looks down at the bedraggled peasants they are ferrying to the Forks of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers and knows that by the time they reach the safety of Fort Douglas they will have known hunger, cold, torment by insects, and perhaps much worse.
But now, at the beginning of a new voyage, he feels cheered, as he usually does when setting out. Although recently arrived at York Factory himself, there is little to keep him there, and he is content to turn about and return to the land of his mother.
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out dudheen. Cupping his mouth with his free hand, he shouts to the canoes that have pulled far ahead of the York boats. The paddlers in the nearest ease their stroke, and the flotilla of Hudson’s Bay craft come upon it and slowly pass by.
As the canoe drifts alongside, McClure hands the pipe to the man in the stern. The Indian is wearing a bent top hat and a scarlet British army uniform, rent and smudged with dirt and smoke, though the bright brass buttons sparkle in the sunshine. A long Hudson’s Bay fuke protrudes from between his knees like a phallus.
The Indian drops his paddle and barks something to his wife. She quickly passes him the wanatoyak — the slow-burning birch burl stored in a bucket filled with sand. The man dips a twig into the bucket, and, bending forward, blows on it; with his lean hands wrapped around the precious embers, he looks as if praying. Smoke curls from the bucket, and a flame leaps from the dry twig. The Indian thrusts it into Alexander’s dudheen and inhales deeply, clouds of smoke billowing. Satisfied, he passes it to Alexander, who receives it with a nod. So inspired, the fellow pulls out his own pipe and lights it as well. He picks up his paddle, and the canoe again pulls forward of the flotilla, the scent of tobacco smoke in its wake.
Drawing deeply, Alexander leans back on his scull and half-closes his eyes.
Rose squirms on the hard thwart, wishing for a cushion. She casts about and her eyes fall again on Alexander. She had watched the interchange between him and the Indian, and as he smokes, she feels resentment at his obvious ease: the oarsmen labour with great effort at their task while this character props himself on his stick, happy as a priest cloistered with a keg of wine. What makes him so special?, she wonders. Steering the boat cannot be that difficult, judging by those closed eyes and that half-smile.
She considers him: handsome enough face, although she wonders what it looks like beneath all that masking hair. Broad nose, the cheeks lightly corrugated by a distant bout of smallpox. The hulking shoulders and arms of those who used their bodies thoughtlessly, as tools. She had marked his limp, it seeming incongruous with the man’s obvious strength.
She knows him, or thinks she does; had met many others of his ilk. Men amazed at their personal powers, believing them to be as astounding to others as themselves. They rejoiced in their skills with pistol and rapier and horse, ludicrously killing each other off for the tiniest affronts. Stupidity is the only thing greater than their self-regard, and this man positively reeks of complacent certainty.
At that moment, Alexander becomes aware of her searching gaze; he stiffens and loses his insouciance. His eyes flick to the horizon. Feeling pleased, Rose turns to her father, who smiles at her and takes her hand in his own. She lifts a dipperful of water from a bucket at her feet and offers it to him.
With the river’s high sandy banks shielding the view of the surrounding country, there is little to see as the brigade works its way upriver. It becomes uncomfortably hot, although the bright sun offers a welcome relief from the mosquitoes. Rose leans over the side of the boat, her white fingers trailing in the water, leaving a long, silver ripple. The men’s harsh breathing, creak of locks, and the splash of sweeps are the only sounds on the river. She feels bored and lethargic. With a sigh, she settles deeper into the boat.
“You might not want to do that, Miss,” Alexander says to her.
“Indeed? Why not?” she replies with what she thinks is just the right degree of haughtiness.
“There are belugas in the river: fierce white whales. Why, they will knock a boat over with one sweep of a giant tail. One might see your finger and think it a tasty tidbit.” Rose snatches her hand away; Alexander nods with a grave expression. Unsure if he is making a fool of her, she turns her back on him.
The men row on. Alexander allows a break every two hours, just for the time it takes to smoke a pipe. The Bay men drop their oars, stretch, and sit staring at the river as they puff contentedly; beside them the Orkneymen and Highlanders sit with their heads hanging, running sweat, aching arms loose in their laps. Although a hard breed, the many weeks at sea as well as the shipwreck have taken their toll.
Around midday, Rose is wondering when they will stop for dinner and have a chance for their private business. Eventually the cook, an Orkneyman — with many years on the Bay, or so he proudly claims to Rose — brings out a canvas sack and removes a stack of dry, brown slabs. He breaks off pieces and hands them around. The oarsmen grab the water ladles and the proffered food, wolfing it. Startled expressions move over many faces and some spit overboard. A host of complaints breaks out.
“Are ye tryin’ to poison us?” a man shouts, waving his fist in the cook’s face.
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