The Company coat of arms has been painted on the archway of the octagon: Pro Pelle Cutem. Lachlan frowns. “‘Skin for skin.’ Is it not the words of Satan himself, questioning our Lord? ‘Skin for skin; yea, all that a man hath, will he give for his life.’”
“I doubt that is the correct interpretation. You are very well acquainted with the Bible, sir. A chaplain, perhaps?”
“No more than all good Christians should be, Mr. Turr.”
They follow Turr inside and Rose and Lachlan are surprised that “The Grand Central Station of the North” is such a shoddy affair: frost has shattered much the stone and brick foundation and the siding is falling off. The archway is warped and twisted, and many of the timbers are cracked. The smell of sewage and rotten garbage is thick inside the walls.
“Like a bit of old Glasgow,” the Highlander says, beaming and clapping his hands to his breast. The sound of an organ carries through a wall.
“They will all be in church, I’ll wager,” Turr says.
Lachlan looks at him with surprise. “You mean it is Sunday?”
“So it would seem. Well, no point in disturbing them. We can find ourselves something to eat. I doubt I have eaten in days.”
They find a long, dark mess, with many tables, a stone hearth, and a massive, black iron stove. Turr lights an oil lamp with a coal from the hearth. He disappears for a few minutes and returns with a cut of fresh moose meat wrapped in a cloth. After banking the fire, he rolls pieces of the meat in flour and fries it in a black skillet.
After they have eaten, they lean back in their chairs, listening to the foraging of mice in the ceiling, and feeling more satisfied than they have in a long time. The Highlander leaves them on a quest for drink.
“We best inform someone about those poor folk back on the beach,” Lachlan says.
“It can wait,” Turr replies. “This is the first I have felt at peace for many days and I intend to enjoy it a little longer. There is time and plenty to send a boat for the others.” He settles deeper into his chair and closes his eyes.
Lachlan is about to reply when the cook hurries into the mess and stops, staring at them in amazement.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Turr mutters to himself.
Chapter Four
“Damn it, Mr. Turr, this is the worst possible news; it is quite beyond the pale.”
“Indeed, Governor.”
Robert Semple gets up and begins pacing in his cramped quarters. “There is nothing remaining of the Intrepid?”
“There was aught left but jetsam scattered on the beach. And many dead.”
“Cigar?”
“Why, yes, sir. My word, where did you come by them?”
“I brought a box with me, in my personal baggage. Contraband or not, a gentleman must have a smoke with his port, and none of your damned trade twist.” Both of them know that because of the ever-present danger of fire, smoking in quarters is absolutely forbidden in the fort.
Taking a deep drag of the cigar, Turr looks around. The room has barely enough space for a bed, a washstand, and a desk overflowing with Company Papers and correspondence. Daylight is visible through cracks in the siding where the chinking had fallen away. A black stovepipe passing through the room from below provides the only source of heat in fifty-below weather. He thinks it an exceedingly mean apartment for a man of the stature of a governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s territories in North America, even in the savage wilds of Rupert’s Land.
“How many dead?”
“I would expect about half, including most of the crew, oddly enough. I tried to save as many as possible, but in those terrible circumstances there was only so much I could do.”
“I’m sure you did all that is expected of a gentleman and more, my good sir, and I shall mention it in my reports. But a nasty business it is. God damn my eyes, how could this happen? Captain Bowers knew the Bay as well as any man.”
“I’m really not sure,” Turr replies, staring at his hands resting in his lap. Although he is no seaman, he suspects the captain’s outrageous drinking played a hand in it. But he is superstitiously reluctant to sully the reputation of a dead man.
Semple looks hard at him. “Tell me what you think, man. Come, come, I must have something to tell Lord Selkirk.”
Reluctantly, Turr describes all he can recall: there was a great deal of ice, much more than normal for that time of year. The farther they sailed, the more limited became their options, and eventually they were separated from the Resolute and the Prince of Wales. Their rudder was taken by a great berg when they turned their stern toward it to flee. After that, it was only a matter of time before the storm grounded the frigate.
“I doubt it will suffice, Mr. Turr,” Semple says, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “There will be an accounting.”
Turr sighs, the governor’s meaning clear enough: blood will be demanded for the loss of the Intrepid, and they have one chance to assign blame as far from themselves as possible.
“I supped with the captain that evening and he seemed melancholy to me. Drank three bottles of claret himself with the meal. Perhaps two … of course, that was some time before the encounter with the berg …”
Semple takes a deep drag of his cigar and exhales a cloud of smoke. It curls about the room, tendrils pulled through gaps in the walls. “It would be shocking if drink was a factor,” he says, unable to suppress the relief in his voice.
“Very shocking indeed, sir.”
“Though I am aware of the irony, I believe I should have another drink. More port? Or brandy?”
“Brandy, if you please.”
“Capital stuff. It was delivered by long-boat from the Resolute — she arrived yesterday, in case you have not heard. As soon as possible, I turned them about, so they and the Prince of Wales are wasting valuable time in a fool’s errand scouring the coast for you. Joy on your recovery by the way, and may you live long enough to profit by it.”
The governor pours the brandy from a cut-glass decanter into two delicate glasses. Turr stares at the burgundy liquid, the sharp smell mixing languidly with the cigar smoke. He tries, and fails, to keep his hand from shaking as he reaches for the glass.
“The factor will be apoplectic when he learns of the Intrepid’s fate.”
“I have not yet seen him.”
“He is on a hunt, I believe. The man wastes far too much time in ridiculous pursuits,” Semple pauses, looking into his drink. “You realize the gravity of the situation?”
Turr nods, understanding quite well. After the previous year’s debacles, Lord Selkirk is counting on these colonists. His grand plan of building a new settlement in Rupert’s Land greatly irritated many powerful men, and the expected assistance from the Company had not materialized. Squabbling and sabotage had been the order of the day, and from their own people! Their enemies would have a great laugh if they knew.
“A dead Highlander is of little use to anyone,” Turr acknowledges, “Although the difference may not be as great as one would expect.”
Semple does not smile. “Due to Selkirk’s madman Macdonell, the Company’s situation here has become quite untenable. His pemmican proclamation has roused half the country between here and Pembina against us.”
“Pemmican proclamation?”
“Macdonell’s ill-conceived device