Ghosts of James Bay (4 page)

Then the fog parted. It didn't roll back in a process reversing the one that had engulfed me, but rather it withdrew all at once. The view shocked me deeply. Wherever I looked, the surface of the bay was dotted with patches of white. They were so unexpected that it took me a minute to realize what they were. Ice floes at the beginning of September, especially after the hot summer we'd had, were
impossible. Yet there they were. I stopped paddling. As I did, my eye was drawn from the ice floes to an even weirder view. The fog was still thinning, but now it seemed to draw in on itself at a point in front of the canoe. As it did, it gave the impression that it was thickening and solidifying into the shape of a ship.

It had to be a trick of the light. I closed my eyes and shook my head to dispel the illusion. But when I opened my eyes, there was the ship, solid now, sitting on the calm water about a hundred metres in front of me. It was perhaps twenty-five metres from bow to stern, high at the front and back and with three masts from which sails hung, billowed only slightly in the light breeze.

I could just make out the gold lettering on the stern—
Discovery
. Beside the ship and tied to it was a low rowboat with a single, short mast. Both vessels had a grey, washed-out look.

My first reaction was fear at the almost ghostly appearance of the scene, and a shiver ran down my spine. I looked around. The fog had withdrawn and lay like a curtain around me. Within the circle of fog the air was clear and the sun shone in a blue sky. The sea was calm, and the ice glinted at me mischievously in the sunlight.

I returned my gaze to the ship. Oddly, although the breeze was catching the ship's sails and must be moving it along, and I had ceased to paddle so was only drifting, the distance between the canoe and the ship hadn't altered.

Was the scene real? The vessel certainly wasn't one I expected to encounter here. This was no fishing boat or a late-season tourist boat. But then boaters were sometimes an eccentric lot. Irrationally my mind jumped back to my trip out to the West Coast with Mom. In Nanaimo's harbour we had seen all manner of strangely rigged craft, from 1920s
rum runners and lovingly polished, sleek wooden yachts to a complete replica of a Chinese junk. Some had been all over the Pacific, and one had even sailed through the Northwest Passage. This craft must be the lovingly re-created toy of a rich mariner cruising the bay for summer fun. Even as I thought this, I knew it wasn't true. This was no ordinary ship, no expensive fantasy of a wealthy seagoing history buff. This was a ghost ship.

My rational mind rejected the idea of ghosts, but deep inside I knew that was what I was witnessing. I felt a rising panic, and yet I was as cold and immobile as the ice that surrounded me. I could no more have removed my gaze from the scene before me than flown in the air.

As I watched, spellbound, I noticed there were people moving on the ship and in the boat. I heard a deep, rich voice carry over the distance between us.

“Stand aside,” it said firmly. “I would go with the captain.”

“Thou need not, Master Carpenter,” another voice spoke. “I have nought against thee. The captain has used thee as unfairly as the rest, and I would have use of thy skills on the journey home.”

“Your journey is but to the gallows, Juet, and your home but a traitor's grave,” the deep voice continued. “Now stand aside while I load my chest and fowling piece.”

There was a flurry of activity on the deck of the larger vessel, and a chest and some other objects were passed down into the boat. They were followed by the figure of a man climbing down a rope ladder. He settled himself in the boat, then shouted back up, “Prickett! Leave some token at the Capes of the Furious Overfall where the fowls breed so that we may know you have been there.”

“Aye, I shall,” a third voice responded.

Then a high-pitched voice joined in. “Prickett, beware of
Juet and keep your writings for our record.”

“Aye. I shall, but 'tis Greene who commands now.”

“Beware that devil, too,” the high voice continued. “He will sit at your table and eat your bread before he stabs you in the back.”

“Enough talk,” Juet's voice cut over the others. “Cut them loose and we be on our way.

There was activity on the deck and a length of rope snaked down into the small boat. Almost immediately the larger vessel pulled away. A figure leaned over the railing at the back.

“Now we shall feast on the food thou hast hoarded and sail home safe. May thy bones freeze in the ice of this godforsaken land. Thou shalt endanger the lives of no more stout sailors with thy lunatic schemes of the Orient. There be no passage to the Spice Lands through this barren place. 'Tis but death thy madness brings upon thee, Henry Hudson.”

There was no reply from the boat and, as the distance between the two increased, the fog rolled back, blocking the scene from my view. The familiar grey wall surrounded me once more.

For a long time I gazed at the grey curtain. I knew what I had seen—the ghosts of men who had died centuries before. The old-fashioned ship wasn't a replica; it was the real thing—the
Discovery!
The ship in which Henry Hudson had sailed these waters in 1610 and 1611 and from which his crew had set him adrift to die a lonely death on the shores of the bay that would always bear his name. Somehow I had witnessed him being cast adrift. The man with the deep voice, Philip Staffe the carpenter, had been the only one who voluntarily went with his captain to share his fate.

I sat motionless, shivering. Ghosts! Could I have the disorientation of hypothermia already? No. I had been on the water
no more than an hour and, although there was a chill in the air, my core body temperature was a long way from dropping seriously. There must be a rational explanation. Then a more pressing consequence than my confusion sprang into my mind. I had no idea which way I was facing. Before the encounter I was fairly sure I was headed more or less toward shore. Now, after drifting and not paying attention, I might be headed straight into the wild, open waters of Hudson Bay. However, any activity was better than doing nothing. I began paddling toward what I hoped was safety.

Confidently the warrior laid out his trade goods before Hairy Face—two beaver pelts and two caribou skins. From the pouch beneath his arm he took out the items he had been given the day before. On one of the beaver pelts he laid the knife. On the other, the frozen water and the trinkets. Then he replaced the things, handed the beaver skins over, and stood. This would be a good trade.

Hairy Face did not look happy, but he nodded and handed the skins to those behind him. Then he produced a hatchet and laid it on the ground. The warrior was excited, but did not show it. Slowly he took one of the caribou skins and placed it next to the hatchet. Hairy Face shook his head and indicated the other skin, as well. This was too much. This was not a good trade. Caribou skins were much more valuable than beaver; they could be turned into everything from clothes and blankets to tents. The warrior shook his head. He pointed to the hatchet and raised two fingers—two hatchets were worth two caribou skins. Again Hairy Face shook his head. He pointed at the hatchet and held up one finger, then at the caribou skins and held up two.

The warrior had a problem. The more he could take back, the easier it would be to convince his people there were benefits to be had from contact with these strangers. A bad trade would make that more difficult. On the other hand, Hairy Face might call off the trade altogether if he was unhappy with it. The warrior had to have something. Reluctantly he added the other caribou skin to the trade pile and took the hatchet.

Hairy Face stood and smiled. As on the day before, he made eating gestures. Perhaps he wanted to trade for food. The warrior would remember that next time, but now he must return and convince his people he had done a good thing. Making the gesture for sleep, the warrior indicated he would return in five days and trade again. Then he turned and walked into the trees.

Overall, the warrior was happy. The two caribou skins for one hatchet still annoyed him. He had thought the trading would be easy because these strangers were so obviously poor at looking after themselves, but he had been wrong. Still, he had made contact and begun trade. If he could persuade his people to continue, only good could come of it.

The first thing I heard was the sound of oars slicing the water. It was coming from close by and over to my right. I stopped paddling and listened. Then I heard the voice. It was high-pitched—the voice of Henry Hudson

“Keep to it, men. The shore can be not far now.”

“Aye,” the deep voice of Philip Staffe said. “If we could but perceive it through this damnable mist.”

“Be of stout heart, Master Staffe,” Hudson continued. “The Lord will see to our needs if we have but faith.”

“That may be, but I have yet to see the evidence of it. We are a sickly crew and cannot hope to prosper for long in these inhospitable climes. Had we but set ourselves to the task of following the
Discovery,
we might be near the Furious Overfall by now.”

“And then what?” Hudson asked. “Do you expect that with our sickness and want of supplies we could navigate such a treacherous stretch of water and then sail this shallop all the way back to St. Katherine's Pool? Philip, our only hope lies in
Jack's idea of enlisting the help of the local salvages and making a contact with the French at Quebec or the salvage city of Hochelaga.”

“Aye.” A third voice joined the conversation, younger and softer than the others. “The salvages know both of the water on which we sit and the communities of the Frenchmen. Surely there is trade and we need simply follow the routes of the goods to find succour.”

“May be, Jack. May be. Yet I—”

Staffe's voice was cut off by my appearance out of the fog. What I saw was the bow of a boat arching above my small canoe. It was heading straight for the side. If it hit, it would stave in the canoe and I would end up in the water. Not a prospect I relished.

Frantically I dug the paddle in deep and pulled to turn away from the collision. My best chance was to swing around parallel to the boat and, hopefully, pass alongside it. The canoe was much more manoeuvrable than the rowboat and responded quickly, but the crew of the boat were working, too. With much shouting and pulling on the oars, they were bringing their bow around, fortunately in the same direction as me. It seemed we would avoid a collision, but only just. I looked up. Five faces peered at me over the gunwales. They were very close, unusually pale, and colourless. The boat, the faces, the rough clothing the men wore, everything, was a uniform grey, as if made from the fog itself.

We were very close now and passing each other in opposite directions at quite a speed. They were as silent as I. One of the faces in particular caught my eye. It belonged to a boy, not much older than I. He had dark hair, long and lying over his neck, and his features were well formed and open. His eyes, despite the lack of colour, seemed to sparkle with life and fun. As I gazed at him, his face broke into a smile.

Encouraged, I was about to say something when a shadow appeared at the edge of my vision. I turned. One of the figures farther down the boat had an oar. He had lifted it from the water in the manoeuvre to turn, but kept it held out horizontally. It was approaching my head at a frightening speed. With not even time to duck, I closed my eyes against the imminent pain. There was none. Only a cold, clammy burst of air sweeping over my face, then nothing. I opened my eyes and turned. The strange boat was already past me, becoming part of the surrounding fog.

“Wait!” I shouted instinctively, but it was no use. As suddenly as it had appeared, the boat vanished and the grey curtain swept around me once more. The only thing I was left with was the final echo of the deep voice.

“In troth, the salvages hereabouts speak the English of King James.”

Then I was alone once more. Alone and scared. I shivered. How many ghostly scenes of the long-dead past were floating in this unearthly fog?

Nervously I looked around. There was nothing, but I couldn't get rid of the unpleasant feeling there was someone just out of sight. My stressed mind began to imagine hordes of dead sailors everywhere, ready to materialize out of the fog and terrorize me. I had to get out of there. In a panic I grabbed the paddle and began working furiously. I didn't care where I was going or that the sweat I was building up would only hasten the onset of hypothermia. I had to escape.

In an insanity of activity I paddled wildly, spraying water all about with my poorly executed strokes. The bow of the canoe swung crazily from side to side as I dug the paddle in frantically, first on one side, then on the other, heedless of whether I was heading toward the shore or out into the bay.

I had no idea how long I worked, but I was exhausted and
drenched in sweat when the fog suddenly cleared. I didn't see it go; it was simply there one minute and not the next.