The Last Crossing (41 page)

“Carry me out,” I pleaded. “Carry me out, for the love of God.”

Like a man remembering something important, he halted and said, “You know where a feller can get a loan of tobacco?”

And I’m pleading, “Carry me out. Don’t let me burn here.”

His head turning slowly side to side. “I got a hankering for a pipe,” he says.

I’m pointing back to the Rapidan, to the pontoon bridges miles off that we crossed days ago. “Back there! Back there!” I shout.

“Back there? You get me some baccy there?”

“Yes. Oh God, carry me out. Carry me out.”

The boy drops to his knees, I wrap my arms around his neck. He hoists himself upright, hand over hand on the boughs of a pine, branches cracking in his powerful hands. There’s red light all around us, brands and sudden showers of sparks. I rein him like a horse, jerk him back to the Rapidan by the collar.

I ride my man-horse through the trees, whispering over and over to him to take me out. Ride him to an ambulance, ride the ambulance back to Washington, lay in a hospital bed for three months. Get my discharge, deemed unfit for further service.

As often as I tossed in those infirmary sheets, I tossed and turned it over in my mind, telling myself Hoagy was dead, long dead by the time his body burned. Even if he wasn’t dead, even if I had surrendered my place on that boy’s back to him, what good would it have done? Hoagy was too far gone to steer the boy, and the boy had lost the wits to save himself. I was the brain that directed his legs. Hoagy and he would have burned for sure. If I had saved myself, I had saved that mad boy too.

No argument convinced me. I didn’t believe. In the Wilderness I’d proved what I was.

Even old Wadsworth, our division commander, a rich man from New York, had tried to rally the troops, rode his horse into the face of the rebel lines in the hope they would follow him. Me, I rode a befuddled boy to safety. Wadsworth fell with a bullet lodged in the
back of his neck and his men left him to be captured by the Rebs. It took him two days to die of his wound. The Butternuts came to gape at the man who had more money than all the Confederate treasury coffers, the rich man who had forsaken ease and comfort for a cause.

So much for my speech before the winter-barracks lyceum.

Here I lie, a little black boy staring big-eyed at me out of the corner, slave to my misery, waiting for me to beckon him. And I tell myself, Custis Straw, next time you’re carried out, let it be feet first. It’s what you deserve.

CHARLES
We set off on the Old North Road connecting Fort Benton with Fort Edmonton, a route which Potts has told us is the one preferred by prospectors who have been lured by rumours of gold to be found in the vicinity of the Hudson Bay post. However, after five days of travel we encounter a hellish landscape. As far as the eye can see to the north, the plain has been blackened by a vast prairie fire, the grass reduced to fine, crumbled ash.

With no pasture for our animals, we must seek a new route, and Addington orders us to march northeast to make intersection with the famous Carlton Trail, the thoroughfare of the Hudson Bay men. My brother’s only knowledge of this road derives from what he has garnered by skimming the accounts of those Englishmen who have undertaken excursions in the North-West, but it is enough to decide him on this course.

Slowly, the countryside begins to change, becomes more hospitable, pleasant, somehow more English. Between copses of poplar and pine are broad meadows spotted with flowers: lilac bergamot, goldenrod, bluebells, marigold, aster. Water is more plentiful, we encounter many reedy creeks, small lakes teeming with snipe, ducks, geese, and fish. This is a veritable land of milk and honey compared to the arid, sallow, treeless wastes we have left behind. But the lovely landscape poses its own problems, woods and water hamper travel by wagon,
forcing us to make tiresome detours, or spend hours extricating heavily laden vehicles bogged to their hubs in quagmires.

Despite the many impediments to travel, the parkland we traverse induces nostalgia. I find myself longing for the accents of home, and despite my initial opposition to visiting Fort Edmonton, I now look forward to conversation with fellow exiles, a sojourn with my own kind. Fort Edmonton bulks large in my mind, a romantic, lonely British settlement, a fragment of “the right little, tight little Island” which will fold this weary traveller in its arms.

Lucy and I pass pleasant hours strolling behind the wagons. Our attachment is no longer a secret, if it ever were. I need only to announce that the two of us are off to pick wildflowers and a knowing smirk forms on Addington’s face. “ ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’ Charles. ‘Gather ye rosebuds,’ ” is his constant, idiotic refrain.

Words which drop so banally from his lips nonetheless do characterize Lucy’s and my private interludes. Walks through the dew-soaked grass to gaze upon another dusky bronze, rose madder sunrise; a smear of leaping fire jigging up and down the spine of the horizon, slowly extinguishing the tiny stars, the aubergine sky flooded with light as the egg of the sun hatches a fierce, crowing blaze. Or sheltered in some leafy glade, falling on one another with hungry mouths, the aspen leaves dappling her with shade and sunshine as she disrobes. Yet every happy moment is undermined by the knowledge that all we share is fleeting, temporary. Sadness rising up even in the thrall of desire and passion. Before winter comes, Addington and I must return to England with or without Simon. Does Lucy understand this? Surely, she must. Still, we never speak of it.

So I flee thoughts of our impending separation by lapsing into fantastic daydreams. Lucy and I occupying a humble cabin set amid these tolerant woods, meadows, and bright flowers. Charles Gaunt a simple husbandman out of Virgil’s
Eclogues
, keeper of bees, busy in the garden, paintbrush renounced in favour of rustic bliss. And as I grow more and more impractical, Lucy’s innate good sense becomes my
anchor. One day when I complained that the men never took my side against Addington, she said it was because I kept too much to myself.

“Ah yes, but so is Addington aloof.”

“He’s in command. So they don’t mind so much. But you ought to sit a hand of cards with Grunewald and Barker now and then. Lose a little money to them.”

“How ridiculous.”

“They’d like you the better for it.”

“What do I care if they like me better?”

“The next time you and Mr. Addington come near to blows you may need friends.” She gave me a gentle smile. “They’re cut from the same cloth as me, Charles. Here, you’re the fish out of water.”

I try to do as Lucy suggests and cultivate the men, but I fear I have proven a failure in that regard. I lack the common touch. Nevertheless, I may have had some trifling success with our guide. I suspect he feels the absence of Aloysius Dooley and Custis Straw. Perhaps as I do, Potts wonders what was the outcome of his champion’s illness, whether the indomitable Straw has survived it. His presence seemed to have a steadying influence on Grunewald and Barker; there was a reassuring manner about Straw which quieted their uneasiness. His bearing suggested that he might be depended on.

Our guide’s despondent air has prompted me more than once to take a seat beside him at meal times. His responses to many of my questions are decidedly unforthcoming. He remains inscrutable. The only topics on which he can be drawn are those dealing with the terrain and the various tribes that inhabit it. As Jabez Cooke described it, his knowledge of these matters is encyclopedic, and seems to be a source of considerable pride for the taciturn fellow. I have come to believe he appreciates the interest I have shown in his savage world.

So we have hiked on, in pursuit of the Carlton Trail. This morning, having risen in darkness to take our breakfast, I hear in the distance a horrific groaning reft with hysterical shrieks, as if the inmates of a madhouse are awakening to consciousness, to the realization of their misery, and raising a complaint against the breaking of the new day.
The ghastly cacophony transfixes me in the ruddy light of the fire.

Barker, noting my bewilderment, says matter-of-factly, “I reckon we’re nigh to the Carlton Trail, Mr. Charles. That’s Manitoba music you’re hearing, the plaint of Red River carts. Métis don’t waste no grease on their cart axles; they grind dry. Big train by the sound of it, sixty, maybe seventy, carts I’d say. We’ve gained the trail.”

I decide that the spectacle of this caravan is not to be missed, but none of the others, with the exception of Lucy, declares any interest in rushing to view it. A commonplace affair, small beer to the locals. I am rather surprised that Addington does not insist on accompanying us when I announce we shall go ahead on foot and leave our companions to break camp. But my brother is enjoying one of his moods, scowling morbidly at the fire, impervious to the caterwauling of the Red River carts. Of late, his disposition swings like a weather vane. One day, jolly and hectic, the next, gloomy and peevish, snapping at whoever comes in range.

Lucy and I scamper off like children rushing to the noisy sounds of a fair, race through the dew-soaked grass, take turns dragging one another along by the hand, laughing as we splash heedlessly through morasses in the dark, caring not a whit for mud and wet feet.

A mile or two of this and we strike what is indeed the Carlton Trail, a roadway of ruts worn a foot deep in the sod. We stand hanging upon one another, breathless and happy, as the screeching tumult creeps towards us. Minute by minute the din grows more demonic and piercing. It causes me to shiver, sets my teeth on edge. Then we see the first of the carts cresting a knoll, coming into view against a flaming-red backdrop of cloudy sky, then dipping down into blanketing shadow. It is immediately succeeded by a second rickety silhouette which just as rapidly slides from sight, followed by a third, a fourth, a fifth screaming vehicle.

The lead cart has a lantern hanging above it on a long pole that waggles a beckoning light to the rest of the concourse. I step onto the trail to make our presence known and the driver jerks his scrawny nag to a halt and sends a warning shout to those following, a warning
relayed back down the line from one throat to another. The column moans to a stop and sudden silence hums in my eardrums.

The leader of the brigade salutes us in a nasal, brutal
patois
. He gives his name as one Baptiste Laliberté, captain of the brigade. Who am I and who is this woman? What are we doing here alone?

In French I introduce myself and Lucy, explaining that we are members of an English party bound for Fort Edmonton. I say that when I heard the sound of their carts, I could not resist the temptation to make myself acquainted with the Métis, of whom I had heard a little in Fort Benton and much more from our guide. Would they be so good as to show me their ingenious vehicles?

This pleases Laliberté no end. Other drivers dismount and join us, chattering among themselves in unbridled excitement. The curiosity of an Englishman seems very gratifying to them and they press in close as Monsieur Laliberté displays for us his rustic phaeton in the strengthening light of dawn, a conveyance which seems to be a distant cousin to the high-wheeled carts loaded with beets and turnips I once encountered in the lanes of Normandy on a walking tour.

Monsieur Laliberté discourses upon the Red River cart at length. He explains they are very easy to mend; if an axle snaps any of his carters can fashion another from a tree with an axe, and be under way again in a matter of hours. Proudly, he shows me there is not so much as a single piece of ironwork to be found in the entire vehicle. It is lashed together with cords of green buffalo hide which, when they have dried, hold everything in place as tightly as if nailed or bolted. Even the wheels of the carts are encased in buffalo leather, Monsieur Laliberté making the point that if a rim is thrown, a green buffalo hide is more easily obtained in the wilderness than a blacksmith’s forge.

He tells me that they are carrying a shipment of berry pemmican for the Bay men in Fort Edmonton. The carts are stacked high with skin bags the size of coal sacks which contain dried buffalo meat and grease. Monsieur Laliberté passes me one to heft and its unexpected weight staggers me. Apparently, this spring the Métis hunting brigades
killed many buffalo south of the Qu’Appelle Valley and the record of the carnage is to be found in their carts. As he relates all this, Laliberté pantomimes the running of the buffalo, firing and reloading an imaginary musket with a wild, expressive grin.

By now, word that a white female is present has passed down the line and Métis women are making a timid approach, squalling infants strapped to their backs and sturdy toddlers towed along by the hand. They shyly smile at Lucy and shake her hand with grave courtesy. To my mind, the Métis closely resemble a tribe of wandering gypsies. Some are very light-complexioned, while others are as dark as any of the Indians I laid eyes on in Fort Benton. Their costumes are like Potts’s own, a motley of native and European dress. I see an assortment of blue coats, jackets of dressed skin, wide-brimmed floppy hats, wool trousers, and beaded buckskin pants. All the men wear long bright sashes cinched to their waists, a dash of Gallic élan to challenge the flamboyance of their Indian beadwork. From the medals hung around their necks, from the rosaries some of the women clutch, I deduce these people are as they have been reported to me, resolutely Catholic. Laliberté is showing signs that he wishes to be under way once more so I refrain from delaying him any longer. We shake hands, express our pleasure at having made each other’s acquaintance, and the train readies to resume its journey. Laliberté slaps the rump of his skinny pony with the reins, calls out his farewell, and the music of bedlam resumes again. One by one the vehicles toil by, drivers, wives, children wave farewell and shout at the tops of their lungs to make themselves heard, “Adieu, Monsieur! Adieu, Madame! Adieu! Adieu!” Lucy and I receive the salutes of countless Red River carts and return them all. Finally, the last of them drops over the brow of a hill and all that remains is a dolorous, melancholy dirge which lingers long after they are gone from sight.