Far Horizons (31 page)

Eager to take his mind off these troublesome thoughts, Allan turned to a trader he didn't recognise. “You're new here, I think. Where do you hail from?”

“Pictou. Just arrived today,” the young man replied.

“Pictou! I'm from the island. Do you have any news from there?” Allan asked.

The man shook his head. “Nothing, really. Nothing good, at any rate. There'd been a shipwreck right before I left, although that was a few months ago now.”

“A shipwreck?” It was common enough, yet Allan felt a strange chill of foreboding, as if he were going to hear something he'd much rather not face. “What ship? When?”

“Back in April,” the trader replied. “It was the first ship out to the island that spring, the mail packet.”

“Was anyone lost?” Allan's voice was almost a whisper. That was Archie's boat, the boat he should have gone on as well.

The trader shook his head sorrowfully. “Terrible, it was. All souls lost, not one saved.”

Allan grabbed the trader’s arm. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice sharp with fear. “The first packet in April? To Charlottetown?”

The man jerked his arm away, affronted. “Of course I’m sure. A friend of mine was on that boat!”

Allan sank back, dazed. Archie was dead.

“Did you know someone?” the man asked, his voice quiet.

Allan nodded. When he spoke, his voice sounded hollow. “My brother. I left right before it sailed. I never knew.” All these months, Archie had been dead, and he’d never known. All these months his parents had been grieving... grieving, he realised with numbing shock, for him as well.

As far as his parents knew, he’d been lost on that ship as well.

Ian stared out the window at the stately row houses of Beacon Hill, and shook his head slightly in disbelief. He could hardly believe he was here, in this elegant parlour, in one of the best houses in Boston.

Henry Moore clapped him on the shoulder. “Have you enjoyed your stay then, Ian?”

“Have I!” Ian laughed. “You must know it's been like some kind of dream.”
The Allegiance
had remained in port for several weeks being outfitted for another run to the Caribbean over winter. During that time, Henry had offered Ian a place to stay at his parents' house. It was unexpected, for Ian hadn't realised he commanded a place in Henry's affections more than any other sailor on board ship, although he knew Henry had been kind in giving him the position of surgeon's mate.

Yet now he realised Henry had an almost fatherly affection for him, both tough and kind, and he was grateful for it. The last few weeks had been like pages from a fairy tale, with visits to museums and opera, walks in the gardens, and afternoon tea in the parlour. Ian had felt like gentry, an honoured guest rather than a poor farmer's son out of his depth. He'd loved every minute of it.

“I've been to the ship, and it will be ready to sail in another two days,” Henry said.

“I'll be sorry to leave, although of course it shall be good to be at work once more.”

“Yes... I've been thinking about that. Why don't you sit down, Ian?”

Surprised, Ian sat in one of the wing back chairs, and Henry took the other across from him. “I've been talking to Fingal, and he thinks you show great promise as a medical man.”

“Really?” A thrill ran through Ian at being praised. “I do enjoy it, sir.”

“Fingal and I are old friends, you know,” Henry said. “We were at Harvard together. Fingal could've had any hospital job, he was that talented.” Henry was silent for a moment. “Then his wife died, very young. A carriage accident. They'd only been married a few months.” He paused and looked at Ian directly. “It affected Fingal very deeply... his hands began to shake.”

Ian flinched, for he knew that shaky hands would be the death knell of any hopeful surgeon's career.

“I took him on as surgeon. Not many merchant ships have surgeons, you know, but I wanted to help Fingal and I've seen too many ship accidents turn nasty to not want the precaution of a medical man on board. As you've seen, he can control the shaking.” Henry sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “The reason I'm telling you this is because you can see now that Fingal isn't any old hack with a rusty blade, and if he thinks you have promise, then you must do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you think you'd like to go to medical school?”

Ian stared at him, his mouth agape. Henry chuckled. “I can see it's never crossed your mind. Well, I look at it like this. You've promise, and you've no one to vouch for you at present. I know you must have family back in Scotland, and something must've happened to make you run far and fast, but I won't pry into your affairs. Fingal's offered to write you a letter of recommendation to Harvard Medical School. Now, here is your choice. You can sail with me in two days, or you can stay here, in my parents' house, and prepare for medical school, if you're interested and Harvard accepts you. Obviously they'll be things to work out... tuition and so forth. My parents, however, have taken a liking to you, and they're perfectly agreeable to have you stay until you can find lodgings of your own.”

“Stay... here?” Ian struggled to take in all that Henry was offering.

“I know it's a lot to think about. You have two days.” Henry rose from his chair. “Now, I have work to do. Let me know when you reach a decision.”

The next two days passed in a welter of confusion. Although Ian inwardly leapt at the chance to better himself, he had a strange feeling about starting a new chapter in his life, here in America. It was as if he would be alienating himself even more from his family, his roots... yet how was that possible? He'd made the decision which had taken him from home months ago.

The afternoon before
The Allegiance
sailed, Ian walked slowly through the Moores' garden, trying to reach a decision.

“May I walk with you?”

He looked up to see Isobel, Henry's younger sister, smiling at him. She was a pretty, dark haired girl, and she looked as fresh as a rose in her white dress.

“Of course. I apologise for my rudeness. My mind was elsewhere, and I didn't see you there.”

Isobel smiled shyly. “You did look lost in thought. Are you considering whether to stay or not? Papa says you might lodge with us, and go to medical school.”

“Perhaps.” Ian smiled awkwardly. “I'd like to, it's such an opportunity, but I'm worried about my family back in Scotland. I... left abruptly and it would be a long time to be away.”

“You could write them, couldn't you? Henry could take it when he returns in the spring. He's going to marry, you know. He's met a Scottish girl he loves.” Isobel smiled almost dreamily.

“I didn't know.”

“It would be a good opportunity for you, wouldn't it?” Isobel continued seriously. “You mustn't waste it. Henry says wasting opportunities is a worse sin than not creating them in the first place... whatever that means.”

“No,” Ian said slowly, “I mustn't waste it.” He turned to smile at Isobel, and found himself blushing. She was so pretty and charming, he felt like a clumsy oaf next to her. Still, he managed to find his tongue. “Thank you, Miss Moore. You've helped me.”

Isobel nodded. “I'm glad,” she said simply.

Later that afternoon Ian told Henry his decision.

“Good.” Henry nodded briskly. “I was hoping you'd stay. I've become fond of you, Ian, and I like to see you come to something more than a common sailor. You've a good head on your shoulders. With any luck, you'll gain entrance to Harvard and win a scholarship besides.”

Ian swallowed nervously. Henry had mentioned tuition, and then there was the question of lodgings. How much did medical school cost? He'd no idea, or where he would get the funds. His wages as surgeon's mate wouldn't go far. Perhaps he could get a job in Boston, although doing what he'd no idea. Despite Henry's patronage, there had to be a thousand obstacles in his path to success, and he didn't even know what they were.

“Thank you,” he said to Henry, “for giving me this opportunity. It's more than I ever dreamed of.”

“I'm happy to do it.” Henry shook his hand. “Just make the most of it, that's all I ask.”

“Will you deliver this letter to my family?” Ian asked, holding out a sealed paper. “I want them to know where I am.”

“Good.” Henry took the letter. “It's time you wrote them. No matter what happened back in Scotland, they'll be worried for you.”

“I know,” Ian agreed quietly. “It's for Harriet Campbell. I’d send it directly to Achlic, but that’s gone by now. I don’t know where any of them are.” He smiled bleakly. “You can leave it in care of Margaret MacDougall, with the MacDougalls' shipping agent in Tobermory.”

A look of amazement crossed Henry's face. “Wait a moment...” He glanced at the address on the letter and looked up at Ian. “You know Margaret?”

The settlers had left York Factory several weeks ago, but the rumblings among the traders did not stop. Allan could hardly blame them at times. Governor Semple's attitude towards them was one of a parent thinking he could restrain an unruly child. It seemed less and less likely that a conflict could be avoided.

“Have you heard?” Pierre's voice was grim. “Semple ordered Fort Gibraltar to be burned.”

“Burned! Why?”

Pierre shrugged. “Who knows? He thought he'd teach us a lesson, I suppose. But he hasn't heard the last of us, I can promise you that.”

“What are you going to do?” Allan asked.

“Never mind.” Pierre's expression softened, and he laid a hand on Allan's am. “It's best for you to stay out of this, Allan. You do know that? I mean it for your own sake.”

“Thank you.” Allan was grateful for the warning, but he had no intention of leaving things there. It didn't take long to find out what was going to happen. Cuthbert Grant was organising a party to take some pemmican to Fort Bas de la Riveriere. It was an illegal act, since Semple had decreed no food leave the colony's lands. Even so, Allan suspected it was a pretext for the real agenda... a showdown with the governor, who had left York Factory for Fort Douglas.

By keeping his head down and asking few questions, Allan managed to attach himself to Grant's party. He tried to avoid Pierre, whom he knew might be angry at seeing him there.

He wasn't even sure what he hoped to accomplish by accompanying the traders. What could one man do, after all? And in his heart, he didn't even know what side he was on.

Something in him had hardened since he'd heard of Archie's death. There was too much hardship in this harsh land to add useless bloodshed to it. Hadn’t Archie himself vowed to risk no man’s life again?

If there was something--anything--he could do to prevent even one small part of the brewing calamity, Allan resolved, then he would do it.

They travelled for several days, skirting Fort Douglas on the way to Fort Bas de la Riveriere. Allan heard from others that Grant had seized the pemmican from a shipment belonging to the settlers. Even though he knew this was little more than thievery, Allan listened to the Métis at night and found he could understand their anger.

“What does the governor want?” one man demanded. “Does he think we can live on air?”

“He would starve us, happily, as would all the other settlers,” another answered. “As far as they can see, it is their land now. We are but an annoyance, a fly to be swatted away, and so they make new laws to do their swatting.”

“We'll see what happens to their new laws!”

Allan didn't participate in these conversations. He didn't know what he would say, or whose side he would take. It was confusing, at the least, he knew, and at the worst it was very dangerous.

It was several days into the journey when Pierre accosted him. “What are you doing here? You know you're not a part of this, and if you are thinking to sabotage our efforts...”

“I would never do that,” Allan said quietly. “As long as you're not planning any bloodshed, that is.”

“It is Semple who wants bloodshed! I mean it, Allan, stay out of this!” Pierre stalked off angrily, and Allan was left with the uneasy feeling that he'd made an enemy out of his old friend.

“Semple and his men are riding out from Fort Douglas,” Grant announced that evening with grim satisfaction. “We will meet tomorrow at Seven Oaks... he says he is willing to talk.”

Allan barely slept that night. From his bed roll he heard low, muttering voices, and knew Grant and his closest men were discussing tomorrow's meeting at Seven Oaks, an area on the west bank of Red River distinguished by the large oak trees that spread their boughs the water.

He strained to make out their words, but could hear nothing beyond the ominous mutterings. He closed his eyes, wondering what tomorrow would bring and praying for safety for all... and deliverance.

The air was cool, with a nip of frost, even though the sun shone on the hill where the meeting between Semple and Grant was to take place. Allan saw that Semple and his man were huddled on one side, with Semple out front on his horse. Grant had gathered his men some yards away, also in a huddle.

Allan suppressed the sudden, wild urge to laugh. It almost looked as if they were two teams, lining up for sport, rather than this deadly game of negotiation.

“What do you have to say for yourself, then, Semple?” Grant shouted. “Are you going to be fair, and give us what we deserve?”

“What you lot deserve,” Semple replied clearly in his American twang, “is to be disciplined like unruly children. I've made the law, and if you don't obey it, then the punishment will fall on your heads.”

“The law is a punishment!” someone from Grant's side shouted. “You act like God, without any thought of justice.”

Semple was coldly unruffled. “Be that as it may, the law stands. I know you have pemmican with you. I'll take it now.”

“You will not,” Grant said. Even though he had to shout, his voice sounded quiet. “It is ours.”

“It is illegal.”

“I don't abide by your law. If it isn't changed, you and your settlers will be the ones to regret it.”

“Haven't I already burned Fort Gibraltar?” Semple sounded incredulous. “What more do you people need, to keep in line!”

Allan stood slightly apart from Grant and his men. He felt as if a storm were brewing. He could feel the tension crackling in the air like lightning, the voices of the angry men like thunder.