Lost Nation (32 page)

Then saw the camp back in the hemlocks, the once-white sailcloth canvas tea-stained with rain and mottled with fallen leaves so it seemed not on the land but within it, hidden neat. She recalled the rising birds and thought the brothers must not be there, perhaps hunting or on some ramble. She realized she had no way to know their days, their purpose within this place. Her mood did not soften but turned again over her presumption she could simply walk up here and find him waiting. So she was stricken, seeking trust with no reason she’d find it. What she was aware of now was wasting time, sidetracking up here instead of making her way to Van Landt’s. Of Blood taken, awaiting her, now looming in dismay and anger at her. It didn’t matter he’d only been gone an hour.

So at first when he came out of the canvas lean-to and made his way toward her, hair loose and matted, his hands up rubbing his face and working at his eyes to bring them to focus, when she first saw him she was again confused, distracted, without a clear idea why she was here, what she wanted of him. She watched him come, feeling rough peeled. Not how she’d imagined this. A sudden tumbling of events and thoughts that left her contrary and doubtful.

He said, “I was laying back on my blankets watching this pretty day and fell right to sleep. All them birds put to fright woke me. I ain’t used to a girl walking around in the woods. My, you look pretty this morning.”

He finger-combed his hair mostly free and pushed it back behind his ears. His eyelids still swollen from sleep but he was grinning at her.

“Where’s your brother?”

He heard her then. She saw his face converge fully upon her. “He’s back there sleeping likewise. What kind of trouble’s happened to you?”

“I ain’t in any trouble.”

“Well, what’re you doing walking around with that musket? Hunting some venison?”

“I ain’t the one in trouble. But I could use some help maybe.” Watching him, knowing the next moments would reveal much of him. And saw he understood this.

“I was wondering why you looked so distressed to see me.” He spoke with deliberation. “But if it’s help you need I’m pleased it was me you come to. What’s the matter?”

She told him of Laberge and Bacon, and the royal troopers ridden over from Canada after Blood, and how Chase and Cole had watched Blood being taken as if it was of only mild interest to them. How Peter Chase was waiting as she’d left to hike up here. Finally she told him of Blood’s directive to her, of Van Landt and the idea of horses and her uncertainty of taking that on alone.

He stood awhile considering all this. Sally was patient, wondering if it was luck or fate that had brought her here. If it was all a mistake. If she should’ve gone it alone, if she still should. This boy Fletcher with his face too open, his desires still intact, easy to read. Not the best for what she required.

Finally he said, “We better go wake my brother.”

This could be worse. She felt she’d already gone too far, said too much. “No. I don’t want anyone else to know about this. I already told you enough for Blood to kill me.”

He shook his head. He said, “Maybe you owe Blood enough to chase after what he says. But he’s got debts hisself. There’d be satisfaction in riding in with you to help him out of his scrape. But it’s not enough.”

“What do you mean?” Now agitated as much as confused. Afraid she was about to lose what control she had. And determined not to even as part of her was popping with interest keen.

Fletcher said, “Here,” and reached and took her hand. “Walk over here and meet my brother.” He did not lead her but walked beside her across the marsh toward the lean-to. She let him do this a moment and slipped her hand away—knowing she needed his attention but resolved
not to encourage it. Not now for certain. And guessing his imagination would serve just fine without her provoking it. Some part of her already tender toward him. An odd feeling for her. Something new and not at all disagreeable.

There was something about the brother that disturbed her. It was, she decided, in his eyes. While Fletcher regarded her with eyes plainly prepared to hear and accept everything about her, this brother she knew as Russell bore eyes upon her with hot flicks of motion as she spoke, not her body which was usual to her but as if he followed her words out and caught them up each one by one and examined them in his own time and fashion. As if she might speak for hours and he would lose nothing of what was said but would come to his own conclusion. When they’d come up to the lean-to Fletcher held her hand again while he called forth his brother but then let go and left her to stand while he crossed over and squatted next to the fire and said, “Sally. Tell him just exactly what you told me.” And she thought If it’s a mistake, I already made the jump and got no choice but to confide. And so she did.

When she was done she waited for Russell to speak and when he did not, she went on and said, “I don’t trust that Dutchman as much as Blood does. I don’t guess I got a choice but to get over there to Canada and bring what Blood wanted me to but I’m nervous about going it alone. I was thinking maybe you two might help someway.”

Russell stood considering all this. She waited patient. After a bit he leaned to the stone fire ring to turn the coals and add hemlock deadwood for a quick fire and moved a blackened kettle directly onto the coals. He was now a few short feet from her. She did not move away. He set out tin cups and measured tea and when the kettle boiled he threw in the tea and took the kettle from the flame and rested it on a stone to steep. Still he did not look at her. Fletcher watched her and once flashed a quick grin at her. As if he knew her discomfort and was pleading patience. Russell merely squatted and watched the kettle, as if penetrating the iron wall to gauge the progress of the tea. After a time he poured out three cups that steamed in the warm afternoon. He looked up at Sally then. His eyes had drifted a little. He almost seemed surprised to see her there.

He spread an open hand to indicate the circle of rocks. He said, “Set yourself and have a sup of tea.” Then, still serious said, “Lest you plan immediate destruction, you ought to lean that musket rifle up against something. It’s a considerable weight to stand clutching like that.”

She settled across from the brothers, facing them, her skirt tucked under her knees. She held the tea in her hand. The cup was hot through, too hot even to try against her lips.

Russell said, “You come up here trusting, idn’t that so?”

“I guess. To see anyhows. We ain’t made no deals.”

“Fletcher here thinks much of you.”

She was silent.

Russell nodded. She didn’t know what this agreement signified. He said, “So it’s only fair we trust you.”

She blew again and made a small sip of the tea. She said, “You can.”

“All right,” Russell said, the tone of a man making a contract.

She was silent, agreeing to nothing.

A short pause. As of final assessment. Then Russell said, “My name idn’t Russell Barrett.” He leaned his shoulder to direct her toward Fletcher. “And he idn’t a Barrett either. It’s only a name we come up with. Although he truly is Fletcher.”

She was watching Cooper close. Aware things were shifting toward some great weight. She made no response.

The brother was abrupt. “I’m Cooper Bolles. And he’s Fletcher Bolles.”

She said, “All right.” Placid even as a crack of recognition opened.

“You don’t understand. What do you know of Blood?”

She considered. “A fair amount, someways. But not so much, others.”

“He’s got more name than Blood.” Cooper watched as if expecting her to understand something. She glanced at Fletcher. He was watching her also. His face was kind. He had a kind face. She looked back at Cooper.

Who was awaiting this look. He said, “He was born and named and still is Micajah Blood Bolles.”

Without pause she said, “He’s your father, Blood is.”

Cooper nodded.

She looked at Fletcher. “And yours.”

He drank some tea and nodded. Looking out the tent-fly onto the late summer dusk.

She sat silent a moment. When neither of them spoke she said, “He told me his wife and older boy died in the sea. An accident. But there was someway he held hisself responsible. He tried to explain that to me.”

Fletcher turned his gaze up toward the canvas fly lit as a candle from the late sunlight. When he spoke his voice strained to stay even. “There’s plenty men not callous enough to turn their backs on every thing in their lives. Like what children they left behind. Even just the ones they knowed about.”

Her voice tentative, Sally said, “What was it then?”

Fletcher remained looking out, away. Cooper tossed the last of his tea into the fire and sat watching where the small jet of steam rose. Sally let their silence be.

Then Cooper stood under the tent-fly and so without apparent effort was closer to her, looking down upon her. He said, “I waited a long time for this. But there’s not a thing we need to do this evening. There’s time enough to hire horses in the morning and ride to Hereford to learn what trouble he’s in. And see what he makes of us, and what we make of him. There’s a pile of story you don’t even begin to know yet girl. But I need to mull this some. I waited too long to hurry now and mess it up. I want to get it right. So, I thought I’d stroll on out and see if I can catch some trouts for a supper for us all. And I got to consider just where you stand with all this.”

Without waiting response Cooper took down a loop of handline from one of the upright poles and turned and walked away. Fletcher was still gazing upward toward the screened sky. So Sally sat with her cold tea and watched Cooper tread his way out into the threads of the marsh. She was thinking We hadn’t ought to just set here. But they were. Neither boy seemed in much of a hurry. Then she realized Fletcher was waiting for his brother to lead.

She didn’t know what to think of Cooper.

Late in the afternoon the party of troopers and the twice-burdened mule came down the western ridge of narrow switchbacks above Halls Stream and sat their blowing horses at the streambank. One of the troopers wordlessly handed a canvas waterbag to Blood and he drank and handed
the bag back and then without ceremony they crossed over the stream and were in Quebec. They rode north through the low rolling hills and broad valley past farmsteads with rail-fence enclosures and small well-built barns, the farmhouses all without exception painted in a variety of hues Blood had not imagined for a house: mustard yellow and chalk blue and pale pink, with sills and window casements in sharp contrasting colors.

The evening sun was lowering over the western hills and the light poured forth over this land as if onto some favored place and Blood could not help but wonder if he hadn’t stopped some few miles too short on his northward trek the spring before. He recalled the Canadians dancing to the wondrous accordion music and thought perhaps he might have been more welcomed here. Among these Catholics, the men might’ve welcomed him more than the men of Indian Stream—the habitant trappers he’d met seemed now to him to have been reserved only by their minority. Perhaps their religion would have been benefit rather than hindrance. Even for the girl, although he expected she would have faced the same censure from the women. And there would’ve been the black-robed Fathers to contend with. It seemed no place was free of the righteous. In his own way, he guessed he was well righteous himself.

Blood thought all this trotting raw-buttocked on the mule with his hands blistered from the harsh ropes binding the corpse before him. Then a gaggle of children grew roadside and he realized it was himself they were peering at. A few flung pebbles and one struck Blood below the ear and another a trooper’s horse and the officer swung about in the road and ordered the children off. If they spoke English as well as French Blood could not guess but the officer’s message was clear in any language and the children fell back, calling names or threats lost in the soft twilight.

It was dark when they came into Saint-Venant-de-Hereford, the windows of the houses lit from within and only stray dogs to stir to the muted jangle and leather-creak of the troop and they rode through the town until they came to a plain one-story modest garrison house with a long ell of a stable. The captain remained mounted while three of the troopers took Blood down off the mule and held him by the elbows and brought him before the officer.

Quigley stroked his mustache and looked down at Blood. “You’ll be placed in stockade for the night. I have yet to deliver this body and see no reason to offend the family with your presence.”

“I thought I was here to see the magistrate.”

Quigley regarded Blood. “By the hour it’s plain the magistrate would be sitting to his dinner. Would you care to interrupt him?”

Blood said nothing.

The officer went on. “You may of course purchase whatever rations would otherwise be also available to the garrison this evening.”

Blood said, “I have no money with me. But the girl is coming along tomorrow and will have ample funds for reimbursement.”

“Will she,” said Quigley. “In that event, you will be able to eat when she arrives.” He turned to the troopers restraining Blood. “Make no concessions to his pleas. Irons, both hand and leg.” Then he spurred his horse forward into a tight trot and the others of the company moved forward with him, even the blueroan mule trotting into the darkness. Leaving Blood as a minor hindrance of more solemn concerns.

The three cavalrymen led Blood to the end of the horse stables. The last stall did not have a half-door as the others did but one made of stout oaken planks with iron straps. While one of the men took a candle-lantern from a peg and lighted it another removed his horse pistol and struck Blood behind his ear and he went to his knees. The trooper struck again and Blood went down, his face scraping the hard-packed dirt of the floor. They rolled him face-up and one sat on his chest and held the muzzle of the pistol to his face while the others fitted his ankles with manacles attached by a short chain and then his wrists with a smaller set. The man stood off his breast and replaced his pistol in its chest holster and the three stepped out without speaking and shut the heavy door. A moment later Blood heard an iron bar being fitted across the door. Then boots receding in the measured uneven pace of horseback men walking. They had taken the lantern with them and he could see nothing but floating shapes of red and white pain sifting over his eyes. He was able to lift his bound hands and could feel a small blood-flow behind his ear. A knot stood out on his head there and the flow was already crusting in his hair.