was it his inclusion of Dalston in the party? That, it seemed, had been a mistake, after all. At the station Ballantyre had greeted the young man affably enough, but Larsen had not been convinced. He paused, a pair of socks in both hands, and recalled the odd business which had followed, taking Evelyn off down the platform. It could only have been to warn her off Dalston, and since then the poor girl had disappeared back inside herself, eyes troubled and silent, and he cursed himself for bringing him. After dinner he had tried to apologise for his blunder, and to explain, but Ballantyre had simply clapped him on the back with a smile saying that coincidences never failed to astound him.

  ‘Destiny, my friend. It’s a potent force, and we’re helpless in its hands. Do you ever feel that way?’ It had seemed a curious response, and Ballantyre’s eyes had belied the smile on his lips. There had been something deep within them, a shadow, and at the shadow’s core – a spark. ‘Frankly I’m astonished that young Dalston wished to join us,’ he had continued, ‘but his presence will undoubtedly add to the interest, so let us see what transpires, shall we?’ Larsen rolled up a couple of shirts, discarding the others, and admitted himself a coward, not having had the courage to offer his opinion that Evelyn was probably the reason why Dalston had accepted the invitation.

  Chapter 13

  Up the Nipigon River: First Campsite

  They reached the first campsite by late afternoon the next day to find four tents already pitched on the little headland. The low sun was slanting onto the bleached canvas and it lit a backdrop of aspen and birch resplendent with autumn colour— Two half-built wigwams, scruffy but picturesque, stood to one side, and the whole headland was bathed in a vivid, almost theatrical, glow.

  ‘Oh look, George!’ Clementina cried out as the canoes rounded the headland, and she clasped her hands in delight as they approached the shore. ‘How perfect!’

  Mr Skinner looked relieved as he handed them out of the canoes. This was a popular first campsite, he explained as they headed up the slope, and he had sent his men on ahead to secure it. He hoped they would find it comfortable, the best as he could do. ‘Some folks just hunker down here and stay if the fishing’s good, else they just go a mile or so upstream to Cameron Rapids. You can pull out two- or three-pounders from there easy as spit.’

  Low bushy plants and young trees had grown on the edges of the clearing, taking advantage of the open canopy, and they too were aflame with autumn colour; and there were still wild raspberries to be had, ripe and sweet. The whole thing looked almost staged, Evelyn thought as she followed the others up the slope, like a tableau, or an exhibit on the Columbian Exposition’s Wooded Isle. Perhaps it should be labelled, just as Sitting Bull’s cabin had been – A WILDERNESS CAMP – but with every comfort provided for a well-fed elite. Or were they exhibits too?

  ‘Awfully jolly,’ remarked Dalston, stopping behind her to light a cigarette. Evelyn gave him a quick smile and looked back to the canoes, where James was unloading the gear, heaving boxes of provisions ashore. He seemed to sense her gaze upon him and glanced up at her, then quickly away.

  Beside the tents a square canvas awning had been strung between four pines to cover an eating area complete with a folding table and chairs; Mr Skinner showed them how sheets of fine mesh would drop down to keep out the flies. ‘Got to have you comfortable.’ He repeated the phrase like a mantra, and with a growing confidence.

  The largest tent, he explained, was for the ladies, and it had been set up between two others: Rupert and George sharing one, her father and Mr Larsen the other. ‘The women flanked by their menfolk,’ Evelyn remarked softly to Clementina.

  ‘And very glad I am too!�
� she replied.

  The fourth tent, Mr Skinner’s own, was smaller and had been pitched close to the wigwams, at a little distance from the guests’ tents, where a separate small fireplace had been built. Would they continue to eat separately? she wondered. ‘If anyone wants to go fishing while we finish setting up, some of the boys’ll take you,’ he said. ‘It ain’t too late.’ The men agreed with enthusiasm, but she and Clementina opted to stay and get settled.

  There was not enough room in the tent for both of them to move at the same time, so Evelyn sat on her low cot and drew in her feet in order to give Clementina space to unpack.

  ‘Gosh. Do you think we’ll manage?’ said Clementina. ‘It’s all rather primitive.’

  ‘Not so – look!’ Evelyn gestured to where, at the head end of the two cots, there was a narrow wooden stand which provided a surface for a small enamel jug and washbasin. A thin bleached towel hung at each side, and at the back of the contrivance was a hinged mirror of polished metal which reflected a rather foggy image. ‘Every convenience provided.’

  ‘How many nights did your father say we would be camping?’ Clementina asked, fingering the towel dubiously. She then examined the cots and found that they had been provided with coarse cotton sheets sewn along the long seams to form a sack or bag which was then covered with blankets and furs. ‘Is that where the smell is coming from?’

  ‘Probably,’ Evelyn replied, leaning over to sniff. ‘But I bet they’re lovely and warm.’

  A rougher, rather matted, brown fur had been spread on the ground between the cots. ‘How cold do you think it will get at night?’ Clementina asked, and Evelyn shrugged, and looked up to the ridge pole where an unlit hurricane lantern had been hung. Clementina followed her gaze. ‘George said to remember to undress in the dark or in bed because when the lantern’s lit we can be clearly seen.’

  ‘Gosh!’

  ‘And he said to keep things in the bags because of the damp. I expect we’ll soon look like frights, but at least we have a mirror, of sorts, and can keep clean.’