They're finally on the road!
I read a lot about Ojibwe and Algonquin languages and cultures for this chapter and the next one. I would be especially grateful for feedback from any Indigenous readers about the Indigenous characters and themes here, to be properly respectful of the peoples who have been here since time immemorial. We can't ever forget that Canada is a nation built on stolen land.
Thanks to DancingQueensStories for catching a continuity error. I've fixed it. This is what happens when I write late at night.
Chapter 4
Joe the odd young stablehand was so keen to get Murdoch and Crabtree on their way that they were on the road to North Bay within a quarter of an hour. Joe had been most helpful, tethering the donkey alongside Alice, and positioning a makeshift frame of narrow fenceposts between them so the two animals would not collide with each other. Murdoch needed only a bit of assistance in adjusting the reins so he could steer Alice one-handed, and the first leg of the trip was mercifully uneventful. George stopped trying to make idle conversation after about an hour. Murdoch's responses to any topic George raised were laconic at best and petulant at worst, and George finally realized that it was taking everything Murdoch had to stay atop his mount.
Whenever they came to a particularly narrow part of the road, George had to ride behind. Most of the time, he found himself alone with his thoughts. He did not particularly enjoy riding a horse. He felt like his mount could always tell how inexperienced he was. But as the sun crossed the sky and the miles receded behind them, George found himself less and less uncomfortable, as he and Brown Betty seemed to come to an understanding. Perhaps she sensed that things were not all well with her passenger and his friend. After a few hours he started to find a sense of comfort in the rhythm of her steps.
About five hours into their journey, both men agreed it was time to dismount for a short break. Murdoch sat silently on a fallen log while George opened a sack of moose pemmican and handed him some to chew on, and then laid a few hardtack biscuits in a shallow tin bowl with some water for them to soak.
"We can't stay here long, George."
"I know, sir."
"The hardtack will take at least a quarter hour to rehydrate."
George exhaled sharply. "Well we need the food, sir, and I shouldn't wish to break a tooth. And—" he gestured expansively "—I'm finding it quite a relief to stretch my legs. And I imagine you could use the rest. Now if you don't mind, I should like to relieve myself?"
"Very well, George. Do you need the trowel?"
"No, thank you, sir." He turned and headed a decent distance to ensure himself some privacy. He was at least twenty yards away when he stopped short: what if Detective Murdoch needs the trowel? He didn't want to think about it. He could be matter-of-fact in dealing with all manner of foul substances in his professional life, but providing this sort of assistance to his superior officer was simply beyond the pale. This shall not happen, George thought. It's decided.
George returned to find Murdoch poking at the hardtack, as if willing it to soften more quickly. He deemed it ready to eat well before it actually was, and so they consumed it. Both of them would spend quite some time back in the saddle trying to lick it out of their teeth.
George repacked the provisions into the bag, and Murdoch grudgingly accepted another three drops of the laudanum. He was already growing weary, and it took some effort from both of them to get him back onto Alice. They let the horses and Wilfrid drink their fill from the stream flowing next to the narrow road, and then they rode on in silence.
The sun was beginning to set when they came upon a familiar sight: the camp where they had stayed on the way north. The fire was burning, and there was at least one more tent than there had been three days before. George glanced over at Murdoch, who was clearly suffering, and despaired a little. They said we could stay if the camp were empty, and it is most certainly not.
Murdoch spoke for the first time in hours. "They'll find space for us, George."
"I certainly don't know what we'll do if they don't, sir."
A lanky blond man was tending the fire; on noticing the newcomers on their horses, he walked over to greet them. "Evening," he said guardedly.
"A pleasant evening to you, my good man," George returned. "My name is George Crabtree, and this is—" he caught himself before he said "Detective" "—William Murdoch. We're on our way to North Bay. I suppose you're coming from there?" The less detail, the better, he suspected. The other man nodded, and George continued. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister…"
"Andrews." The man's expression was impassive as he looked them, the horses, and the donkey up and down. "Where's your guide?" he asked slowly, eyeing them with suspicion.
George had been steeling himself for this question. "We don't have one. My friend here was a lumberjack in these woods some years ago now, and he was confident that we could do without. We were hoping to find a tent in which we could lay out our bedrolls for this evening. I should hasten to add that the innkeeper in Haileybury secured permission from the local Indian guides for us to stay here."
"He was confident, was he?" Andrews waved a thumb at Murdoch. "He all right?"
George glanced at the detective. "Sir?" Murdoch was pale with fatigue, hunched over his mount's neck. He looked awful.
"Yes, George."
"Are you quite well?"
"I'm fine, George." He did not lift his head. "Would you stop asking."
"Sir, maybe you'd better get off your horse." George dismounted his own and led her toward Murdoch's mount in case he had to catch the man on his way down.
"That's a good idea, George," he said haltingly. He dismounted so ungracefully that George did indeed end up bearing most of his weight to the ground, but he did land on his feet. He stood for a moment, and George let him go when he seemed steady enough. Without warning he took a few tentative steps, putting himself just out of George's reach, and walked straight into a tree root. He lost his balance and tried to catch himself with his left hand, realizing too late that it was not there. He fell, hard, onto his side.
"Sir!" cried George. Murdoch lay still, and moaned. George looked desperately at the reins of the two horses in his hands, trying to decide whether to let them go so he could attend to Murdoch. They were tired, so they probably would not go far, but George did not wish to take the risk.
"I'm all right, George. Give me a moment," Murdoch panted, and did not move.
"Mr. Andrews." George addressed the stranger urgently. "Would you be so kind as to hold these horses while I see to my friend."
Andrews studied them both some more, and then shook his head and gave a guttural laugh as he reached out for the reins. George gratefully handed them over, and practically lunged toward Murdoch, crouching down next to him.
"I suppose I can tie them up for you. You started out on the road with him like this?" George nodded grimly. "Well you're certainly the biggest pair of fools I've ever seen."
George winced a little as he helped Murdoch roll over onto his back. "Aye, that we are. We are fools indeed. Fools in fairly desperate need of a place of safety for the night." He gestured toward Murdoch, then looked at Andrews, a plaintive expression on his face. "Please."
Andrew's countenance softened. "All right, though I'm not sure as to what I can do for you. I'm just another traveller, but I can at least put in a word for you. I think there's an extra tent. Two of our party cancelled at the last minute. We'll see what Bill says."
"Bill?" George asked quizzically.
"Our guide."
"Ah," said George. "Thank you, sir. Much appreciated." He touched Murdoch's shoulder and spoke to him quietly. "Sir!"
"Yes, George." Murdoch's breath was coming in uneven, shallow gasps.
"Are you quite all—" he broke off, remembering Murdoch's peevish demand that he stop asking. And he hardly needed ask, anyway: it was clear Murdoch was not all right. "Sir. You're having trouble breathing."
"I'm fine, George." George was getting sick of that sentence. "I just knocked the wind out of myself. Help me up, will you?"
Murdoch dozed between coughing fits, propped up next to the fire, while George paced back and forth awaiting the return of Andrews' guide and the rest of his party. He was so keyed up that he didn't hear them approach, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a deep voice boomed, "What have we here, then?"
George was catching his breath from the fright when he heard Murdoch speak. The detective had awakened instantly, and turned to the tall man who was apparently the guide. "Kwekwe," he said as he removed his hat and inclined his head.
"Kwekwe," the man said, and raised an eyebrow.
Murdoch tried to push himself up to shake hands, but succeeded only in sparking another bout of coughing. He lay back down and waited for it to subside, the tall man watching expectantly. He finally managed, "William Murdoch nindizinikaaz. Gaawiin ningikenmaasii nindoodem. Nova Scotia nindoonjibaa. Toronto nindaa." The guide looked at him approvingly, and nodded.
George stared at him, a little stunned. He had heard the detective's fluent French many times, but this was new. "Sir?" he whispered.
"Here you introduce yourself with your name, your clan, where you're from, where you live," Murdoch said. "I told him I don't know my clan."
The man—Bill?—turned his attention to George, who cleared his throat and looked around nervously. He ventured, "Ah, I'm George Crabtree." He gestured at himself. "My clan? I don't know. Flower Hill, maybe?" he said with a wry half-smile, and shrugged. "I'm from, uh, Toronto and Newfoundland, and I live in Toronto. Toronto nindaa? Was that the word?"
The guide nodded again, apparently satisfied. He said several sentences in Algonquin; George could catch only a few words. Bill White. Matachewan. He continued in English: "My name is Bill White. My Algonquin name is Myeengun."
"'Little Wolf,'" said Murdoch.
"Yes. I'm from the Bear Clan. My people are the Matachewan. I come from Gowganda, and I live around Timiskaming. Call me Bill. What brings you here?"
George cleared his throat nervously and looked at Murdoch, who nodded at him. He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. "We're travelling south to North Bay. We need to get the train home to Toronto. My friend here is injured. He was a lumberjack in these woods years ago, and he believed we could make our way to North Bay without assistance."
Bill's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Did he, then."
"I just need some sleep," Murdoch grumbled.
"The two of you look as if you could use more than that."
"That is quite true, sir," George responded, still wide-eyed. "We would be most grateful for a place to lay out our bedrolls so my friend here can get some rest."
Andrews cut in. "It seems the innkeeper in Haileybury promised them any available space here."
"He demanded a handsome sum from us in exchange," George muttered.
"Did he, then," Bill said again. He paused for a moment. George listened to his own heart pounding in his ears. "All right. You can have that tent over there, for tonight." He gestured to a small one that had seen better days.
One of the other men, a strapping middle-aged fellow with a long face, twinkling eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair, spoke amiably. George had hardly noticed him or the large fish that he was carrying. "And when you're set up, come on back and we'll feed you miserable bastards."
George nearly wept with relief. "Thank you, sirs. Thank you. We are most thankful, aren't we, sir," he prompted Murdoch.
"Meegwetch, Myeengun," said Murdoch. "Meegwetch. And thank you, gentlemen" He coughed again. George did not like the sound of that cough at all.
George headed quickly over to old Wilfrid to retrieve the bags and the bedrolls, and he began lugging them to the tent. It was only then that he noticed the three other men besides the fish-bearer who had arrived back at the camp with Bill. All of them were white, of various ages. One, sporting an impeccably tailored tweed Norfolk jacket and a rifle, held a dead grouse by its ankles. He appeared most uncomfortable to be in the woods, and George decided he was a bit of a toff. The others, like Andrews, looked like labourers who were more than accustomed to very basic accommodation. George decided the rest of the introductions could wait until the sleeping quarters were ready.
One of the other men, a small but muscular ginger man of about twenty-five, was next to him instantly, cheerfully relieving him of more than half his load. "And a good evening to you, George Crabtree. I'm also a George! George Stewart!" he introduced himself brightly. His accent was Canadian, rural southern Ontario, George noted automatically. He looked genuine enough, but something about him put George's hackles up.
"Ah, hello, Mister Stewart. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You really needn't…" George looked down at the bags—the other George was bearing them easily, as if they weighed nothing—and trailed off.
"Think nothing of it!" enthused Stewart. "And for heaven's sake call me George." He started off toward the empty tent. He was so fast that George Crabtree could hardly keep up with him. All at once George was inside the tent catching bags and bedrolls, and laying out a bunk for the detective. George Stewart remained outside, and it turned out he was a talker, burbling on about working as a farmhand outside Haileybury and how the soil was of surprisingly high quality in some areas. His mother had been heartbroken to see him leave Chatham, but he had an adventurous spirit, he did, and he was going to work his way around all the farms in Ontario and Quebec that would have him. Yes indeed, he was going to see more of the world than his own little corner of it.
George was baffled. Had this fellow never read of Egypt, or London, or Paris? Did he not dream of more interesting locales than farms? He boggled at George Stewart's definition of "seeing the world," and shook his head in genial disbelief. Perhaps the man was a decent sort after all, if a bit small-minded. Now if he would just stop prattling on…