who knows what devilry might have passed here last night,” Lachlan says, standing in the yard with the rest of the colonists. It is still early, and the light is low, the expectant hour before dawn. The eastern sky glows red and violent, as if raging over the night’s killings. A few scrawny chickens wander the yard: vague, white ghosts in the shadows. A rooster crows. The breeze is cool and whispers of hard days ahead, although it is still high summer.
Turr, standing nearby, bristles at Lachlan’s comment. His cheeks are blotchy, and in the dim light his sunken eyes seemed like flyblown holes. His hair is a barely-discernible orange buzz about his head. He had passed the night in his room commiserating with a vast quantity of trade liquor, to no avail. His problem — being sent away — had not changed in the night, and it feels like little men are hammering on the inside of his skull, seeking a way out.
“God rot the walls,” he says, waving a hand at the timbers. “When the Home Guard decide to take York Fort, York Fort is taken, forthwith.”
Lachlan stiffens. “Indeed? Then why are the walls there, pray?”
Turr rubs his eyes. “Because better a fool’s illusion of security than fear’s demoralizing chill.”
At that moment, Alexander emerges from the octagon. His gait is an unusual hop-drag, the right limb obviously lame. He is dressed in a rough, buckskin jacket with long tassels and an elaborate blue and white beadwork of flowers embroidered on the chest, arms and back. He wears knee-high moccasins and has a pack slung over his shoulder. In his hand is a carbine and his face is dark. To those watching he looks like a Savage, and a few move away.
“Hard night, Mr. Turr?” he says with a smile, touching his cap as he passes.
“Aye, hard night, all right,” a trader says. “Just ask his doxie!” Several Baymen guffaw. Blushing, Rose straightens a crease in her skirt.
“Time to load the boats,” Alexander says quietly, looking down, as if informing the grass. “For anyone planning on voyaging to the Forks.”
“Who is that?” Lachlan asks. “And where is this ‘Forks’?”
“That is Alexander McClure, our Half-caste guide for the next two months,” says Turr with a scowl. “And you had best learn the land, Mr. Cromarty. The Forks refers to the meeting place of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. That is the location of Fort Douglas and the heart of Lord Selkirk’s settlement, to which we are all headed, God help us. But he’ll leave whether we are aboard or not, so I advise everyone to gather their things and follow as quickly as possible.”
The colonists hurry down to the river, carrying their meagre possessions. As they pass the gates, Rose edges closer to her father and looks for signs of the trouble from the night before. The ring of a burnt tipi still smolders and many Indians sleep on the ground, apparently where they have fallen. The sharp odour of vomit shadows the reek of the decomposing ox, and they — at least those who still have them — cover their noses with handkerchiefs and hurry past.
A pale form is lying on nearby muskeg and two men approach. A moccasined toe prods it and the figure stirs, groans, and rolls over onto his back. Everyone stops and stares. The man stares up at the brightening sky, as if something of profound import is written in the early red-tinged clouds.
“That’s Declan Cormack, by God.”
One of the Baymen gets down on a knee; propped by his musket, he says something to the Highlander. Declan seems to consider this for a moment.
Grinning, the men help him pull on his damp clothes and lift him to his feet where he stands gently swaying. His forehead is marked with a great plum of a welt, and his hair, wet with dew, hangs sodden and limp on his face. Bits of moss festoon his head and beard, and he looks as wild as a satyr. He hobbles over to the crowd, where many give him a dark and disapproving look. He walks a little apart as they continue towards the river.
The factor supplied enough provisions to last several weeks, after which they will have to rely on their guide and a hunting party of Home Guard who have been hired to provide for them as they journey south. The factor had coldly explained to a furious Governor Semple that York Fort simply did not possess the resources to provision so many people for such a long journey. The Indians will provide for them, just as they provide for the fort; the colonists would not be in any better or worse position than if they remained on the Bay. Semple does not see it that way, but he has no authority over the factor, and has little choice but to comply.
The Company supplies them with six York boats: flat-bottomed, lapstrake-hulled, double-enders that for more than 150 years had transported passengers and cargo to and from the fort. The boats are more than thirty-six feet long and equipped with many long sweeps and a sail. Alexander divides the colonists to allow four men in each boat, to assist four experienced rowers. There are not enough rowers at York Fort to man each boat with a full complement of seasoned crew; the colonists will have to pick it up as they go along.
The Indians follow in two canoes. Among them, Rose sees Isqe-sis sitting behind her husband, accompanied by two other women and a child. She waves, but Isqe-sis, according to her tradition, ignores her, paddling forward, her baby lashed tightly to her back.
Once the boats are loaded, Governor Semple comes down from the fort. He is dressed in a double-breasted black tailcoat with a knotted burgundy neckcloth and black top hat and white pantaloons tucked into Hessian boots. The Indians watching from the bank are deeply impressed and they point at him, speaking among themselves.
The great man sits in his place in the bow, and, one by one, the boats are pushed from shore. The sweeps dip and the rising sun illuminates the golden water running off the oars as they lift from the river. As the last boat leaves the riverbank, a deep boom echoes from the fort.
“At last, he gets to fire off his damned cannon,” Turr says.
As the current takes them, the oarsmen lean into their sweeps; the factory flagstaff soon disappears behind one of the many low islands in the river’s mouth. This close to the Bay, the Hayes is broad and slow, the far bank a line in the distance.
The sun shines on the brown water and tossed by a morning zephyr, myriad dazzling jewels appear to spangle its surface. Rose sits in the stern of her boat, just in front of their steersman and Half-caste guide, her father beside her. The women are scattered between their husbands, trying not to get in the way; each stroke of the long sweeps covers a six-foot arc and the rowers must stand to lift the oar and then use their weight to pull as they sit down. The heavy sweeps are thicker than a man’s thigh, and although at first the rowing is clumsy and inefficient, the oarsmen soon synchronize themselves, white foam appearing at their bows.
It is hard work for those accustomed to it, and torturous for those who are not. Loaded with crew, passengers, provisions, gear, and equipment destined for the colony, the York boats weigh several tons, and maintaining the speed demanded by their guide requires all of their efforts.
There are many channels and islands to navigate and Alexander keeps the boats in the back eddies whenever possible. He has been up the Hayes many times, and knows the secrets of the river. The tide can be felt many miles upstream, and he knows when to rest and when to row, when to pole and portage, and when to drag the boats with lines from the shore.
Now they must row long and hard to make up for time that will be lost in the portages. If the wind is fair and strong, they will raise their sail and give the oarsmen a rest, though opportunities will be infrequent.
Breakup is in late May and the ice returns early, so dawdling on the river is a luxury they can ill afford. There are miles of northern
