Reckoning of Boston Jim (24 page)

“The money.”

“And so he and his poor clerk are to stand trial for conspiracy and such, yes? Alas, though the circumstances are suspicious, he will have few to vouch for him; his hatred of our lovely Queen and all monarchies is too well known. Indeed, I hear he has many enemies among the British, yes? And so, fortunately, the finger of justice will not point straight to you.”

McBride looks uneasily from Boston to Petrovich. Lano pours himself a measure of whiskey, swirls it in his glass.

“Forty-five dollars,” Boston says.

Petrovich is about to answer when the burlap sways open and a wind funnels along the planks. The girl has a pole slung over her shoulders. One bucket swings from either end. She is dressed in a torn calico shift and in black stockings that at second glance become a layer of fresh mud. She is perhaps ten years of age, certainly no more than twelve. Her skin is the shade of a coal lamplight turned low. Her hair is cut raggedly to her ears. Lice move along the strands. Still, she is pretty, remarkably so. Her nose is exactly like that of a girl Boston saw once in the village near Fort Connelly. That girl played with an English doll and wore a skirt of bark. A raven clucked nearby her. A small cloud crossed over the sun.

≈  ≈  ≈

The girl sinks to the floor and ducks out from under the pole. Catches her breath. Petrovich jerks his head and the girl squats between him and Lano. Petrovich gently squeezes the back of her neck. Lano hands her the chicken carcass. She glances up warily at the surround of men, then retreats to a space beside the stove and chews determinedly on gristle and bone.

“You are interested in our young charge, yes? We keep her safe from the Indians who would have her as a slave. We keep her safe from the nuns who'd lock her in their orphanage, and teach her all the popish hokum. Isn't that the truth, boys?”

“Sure is, Petrovich. Sure is,” McBride says.

Petrovich taps the table. His fingers are long-nailed, seamed with grime. He smiles in the manner of someone going along with a joke. “But what of my business proposal? At least hear me out, yes?”

“You can bugger your offer, yourself while you're at it.”

Petrovich looks at a point over Boston's head. “You see, we are having difficulties in our dealings these days. The authorities are always making new laws about the trade of spirits with the Indians, and some of their muck a mucks do not like our trade either. You could help us, yes? I speak that bastard Chinook, of course, but some of the Indians do not. Or pretend they do not. You could speak to them in their own tongue. You could make clear we are only businessmen. We will pay you, what say? Ten percent of any profit of which you are part? Yes?”

Boston curses silently. Petrovich might well not have the money the way he is going on, or else will not give it up without violence done.

Boston's hand is already close to his gun, has been since he arrived. He could certainly kill Petrovich, most likely the other two as well, though Lano may give him trouble. Three bastard lives for his own, for he would be shortly hung if he left the shack blood-splattered and body-heaped. A poor exchange, certainly, but unavoidable perhaps.

He notices the girl out of the corner of his eye. She has cast aside the chicken carcass and is crouched over her knees as if to make herself as small as possible.

Boston says: “Take the girl instead of the money.”

McBride chuckles nervously. The girl looks up, her expression unreadable.

Petrovich's hand rests on his belly just above the butt of a revolver. He stares unblinking at Boston. Lano puts his glass down slowly. McBride's eyes shift from Petrovich to Boston and back. His swallow is audible in the silence.

There is a clear space in Boston's head, something akin to joy. He makes no movement

Petrovich whispers: “I am very fond of her. She came to me one night. She came from out of the dark woods. She was naked, caked in filth. I cleaned her, yes? I fed her. And now in return she brings water. Cooks for us. Her worth spans time.”

That fixed stare. Boston has seen it on others. Madmen. He has no time for the breed. They find ways to complicate the simplest of transactions.

“It good trade,” Lano says calmly. “Injun girls her age only twenty dollars. Thirty most. We buy another.”

“That's right, that's right. And she's a biter. Nearly took my finger off the other day,” McBride says.

Petrovich looks at the girl. She ceases chewing.

“She not worth trouble,” Lano says.

Petrovich speaks as if to himself: “Why does she watch us? I have told her not to watch us.”

“Give her Mr. Boston and she not watch us. We buy you better girl,” Lano says.

“She is only alive because of me. Her life is mine, yes?” Petrovich says.

“Sure is,” McBride puts in. “Sure is.”

“Won't hurt her. Throw that promise into the deal,” Boston says.

Petrovich pulls off his glasses, wipes his eyes, is suddenly cheerful. “Oh, I'm sure you'll take fine care of her. What do you think, boys? Mr. Jim drives a hard bargain, yes?”

McBride reaches for the bottle. His relief is nearly palpable. “A hard bargain. Sure, that's right.”

Lano says: “She free, anyway. You get best deal.” He takes the bottle from McBride. How long before Lano cuts Petrovich's throat and takes the business for his own? Not long, Boston supposes, and reaches for the girl.

≈  ≈  ≈

She begins shivering once they have climbed the bank. Boston wraps his coat about her shoulders, not wanting her ill. He looks over the bay to the Songhees village. The smoke from the long houses tunnels into the dimming sky. Three figures move along the shore. He hesitates, then turns and walks toward the town. The girl follows along beside.

“Speak English, do you?”

“Little.”

“Good. Taking you to a lady. Do what she says. She had a girl near same age as you. She died. You'll be her new girl. Help her out. Be good company. She'll look after you, then. Understand? English all she speaks except for bits of Chinook. So speak it, hear. For practice.”

The girl says nothing. Her shoulders curve in further. The wind lifts her hair.

“Won't hurt you. Don't fear that. Not like them, understand?”

“Yes. Far?”

“Two days. Maybe more. Your people, who are they?”

“People. No.”

“Your name then.”

“Girl.”

“Half-breed?”

“Girl.”

“Talk in your first lingo.”

“No.”

Boston is quiet for the space of four steps, then says. “Call you Girl, then. Don't know what the lady will call you.”

“Friend?”

“She'll be your friend, yes, if that's what you want to call it,” Boston says, then lets a silence fall. He is weary of speaking, weary of dealing with madmen and children. Friend? What difference does that make in matters of owing?

They walk back through Humbolt Street. An old woman in a company blanket grimaces at them. A constable passes and Boston draws Girl back into the shadows. Likely the constable would not even notice them, but if he did? It might be difficult to explain what he is doing with a barely dressed Indian girl.

A man on a ladder is lighting a street lamp. They are a new addition to the town, these few gas lamps with their piss-yellow lights. And in their light Boston sees anew her tangled hair, her dirt-streaked face, the sacking that barely covers her bony shoulders, the filth of her legs. She is nothing like the well-groomed half-breed and Indian children he saw through the jail yard gates. What will the Dora woman make of this dredged-up offering? The Dora woman's petticoats flapped bold and clean on the line. Her blue dress shimmered faintly, as if shot with light. There was the smell of lye about and her teeth were white as polished shells. She might well refuse Girl as no fit substitute for Isabel Lund. Such is her right. She might well shut the door on them both.

Laughter swells out from some distance, then fades. It is never as he plans; it is as if some force is out to thwart him. He would not be surprised to see the great form of Raven alight on the high buildings of the Whites. Plotting and chortling.

He grips Girl's shoulders and turns her to face him. All is not lost. She merely needs a washing. At a bathhouse. No. There will be questions. At a lake or stream then. And she needs clothing. Shoes. Stockings. A dress of some kind. The kind the white children wear. Her hair. He will purchase a comb. Yes. But that will have to be on the morrow. The locking of shop doors can be heard all around them. The town crier bawls out
seven o'clock.

Girl mewls faintly.

He releases her and she rubs her shoulders. They walk down Broad Street, keeping to the alleys when they can. In Poodle Alley there is still blood where Obed Kines fell. Even if Kines does not go to jail, he and Boston are even enough. Kines' right hand will not point at Boston again, for it was broken at the wrist. Nor will Kines' mouth be accusing him again, for it is missing several teeth.

Near Chinatown is an unused lot with high brush and a mess of stumps. They settle hidden in the middle of this lot. Boston takes bread and hard cheese out of his rucksack and they eat by the smudged glow of a candle. A time later a man stumbles through, mumbling a song. He stops for a long piss not two steps away, but doesn't notice them, so exquisite is his relief, so quiet are they.

Girl sniffles. Is she crying? He thinks of the Dora woman telling stories to Isabel, how she said it calmed the child.

“Want a story? That keep you quiet?”

“Story, yes, story.”

He tells the story in English, though he heard it first in the Nu-chah-nulth tongue, from the old woman who cooked at Fort Connelly. Equata was her name, and she knew of spells and medicine, and was often called upon to intervene between the living and the dead. And she knew all the stories that ever were, or so the People of the village said.

A great headman had three daughters from his favourite wife. Each one was more beautiful than the last, and the chief was very proud of them. “Have you ever seen such beautiful women?” he asked Crow and Bear and Black Whale, because this was a long time ago, when the People could talk to the Animal People as easily as I talk to you. And Crow and Bear and Black Whale said no, they had never seen such beautiful women, and they asked to marry the daughters, but the headman laughed and said his daughters would never marry. They would stay with him all their lives for no one could love them as well as he could.

Now the headman and the nobles of this village were very rich and owned rights to many hundreds of harvesting grounds, for shellfish, oolichan, salmon and deer, for berries and camas and ferns. And all these grounds gave such abundance that the People never feared the starvation times and had so many goods to store that their longhouses took three days to walk from end to end. And they could have had more, but they were careful to give much to the Animal People, and to give them songs and rituals also, because this is pleasing to the Animal People and is why they return to feed us all.

Now it happened that the headman's favourite wife died. The headman tore at his hair and wailed for ten days and now he loved his daughters more than ever as they reminded him of his dead wife. And he ordered his People to now give all the food they would have given the Animal People to his three daughters and to give to them also all the songs and rituals.

“But what will they give us in return?” A nobleman asked.

The headman grew so furious at this question that he ordered the nobleman impaled on a stake. This terrified the People altogether and they began to give all their food and all their rituals to the three sisters, just as the chief commanded. And so now the three sisters sat about all day and ate and ate and listened to the songs and took all the presents they were given and hoarded them. And because of all the food they grew and grew and grew until they were taller than the highest trees and fatter than the fattest whale, and still they grew. And now there was not enough to feed them, for they were always hungry and demanded more and more. They had never been without, you see, or had to share or be moderate. And they weren't beautiful anymore, but hideous, with greasy chins and bulging eyes and hair tangled with animal bones and skin stained with berry juice. And the headman himself was wondering if this was all entirely a good thing. His People, you see, were thin and starving because they gave everything to his daughters and the great longhouses were nearly empty and to make it worse the Animal People weren't interested in returning in their seasons to the rivers and forests and bays, but went to grounds where other people gave them rituals and songs and food in return for their flesh.

“This has to stop, my daughters, no more can we give you all this food and all these gifts. The People are all starving. Look, even I am starving.” And he showed them his arm that was thin as a stick.

“We're hungry,” cried the three sisters. “What do we care of your arm! What do we care of the People. We're hungry and we want gifts.”

“No, my darlings.”

And then the three sisters flew into a rage. Never had they been denied. Never had they gone hungry. The eldest grabbed her father 'round the waist. The second eldest grabbed his arms. And then the youngest bit off his head and swallowed it in one gulp.

“It's delicious,” she said. “Oh, it is the finest thing I've ever eaten!”

After the three sisters ate their father they strode out in the village capturing all the People and eating them raw and eating all the dogs as well. In fact, they ate everything they could find—insects and birds and fishes and berries and oolichan oil and the houses and the canoes—everything that is, except Mouse Woman, who was very old and wise and hid as soon as trouble started. This was easy enough because she was very small and could hide in the crack of a plank. And she listened with her mouse ears as the three sisters munched and belched and fought amongst each other for the choicest portion of human flesh.