The Shirt On His Back (9 page)

'It
would help,' said January that evening as they set out on foot down the
trampled pathway toward the AFC camp, 'if your brother were just a little more
observant - or if Boden had something convenient like a deformed ear or a
broken nose or a mole on his chin. Or one blue eye and one brown eye, like the
villains in novels. Because
medium height,
medium build, brown hair and beard, brown eyes, straight nose
could be a description of
Hannibal ten years ago. Or Jim Bridger. Or the pilot of the steamboat we took
up the Missouri - how old is Boden?'

"Bout
thirty-five. Tom's age. Old for the mountains.'

Killin' bad,
Johnny had told his brother. But
having seen, in the past three days, what the camp considered not much worth
bothering about - including Blezy Picard accidentally murdering Ty Farrell, Jed
and Blezy attempting to rape an Indian girl, and three of the Mexican trader
Byron de la Vega's engages driving a grizzly bear from the woods through the
Hudson's Bay camp for a joke - January guessed that whatever it was, it
involved more than just shooting someone from behind a tree.

And
in fact, no man in the camp would be discomposed by being shot at from behind a
tree, anyway. Earlier that afternoon, one of Robbie Prideaux's friends had shot
his hat off just to see him jump, which he hadn't.

'I'm
guessin',' went on Shaw after a time, 'that Boden's either passin' as a trader
hisself, or clerkin' for the Company or for McLeod of Hudson's Bay - dependin'
on what him an' this Hepplewhite between 'em had planned.
Hepplewhite
sounds good an' British anyhow . . . but so does
Shaw.
An' for all what Tom says about shootin' him dead first chance I get, I can't
turn my back on it, that he's got at least one partner in this an' maybe more.
Maybe lots more.' He spoke softly, though behind them, Wallach and Hannibal
were joking in French with Morning Star and her sisters, Sioux girls tall and
slim as willow trees with feathers braided in their straight, midnight hair.

'Tom
give me a page of Boden's handwritin'. Beyond that, if'fn you come up with any
good way of tellin' for sure who it is, Maestro, I surely hope you'll share it.
Last thing anybody needs around here is somebody killin' an innocent man they
think
is the one they's after, only it turns out later he ain't. I had that up to my
hairline in Kentucky.'

Five
or six of the AFC's spare shelters had been set up on the bare space of the
contest ground opposite the liquor tent, far enough back that the AFC
camp-setters could turn aside any uninvited drinkers who might mix up one tent
for another in their befuddlement. Cressets of burning wood blazed around it,
and three campfires formed an island of brightness just outside. January could
see as they neared that candle lanterns hung from the tent frames within.

And
if I had a Gilbert Stuart portrait of Frank Boden rolled up in my pocket,
he reflected dourly,
I wouldn't be able to make out
his face in there, no matter what he currently looks like
.

Voices
hailed Gil Wallach: John McLeod - the jovial chief of the Hudson's Bay camp,
who was, unusually for a trader, bearded like a holly bush - crossed the path,
resplendent in a long-tailed violet coat the like of which hadn't been seen in
public since Jefferson was President. There was a deal of rough good-natured
pushing, jokes about what they'd been up to, exclamations of 'Waugh!' and
'Waugh yourself, Yank!' in McLeod's rich Scots voice. Like Sir William, McLeod
had seen service in His Majesty's forces, and his presence in the camp was a
reminder that Britain's king still claimed ownership of these lands.

Other
men emerged from the dimly-glowing golden box that was Seaholly's tent:
Flatheads who had been trading partners of the HBC for generations, wearing
blue British sailors' jackets with brass buttons that winked in the firelight,
and the handful of Mexican traders in black-laced coats of yellow and red.
Independent trappers, too, including Goshen 'Beauty' Clarke - goldenly handsome
as his nickname attested - and his partner Clem Groot, the squat Dutchman,
chuckling over last night's ruse and the dumb coons who'd spent the night out in
the rain on their account.

To
newcomer Charro Morales's admonition that the dumb coons in question were damn
lucky they hadn't encountered the Blackfeet, rose a dozen protestations of how
many Blackfeet each of the various independents could take on single-handedly:
Waugh
!

Ribs
and haunches of elk and mountain sheep dripped over the coals of the three
fires, along with skewers of
appolos,
that delicacy of fat meat spitted
alternately with lean. Since coming to the frontier, January had been almost
constantly hungry, the result - he had noted for Rose's sake - of a diet that
consisted almost entirely of lean meat. In addition to these viands, the AFC
cooks had turned out pots of stew, rice, and cornbread, enlivened with the more
exotic fare Sir William Stewart had packed along: pickles, sugar, strawberry
jam and Stilton cheese, brandied peaches and potted French pate, as well as
port and cognac. Someone had clearly paid Charro Morales's prices for liquor
also, because the whiskey that was going around among the commonality - while
barely up to the worst New Orleans standards - was still better than anything
on offer at Seaholly's, and when Hannibal entered the orange-lit murk of the
tent with his fiddle, there was a general shout of joy. 'We gonna see some
prancin'
!'

Around
the entrance, the Crows who worked for the AFC were already gorging themselves
on the meat and passing around tin cups of Company liquor. Wallach muttered,
'Titus better watch how much of that stuff's goin' out, if he don't want there
to be trouble.' Red Arm, the chief of the Crows, sat inside, between Titus and
Sir William at the back of the tent, and glared derisively at McLeod's
companion, the Flathead chief Kills At Night.

Among
the independent trappers the talk was all of beaver and trade and the damn
settlers comin' over the passes like damn idiots, and whether Montreal traps
were or were not superior to the St Louis design, and how soon do you think the
government's going to kick the damn British out of the

Columbia
country and let us take what it's our right to take? In between this, January
would occasionally whisper to Gil Wallach to identify this man or that.
('That's Byron de La Vega, that was at Pierre's Hole in '32 when they had that
fight with the Blackfoot . . . That feller? Wiegand - been clerkin' for the
Company forever. You know that shirt I got, with the quill embroidery on the
front? His squaw quilled that for me . . . No, I never seen that coon before
but I hear tell his name's Wynne an' he can't shoot for sour owl shit . . .')
The noise outside the tent, where the Indian allies of the two fur-trade
companies had begun to howl and dance, was even worse.

Speeches
were made about the election of the new President (toasts to Van Buren and to
Old Hickory); challenges issued - Americans against British - to wrestling
matches, horse races, competitions in shooting and knife throwing and swallowing
elk guts:
Waugh
!
The guest of honor, Company
trapper Jim 'Gabe' Bridger, was ceremoniously presented with a suit of medieval
armor that Stewart had hauled up the mountain for him, to whoops of approval
from all present; Chief Red Arm was given several Company medals and a very
handsome beaver hat worth ten dollars in St Louis.

Sir
William made his way over to the Ivy and Wallach party, carrying a guitar and
followed by a young man in a buckskin coat bearing what looked like a
sketchbook. January creased his brow in an expression of vexation: 'What,
nobody
in the camp had a piano?'

'Not
a one,' grieved His Lordship, stroking his black mustaches. 'What this world is
coming to I can't think. This belongs to Mick Seaholly, of all people - you'd
scarcely think the man would be a practitioner of the musical arts. And
speaking of the arts,' he added as January bent an ear to test the sound of the
guitar's strings behind the ever-increasing clamor in the tent, 'might I
introduce my friend Mr Miller? Mr Miller is a painter I asked to accompany me
this year, since this may well be my last visit. In New Orleans I had word that
my brother is ill, and I - I regret to say - am the heir of Grandtully Castle.’.

'I
wish him a full recovery, then,' said January, 'and long life.'

'Not
as heartily as I do.' Stewart sighed and looked around him at the candlelit
gloom. 'I fear that when I'm finally able to come back, it'll all be gone.
Settlers—' He shook his head. 'Not to speak of missionaries like that repellent
chap Grey . . . I'm sure Parliament will give your government an argument
about it, and I'm equally sure that argument will come to exactly nothing. I've
been in this country long enough to know that when Americans start to move into
land, it's going to be theirs, no matter who has prior claim on it.'

Across
the firelit Breughelesque confusion, men's voices rose in anger. Stewart turned
his head sharply: John McLeod was shaking his fists almost in Edwin Titus's
face. 'Lord, they'll be at it in a minute, look how red old Mac's turning.
Could I get you and Sefton to give me a little Meyerbeer, before the storm
breaks? Something from
Robert le
Diable,
maybe?'

'It'll
be our pleasure.'

Hannibal
had barely got halfway through the ballet of the mad ghosts of the dancing
nuns, however, when the storm did break. McLeod surged to his feet shouting,
'And that's your way, then? To hell with what your government promises, to
other nations or to the Indians themselves, so long as your bloody Company gets
its profits—'

In
the corner, January could see young Mr Miller sketching frantically: waving
arms, men lining up behind their chiefs, Indians looking in at the door . . .

'And
I suppose the trustees of the Hudson's Bay Company are in the trade to improve
the lot of the heathen by their sterling example?' Titus said.

'As
you've improved the lot of the Crows, by paying them with liquor to murder
those who stand in the Company's way?'

'You've
been listening to your Flathead friends.' Titus, coolly sober - January
wondered if he, like Hannibal, had quietly paid one of the clerks to fill his
cup with brown spruce- water instead of liquor - glanced scornfully at the
Flathead chief Kills At Night. 'I never met an Indian yet who didn't claim that
Americans had done him wrong. Yet they keep clamoring around the gates of the
Company forts, begging to be wronged again, I presume. I only stated the
obvious: that America's right to the Oregon Country has been demonstrated, over
and over again, in the sight of history—'

'Don't
you give me your bilge water about history!'

'Don't
want to bring up who's lost two wars on this continent?' The Controller raised
his sparse snuff-colored brows. 'Well, I can understand that.'

McLeod
- usually the most equable of men - lost his temper then and lunged at Titus.
Kills At Night, who'd been following the discussion closely, was on his feet in
the same moment, and if the Flathead chief had been a little less fuddled with
Stewart's cognac, and a little quicker at pulling his knife free of its
sheathe, he would have been killed. Shaw, sitting close to them, had both hands
over Kills's knife-wrist, pinning the weapon and at the same time blocking the
line of fire of three trappers who'd brought their rifles up at the first
movement of attack; January was among the men who launched himself to drag
McLeod back from strangling Titus. The noise within the shelter was nothing to
the sudden wave of howling and shouts from outside, where ten or a dozen of
McLeod's Flatheads sprang to their feet and the Company's Crows sprang to
theirs.

Stewart
shouted, 'Damn it!' as both groups of warriors flung themselves at one another
in the darkness, and he caught up his rifle - nobody at the banquet was more
than twelve inches from a loaded weapon - and leaped over a log bench and
outside into the fray. Others tried to follow, and January, Shaw, and the
glum-faced newcomer Warren Wynne formed a rank at the edge of the firelight:
the last thing anyone needed, January thought, was for trappers intoxicated on
expensive port and cognac to charge into twice their number of Indians drunk on
Company firewater.

For
a moment it was touch-and-go: he could hear McLeod shouting outside, and also
Jim Beckwith, the Company trapper who was also a chief among the Crows (and who
was probably responsible for a great deal of the alcohol being circulated
outside). But he was watching Titus, and though it wasn't easy to distinguish
expressions in the glow of firelight, the Company comptroller didn't stand like
a man who was ready to charge into a fight.

He
was hanging back, watching and listening to see how things would develop.

It
was at this point that the Reverend William Grey came storming into the tent,
like Moses descending from Sinai to discover the Israelites disgracing
themselves around the Golden Calf.