Hello readers! Thank you for bearing with me so far, and for all your kind words. I'm so gratified to hear that you're enjoying the story. A lot has been going on around here so the writing has been happening slowly, but I'll be working on more of it over the weekend, and I'm hoping to get them home within a week or so.
Thanks for reading - reviews are so very welcome!
Chapter 7
George's sleep was fitful, and he was wide awake well before first light. He lay still for some time, trying to make sense of the events of the wee hours. He was at first unsure of whether their visitor had been real or a dream, at least until he listened carefully to his companion. There was no more coughing, no more hitched gasps for air: just even, steady breathing that George wouldn't have heard unless he was listening for it. Murdoch's colour was better, too. George reached out and put a palm on his forehead. No fever. George released the breath he had not known he was holding.
As some tension left him, it dawned on him how very much he ached. His calves felt like the saddle had rubbed them raw, and his hands bore blisters from the reins. The muscles in his legs and backside sang in hot complaint, and his neck and upper back were so stiff he could hardly turn his head. The prospect of another full day atop Brown Betty, and then nine more hours sitting upright on a rickety, bumpy train, was nearly enough to make him weep. Riding on Wilfrid hadn't hurt nearly so much as riding on Betty did.
Murdoch stirred.
"Sir?" George ventured.
"Good morning, George," Murdoch replied blearily.
"Good morning, sir." Good. He isn't asking for Doctor Ogden. "How are you keeping, sir? And please don't say you're fine."
Murdoch smiled a little, and thought for a moment. "I suppose I'm all right, considering. I'm sore, but I can breathe."
"I'm quite pleased to hear it, sir. You were practically lying on Alice's neck when we rode in last night."
"I suppose I was. It was a long day."
"Yes, sir. And an eventful night, as well."
They both lay on their backs, staring at the tent roof, listening to the birds begin their songs. George contemplated how he could convince the detective to stay put here for at least one more day. He could hardly abide the thought of more time on a horse, or even a donkey, today or perhaps ever.
A rifle shot rang out, at distressingly close range.
The two policemen tensed automatically. Murdoch tried to push himself up, and George laid a hand on his chest to push him back down. "Sir. You stay here. I'll go investigate."
Murdoch frowned, and nodded with resignation. "Be careful, George."
George braced himself against the creaking ache of his entire body, and scrambled out of the tent. Andrews, Sparks, and George Stewart were all standing in the centre of the campsite. "Van Der Beek? Bill?" Constable Crabtree asked immediately.
"Bill went bow hunting, but Van Der Beek we don't know," said Sparks.
"Right, then," Crabtree declared. "All of you. Which way did the shot come from?"
All three men raised their hands to point in the general direction of the sunrise. They stood looking toward where they were pointing when another shot rang out.
"There," said Crabtree. "Let's go."
Sparks and Andrews looked stunned, and George Stewart emitted a high-pitched squeal. "Go?" he demanded. "Toward it?"
George Crabtree exhaled sharply and nodded. "Of course! One of your party is missing, and we need ensure no one is hurt! Now is any of you with me, or do I have to go by myself?"
Sparks stepped forward. "Let's go, Crab." Crab? wondered George. Should I start calling him "Spar"?
Andrews shook his head and retreated back toward his tent. "Not my problem 'til someone shows up bleeding," he muttered.
"Very well, then, Mister Sparks, let's go." The two men rushed into the woods, while George Stewart stayed put, nearly dancing in apoplexy. "Run toward a gunshot! You men are quite out of your minds! What could you possibly be thinking?" Crabtree, rolling his eyes as George Stewart continued his frothing, ran with Sparks until they heard yet another shot. They stopped for a brief moment, peering through the trees to see if they could spot anyone. Both of them called out: "Van Der Beek! Van Der Beek!"
Van Der Beek shouted back, sounding rather out of sorts. "Here! Mister Sparks?"
Crabtree pushed his way past a few more trees toward the stream. There was Mister Van Der Beek, standing in the middle, looking entirely bewildered by the other two men's clear agitation.
"What are you doing?" George bellowed.
"Why, catching fish, of course," Van Der Beek answered blankly, and gestured to two large pike lying on the ground.
George stood slack-jawed, staring at the Mimico toff. "Fishing," he repeated. "With a rifle."
"But of course! As you can see, with some success." He gestured at the fish on the bank of the stream. Sparks tried to hold back a snicker, but his mirth got the better of him. Soon he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. He slapped George on the shoulder, tears streaming down his face. "My God, these city boys."
George was more angry than amused. His fuse was very short, and he had no time for posh dandies who knew even less about the wilderness than he did. He sputtered. "I ought to arrest you for…"
"For what?" Van Der Beek demanded defensively.
"For disturbing the peace! For reckless endangerment!"
"Disturbing the peace? We're miles from any sort of peaceful civilisation! And whom could I possibly be endangering?" Van Der Beek scoffed. "And on whose authority would you be arresting me, anyway?"
George stopped short. Right. They don't know we're with the constabulary. Drat it all. He reddened. "Right, well, never mind that. Just, for the love of Pete, stop shooting the fish! Everyone knows that's no way to catch them, and you've plenty to feed everyone now anyway."
Sparks was still laughing. "Come along, then, Geert," he called, practically gargling the unfamiliar name.
Van Der Beek bristled. "I shan't dignify that mockery with a response," he said haughtily as he waded out of the stream.
"Well you just did, didn't you?" Sparks guffawed. George entertained a brief, secret thrill to watch Sparks take the Dutchman down a peg or two, but thought better of antagonizing him further himself. The man did have a rifle, after all. Scowling, he traipsed over to the edge of the stream and retrieved the two fish.
"Right, off with us, then," he announced as he strode back toward the camp. The fish were bleeding on him, and he had slept very poorly once again, and he was quite out of patience.
"It was quite a sight, sir. Standing there in the middle of the creek, shooting straight down! And he complained that the fish weren't where they appeared to be!" George kept his voice low, hoping only Murdoch could hear him.
"Of course they weren't, George. The angle of refraction would cause the appearance of the fish to…"
"Sir."
"Well, if I've taught you well, you could certainly explain it Mister Van Der Beek."
"Could I, sir." George shot a withering look at the detective. "I believe there are more pressing matters at hand here than educating a rich nincompoop about basic physics. There is the matter of what we are going to do with you."
"I'm fine, George."
George had quite had his fill of being told Murdoch was fine, or quite all right, or any other permutation of "fit to travel." He stared at the detective in indignation. "Sir. Last night you nearly suffocated from a chest full of fluid. Had we been in the city, you would likely have ended up under anaesthesia having emergency surgery. Had Mister Andrews not been here, it is quite possible that you would have died. You should be flat on your back in the hospital, or at the very least in a real bed under a solid roof. The forest floor is no place for an injured man."
"That may be the case, George. But Mister Andrews does seem to have done an exemplary job with the tools at hand." Murdoch moved his right hand experimentally over the deer hide and the moss on his chest.
"And I'm glad for it, sir. But we must stop tempting fate!" George was sitting cross-legged on his side of the tent, extending one leg at a time to try to stretch out his aching muscles. He needed to be ready for whatever other ridiculousness the day might bring. With his good arm, Murdoch pushed himself up to a seated position, and George noticed his eyes glaze over. "Sir?" he asked anxiously as Murdoch's arm began to shake under his weight. He caught the detective just as his elbow gave out, and lowered him back onto the bedroll. That's it, he thought angrily.
The detective had caused them both much grief by insisting that he was "quite all right," and George would no longer have it. William Murdoch was too ill to ride on horseback even an inch farther, today and likely tomorrow as well, and George would certainly no longer continue to support him in such foolhardy attempts to get home before he was well enough to travel. He would brook no further argument on the subject. Yes. That was exactly what he was going to say.
He drew a breath. "Sir! You are not fine. I confess you gave me quite a fright last night, and you are most certainly not in any condition to mount a horse, let alone travel on one—"
Murdoch held up a hand, and George paused.
"George."
"Yes, sir."
"I… I think we should stay here at least another night, George."
George blinked.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Maybe even two. I'm clearly not in any condition to be on a horse."
The wind that had been filling George's sails vanished in a puff. "Sir, I… uh. Sir?"
"Now I know you were likely going to insist that we continue our journey today…" Murdoch began earnestly.
George was adrift in strange seas. He regarded Murdoch as if he were some sort of lake monster (such an implausible idea, a monster living in a lake). "Are you quite stunned, sir? When have I ever suggested that we should travel with you in your current state? I was just about to demand that we stay here!"
Murdoch held George's gaze a little longer, and then broke into a most unexpected grin. "I know, George. For once I agree with you. Last night was quite unpleasant."
George exhaled, and slumped onto his bedroll in relief. "Oh, thank God, sir. You were having me on. And yes. Yes, it was. Don't do that, sir." He must be feeling better if he's teasing me.
Murdoch smiled a moment longer, then turned serious. "I see no alternative but to remain here until I am sufficiently recovered to continue our journey."
"Well that's certainly a change of heart, sir, and one I emphatically welcome. May I ask what brought it on?"
Murdoch's tone dropped, and his expression was sad. "I can't even sit up, George. There's only so much a human body can do."
"I'm most relieved to hear you say so, sir. We all have our limits."
Murdoch nodded ruefully. "We do. I am concerned, though, that Julia will worry if she does not hear from us from North Bay by tonight."
George pondered for a moment. "Well, fiddlesticks. You're right, sir." Leave it to the detective to think things farther through, he mused. What else will happen when we stay? Oh, right. "There's also the matter of Migizi Pimise and his men. Someone who knows about us will likely come through here from the north in the next day or two, and I fear our presence will not be received well."
"I don't suppose disguising ourselves would fool anyone," Murdoch said drily, and smiled again.
George snorted. "Hardly, sir."
They both lay there for a few moments, considering their options. None was appealing. George was most gratified that the detective was finally seeing reason about his condition, but it was likely dangerous to remain at the camp. He was trying to think of any other possibilities when Murdoch sobered suddenly, appearing to remember something. He turned to look at his companion.
"George? Do I recall correctly that you were shouting at me during the night?"
George took a deep breath, and then set his mouth in a thin line. "I was doing my utmost not to shout, sir."
Murdoch squinted, trying to retrieve the memory. "Oh, how I hate laudanum, George."
"Sir?"
"I can't remember. You were agitated. What were you saying?"
George closed his eyes and tried to think how to frame his answer diplomatically. "Well, I suppose I was quite vexed by the situation."
"You said I was pigheaded, George." Murdoch's tone was even.
"Perhaps I did, sir." George waited.
"Julia would likely agree with you."
"Would she then, sir." A corner of George's mouth rose.
"And she would be right, George. I… I'm sorry I got us into this."
George was surprised and moved by the genuine remorse in Murdoch's voice. He let the words hang in the air for a time so he could listen to them again in his mind.
"Well, uh, I… thank you, sir." He shook his head, and paused. No sense staying angry. "What's done is done. We will rest here, although it is hardly ideal. "We will move on when you are ready, and not a minute—not one minute!—before."
"Very well, then, George. I will rest."
George was cooking one fish and Sparks was gutting the other, Van Der Beek not knowing how, when Bill re-entered the encampment from the woods near the road. "There's a cargo wagon coming," he said without preamble, and turned to address George. "About half an hour. Bet you boys could hitch a ride. If it's who I think it is, he's usually open to, ah, negotiation. But he won't want to wait."
"But I thought cargo wagons weren't allowed to take passengers," Murdoch said, surprised. He was once again propped up next to the fire, eating his breakfast. George had tried to bring a plate to the tent, only to be scolded for forgetting for a blessed moment about the bears. In the woods, it was never safe to eat where you slept.
"Like I said, if this is Jeremiah Jenkins' wagon, he'll negotiate," Bill said, and winked.
Andrews chimed in. "Who's going to enforce rules like that here anyway? It's not like there are any coppers around." He glanced at Bill, and then stared straight at Murdoch. "Sir."
George felt a twinge of fear. Bill has spent a lot of time away from the camp—perhaps he has heard something?
Andrews continued, now turning his attention to George. "Why do you call him sir, anyway?"
George had not thought of how to answer such a question, but Murdoch spoke up without missing a beat. "We've served together."
"Is that so," said Andrews.
"It is indeed," said Murdoch, his eyes bearing that dangerous glint that was so effective in the interrogation room.
George Crabtree nodded, and remained silent. He gave a quick look and a shake of his head to Andrews before he scooped the fish out onto a tin plate and handed it to a wide-eyed George Stewart, who was mercifully quiet for once.
"The wagon, George?" Murdoch asked, trying to get the conversation back onto safer ground.
"So you'd be willing to take it, then, sir."
"It does seem our most promising option at the moment, George."
"Indeed it does, sir. Indeed it does," agreed George, and he headed back to the tent to pack.