The Land God Gave to Cain (15 page)

I stood for a moment staring up at it, enthralled by the beauty of it, and at the same time awed. And all about me I was conscious of the iron-hard harshness of the North, the sense of a wild, untamed country, not yet touched by man.

Stiff-jointed and cold we moved in a body to the wood-frame huts that were the airstrip buildings, crowding into the despatch office where the warmth from the diesel heater was like a furnace. Names were called, the despatcher issuing instructions in a harsh, quick voice that switched from English to French and back again as though they were the same language. The men began filing out to a waiting truck. “Ferguson.”

The sound of my name came as a shock to me and I moved forward uncertainly.

“You're Ferguson, are you? Message for you.” The despatcher held it out to me. “Came in by radio half an hour back.”

My first thought was that this would be from Lands, that I wouldn't get any farther than this camp. And then I saw the name Laroche at the end of it.
Urgent we have talk. Am taking night supply train. E.T.A. 0800. Do not leave before I have seen you. Laroche
.

Staring at that message, the only thought in my mind was that he hadn't stopped me. Why? It would have been easy for him to persuade the base despatcher to have them hold me here. Instead, he was coming after me, wanting to have a talk to me. Had I forced his hand? Did this mean …? And then I was conscious of an unmistakably Lancashire voice saying, “Has Ferguson checked in on that flight, Sid?”

“He's right here,” the despatcher answered, and I looked up to find a short, rather tired-looking man standing in the doorway to an inner office. He wore a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up and he had a green eye-shade on his head, and over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of radio equipment. “You got the message all right then?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I got the message, thanks.”

“You a friend of Laroche?” I didn't know quite how to answer that, but fortunately he didn't wait for a reply, but added, “You're English, aren't you?”

I nodded and he came towards me, holding out his hand. “That makes two of us,” he said. “My name's Bob Perkins. I'm from Wigan. Lancashire, you know.”

“Yes, I guessed that.”

“Aye,” he said. “Not much fear of your mistaking me for a Canuk.” There was a friendly twinkle in his tired blue eyes. “Two years I been up in this bloody country. Emigrated in fifty-one and came straight up here as Wireless Op. They still think I talk a bit peculiar like.” And then he added, “That message—it's from that pilot who crashed, isn't it?”

I nodded.

“Aye, I thought there couldn't be two of 'em with a name like that.” He looked at me hesitantly. “Would yer like a cup of tea?” he asked, and, surprised at anything so English up here in the middle of nowhere, I said Yes. As he led me into the radio room, he said, “I only been here a week. Five days to be exact. I was up at Two-ninety before that. I remember when they picked this Laroche up. Proper hullabaloo there was.” He went over to a kettle quietly steaming on the diesel heater. “Newspapers—everybody. Hardly had time to deal with the air traffic.”

“Who found him, do you know?” I asked. If I could find out something more before I met Laroche.…

“Oh, some construction gang. By all accounts he stumbled out of the bush right on top of a grab crane. The fellow that brought him out though was Ray Darcy, engineer up at Two-sixty-three. Radioed us to have a plane standing by and then drove him the twenty odd miles up the old Tote Road in one hour flat. Or that's what he said. It'd be some going on that road. Would you like milk and sugar? Trouble is you never know with a man like Ray Darcy.” He handed me a battered tin mug. “Proper character he is and all. Came up to Labrador for a month's fishing an' stayed two years. You a fisherman?”

“No,” I said.

“Wonderful fishing up here for them as likes it. Me, I haven't the patience like. You got to have patience. Not that Ray Darcy's got much. He's an artist really—paints pictures. But he's a proper fisherman when it comes to stories. Twenty miles an hour he'd have to've averaged, and on the Tote Road. Aye, and you should see his jeep. Proper mess—glued together with the mud that's on it, that's what I say.…”

And so it went on. I sat there and drank my tea and listened to him talking, basking in the warmth of his friendliness and the knowledge that he was English. That fact alone meant a lot to me. It gave me confidence and drove out the sense of loneliness.

Bob Perkins was the first friend I made on my way up into Labrador. And though he couldn't tell me much about Laroche—he had just seen him that once as they carried him out on a stretcher to the waiting plane—he had given me the name of the man who could.

I gleaned a lot of useful information from him, too. Camp 224 was a big place, highly organised, with a large engineering staff sending daily reports back to the Seven Islands base by teleprinter. Obviously no place for me. They'd know immediately that I'd no business to be up the line. Some twenty miles beyond 224 was Head of Steel. And after that there was nothing but the newly-constructed grade gradually petering out into isolated construction units slicing into virgin country with bulldozer and grab crane. No railway, no telephone link—nothing but the old Tote Road and the airstrips to link the camps with Base. Camp 263 he described as growing fast, but still just a clearing in the jackpine forest, primitive and pretty grim. “The only decent camp between Two-two-four and the permanent camp at Menihek Dam is Two-ninety,” he said. “It's right on the lake with a big airstrip on a hill. Mostly C.M.M.K. personnel—that's the construction combine that's building the grade. They even got a helicopter stationed there for the use of the grade superintendent.”

“A helicopter!” But even if I could persuade the pilot to take me up in it, I didn't know where Lake of the Lion was. Laroche had said there were thousands of lakes and, remembering what the country had been like flying down from Goose, I could well believe it. Had my father known where the lake was? And if my father had known, would my mother know?

Perkins was explaining that they'd used the helicopter to try and bring out the bodies of Briffe and Baird. “He had two tries at it. But it wasn't any good. He couldn't find the place.”

“Who couldn't—Laroche?” I asked.

“Aye, that's right. Like I said, he came back just two days after he'd been flown out. Proper mess he looked, too—a great gash in his head and his face white as chalk. They shouldn't have let him come, but he said he had to try and locate the place, and Len Holt, he's the pilot, flew him in twice. It didn't do any good, though. He couldn't find it. I saw him when he came back the second time. They had to lift him out, poor chap, he was so done up.”

“Did a man called McGovern come up with him?” I asked.

But he shook his head. “No, Laroche was on his own.”

I asked him then about Camp 263. But he couldn't tell me anything more than he'd told me already. He'd never been there. He'd just heard men talking about it. “They say it's pretty rough. And the grub's bad. It's a new camp. All new construction camps are rough.” And he looked across at me curiously and said, “You're not going there, are you?”

I'd made up my mind by then. I wasn't waiting for Laroche. I wanted to see Darcy first. “Yes,” I said. “I've got to get up there as soon as possible.” And I asked him whether there was any way of getting north that night. “It's urgent,” I added.

“What about Laroche?” He was looking at me curiously. “He says to wait for him.”

“Tell him I'll contact him from Two-sixty-three.”

“But—”

“Laroche isn't employed by the Company,” I said quickly. “I've been told to get up there as fast as I can and I'm sticking to my instructions. West has been injured and there's been a switch of engineers.”

He nodded. “That's right. Got his foot crushed by a gas car.” I thought for a moment he was going to pursue the subject. But all he said was,” Aye. Well, you know your business best.”

“Is there a flight going up from here to-night?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Northbound flights don't stop here any more. This camp's pretty well finished now. Another month and it'll close down altogether, I wouldn't wonder.” And then he added, “Your best bet is the supply train. You'd see your friend Laroche then and still be up at Head of Steel before dark to-morrow.”

So I was stuck here. “You're sure there's nothing else?” And then, because I was afraid he might think I was trying to avoid Laroche, I said, “I'm supposed to be at Two-sixty-three to-morrow.”

He shook his head. “No, there's nothing …” He stopped then. “Wait a jiffy. I got an idea the ballast train's been held up to-night.” He went out into the despatch office and I heard him talking to the despatcher and then the sound of the phone. After a while he came back and said,” It's okay if you want to take it. Usually it's left by now, but the ballast got froze going up the line last night, so she was late back and they're still loading.”

“When will it leave?” I asked.

“Not before two. They've still quite a few wagons to load. That's what the foreman told me anyway.”

I asked him how far it would take me and he told me they were ballasting right up behind Head of Steel. “And it doesn't stop anywhere, like the supply train,” he added. “You'll be up there in a matter of four hours.” He poured himself another mug of tea. “Well, shall I tell Sid you'll take it?” And he added, “It won't be all that comfortable, mind.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. All I wanted was to see Darcy before Laroche caught up with me.

He nodded and went out again, carrying his mug carefully. It was intensely hot in the radio room and I began to feel drowsy. “Okay,” he said when he came back. “You'll ride up in the caboose with Onry Gaspard. He's the train conductor. He'll look after you.” He glanced at his watch. “You've got four hours before the train leaves. You'd better hit the hay for a bit. You look proper played out.”

I nodded. Now that it was all fixed I felt very tired. “I was flying all last night,” I explained. And then I remembered that Farrow was expecting me at Dorval Airport in the morning. There was Mr. Meadows to notify, too—and my mother. I ought to tell her where I was. “I'll have to write some letters,” I said. And I explained that people back home didn't even know I was in Canada.

“Why not cable them then?” He went over to the radio and tore a sheet off a message pad. “There you are. Write your message down on that and I'll radio it to Base right away.”

It was as easy as that, and I remembered how small the world had seemed in that little basement room of Simon Ledder's house. I hesitated. “I suppose you couldn't contact a ham radio operator at Goose for me?”

He looked doubtful. “I could try,” he said. “Depends whether he's keeping watch or not. What's his call sign?”

“VO6AZ,” I told him. And I gave the frequency.

“VO6AZ!” He was looking at me curiously. “That's the ham who was acting as contact for Briffe's party.”

I nodded, afraid that he'd start asking a lot of questions. “Will you try and get him for me?”

He didn't say anything for a moment. He seemed to be thinking it out. “Okay,” he said finally. “It may take a little time. And I may not be able to get him at all. Do you want to speak to him personally or would a message do?”

“A message,” I said. “That's all.”

“What's his job at Goose? Is he with the Air Force?”

“No,” I said. “He's with D.O.T. Communications.”

“Goose Radio. Well, suppose I send it to them? I can always get Goose Radio.”

“That would do fine,” I said.

“Aye, well, you write the message and I'll let you know whether I've been able to send it when I come off watch.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and handed it to me.

I sat there for a moment, uncertain what to say, conscious that he was standing over me, watching me curiously. Twice I started to write and then crossed it out. My brain was sluggish with lack of sleep and I wasn't certain how much I dared say. At length I wrote:
Company refuse take seriously. Going north into Labrador to try and find Lake of the Lion. Please notify Farrow. Request him on return Bristol to notify Meadows, Runway Construction Engineer, also my mother, Mrs. Ferguson, 119 Lansdown Grove Road, London, N.W.I. Would he telegraph her and ask her did my father ever tell her exact location of Lake of the Lion. Reply c/o Perkins, radio operator, Camp 134, Q.N.S. & L., Seven Islands. Thanks for all your help: Ian Ferguson
. I read it through and handed it to him. “I hope you don't mind me using you as a post box?” I said.

“That's okay.” He stood, reading it through, and then he was looking at me and I knew there were questions he wanted to ask. But in the end he stuffed the message in his pocket. “Well, if you're going to get any sleep to-night you'd better get down to the camp,” he said. “There's a truck outside will take you down. You can have the spare bed in my room.”

I thanked him. “I'd appreciate it,” I added, “if you'd regard that message as confidential.”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “I won't talk.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But if you weren't English and I didn't like you, I might act different.” And I knew he'd guessed why I was here. He couldn't very well help it with Laroche radio-ing for me to wait for him. “Come on,” he said. “I'll get the driver to run you down to our bunkhouse. And I'll let you know what luck I've had with this message when I come off duty at midnight.”

He took me out to the truck then and told the driver where to take me. “Call him at one-thirty,” he said. “He's taking the ballast train north.”