April 26: I reworked the second half of this chapter into what is now Chapter 6, for reasons I explain there.
Chapter 5
By the time George returned to the campfire, the fish was nearly cooked, and Andrews was chopping some roots and leaves that George didn't recognize. The other George was chattering away, holding forth at length about the suitability of various crops to the climate this far north, and describing how the shorter growing season meant the potatoes here were much smaller at harvest than the ones he had dug up in Listowel. Now, the red potatoes in Listowel were really quite delicious, especially if harvested new and roasted in a hot oven with a bit of rosemary and salt. He would dearly love to have some of those potatoes right now, he would. Now in Gravenhurst, though, the best potatoes to his mind were the yellow ones. Those were particularly well-suited for boiling. Murdoch shot George a resigned look, and George just nodded tiredly. He wanted a potato. A nice, hot baked potato. Perhaps with a generous dollop of soured cream.
The long-faced fellow introduced himself as John Sparks, known to his friends as "Sparky." A builder by trade, Sparks was on his way to Haileybury to start scouting out land for new homes and commercial ventures that would inevitably be needed after the arrival of the railway. Yes, he had heard about the possible rerouting, but he would take his chances. It made no sense, after all! Surely clearer heads would prevail at Queen's Park, he avowed. He was a pleasant man, if a bit earthy in his choice of language, and he was the only one of the travellers to inquire solicitously about Murdoch's condition. George was most surprised to hear Murdoch dismiss his wound as the result of a hunting accident, but then he supposed the detective was erring on the side of caution, lest word about the shot copper and his companion reach their host somehow.
The toff, who apparently refused to sit down on the log by the fire, announced that he was Geert Van Der Beek, of Mimico. The name Van Der Beek was three separate words, all capitalised, he declared archly. His declaration was met with rolled eyes and sighing from the other men who had travelled with him all day: they had clearly long since had their fill of him. The more he continued, the more George understood why. Mister Van Der Beek was eager to announce that all he had wanted was to hunt some game, and he had understood that the wildlife in the area was quite plentiful, just ripe for the taking. Why on Earth was there no hunting lodge nearby? And he wished it known that he was most put out by the terribly poor quality of the available accommodations—he had never in his life been forced to sleep under anything but a solid roof, let alone in a tent, on the cold hard ground! And hadn't the station agent understood that he had a touch of rheumatism that would most certainly be aggravated by such deplorable conditions? And the noise, and the filth. How could he have ended up here? How could decent, God-fearing people possibly manage in such a frightful place?
Van Der Beek and the other George continued to jabber, both talking incessantly without listening to the other, and both remaining quite oblivious to the wheezing, grey-faced Murdoch next to the fire. George's eyelid started to twitch.
The voluble men finally fell silent, at least for a time, once Bill dug a stack of plates out of a bag and Andrews filled them with generous pieces of fish and the unfamiliar vegetables. Murdoch correctly identified them as cattail roots and broadleaf plantain, foraged from the edge of the water and the forest floor. George decided that sautéed in a bit of lard, they weren't half bad. Indeed, he found the entire meal, simple though it was, to be most satisfying.
For a time the camp was quiet, save for the sound of smacking lips and Murdoch's occasional cough. George handed him the canteen and he took a few generous draughts. "George, I think I should like to go to bed now," Murdoch told him quietly.
"By all means, sir. Let me assist you." He moved to Murdoch's side to help him up, and suddenly George Stewart materialized again, supporting Murdoch's weight from the other side as he rose from the ground. Well, I suppose he's helpful, thought George, at least until the younger man launched into a long disquisition on the finer points of veterinary care for ailing cattle.
The two men got Murdoch to the entrance of the tent, and he made his painful way inside, lying down on his back and using his feet to scoot inward. The position and the effort sparked an extended coughing fit, and Murdoch's face contorted in agony. George Stewart mercifully took his leave, and Murdoch and George were alone in their small tent.
"I suppose I should give you my pillow, sir," George said sadly. Murdoch coughed uncontrollably in response. George crawled into the tent and raised Murdoch's head long enough to prop him up on a couple of bags and the magnificent, faithful pillow. He hoped Murdoch would properly appreciate the sacrifice he was making for the night.
With Murdoch reclining more comfortably on his bedroll, George went digging for the laudanum. There wasn't much left, probably just enough to get them home tomorrow if he rationed the doses. He pondered briefly before he administered seven drops—not the full dose of ten, but enough to bring Murdoch some relief and help with his sleep.
Murdoch shuddered at the bitter taste. "I liked the cinnamon better," he said wistfully.
"Well the flavour was the only thing to recommend that dreadful stuff at the inn," replied George. "I certainly shouldn't ever want to give you any more of it. I shouldn't wish to give anyone that swill. You know, sir, I'm not sure it's even right for something that potent to be so readily available. Such a substance could do very great harm if not used with prudence and care."
"Indeed, George." Murdoch's eyes were closed, and George reached over to unbutton his shirt and change the gauze on his wound. "No!" Murdoch stopped him, catching his wrist. "Leave it. We can take care of it in the morning."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"I hardly know why, but the thought of anyone touching my chest at the moment is most distressing to me."
"Very well, then, sir, I'll leave it alone. I suppose it will be easier to manage in better light."
"It will indeed. Why don't you go back out to the fire and continue to make yourself acquainted with the gentlemen camping with us? I find myself most curious to know more about them."
"Sir, that's not necessary. We're not investigating anything right now."
"Nevertheless, I am intrigued."
"Right, I suppose I can humour you for a short while, sir," George said wearily, and crawled out of the tent to return to his spot by the fire. He did appreciate the smell of wood smoke—it evoked fond memories of his childhood.
George Stewart and Mister Van Der Beek continued to blather at each other, and George Crabtree found himself utterly lacking in the capacity to concentrate on their conversation—no, not conversation. Simultaneous monologues. Instead, he tried to make small talk with the others while he waited for Murdoch's laudanum to kick in. Sparks was the only one interested in chatting: Andrews seemed the type to keep to himself, and Bill was nowhere to be seen. Sparks mentioned that Bill's wife was along, but the party had hardly seen her, as she had spent much of the day wandering off from the group and then reappearing hours later with bags full of plants. Sparks was a friendly man, and an engaging conversationalist; George would not have been averse to drinking pints with him at the pub. After about fifteen minutes, though, he excused himself and went back to check on Murdoch before he bedded down himself.
George checked Murdoch's pupils with the flashlight, and found them quite constricted. Murdoch wore a serene expression, and he was very sleepy. "I'm going to check your wound now, sir," he told him.
Murdoch turned his head toward George very slowly. "Yes, I suppose that's for the best."
"Yes, sir," George told him, easing him out of his sling, unbuttoning his shirt, and carefully untying the bandage that held the gauze in place. The area around the wound was bruised and swollen, but the puncture itself looked to be healing well enough. George unwound a bit more gauze from their small supply and applied it to Murdoch's chest before he wrapped the bandage around it again, buttoned his shirt, and helped him find a comfortable position for sleep.
"You're a good nurse, George," Murdoch murmured.
"Thank you, sir. I know I'm no Doctor Ogden."
Murdoch smiled a little, his eyes still closed. "That you are not, George. But you are an excellent George Crabtree."