gun smoke drifts over the canoe.
They paddle up to the bear, and the Indian pulls out a knife as long as his forearm from under his jacket. His grinning teeth white in his scarlet face, he leans over the gunwale and saws at the quivering white neck while the water blossoms red.
The sudden violence shocks Rose. She turns toward her father. Lachlan offers her a damp handkerchief.
“You have blood on your cheek,” he says. The Indians tie the floating carcass to the canoe and return to their former course.
After a couple of hours of a rhythm under which it is difficult for the passengers to keep awake, they pass a long, flat point and the Europeans are surprised to find themselves in the mouth of a large river. As they nose into the current, they see that countless scores of waterfowl inhabit these marshes: the air is shrill with the whistling of duck wings, and massive flocks of geese rise at their approach and settle in the scrub behind them. Small shorebirds wheel and circle along the shore like a moving shadow.
The bank deepens until they come upon a peeled-log wharf and a long gangway on piles leading from the high shore; the upper edge of a palisade and a tall flagstaff is just visible. The Indians turn toward shore, their keel sliding into the muddy bank.
Rose steps out of the canoe and into the cold, peaty water of the river. She sinks into the mud, feeling it squelch beneath her hide-wrapped feet. Her ankles protest the cramped seating and once on firm shore she bends down and rubs them. Her leather leggings are dark with the river.
Above them, a gull sails on the breeze, dipping and rising, but making no headway. The Highlander hurtles a rock and the gull drifts away, disappearing toward the distant, opposing bank.
Their Indians pull the bear to shore. They squat in the mud beside it, the animal’s yellow-white hide now fouled by the slime of the riverbank. They mutter something in their tongue, as if praying; one of them brings out tobacco and offers it to the animal.
“What is this?” Rose asks, pointing.
The officer from the frigate barely glances at the Indians. He is tall and thin, with sparse red hair and a large nose covered with spidery veins. He stands with his hands thrust in his pockets, eyeing the distant palisade with a gloomy look. When he speaks, his Adam’s apple seems to struggle for release.
“It is some manner of heathen ritual,” he says. “When a Savage kills an animal, he must ask it for forgiveness, or some such rot. Pay them no mind.”
“I assume we are at York Fort, Mr. …?” Lachlan trails off.
“Turr. Yes, it is York Fort, and the factor shall be in a hellfire rage at the manner of our arrival. We must get on.”
They leave the Indians to their prayers and begin the ascent up the bank. After so many hours cramped aboard the canoe, it proves hard going for all of them but the Highlander, who scrabbles up like a rat on a mooring line. He reaches the top long before the rest and peers down at them with a grin.
“I think there be three lasses following hard on me, nae one lass and two men.”
“I say!” Turr replies as he scrambles over the bank, his face red. “You affront me undeservedly, sir. This is a wretched climb.”
“Nae affront intended, Mr. Turr.”
They follow the path from the gangway to the gates of the fort. After so many weeks at sea, the exercise is hard going for Rose and she breathes heavily, covering her mouth with her hand. They pass a pair of ancient and rusting field pieces overlooking the river. Turr pats one as he passes.
“These would have been fired in honor of our arrival if fate had been kinder to us,” he says with a sigh.
A line of clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, hurry from the west as they approach the fort. They quicken their steps. Heaps of garbage are scattered about the stockade and a skinned ox carcass has been dumped just outside the fort gate. Felled by some strange disease, not even the Home Guard has touched it. The smell of carrion and smoke fills the air. A pair of ravens flap away croaking as they approach.
Several tipis squat outside the palisade. Rose points them out to Turr. “The Home Guard,” he says with hardly a glance.
“I have heard the term before. What does it mean?”
“It refers to a blackguardly band of thieves and miscreants who, when not thieving, murdering one another or lost in drink, provide the fort with meat, especially in the hungry winter months. I say, it is beginning to rain. We must hurry.”
A high stockade of sharpened spruce sunk into the boggy ground surrounds the fort. The main building — known colloquially as “the octagon” — can only be entered through an archway that faces the main gate of the stockade. They approach on a path of rough boards, a bridge over the soft muskeg. A torpid stream runs beneath them, and bugs glide on its slow surface, their long legs dimpling the water. In some places the boards sink into the peat and brown water gurgles up around their feet. As they near the gate, an emaciated cur bolts at them. Turr gives it a resounding kick and it turns away with a yelp.
The Company coat of arms has been painted on the archway of the octagon: Pro Pelle Cutem. Lachlan frowns. “‘Skin for skin.’ Is it not the words of Satan himself, questioning our Lord? ‘Skin for skin; yea, all that a man hath, will he give for his life.’”
“I doubt that is the correct interpretation. You are very well acquainted with the Bible, sir. A chaplain, perhaps?”
“No more than all good Christians should be, Mr. Turr.”
They follow Turr inside and Rose and Lachlan are surprised that “The Grand Central Station of the North” is such a shoddy affair: frost has shattered much the stone and brick foundation and the siding is falling off. The archway is warped and twisted, and many of the timbers are cracked. The smell of sewage and rotten garbage is thick inside the walls.
“Like a bit of old Glasgow,” the Highlander says, beaming and clapping his hands to his breast. The sound of an organ carries through a wall.
“They will all be in church, I’ll wager,” Turr says.
Lachlan looks at him with surprise. “You mean it is Sunday?”
“So it would seem. Well, no point in disturbing them. We can find ourselves something to eat. I doubt I have eaten in days.”
They find a long, dark mess, with many tables, a stone hearth, and a massive, black iron stove. Turr lights an oil lamp with a coal from the hearth. He disappears for a few minutes and returns with a cut of fresh moose meat wrapped in a cloth. After banking the fire, he rolls pieces of the meat in flour and fries it in a black skillet.
After they have eaten, they lean back in their chairs, listening to the foraging of mice in the ceiling, and feeling more satisfied than they have in a long time. The Highlander leaves them on a quest for drink.
“We best inform someone about those poor folk back on the beach,” Lachlan says.
“It can wait,” Turr replies. “This is the first I have felt at peace for many days and I intend to enjoy it a little longer. There is time and plenty to send a boat for the others.” He settles deeper into his chair and closes his eyes.
Lachlan is about to reply when the cook
