Rendezvous (6 page)

Skye said nothing. He hadn't escaped a brutal life just to get into a contest of manhood with this voyageur. The more Le Duc drank, the more he was nerving himself to try Skye again—maybe with fatal results for either of them. Skye swallowed back the instinct to prove he was a match for any Hudson's Bay man—his pride was at stake—and considered.

He knew, somehow, that this was a defining moment in his life. He could guzzle more of that noxious brew, keeping pace with the voyageur, and then find out which of them ruled the roost. Or he could reach for better things. He had his liberty—if he could keep it.

He was still young, and probably much more serious than most his age. Years of oppression had left their mark on his moods. In all his years in the navy, he had fought when forced to fight, just to assert his right to a life, or to get food, or to stop the harassment of some petty lord of the 'tween decks. But not because he enjoyed hurting others, or lording over them, or playing cock of the walk. He would have preferred to read a book.

Quietly he arose, ignored Le Duc's taunts, and sawed more meat from the hanging carcass. He didn't stop at one serving, but cut all he could—enough to last two or three days if possible. Le Duc drank, swore gallic oaths, and gathered his courage to provoke another brawl, but it didn't matter. Skye loaded the meat into his seabag, stowed his cape and other gear, gathered up his rude lance, and walked into the darkness.

“Skye,
merde!
Halt or I'll shoot.”

Skye ignored the man and hastened into the blackness, veering to the right. He had told the voyageur his freedom meant more than life, and now he was being put to the test. Live free or die. He walked quietly, awaiting his fate.

“Va t'en au diable,”
the man cried.

The crack of the musket didn't startle Skye, nor did its ball strike him. The shot was bravado, fired into the air. He slid into the void of night and circled back, keeping an eye on the distant pinprick of fire until he was well west of the campsite, and then he rolled up in his sailcloth. Let Le Duc sober up and ride ahead in the morning. There would probably be meat left over to cook and eat, and Skye was in no hurry.

It began to rain in the night, and Skye spent the last miserable hours before a gloomy dawn huddled under his sailcloth and feeling cold. He thought he was about half a mile inland from the river, but this was open prairie and if he rose and walked he would be visible. So he waited while the gray day brightened slightly. He could not see Le Duc or his horses, but still he waited. Let the man go ahead and warn the HBC. Skye would bide his time.

At last, he trudged down to the campsite and found no one there. The carcass was gone. Le Duc, with his wilderness instincts, knew exactly what Skye would do. The meat was probably feeding the fish in the river. Skye sighed. He liked the Canadian and knew the Canadian liked him, and knew Le Duc would redouble his efforts to bring the deserter to his knees.

Skye edged back from the river and hiked eastward once again, solitary but safe, his energies focused on preserving his freedom and renewing his life. The prints of horses preceded him. If they veered off the trace, he would be watchful. But he suspected that Le Duc would hurry to Fort Nez Perces and elsewhere, delivering his expresses, and never say a word about encountering the fugitive himself.

The evening with Le Duc had been rewarding. He now knew that HBC was looking for him, and he knew what lay ahead. He knew there was a reward for anyone who brought him in alive. That was all important, potentially lifesaving knowledge.

He hiked through a silent land and came late in the afternoon to a cold river rushing out of the south. He knew he would have to swim it. Unhappily, he doffed his clothing, stuffed it into his seabag along with his belaying pin, and wobbled into the water, feeling it stab his feet and ankles and then suddenly his thighs. The thunderous cold smacked him but there was no help for it. He swam furiously, feeling the icy water sap his energy and swirl him toward the Columbia, but at last, exhausted, he crawled up the far side, stubbing toes on rock, and dressed. He was chilled to the marrow and needed a fire.

He trotted eastward, trying to warm his numb body, and largely succeeded. But late that afternoon he rounded a bend and came upon an Indian fishery and village. Short, golden-fleshed people swarmed around him, looking him over, their countenances cheerful. Skye eyed them uneasily, wondering if they were measuring him for a reward from Hudson's Bay. But the men of the village didn't seem hostile. They crowded about, eyeing his warbag, his crude lance, and his clothing. The women smiled and studied him when they thought he wasn't aware. The naked children stared politely.

Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't this the succor that he knew he needed? Skye heartened at his reception, and tried some English on them. “Well, mates, do ye speak my tongue? Can we talk?”

They smiled blankly. One tried some hand signals that Skye took to be a means of communicating, but he could not make out the meaning. He thought he ought to give them something, anything, as a signal of his esteem. But he needed everything he possessed: he could not spare his awl or shoe leather or flint and striker or fishhook and line, or any of his ragged clothes. But yes, there was something he needed a little less than the rest: his coil of rope. This he extracted from his kit and offered to an older, wire-haired man whose bearing and dignity suggested he was the headman.

The muscular older man hefted the line, uncoiled it, found it a worthy gift, and grinned. This, in turn, evoked a flood of gifts in return, much to Skye's astonishment. The women hastened to their bark huts and returned bearing all sorts of things: a fine, tanned deerskin, a fringed leather shirt with dyed geometric designs on it, smoked salmon, and baked cakes made of some sort of meal. A bonanza. Skye bowed, expressed his thanks in English, and found himself being escorted to the center of the place where meals were cooking in big iron kettles that must have been gotten from Hudson's Bay traders.

That evening Skye feasted on all the fresh pink salmon he could eat, along with some sort of greens and meal-cakes. The women vied to please him, and he acknowledged each gift, each delicacy. A little boy edged close and finally ran a finger down Skye's giant nose, and Skye knew what it was about him that fascinated these people. They had never seen a formidable nose before. Perhaps they thought big noses signified power or importance. That dusk the headmen shared a pipe with him and he was ushered into a bark-walled lodge and to a pallet. Luxury, he thought, a respite from starvation and loneliness. He did not even know the name of this river tribe, or their personal names, but they had welcomed him generously. A dozen people, grandparents, parents, large and small children, called that hut home but Skye didn't feel crowded. Instead, he felt safe. He had not been in the bosom of a family since he was a boy, and now he lay in the close dark, aware of all those people, knowing he must never spin out his life alone.

Chapter 8

Skye pulled the elkskin shirt over his navy blouse and found that it fit well enough to use without alteration. It had a curious design, with leather fringes dangling from the arms. The skins had not been trimmed below the waist, and the fringes there hung unevenly, making an odd hemline around his thighs. It was well-used and soft, and permeated with tallow that would turn the rain. Bold zigzag designs in red and blue decorated the chest and back. He appreciated its warmth and knew a good leather shirt would be comfortable in the wilds, subduing the wind.

The headman's family stood around him, enjoying the spectacle. He prepared to leave but they insisted he breakfast with them, and once again he filled his belly, this time with some sort of fish cake that had berries in it.

Even that early in the morning, many of the village's young men were perched out on a rickety catwalk over the river, slender spears in hand, stabbing the occasional salmon that swam by. Skye watched, fascinated, believing he could fashion a spear out of his spare knife and a pole. If he found an abandoned fishery poking into the river, he would tarry there and try to spear salmon.

Several of the village men carried bows and quivers full of arrows, and Skye ached to possess the weapon. He had never shot an arrow in his life but he didn't doubt that necessity would teach him swiftly. He would learn well enough to kill game—or starve. Inspired to trade, he dug into his warbag and pulled out a treasured possession that he could nonetheless do without. He used his folding straight-edged razor now and then to keep his whiskers at bay. But now he needed a bow and arrows far more than a shaven face. He approached one of those who carried a bow, gestured toward it and the quiver, and then laid his shaving kit before him on the ground. He opened the razor and handed it to the man. The man gingerly ran a thumb over the blade and grinned. Skye's shaving gear included a battered white mug, some soap, and a shaving brush, and with all these and some river water he shaved himself while the villagers crowded about.

The man took the razor and handed Skye the quiver and bow. Skye rejoiced. With luck and some hunting skills, he might feed himself. He counted eleven arrows: enough to keep him fed.

He turned to his host, wondering what to give the man for his hospitality, and finally decided he could surrender his woolen skullcap. He handed it to the headman, who grinned and put it on. A swift command sent his wife hurrying into the bark hut, and she returned with a beaver-felt top hat, a trade item from Hudson's Bay. Much to Skye's delight, it fit, perhaps too snugly but it would stretch with use. The brim would shade his chapped face and keep the rain off his neck.

He ached to do more trading, especially for a horse, but he saw none. He doubted these fishing people had any. He knew what he would offer for one: his pea jacket. The new leather shirt would do for warmth, and summer was coming. After thanking his hosts with gestures he hoped would be understood, Skye departed eastward, enjoying his new wealth. He had a little antelope meat and some fresh fish—and a bow and arrows.

He examined the arrows, curious about their manufacture. They had been made from reeds and had sheet-iron points bound to the shaft with sinew. The points were trade items from Hudson's Bay. The bow had been fashioned of a blond wood that reminded him of yew, and was strung with animal gut. He would have to be careful with it because he lacked a spare string. As he walked, he nocked arrows and shot them ahead, getting the feel of the weapon. He collected the arrows as he passed by. He knew he had much to learn, and his efforts had been awkward. He didn't even know how to hold the bow and arrow. But by the nooning, he was getting better.

The country turned rugged again, and the river boiled between dark rock cliffs. The road veered sharply away from the Columbia and ascended a steep and much-used trail. Plainly these narrows blocked passage along the river and one had to detour around them. He could hear a faint roar as the Columbia bored through the gorge. When at last the trail took him back to water, he found himself in a land largely devoid of trees.

That evening he counted the day a good one. He baited his hook and line, and then practiced with his bow and arrows, gaining skill through the dusk. No longer was he helpless. But skill with a bow wasn't the same as being a hunter. He rarely even saw an animal. But as he penetrated these steppes day by day, he spotted distant herds of antelope, and once he saw wild horses. His first success with the bow was a humble one: he shot a raccoon. Greedily, he dressed the animal and then built a fire to cook it. The result was abominable, but the mouthfuls of soft meat helped sustain him. He counted it a milestone.

He had better luck with his fishhook and line, occasionally netting a salmon that kept him fed for two days. The weather warmed, and his passage would have seemed idyllic but for his constant hunger. He was plagued by loneliness, too, and ached to talk with someone, anyone. How far to Fort Nez Perces? How far to the edge of the Oregon country? How far to the American settlements? North America was a vast continent, but he had hiked eastward for weeks on end. Surely he would arrive at the Atlantic side soon. Or would he?

He was traversing a vast plain, broken by outcrops of dark volcanic rock and populated by horses that galloped madly away as he approached. He ached to capture one, but he knew little about them. He had never sat a horse.

His boots fell apart, and he repaired them with his awl and some thong. His trousers wore to pieces, and he sewed the rents and patched them with sailcloth. All this time he saw no one, and his loneliness ate at his spirits. Was this all there was? Would he die some lonely death in these empty wilds? What good was freedom if it came to nothing? He talked to himself, talked to the prickly pear cactus, talked to the crows that gossiped about his passage. Some evenings caught him in places without firewood, but he had learned to cook all of any salmon he caught and could make a meal of cold fish if he had to.

Then one day he lost a hook and line. It snagged on something and his line snapped. Skye found himself holding a pole with a foot of string dangling from it. With no more line, he might well starve.

He felt more and more oppressed as he considered the loss. He stood on the riverbank, drawn bow in hand, knowing the wealth of food that lay in those waters, maddened that he could capture none of it. He would have to turn himself into a hunter or starve. Immediately he hiked far away from the river, looking for game and finding none. When he returned at dusk, a terrible pessimism stole through him.

Standing there beside the mighty Columbia River with all its unreachable food, he asked himself why he had been set on earth. He had suffered in the navy, and now he suffered more. Did some people's lives simply take a wrong turn, never to be redeemed? Would he wander this wilderness until he died an early death? Would he be better off turning around, tracing his way back to Fort Vancouver, and turn himself over to John McLoughlin? It was tempting, if only because he would have companionship.