Chapter Four
“Damn it, Mr. Turr, this is the worst possible news; it is quite beyond the pale.”
“Indeed, Governor.”
Robert Semple gets up and begins pacing in his cramped quarters. “There is nothing remaining of the Intrepid?”
“There was aught left but jetsam scattered on the beach. And many dead.”
“Cigar?”
“Why, yes, sir. My word, where did you come by them?”
“I brought a box with me, in my personal baggage. Contraband or not, a gentleman must have a smoke with his port, and none of your damned trade twist.” Both of them know that because of the ever-present danger of fire, smoking in quarters is absolutely forbidden in the fort.
Taking a deep drag of the cigar, Turr looks around. The room has barely enough space for a bed, a washstand, and a desk overflowing with Company Papers and correspondence. Daylight is visible through cracks in the siding where the chinking had fallen away. A black stovepipe passing through the room from below provides the only source of heat in fifty-below weather. He thinks it an exceedingly mean apartment for a man of the stature of a governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s territories in North America, even in the savage wilds of Rupert’s Land.
“How many dead?”
“I would expect about half, including most of the crew, oddly enough. I tried to save as many as possible, but in those terrible circumstances there was only so much I could do.”
“I’m sure you did all that is expected of a gentleman and more, my good sir, and I shall mention it in my reports. But a nasty business it is. God damn my eyes, how could this happen? Captain Bowers knew the Bay as well as any man.”
“I’m really not sure,” Turr replies, staring at his hands resting in his lap. Although he is no seaman, he suspects the captain’s outrageous drinking played a hand in it. But he is superstitiously reluctant to sully the reputation of a dead man.
Semple looks hard at him. “Tell me what you think, man. Come, come, I must have something to tell Lord Selkirk.”
Reluctantly, Turr describes all he can recall: there was a great deal of ice, much more than normal for that time of year. The farther they sailed, the more limited became their options, and eventually they were separated from the Resolute and the Prince of Wales. Their rudder was taken by a great berg when they turned their stern toward it to flee. After that, it was only a matter of time before the storm grounded the frigate.
“I doubt it will suffice, Mr. Turr,” Semple says, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “There will be an accounting.”
Turr sighs, the governor’s meaning clear enough: blood will be demanded for the loss of the Intrepid, and they have one chance to assign blame as far from themselves as possible.
“I supped with the captain that evening and he seemed melancholy to me. Drank three bottles of claret himself with the meal. Perhaps two … of course, that was some time before the encounter with the berg …”
Semple takes a deep drag of his cigar and exhales a cloud of smoke. It curls about the room, tendrils pulled through gaps in the walls. “It would be shocking if drink was a factor,” he says, unable to suppress the relief in his voice.
“Very shocking indeed, sir.”
“Though I am aware of the irony, I believe I should have another drink. More port? Or brandy?”
“Brandy, if you please.”
“Capital stuff. It was delivered by long-boat from the Resolute — she arrived yesterday, in case you have not heard. As soon as possible, I turned them about, so they and the Prince of Wales are wasting valuable time in a fool’s errand scouring the coast for you. Joy on your recovery by the way, and may you live long enough to profit by it.”
The governor pours the brandy from a cut-glass decanter into two delicate glasses. Turr stares at the burgundy liquid, the sharp smell mixing languidly with the cigar smoke. He tries, and fails, to keep his hand from shaking as he reaches for the glass.
“The factor will be apoplectic when he learns of the Intrepid’s fate.”
“I have not yet seen him.”
“He is on a hunt, I believe. The man wastes far too much time in ridiculous pursuits,” Semple pauses, looking into his drink. “You realize the gravity of the situation?”
Turr nods, understanding quite well. After the previous year’s debacles, Lord Selkirk is counting on these colonists. His grand plan of building a new settlement in Rupert’s Land greatly irritated many powerful men, and the expected assistance from the Company had not materialized. Squabbling and sabotage had been the order of the day, and from their own people! Their enemies would have a great laugh if they knew.
“A dead Highlander is of little use to anyone,” Turr acknowledges, “Although the difference may not be as great as one would expect.”
Semple does not smile. “Due to Selkirk’s madman Macdonell, the Company’s situation here has become quite untenable. His pemmican proclamation has roused half the country between here and Pembina against us.”
“Pemmican proclamation?”
“Macdonell’s ill-conceived device to raise food for the colony. They cannot seem to provide for themselves, no matter how much help and advice are provided. So Macdonell passed a law demanding a tithe of pemmican from anyone passing through the settlement. Naturally, this was deemed intolerable.”
Turr cocks at eyebrow at him, tapping his ash on the floor “Nor’westers?” he asks.
“Of course. And now under the tutelage, threats, and subterfuges of those Canadian devils, the Half-breeds are threatening war, and many of the Indians are unwilling to trade with Selkirk’s colony or the Company. With the Intrepid lost, thousand of pounds of goods are at the bottom of the Bay, not to mention the strong Highland backs imported at great cost.”
Turr watches the governor as he gets up and begins to pace in his little room, startling a rat that scurries along a wall. Semple is a small man with a round, boyish face and large, doll-like eyes, and there is an air of brutish arrogance about him, a spoiled and effeminate demeanour that hints at too many nights in gin-soaked drawing rooms and riding high-bred horses across groomed landscapes. No doubt the man is vicious with a rapier and duelling-pistol, but what good that will do him in Rupert’s Land, Turr cannot imagine. A damned American as well, and the ink hardly dry on the treaty of Ghent. After the disaster of Macdonell, this is the best that Selkirk can do? It bespoke of nothing but difficult times for the Company on the Bay.
“We will have to let London know,” Turr says.
“Indeed. I will request the factor send a man with a packet informing Lord Selkirk in Montreal, but it will be many months before he receives it.”
“Assuming no Nor’wester interference, of course.”
“Surely they would not dare intercept our correspondences?”
“They
