Coppermine (51 page)

As they drank, Cowperthwaite entertained him with talk of some recent research he had done. “You see, the Eskimo is a nomadic hunting society while ours is a stationary accumulative society. They are polar opposites, no pun intended. In our society it is the accumulation of material goods and land and currency which is the measure of a man’s success. And this system then requires government and taxes and banks, the creation of class structures, competition, suppression of the poor and of women. But in Eskimo society, success comes from a productive hunt and to do that they require mobility, adaptability, skill, and planning, and an intuitive understanding of land and sea conditions, animal behaviour, and weather patterns. Touch more?”

He poured the corporal three more fingers. There was no protest. Cowperthwaite was warming to his dissertation.

“And it has always been the case that settled culture seeks to change nomadic hunting cultures, to make them stop and stay in one place and embrace their brand of civilization, but it is the very egalitarian nature of the nomadic society that defends against that. They have no real leaders as such. No organizations! Each Eskimo makes his own decisions. The best hunter leads by example. Others watch. No questions are asked. No one tells anyone else what to do. If anyone tried to give orders, it would be considered rude and improper. And you see, this individualism is an effective barricade against organized domination by one man, one class, or by an outside civilization like … ourselves. You see my point?”

“Yes. Very inner-esting.” The corporal drained his glass and Cowperthwaite didn’t even ask to pour this time.

“You’ve never heard of Eskimo wars, have you? They’d be impossible to organize! And their very nature is to avoid personal conflict. They have enough to do to simply survive. So when conflict comes, they smile or ignore it or simply move away to a new camp, whereas we, on the other hand, must stay and defend our accumulated stuff! Result: war!”

Cowperthwaite had gone on along these lines for the better part of an hour, by which time the bottle was nearly drained. He himself was not feeling any pain, though he had subtly pushed the lion’s share onto the corporal so he would be ready for the work at hand. He stood up straight and whispered to Nicole when she arrived, trying not to slur.

“I think he’s good, Miss Harvey. Out for a while.”

And as they both looked at the corporal, he began to produce soft little snores, slow and consistent and growing in volume.

“Good work, Cowperthwaite.”

“I gave it my best, miss.”

When she went to go inside to the cells, Cowperthwaite was behind her and she suddenly turned back. “Can you give us a minute?” she asked him.

THERE WAS MOONLIGHT
coming through the small window, illuminating the cells with an eerie incandescence. The two Eskimos were curled up asleep on the floor. Creed lay on his back along a narrow bench with one hand across his chest, the other trailing on the floor, his face turned toward her in childlike repose. Nicole lowered herself to her knees and studied him through the bars. She loved this man. Everything until then had been plans and arrangements, and now, in this moment of calm, this moment of reflection on what could and couldn’t be, the grief came suddenly and she fought against the unstoppable tears and then for a moment she let them flow. Only a moment, only one breath-catching sob, quiet like a whisper, but enough of a release that she could then recover and function again. She was back in control just as Creed opened his eyes.

“Nicole?”

She put a finger to her lips. “The corporal’s asleep,” she whispered. “Crosswell is with my uncle. The men are out on patrols except for Cowperthwaite.”

She held the key out to him in both hands like a sacrament. Creed took it through the bars.

“My trap is waiting outside. The train for Fort McMurray leaves in twenty-five minutes.”

Creed held her hand through the bars, their faces close. “Why are you doing this?”

Nicole went to touch his face with her hand, then stopped herself. “Because I lied to you, Jack. I’m sorry. You … you initiated this reckless new world of honesty. So here it is: I made her write the letter. I made her say she didn’t love you. I made her go away But the truth is, she does love you, Jack. As much as you love her. So if love trumps everything … go and find her.”

He looked into her eyes. “Nicole, I don’t know what to—”

She put her fingers against his lips to stop him. He took her hand and squeezed it, then stood, inserted Crosswell’s key, turned it, and the latch quietly released. Across town, the train whistle signalled the twenty-minute warning.

Cowperthwaite stepped inside anxiously. “You better hurry, Jack.”

Creed looked into the second locked cell, where his friends were sleeping. “Cowper, I’m taking them with me.”

His friend held up the chain of keys. “I thought as much.”

Creed took the chain from him and opened the second cell. “Come on, you two. We’re going home.”

Sinnisiak was alert in an instant, but it took precious moments to get Uluksuk awake and standing. He was weak. Too weak to walk alone.

“You’re going home,” Creed repeated.

“You’ll see your wives and children and grandchildren,” Sinnisiak told him.

“Come home, Uluksuk.”

The old man’s dull eyes brightened and a new strength suddenly surged through his frail, starving body. “Home?” he said.

Creed helped him out of the cell and through the door, where Creed stopped and turned back toward Nicole.

“Are you coming?”

“No. No, I think I’ll stay here, thanks.”

Creed hesitated in the doorway, keeping Uluksuk on his feet.

“Goodbye then, Nicole. Thank you. I’ll never forget this.”

“I know.”

When they were gone, Nicole walked into Jack’s cell. She reached down to place her hand on the bench, still warm where his body had lain. She noticed on the floor under the bench a silver circle and bent down to pick up the object. It was Mainprize’s broken pocket watch, the hands still, a pretty thing, the face tragically cracked. She turned, reached out to grasp a bar on the cell door, and swung it shut, the lock clicking into place. Then, with the broken pocket watch tightly in her hand, she lay down on the warm bench where he had slept, to wait.

Twenty-Eight

They crowded into the little two-wheeled buggy: Creed, Sinnisiak, Uluksuk, and Cowperthwaite. Creed lifted the old man up and his body was as light as a child’s.

Creed suddenly realized the risks his friend was taking. “You’re going to get in trouble, Cowperthwaite. Aiding and abetting.”

“I’ll say it was all at gunpoint. Where’s your gun?”

“They took it away.”

“Oh, of course. Here, take mine.”

“No, I’m serious. Accessory to an escape.”

“I’ll be fine. The corporal got me drunk.”

They made their way with Nicole’s grey gelding at a quick trot down the deserted streets toward the station. The train was in final boarding when they arrived. There were only a handful of people in the station. Creed and the hunters remained behind a closed concession stand while Cowperthwaite bought the tickets. The clerk was painfully slow about it. There was an RNWMP constable on duty near the gate and Cowperthwaite went over to report some drunken ruffians on the street outside the station. When the constable went to investigate, they all passed through the gate and out onto the platform.

At the steps of the final passenger car, they stopped while Cowperthwaite gave Creed the tickets. A conductor called out to stragglers.

“ALL ABOARD! LAST CALL FOR FORT MCMURRAY!”

Creed turned to Cowperthwaite. “Thank you for this, Lyle. I owe you my life.”

“Just a letter from time to time, Jack. Let me know how you get on.”

Creed shook his hand warmly.

“And take this.” He handed Creed a brand new volume of Robert Service’s poems. “He just gets more wonderful all the time!”

Creed laughed and stuck it in his knapsack. “Thanks, Lyle. I’ll put it to good use.”

Creed guided the hunters to the steps. Uluksuk could almost stand on his own now and with both hands on the railings, with Creed’s help, he mounted the first step. They’d made it. Creed put an arm around him to help him up the final steps. In moments they would be on their way.

“Good evening, Creed,” Superintendent Worsley called to him.

Three RNWMP officers—Dewey, Oberly, and Worsley—were suddenly standing on the platform behind Creed. Big Svenson appeared inside the train at the top of the steps, blocking their way. Creed turned to stare at Worsley then and stepped down onto the platform. It took him a moment to find his voice.

“Good evening, sir.”

His heart plunged. It was over. He had involved Cowperthwaite and Nicole and he had failed. They would be punished. As for his own freedom, he had used it up long ago. He killed a man with his bare hands. Only moments ago, when Nicole revealed the way to him, did he allow himself to believe that it could be this easy. But freedom was never this easy. The worst thing about it was Uluksuk. The shaman would die now. He would die and there was nothing Creed could do about it.

“How did you know?” Creed asked Worsley, who seemed pleased at the question.

“Just a hunch. I couldn’t be sure, but this train was one of your last options. If you hadn’t arrived, no loss. But you didn’t disappoint me, Creed.”

Creed had never seen this cruel streak in Worsley before. Worsley turned to Cowperthwaite with an official tone.

“Corporal! What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Ah, sir, I … I was just about to apprehend these fugitives.”

“Fugitives. Is that what you call them?”

“I’m happy to call them anything you like, Superintendent.”

“I think you should call them ‘men on assignment.’”

Creed and Cowperthwaite looked at Worsley with blank stares.

“Assignment, sir?” Creed asked. “I … I don’t understand.”

Worsley spoke to Creed, his face devoid of emotion. “New orders, Inspector Creed. I think it’s high time the Royal North West Mounted Police established a new post at the mouth of the Coppermine River. Would you volunteer for such a mission?”

Creed looked at him, astonished. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. And these two will be your assistants: Special Constables Uluksuk and Sinnisiak. You can swear them in.”

“Special constables, sir?” Creed stared at him.

Worsley leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Yes, Creed. Why don’t you just take them home.”

Creed was startled by the blast of the train’s whistle. The conductor called out to Worsley: “One minute, Superintendent.”

Worsley looked at Creed, waiting for a response. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I think I do. Thank you, sir.”

Sinnisiak was helping Uluksuk on board. They went up the steps and entered the passenger car.

“I’ll telegraph Fort Norman to have supplies ready for you. Find yourself a new name. Send me regular reports. Both the Anglican and Catholic churches have declared their intent to build missions there in the next couple of years, and Hudson’s Bay wants a post. I need a good man to keep things under control.”

“What will you do about Crosswell, sir?”

“Don’t worry about Crosswell. I will receive word tomorrow you’ve been spotted crossing the Montana border.” Worsley smiled for the first time. “Better get on board, Creed.”

The whistle blew again and the train began to move.

Creed jumped onto the lowest step, pulling himself up. He looked at the amused faces of Svenson, Dewey, Oberly, and Cowperthwaite.

“Oh, and Creed—you’re going to need to hire an interpreter. I would suggest, from what I’ve heard, you might find an experienced one in Fort Norman.”

“Yes?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“I hope so, sir. Thank you, sir.”

ON A SUNNY,
warm afternoon late in September, the girl sat on a three-legged stool on the bank of the Great Bear River on the edge of the tumbledown, patchwork settlement of Fort Norman. The husky named Star lay at her feet. The flannel shirt and trousers were still a little big for her frame, but she liked the roominess. She hated any feelings of confinement. She was skinning muskrats, a slit up the front from tail to chin, side cuts up the legs and around the paws with her new knives, then working the skin off using her mother’s
ulu
blade, which was still the best for parting fur from flesh without nicking the membrane. Her strong, slender fingers worked quickly. George Fish, a half-breed like her, who owned the tannery, was happy to have her back. He didn’t care if she was Eskimo; she was the best skinner he had ever seen.

Angituk was still dressing and acting like a man since her return to Fort Norman, though it was more difficult to maintain the charade than it had been before her trip to the Coppermine. Her body had filled out in the last few months and her face had matured past the ambiguity of adolescence. Her short hair had grown, which worked more than anything against her male image—when it fell in her eyes, she would toss her head in an unmistakably feminine manner—and so it was impossible to assert she was now anything other than a beautiful young woman. But she didn’t really care. Men, white or red, did not intimidate her anymore. She had a fine set of knives and it was known she could use them. Her clothing and manner were more habit and comfort now than masquerade. And George Fish and the good people of Fort Norman didn’t care either. They were most of them running from something. They all had their secrets and eccentricities. They had offered her honest smiles and warm greetings when she had returned a few days before.

After her odyssey, Angituk had simply returned to life as she had known it. She didn’t need the money from skinning, but she needed the simple purpose and a place to hole up for the few months. She put down her knife and wiped her hands on her jean trousers and felt her belly, still firm and showing no more than if she had just finished a big meal. It had happened on the Great Bear. The first time they made love. She massaged it in circles and sang a few words of the magic song to the baby inside. She could still be active for several months while the baby grew. She thought she would do some hunting in the fall.