Coppermine (50 page)

It was early afternoon when she mounted the packed roan. She would put the horse and her provisions on the Fort McMurray train at a livestock siding a few miles north of the city. She could not stop herself from looking up from under the brim of her hat toward the detachment where he was. Her head told her Nicole was right. No good could come now of seeing him again or hearing his voice or touching him. It would only make it worse and compromise her resolve. Her resolve to do the right thing. Her eyes brimmed again as she looked at the ornate detachment building, with towers and a stonework entrance like a castle she had seen in a book from a stupid white man’s fairy tale. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and turned the horse away from him. Under a hot afternoon sun she headed north with the determination of a wave in quest of a distant shore, out and away from Edmonton, along the ugly brown river.

CREED SAT IN THE CORNER
of the cell for three days listening to the soft periodic chanting of Uluksuk’s death song. The old man had given up eating and he spoke no more. He was slipping away into the dream world now and there was nothing Creed or Sinnisiak could do for him. No hope to offer. Creed himself had no appetite, and the songs that were a yearning for death lent a resonance to his own situation. Indeed, what was there to live for? The present was unbearable and the grim future offered little more. The girl was gone.

It was Cowperthwaite who delivered the sealed letter. Angituk had gone back to her people. This was not her world, she wrote to him. He was not her man. She wanted Creed to forget about her. And Creed knew that she was wise. In fact ruthlessly practical, and he had seen that feature in her before, the time she took the beating heart of the dovekie between her fingers and crushed it. So the message rang true. But still it surprised him. It pushed him deep into despondency. He would never see her again. He yearned to have his own death song and the comfort of the covenant old Uluksuk had made with eternity.

Nicole visited him twice a day. She held his hand through the bars. She was bright and optimistic, talking of the defence strategies she had developed with her uncle. There were no surviving witnesses to the crime but for McFee and Jack. There was not a lot of evidence still in existence. The captain’s body had been recovered and a battlefield autopsy done at the insistence of McFee. Even so, it was his word against Jack’s. If Jack confessed to killing the officer, there was still a defence to mount. To that end, she had been telegraphing doctors in Montreal and Boston who had expertise in the newly recognized mental condition called “shell shock.” Doctors were confirming that it could manifest itself as irrationality. It was not just an excuse to be relieved of duty.

“I’m coming with you to Belgium, Jack. I’m going to see you through this. You have to keep your spirits up. You heard what I said: there is some good news in all of this.”

She would then tell him she loved him and he would smile sadly at her, unable to bring himself to speak what was expected in return. He could not lie to her. The only thing he could think about was Angituk’s slender body swimming to him under the surface of the Great Bear, her urgent breath, her delighted laughter, and that she had left him and he would never see her again.

“Are you listening to me? You have to shave. You have to maintain appearances, Jack. You have to speak with confidence. There will be journalists. They’ll be watching you. We need them on our side. I’ll help you, but you have to work hard and help me, too.”

“All right.”

“Jack? It’s going to be okay. All right? We’ll get through this together and then we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

He would smile his sad smile and nod. “I don’t deserve you.”

On the third day, Nicole was discouraged. She had been giving him encouraging talks and discussing defence strategies and he just wasn’t readying himself.

“Funny old Jack. Is it the memories of the war coming back that are making you so sad?”

“I think that must be it.”

“Well, as I say, we’ll use these new studies about what war does to people. How it can make you behave in irrational ways. We have a lot of reasons for guarded optimism. My uncle says Boddington, Rupert and Lang are some of the finest defence solicitors in London. And the military court has agreed to consider his request to allow them to represent you. That’s a big hurdle.”

Creed was listening to most of what she said. She had told him she was more or less recovered from the shock and anger over what she had seen in the bedroom. She could put that behind them.

“I understand men are simple creatures and have their needs. You were under stress. I mean, the girl was pretty enough, I suppose.”

She had even told him she felt a little sorry for having turned him in to Crosswell. “In retrospect, I might have reconsidered.”

“I understand, Nicole. I don’t blame you.”

“And you know, in the long run, it is probably for the best. I mean, to deal with the criminal charges head-on. You can’t run forever. It’s rather exciting, really, that I can help save you. And then we’ll always have that. And we can put it behind us and be together.”

Nicole took Creed’s hand through the bars. “The train trip tomorrow will be a tonic for you. Hopefully, Captain Crosswell won’t be a boor about things and will give you a little freedom. Maybe we could all go to one of those excellent restaurants in Montreal. Maybe the Château. And then passage across the Atlantic on one of those convoys. They say the German submarines are almost under control. I think we should look on it as an adventure. I’m rather excited to go to Europe again. I haven’t been since I was a teenager, before the war.”

As she spoke, Creed realized he was dreading the trip, not so much because it would take him back to Europe and that hateful conflict and the charges he would face and the potential penalties, but rather because it would take him so far from the girl. Even if she had gone back to her people, didn’t love him anymore as her letter had stated, and would not have him, to be imprisoned on another continent so far away from her seemed more than he could bear.

Creed studied Nicole as she spoke to him, holding his hand. The practical Nicole. The beautiful Nicole. She was remarkable. It was true, if somehow they got through this thing, they could make a good life together. And she was the perfect agent for him with her uncle’s knowledge of law, her persuasive manner, and this resilient intent to love him whether he deserved it or not. He’d be a fool not to accept her help. Without her he would be lost. But he had used her once to gain advantage and then clemency for Sinnisiak and Uluksuk; he could not bring himself to deceive her again. He would have to tell her the truth, and then she would have to make her decision.

“Nicole. You have been wonderful to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he began. “You cheer me up and say you love me and you have your plans and strategies for the trial. But I have to tell you something.”

He had her attention.

“You are beautiful and charming and any other man would say I’m a fool, but you should know this. I don’t love you.”

She stared at him in shock, her hazel eyes searching his. Then she looked down and sorted herself out. When her eyes returned to his, they were brimming. He hated himself.

“Well, you know … sometimes there’s a lot to be said for lies and pretence. Don’t sell it short.” She laughed and two tears traced their way down her cheeks. Then she sniffed them back and sat up straight and began to speak quickly and calmly. “You know, Jack, these things often work out over time. In a little while you could begin to love me. Often that’s how it goes, Jack. Just more time. We’ve hardly had enough to really get to know each other, with you wandering all over the country. Love isn’t like some magic spell or … it’s never the mythological ‘at first sight’ sort of thing. It develops, bit by bit, until one day you turn around and there it is.” She was struggling now not to cry again. “I know I can make you love me, if you just let me. Please, Jack.”

“I love someone else.”

Nicole looked at him in shock. “You …? Who else …? Not the Eskimo girl! Over me? You love her?”

“I do.”

“But she’s gone, Jack.”

“I know.”

“She’s left you.”

“Yes.”

“She’s out of your life!”

“I know, but still I can’t.… It means I’m not able to love you.”

“You would sacrifice our entire life together because of this love for her?”

“You were right, Nicole. You said that love trumps everything. You were right.”

Nicole thought about this for a moment. Her hazel eyes darkened, her tears were gone. Suddenly she was on her feet.

“You bastard. You stupid bastard, Jack Creed or John MacKay or whoever you are. I’ve had enough of your games. You can go straight to hell! And you probably will, or spend your life in a military prison. And that’s fine with me. Go ahead. Throw yourself on the mercy of the army. You’ll get no more from me.”

She left the cells, slamming the heavy wood and iron door behind her, and Creed reflected into the evening on the future he had chosen.

JUSTICE HARVEY FELT COMPELLED
by duty to have Captain Crosswell for dinner on his last night in Edmonton. He would take the noon train south to Calgary tomorrow with his corporal and the prisoner, John MacKay, then the Continental to Montreal. Nicole had told her uncle she would not now be travelling to Europe, and though he was surprised, he did not question her. Captain Crosswell was quite disappointed she would not be accompanying them, but he too controlled his urge to pry. Harold and Lieutenant Wilkerson joined them for dinner. They both had another eight days of leave in Edmonton. The staff served roasted elk, fiddleheads, and a very good rendition of Yorkshire pudding. The port helped the evening pass.

After dinner, as the clock tolled eleven, they all retired to the parlour. The men smoked cigars and Harold started up the gramophone with a Ziegfeld Follies piece sung by Fanny Brice. Nicole, normally the energy of the party, had been unusually quiet and thoughtful and the men felt compelled to draw her out. As they did so, she suddenly came alive.

“Captain Crosswell, you’ve spent some time in Paris and London?”

“Indeed I have, miss.”

“We read in the news about popular dancing in the clubs. My goodness, what goes on! But I think it’s healthy. This old world needs to give itself a shake. Stop being so serious about everything.”

“Well, everything is rather serious these days, miss. If the Germans were to win, I can’t imagine what would become of ‘this old world.’”

“Yes. But we can’t do much about it right here, tonight, can we? So what I want to hear about are the new dances. Do you dance at all, Captain Crosswell?”

“Funny you should say. I do, miss. The wife and I used to be quite the pair in London. And even with my disadvantage, I did cut a rug in Paris.”

“Oh! You must show us! Show us a new dance. I’ve heard of one: the Trot.”

“Yes, the Foxtrot. Very popular. But you know, it’s not named after the creature. It’s named after the man, Harry Fox, who invented it.”

“Really?” Nicole was on her feet. “I can’t wait a moment longer. Show us the Foxtrot.”

Captain Crosswell hesitated, glancing at Justice Harvey. But when he sensed the Justice’s approval, he rose dutifully to his feet.

“Right, then. I’ll show you how it goes, but maybe first we warm up with something simple.”

The captain put his good arm around her waist, and she placed her right hand on his waist and her left gently on his shoulder above his empty sleeve, which startled him for a moment until he realized it was the perfect configuration. And he smiled at her, this attractive, sensitive woman. Harold put a slower Dixieland jazz band number on the gramophone and they were suddenly dancing a two-step. The captain was smooth and confident. He did not seem to mind she stood more than half a head taller.

“We’ll start with the easy version of the Trot. Some people approach it like a polka, but it’s much more like an energetic waltz!”

He moved her around in circles, explaining when to do the little kicks. They danced smoothly all through one song and started it again. Halfway in, she stumbled and went down onto one knee, laughing. Alarmed at first, the captain knelt down to support her and help her up. As he did so, she grasped at his waist, leaning awkwardly against him. Her fingers slid unnoticed into the side pocket of his uniform jacket and emerged with the key to Jack’s cell. A second later she was back on her feet, quite recovered. She danced once more with the captain and then they tried a little of the quickstep version, but she expressed her dizziness and sat down, thanking him.

With the only female partner available bowing out, the disappointed men left dancing behind and the focus turned to stories of the war. Justice Harvey reached for his best bottle of Macallan Scotch, which Nicole had positioned with glasses on the sideboard. She lit the small fire she had set as, she explained, the night was cooling and a fireside is always the best place to tell stories. Her uncle was fond of saying that the greatest lies are told before marriage, after the hunt, and during the campaign. When the Scotch was poured, the men drank to the success of the war effort, and to the Yanks who had finally joined the Allies, and almost immediately the conversation turned to artillery and tactics. Nicole claimed weariness, bade them all good night, kissed her uncle and cousin, and left them to their stories.

In her room, Nicole changed into her riding breeches, boots, and blouse and then went quietly out the back way to the stables. She could have taken the Ford, but it had a tendency to backfire. She harnessed up the grey gelding to the trap and, so she wouldn’t be heard, led him slowly down the muffling grass beside the gravel driveway to the street. Nimbly, she jumped aboard the cart and gave the reins a snap and soon they were trotting down 106th Street into town.

AT THE DETACHMENT,
Corporal Cowperthwaite was looking at the last inch of Hudson’s Bay rum in the bottle. He had another bottle if need be, but it appeared by the heavy lids and slack jaw of the British corporal that the man had finally succumbed. It had taken a little persuading, that first sip. He was a by-the-book soldier and on guard duty after all, his chair positioned beside the door into the cells, and he outright refused at first. Cowperthwaite promised him his captain would certainly be enjoying the contents of the Justice’s liquor cabinet, and the prisoner was locked away and asleep, so the NCO finally agreed to a ceremonial sip. Once committed, the big corporal took enthusiastically to the stuff.