Coppermine (4 page)

“You just got back, man. And this could be a long one. I think you should take some time off after what you’ve been through. I’ll send Svenson. He’ll make a good job of it.”

“What is the case, sir?”

“Don’t worry about it, Creed. Really. Take a rest. Stay here in Edmonton and help me with enlistment. Manpower is the problem now, with the war sucking away every available man. And you have your … friendship with the magistrate’s niece. Take some time in town. You have a bright future here in Edmonton.”

“Thank you, sir, but can you tell me about the mission?”

The Superintendent paused, showing minor irritation at Jack’s stubbornness, and then began. “All right. This report comes from Ottawa. Two years ago two papist priests ... oblates ... Fathers Rouvière and Le Roux, went north to ‘convert the heathen.’ Rouvière had been up there for a couple of years, guided by a trapper named Hornby. Rouvière was joined by Father Le Roux at Fort Norman, early summer of 1913, where they provisioned.”

Worsley turned and gestured to a map of western Canada on the wall behind him, his hand tracing a line of breathtaking distance north from Edmonton. “Then from Fort Norman by canoe up the Bear River and across the Great Bear Lake to the Dease system. They had a cabin some miles up the Dease as a base. That summer they travelled past the treeline and portaged over the watershed up through the Dismal Lakes. They were sending letters and reports back with traders every couple of months. Those letters stopped more than two years ago. Some Cree said they saw them well north of the treeline. They may even have got as far north as the Coppermine River, inside the Arctic Circle. Then recently a Métis trader showed up at Fort Norman with some of their belongings—some clothing, a rosary, a prayer book. Everyone believes the worst. Father Rouvière’s a good friend of Bishop Breynat, and Le Roux is a second cousin of the French ambassador in Ottawa, with a wealthy family in Paris. Anyway, our orders come from the Office of the Attorney General. They want all the resources of the police dispatched. Well, until I re-man Hay River, I don’t have much in the way of resources. I think the damn priests are probably just lost somewhere, unable to get letters out and so on. Svenson’s a good man for the job.”

“I’d like to take it, sir.”

“I think you should sleep on this, Corporal.”

“What are the specific orders, sir?”

“You go north as far as you can, possibly to the Coppermine River, find the priests, and bring ’em out.”

“What if they don’t want to come out?”

“Persuade them. Get at least one of ‘em back to Fort Norman, anyway, and telegraph their people and Ottawa will be happy. After that they can do whatever the hell they want.”

“And if they’re dead, sir?”

“Conduct the appropriate investigation. If foul play is suspected, make an appropriate arrest.”

“Yes, sir. Does Cowperthwaite have all the area maps, post locations?”

“This is the Coppermine, Creed. It’s never been charted. No police posts. No credible maps at all beyond the mouth of the Dease River or south of the Arctic Ocean coast, except a few sketches from Franklin.”

“Franklin?
The
Franklin?”

“Yes. An earlier expedition. The trapper Hornby operates along the southern edge, but he doesn’t go into the Coppermine. Other than that, Franklin was the last white man we know of to get that far. Except maybe the priests.”

Worsley was gesturing again to the map behind him, pointing to the Mackenzie River delta near the border with Alaska. “See, the Mackenzie delta here has whales ... and Hudson Bay has furs ...” He indicated the huge bite out of central Canada named after the captain whose mutinous crew put him and his young son out to sea in an open boat to perish. “But the Coppermine”—he pointed to the 100,000 square miles of empty, uncharted space between—“has nothing. It’s a wasteland. Samuel Hearne spoke of copper deposits, but no one’s had the courage to go and find out. Probably the most isolated place left in all the Americas.”

Superintendent Worsley turned away from the map. “There is one other element to this you should be aware of. It was in the orders from Ottawa. As empty and isolated as it is up there, it’s ours. Ottawa sees this as an opportunity to show the world a Canadian presence there, whether it’s a rescue or a burial.”

“Understood.”

“You’ll need to pick up a translator in Fort Norman, if you can find one.”

“My Cree’s good and I have some Inuktitut.”

“Copper Eskimo’s all different, they say.”

“I prefer to travel alone.”

“Take a translator, Creed. You don’t have time for language lessons.”

Creed hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

“You’ll have to winter up there, of course, so take a year’s worth of provisions. Cowperthwaite’ll help you with all that. Any questions?”

Creed’s heart beat a little faster. An honourable mission. Months of solitude.

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure, then?”

“I’ll go.”

“You don’t want to talk to Miss Harvey first?”

“No, sir.”

Worsley paused a moment to study him. “I’m sure you have your reasons, Creed, but you should think about spending more time in the city. With people. Maybe after this one.”

“I’ll think about it, sir.”

IT WAS AFTER DINNER
and several officers of “D” Company were smoking in the mess. Corporal Dewey, his boots up on a table, blew three perfect smoke rings from his cheap black panatela before posing the question.

“So, at what point do you decide to eat your partner?”

The contents of Creed’s Ross-Begley report had been circulated.

“You have to be damned hungry,” Svenson, a tall, muscular blond man with a stained moustache, concluded.

“Or damned irritated.”

“Two winters in a one-room cabin could do it,” a little Yorkshireman named Woodard speculated.

“My question is,” Dewey continued, “was it the irritation or the hunger? When you can’t stand him anymore, do you slit his throat and then say to yourself, ‘My, what a tender little shank.’ Or is it the other way around? And what the hell d’you eat first?”

Corporal Lyle Cowperthwaite spoke through the laughter and speculation. “This is all sick, and you’re ruining my digestion. Begley was obviously an insane murderer.” Cowperthwaite was slight, with jet-black hair framing a pleasant, cherubic face often given over to indignation.

“What if we were out on patrol and I died of starvation before you, Cowper?” Dewey inquired. “Would you die before eating me?”

“Yes!”

“You’d be a goddamned fool.”

“Come on, Cowper. If the man died of natural causes—” Woodard prompted.

“Doesn’t matter. Human flesh is sacred.”

“So is human life. Isn’t it?”

“This case isn’t about survival. This is about the murders of four men. Almost five. Imagine what Creed’s been through. Surprised he’s still sane.”

“Assuming he was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cowperthwaite glared at Dewey.

“Creed’s a bit of an odd duck.”

“He’s just quiet, unlike some!”

“Do we know anything about him? Where he’s from? What he did before the force?”

“He put in his war service, like Ralph and Frank here.” Cowperthwaite gestured to a trooper with a glass eye and another with a wooden leg. “I heard he saw the worst of it.”

“Was he wounded?”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t get me wrong, he seems a good fellow—”

“Jack Creed is one of the finest troopers—”

“Oh, shut up, Cowperthwaite. We all love Creed. We’re just talking …”

All fell silent as Creed entered the barracks and put down his knapsack.

Cowperthwaite stood up. “Hi, Jack.”

“And here he is,” Dewey said expansively.

There were reserved greetings all around, several condolences for the lost men, and acknowledgement of the tough patrol. Creed smiled thinly, a little awkward in their midst as he shook their hands, warmed by their respect. He ended with Cowperthwaite, who leaned in to ask quietly, as if in collaboration, “Did you take the new assignment?”

Creed looked at him. “Yes.”

“Up to the Coppermine. Alone?” Dewey asked. They all knew.

“They’re short of men at Hay River. I don’t mind.”

“My God, man, it’s almost to the North Pole.”

Sergeant Freeman looked up from his book through wirerimmed glasses. “You’ll be meeting Paleoeskimos.” Freeman enjoyed a photographic memory. While most of the troopers owned a couple of books, Freeman’s parents had sent him an entire
Encyclopaedia Britannica,
which he’d set about reading from page one, and he retained most of it.

“Oh, listen to who’s got to the Ps.”

“Paleoeskimos: probably the most primitive humans on earth. Quite distinct from our Indians, you know. Closest relatives: the Chukchi people of northern Asia and the Koryaks of Siberia. It’s now universally accepted that they crossed the ice bridge from Siberia thousands of years ago.” Freeman looked around at the faces, pleased with himself.

“Well, I think it’s brilliant,” Cowperthwaite continued. “Patrolling that far north. Rescuing people, bringing civilization to the remote corners of the country.”

For a second Creed’s face flashed impatience. “I don’t want to bring civilization anywhere, Lyle. Just want to see that the priests are all right. There any hot water left?” Creed was in a hurry.

“We saved you some.”

Creed was headed for the showers, checking his watch and taking it off.

“You know, Creed,” Dewey said, examining his panatela, “you’ll almost be up to where the Franklin expedition was lost.”

Creed hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll give your regards to his ghost.”

“He’s probably found the Passage by now,” Svenson speculated.

“You know, they were eating each other at the end,” Dewey said, looking to get a reaction out of Cowperthwaite.

“Oh, shut up, Dewey. It’s never been proven. I can’t believe Englishmen would eat one another.”

“I don’t know, but if that’s the local cuisine, Creed, better pack a bottle of Worcestershire.”

Creed smiled as they laughed. Dewey slowly, carefully, blew another ring. Creed could hear their talk in the mess as he turned on the shower and waited for it to warm up.

“Eating human flesh. It’s unthinkable!”

“You know, Cowperthwaite, I’ve often thought, with some carrots and onions, you’d make a nice little stew.”

The laughter rose again. Creed smiled, then he turned and stepped into the luxury of almost-instant hot water.

AS CREED LEFT THE BARRACKS
and walked quickly down Jasper past Wellington Terrace and into the market district, he was shocked by the city noise and congestion. Horse-drawn wagons vied with muffler-less motor cars, honking trucks, and pedestrians. So many people, heading intently in all directions, like a disturbed school of trout. He made hesitant progress through them toward his rendezvous.

She was waiting at the corner of 103rd Street and smiled broadly when she saw him. Nicole Harvey was the most beautiful woman Creed had ever seen—curly golden-blond hair cropped in a modern style, a healthy blush to her flawless skin, inquiring hazel eyes, a perpetual smile on her full, responsive lips, and beneath the stylish cotton dress the generous curves of a woman. When she spoke, his words dried up. When she took his hand, his strength left him. When she laughed, his knees weakened. What Nicole Harvey saw in Creed, he had no idea. But here she was.

She had come west from Toronto to live with and care for her favourite uncle, Horace Harvey, a respected magistrate whose beloved wife had died of diphtheria two years before. Nicole loved and confidently embraced the West, though she maintained an eastern sophistication. After only a few weeks of seeing each other they had, surprisingly, made love, once, in the library when the magistrate and the servants were out and they had had more than one glass of sherry. They had been a little awkward in a pleasant way, but quite successful, and neither regretted it. Nicole had been excited and pleased by it all. A second opportunity had not arisen, and to invite her to a hotel room seemed sordid.

She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, then saw the bruising on the side of his face. “Oh, darling, what did they do to you, poor thing? Does it hurt?”

“No.”

He was relieved she did not ask for the details of the killings. It was another world and he was happy to be in the comfort of this one, with her, enjoying the waft of her perfume, the closeness of her body, the music of her voice, if only for a short while. As they walked west on the new cement sidewalks of Jasper Avenue, gazing in the shops, she held on to his arm and talked away about fashions, and news that Creed had missed: the discovery of a fresh oil field northwest of the city, the capture of the German-held town of St-Eloi by a Canadian regiment, discussions with the Americans about them joining the war, a woman who had killed her husband with an axe while he slept.

“But my question is,” Nicole teased, “did she use the blunt end or the blade end? It didn’t explain that in the papers. The blunt end is less messy.”

“Guess it depends on how she felt about him.”

She released her sparkling laugh that made men on the street turn and look. “You’re funny, Jack.”

They stopped for a moment while Nicole dug in her handbag for a silver cigarette case, and with a furtive glance up and down the street she put the Sweet Caporal between her lips. Her uncle Horace disapproved of women smoking, but he would still be in court. Creed vaguely disapproved himself, not because she was a woman but because the smell reminded him of the trenches. Everyone smoked in the trenches. The smell of tobacco and rum before an attack, the smell of tobacco and blood after. But here, as he lit it for her, he found he could not take his eyes off her full lips on the cigarette and the way they parted when she exhaled.

And yet he had chosen to leave her again and go north. Something powerful within him rallied to the offer of extended solitude. How could he explain it to her when he didn’t understand it himself? He was determined to tell her now. He was going to leave her and the friendly exuberance of this young town again, and go off, much farther this time, into the barren lands for a year.