They're getting there. Have I mentioned how much I appreciate the support and encouraging words? Because I do. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. One, maybe two more.
Chapter 8
Forty minutes after Bill told them of the approaching wagon, they were once again on the road. George was torn between relief and great irritation. On the bright side, Doctor Ogden would receive her telegram (and how George was fretting over the wording of it), and they were finally headed out of this accursed wilderness. But the implacable Jenkins had relieved them of every last penny, both flashlights, and the rest of the laudanum before he would even consider giving them a ride, and he had implied more than once that he did not consider this bounty to be enough. George was vaguely panicked about how they would procure money in North Bay until he remembered that Doctor Ogden could likely send a money transfer, depending on what time they arrived.
He rode on the bench seat at the front, staring at the hind quarters of two sets of horses and a donkey. Behind him and Jenkins were large stacks of deer skins, on their way to the Beardmore Tannery in Acton, and a supine Murdoch, laid out on a bedroll (and George's pillow) on top of them.
Murdoch was asleep. Mercifully so, thought George, given the stench of the hides. Andrews had filled one of their canteens with moccasin flower tea, and instructed him to drink well of it. Murdoch was familiar with its sedative effects, and quaffed it gratefully. He did not particularly want to be awake to endure the wagon's every bounce on the pitted, bumpy road.
Jenkins was a laconic, vaguely hostile man, and George's feeble attempts to make small talk fell flat. He decided it was just as well—although he was infinitely glad for the ride, he was in no mood to keep up idle conversation with a stranger. Feeling he had met his social obligations, George fell silent. His thoughts turned to the men at the camp.
Van Der Beek, of course, was quite useless. George almost regretted that a comfortable bed in a clean inn awaited the man in Haileybury. What on God's green Earth had the man been thinking, shooting fish? His heart raced every time he thought of the rifle shots: he heard the sound again and again, and flashed back to a collapsed, bleeding Murdoch on the forest floor. A pusillanimous ninny, that Van Der Beek was. He had been the only one not to help get them and their belongings onto the wagon while Jenkins waited impatiently.
George Stewart? Well, he would likely be all right someday, if he ever learned to stop blithering. He was awfully naïve, most irritating, but not a bad chap. George wished him peace, somewhere far away. Perhaps a farm on the opposite side of Quebec.
Sparks was certainly an agreeable companion, really the only one of the bunch with whom George had felt any kinship. He was grateful for the man's easygoing nature and his willingness to help in the face of potential danger. It saddened him to bid "Sparky" farewell, and he hoped their paths would cross again one day.
George, having seen relatively little of Bill, had not developed much sense of him other than that he was a generous, friendly man. He would always be grateful to him for letting them stay the night, and he hoped that Bill's kindness toward them would not bring him any repercussions from his fellow Indians. What was that word that Murdoch had used? Anishinaabe. That must be their word for themselves. In any case, he wished Bill—and his people—well. They did not deserve the hand they'd been dealt.
As for Andrews, George did not know what to think. Andrews had seemed a shifty type, on first impression the kind of man George would not be surprised to see in the cells of Station House Four. He never quite trusted a man who didn't share his Christian name. But the man had saved Detective Murdoch's life, and he had even been so kind as to send them on with the tea, as well as two more bundles of moss and a jar of the greasy brown salve, made from bear fat and mucilage from the bark of the slippery elm tree.
George usually considered himself a decent judge of character. One had to be, to do well in the Constabulary. He found Andrews more than slightly baffling. Again, he looked forward to conversing with the detective.
Without the stimulation of idle chatter to keep himself awake, George found himself drifting off. More than once, he jerked back to consciousness, realizing he was coming far too close to falling asleep on the gruff, mercenary driver. He was finally mortified to awaken leaning on Jenkins, who stopped the wagon and told him to go get in the back. Had he drooled on the man? Oh, dear.
He clambered over the back of the seat, and Jenkins spurred the horses on again. George opened the second bedroll and lay down on it. The deer hides smelled quite foul, and Murdoch was once again snoring loudly. George himself was still quite stiff and sore, and the lack of suspension on the wagon meant that every bump rattled him terribly. He briefly wondered if this was what one's existence might be in Hell. Have I died already? Is this it? I tried to live a good life… I hadn't thought I'd sinned enough to earn such a fate... He eyed the canteen, debated with himself briefly, and then unscrewed the lid and took a healthy draught. No point being awake for such a Hellish journey if I don't have to be.
"Get up," a voice said curtly.
George pulled the bedroll over his head.
"Get up, I said." He didn't recognize the voice.
"Mmf," said George.
"You're in North Bay. Get out of my wagon."
George awoke with a jolt, and immediately regretted it. The ache from the journey on the potholed road compounded his soreness from the day and night before. The aches were layered, he thought. A big layer ache. He smiled slightly at the wordplay, then it struck him. Wait. North Bay? Already? What?
Murdoch touched his shoulder. "George. Wake up. We have to get off the wagon."
"Sir," George said muzzily. "Those are words I'm sure the Inspector would love to hear." Everything was foggy. I have to get up, he thought, and sent instructions to his arms and legs to get moving, but they roundly ignored him.
Murdoch shook him gently. "Come on, George. He's impatient."
Jenkins was an intimidating man, and George did not want to anger him. A small burst of adrenaline enabled George to shake his head to clear it, and he finally managed to push himself up to sitting. It was perhaps five o'clock, and he was ravenous. Right. Get off the wagon. He scooted to the edge, and hopped down. He grabbed his bedroll and a couple of the bags and laid them on the ground, and then realised the detective was not moving.
"Sir, are you in need of assistance?"
Murdoch spoke quietly and urgently. "George, I am in need of shoes."
"What?" George looked at the detective's feet, and blinked in surprise. "Where are your boots, sir?"
"I don't know, George."
"You were wearing them when Andrews and George Stewart loaded you onto the wagon, weren't you, sir?"
"Of course I was, George!" Murdoch hissed.
"So where are they?"
"George! I don't know!"
George rocked back a bit, still unsteady on his aching legs. He looked quizzically at Murdoch and then gestured with his head at the retreating Jenkins. Murdoch raised his eyebrows and nodded.
Right. Bollocks, as the Inspector would say.
George walked around to the front of the wagon, where Jenkins was unhitching Alice, Brown Betty, and Wilfrid. "Mister Jenkins," he said firmly.
"What do you want?" the driver grumbled, not meeting George's eye.
"I should like to ask a favour."
Jenkins snorted. "Only people I do favours for is ones give me cash."
"Well, hear me out, Mister Jenkins. My friend here seems to have misplaced his boots somewhere along the journey, and he is unable to leave your wagon without them. Perhaps you could—"
"Well he has feet, eh? So what's the problem?"
"Mister Jenkins. I should think you might understand the peril and unpleasantness inherent in walking about unshod. Why, even your horses wear shoes."
"No skin off my nose if some stranger's running about in socks." He handed one, then another, set of reins to George.
George scowled. This was clearly going to require a different tack. "Mister Jenkins. I don't believe my friend and I have properly introduced ourselves. My name is Constable George Crabtree, and this is Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary."
Jenkins' eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, you're threatening me now?" he said defensively. "I done nothing wrong. Fair's fair. I traded you for the ride. You—"
Got him, George thought triumphantly. "Come now, Mister Jenkins. I uttered no threat. However, if the mere mention of the constabulary should engender such apprehension in you, perhaps it would be wise for you to tell me where Detective Murdoch might find his boots, so that there is no need to contact our local colleagues."
Jenkins squinted and shifted uncomfortably as he passed along the third set of reins. George stared at him, hard, and waited.
"Very well, then, Mister Jenkins, I shall be speaking with—"
"No, wait!" Jenkins reached into the bag under his seat and practically hurled the boots at Crabtree. "Take the goddamn boots and leave me the Hell alone."
George shot Jenkins the filthiest look he could muster as he headed back around to Murdoch and their bags. "Thank you, Mister Jenkins. I trust you will give us a few moments to vacate your wagon of the detective and the rest of our belongings."
"Suit yourself, copper." He practically spat the word as he clambered back into the driver's seat to stew.
George seethed as he tied up the horses and the donkey at a hitching post and headed once again to the back of the wagon. Who steals an injured man's boots? Murdoch, sensing George's mood and the reason for it, opened his mouth to speak. George looked intently at him, eyes blazing, and shook his head. For once, Murdoch backed off. "Come along, sir. Let me help you with those boots."
It took some time to put the now-dusty, stinking bedrolls away and collect everything into a neat pile. Jenkins had dropped them at the stables where they had first picked up the horses and old Wilfrid, and the groom took the animals back without a word. Murdoch sat down heavily on a bench, and George began to pace back and forth as he considered the possibilities for the next leg of the journey.
"All right, sir, we need to get to the telegraph office to contact Doctor Ogden, and possibly request a wire transfer of some funds. Mister Jenkins left us quite penniless."
"Are you sure, George? We do have return tickets already paid for, as well as provisions for the train ride. Is there anything else we need purchase before we get home?"
George thought for a moment. "Well, the telegram, sir."
"But that's all?"
"I believe so, sir."
"Well, Julia can pay for the telegram upon receipt in Toronto."
A smile began to spread across George's face. "Of course, sir. I had forgotten that was a possibility. Can't imagine why I might be tired. But I suppose this means we shall have to be on the next train, as we've no more funds for lodging."
"Unfortunately not. It's just gone five o'clock, so we've missed the three-fifteen. We'll have to wait for the next one."
"And when is that, George?"
"That one, I believe, is at ten-thirty this evening."
Murdoch closed his eyes and calculated for a moment. "That will put us in to Don Station at six fifty-five tomorrow morning."
"Indeed it will, sir." George shuddered inwardly at the thought of a night sitting upright on a shaking, noisy train, but then reminded himself it had to be better than lying awake in the woods waiting to be eaten by a bear, or a wolf. Or a werewolf. A bearwolf? Now that was a terrifying prospect.
"Very good, then, George, let us proceed to the telegraph office." Murdoch stood up slowly, without assistance, and took a few hesitant steps.
"How are you keeping right now, sir?"
"I'm fi—" Murdoch broke off, seeing George glaring at him darkly. "I'm all right for a short walk, George. I won't ask you to give me any of the bags."
"Very well, then, sir." He took a breath. "Sir, I shall be most cross should you overexert yourself and further delay our journey home."
"Of course, George. I'll be mindful."
"I should certainly hope so, sir."
They began their slow progression to the centre of town.