Scattered Bones (5 page)

The more he struggled to climb out, the more the ice kept breaking, shards as sharp as glass ripping at his now gloveless hands. He was more indignant than frightened. Surely he was too young to die! God obviously thought so too, because just as Arthur was sinking for the third time, Bibiane Ratt’s sled appeared.

The half-breed crawled slowly, carefully on his stomach towards the open water, until he was able to grab Arthur by his upper arms and allow him to wiggle his body, stiff from cold, up onto more solid ice.

“You and I, we surely are a team, Bibi,” Arthur
had gasped.

The near disaster taught them both a lesson – trading the tea kettles and steel traps which the Cree and Chipewayan hungered after for the furs the Indians caught was surely a safer way to make their fortune than trapping themselves. In 1913, Arthur decided to set up as a ‘free agent’, independent of the large companies. He chose Pelican Narrows as his home base because it was an important hub on the fur trading highway, with the Churchill River as its main artery.

Bibiane had attended an industrial school run by Oblates long enough to learn basic arithmetic and to read and write. And from childhood, he’d trapped with his Cree family so knew the business from the ground up. All skills which Arthur realized would speed success. The half-breed was invited to supervise the construction of the main building, a warehouse, a fish house and Arthur’s lovely home. Bibiane did such an excellent job he was asked to stay on as manager of the Northern Lights Trading Post.

Arthur knew there would be competition at Pelican Narrows. The Hudson’s Bay Company had been established there for years, but after he met milquetoast Russell Smith, he told Bibiane, “This will be a pushover. I’ll have them out of business in no time.” Except Arthur hadn’t reckoned on Russell’s formidable wife, Florence. He still doesn’t know why, but to this day the Cree, at least the older ones, insist on doing business with her and her alone. Somehow she’s mesmerized them, so that even the bigger advances Arthur offers doesn’t tempt them. He and Bibiane have had to search out trappers in the outlying districts, north of the Churchill River, and this has been a costly pain in the ass.

Far into the bush they travel, the dog sleds loaded down with goods, visiting one camp after another, bargaining for the best skins. And twice a year, once with sleighs, and once with canoes, the pelts are hauled to the railhead at The Pas in Manitoba. There, the buyers from Montreal, Toronto, New York, St. Louis, Winnipeg gather to outsmart and outbid each other. If there is one thing Arthur is good at, it is haggling – he always gets the best price.

The fur trade is his main livelihood, but there are lots of other ways to make money – transporting goods to remote communities, prospecting, government jobs – he’d been made a Justice of the Peace five years ago. Most lucrative is the booze which flows from the still Bibiane has set up in a shed in the bush. Who cares if it is illegal to sell alcohol to Indians? They’re human beings after all. Why shouldn’t they indulge now and then like everyone else?

Arthur puts Pulcinella down on the table. ‘That’s how I could afford you, old chum. And all the other beautiful things in my life.”

But it’s not all about his swelling bank account. He’s given a lot to this community of Pelican Narrows, not just through cash donations, although he’s pretty generous there. More, it’s his entrepreneurial spirit. He has no doubt that if this place has prospered, it’s because of
his
business acumen.

He still feels a frisson of pleasure when he remembers the dinner at
the Regency Hotel in Prince Arthur. Everyone dressed to nines, including himself. The Chief Justice, the Member of Parliament, the Anglican bishop, the elegant wives, clapping their approval as he accepted the plaque acknowledging “his enormous contribution to the development of the Great North.” No question in his mind – he deserved it.

Chapter Six

Arthur hears his housekeeper,
Mavis Custer,
bustling about in the kitchen and goes to greet her. He lingers in the doorway a few moments contemplating this room which he considers one of his great accomplishments. There’s a Victorian oak table with barley twist legs, and a French walnut buffet with swirling inlays. His set of Rose Bouquet bone china teacups and saucers are on display here. Today the sun is shining on them; Arthur thinks they are so pretty.

But don’t let anyone say that he’s only interested in antiques. A high society chatelaine couldn’t be more up-to-date. This Hoosier cabinet, just arrived last month, is an example. It’s truly a wonder, with separate bins for sugar, salt, and up to fifty pounds of flour with a built-in sifter. There’s a pull-out work surface that’s also a cutting board, a multitude of drawers for every imaginable utensil, shelves for dishes, glassware and mixing bowls, a coffee-bean grinder, a bread box, a spice rack and even an ant trap. Mavis is overwhelmed by the complexity of it all, and, to Arthur’s annoyance, he’s had to explain how things work many times.

“All ready for tonight’s do?” he asks her. She nods yes in her usual surly, disrespectful manner. If she wasn’t such a superb cook, he’d have gotten rid of her long ago.

Arthur’s not sure who will come to his party. He’s not well liked, he knows that. He usually doesn’t give a damn, but tonight a respectable turnout is important to his plans.

The first to arrive is the competition. Actually, Russell Smith has been in the fur trade business for so long that he takes everything in his stride, doesn’t worry at all about the cunning Mr. Jan or any other upstart rival. Besides, he adores Arthur’s well-stocked liquor cabinet. Florence isn’t with him. Arthur knows she despises him, but then he can’t stand the fat cow either.

“Glad you could come, Russ. How’s business?” he asks as he hands him a glass of whiskey.

‘Pretty good. And you?”

Before Arthur can answer, there’s a bang at the door. The second contingent, consisting of Bob Taylor, Doc Happy Mac and Claude Lewis, has shown up. The Indian agent, self-important as always, intones, “It’s very kind of you, Arthur, to take the trouble to entertain our little group.”

At the same time, Doc Happy Mac enthusiastically shakes Russell Smith’s hand, crooning, “This is my first Treaty Party trip, you know, and I’m so very happy to make the acquaintance of interesting people like you.” This instantly makes everyone feel at home.

A tall, good-looking, red-headed man, Douglas Mackenzie has acquired his nickname honestly. His broad, freckled face cracks into a grin at every opportunity.

The other physician, Claude Lewis, looks nothing like his famous sibling. Shorter, fatter and utterly ordinary. After solemnly acknow-ledging everyone present, he apologizes, “for my brother’s tardiness. He’s feeling a bit under the weather, but he’ll show up shortly.”

The next guests, Ernst, Lucretia and Izzy Wentworth, arrive, the Reverend ushering in his wife and daughter like a sheepdog nudging his flock. “Delighted to meet you both,” he says, shaking hands with Claude and Doc Happy Mac. He smiles a solicitous greeting to the Indian agent. He has known Bob Taylor for years and has always been intimidated by him.

Lucretia was anxious about the invitation, and rightly so. Here is the host, looking at her as though he’s going to eat her up, and she can’t help but meet his gaze. She knew the situation would be embarrassing, but her husband had insisted. “After all, my dear, Arthur’s a member of our congregation and his offerings are always generous.” And, of course, she’s dying to meet The Famous Author on this his first night at Pelican Narrows.

Izzy Wentworth had no such qualms. She’s never been shy, and tonight she’s bubbling over with delighted-to-meet-yous. She kisses Russell Smith on the cheek. “So sorry Florence can’t be here. I’ll miss her terribly.” But Izzy’s even more disappointed when Arthur announces that Father Bonnald has declined his invitation. One of Joe Sewap’s many jobs is to escort the old cleric on his rounds, and he surely would have accompanied him here. It will be a dull evening for Izzy without Joe in attendance, that’s for sure.

“What lovely glassware,” exclaims Doc Happy Mac, as Arthur hands him some sherry.

“From the Atelier of James Gilles, London, 1770.”

The guests gape at him and the conversation rapidly switches to the more commonplace – the day’s proceedings.

“You can say one thing for the Indians,” said Doc Happy Mac, “they’re honest as the day is long. One of the squaws walked right up and slapped down a ten dollar bill. She told us that her twins had died, and she was returning the money she’d got for them last summer. Can you fathom that?”

“That’s one side of the story,” Bob Taylor says. “But what about that old scoundrel who’s been pocketing his daughter’s treaty money for years? She married a nonstatus Indian, so isn’t eligible to collect one cent. We finally discovered his theft.” The Indian agent lifts his sherry glass in a salute to Arthur Jan. “Thanks to information provided by our kind host here.” His voice grows sharp. “That fellow will pay the Department back the full amount or I’ll see that he goes to prison. He must be made an example of, or every Indian in this country is apt to pull the same trick.”

“There are sinners and saints wherever humans congregate,” interjects Russell Smith. “But on the whole I’d say there is a lot more good than bad amongst our native population.”

“Perhaps that’s true,” responds Taylor, “but given that their society is so primitive, and they’re so childlike, do they even know the difference between right and wrong?”

“The thing I don’t like,” interjects Arthur, “is that we white people are always being blamed for what ails the redskin. They can be more savage to each other than a Brit or a Scot or even a Frenchman would ever dream of being. Do you ever hear about the famous massacre that took place here?”

His guests look as though they’re genuinely interested, and Arthur is happy about this. He’s obsessed with this story. Over the years, he has relentlessly prodded every old Indian he’s come across for his or her version of events, and often, before he falls asleep, he mulls over the bloody details he has ferreted out.

“They reckon some sixty women, children and old men were butchered. Heads severed, breasts strewn on the beach, genitals hung on trees. The bodies were supposedly buried somewhere around here. I swear you can sometimes hear the ghosts moaning and crying.”

“My Lord, what a ghastly tale,” Claude Lewis calls out. “Did you discover a reason for the bloodbath?”

Russell Smith quickly butts in. “It can be traced back, as always, to the manipulations of the white man. The marauders were likely Sioux, who were well paid by the French to eliminate those doing business with the British. And at that time the Cree were allied with the HBC – the English in other words – so those poor women and children were considered fair game.”

“It’s proof of what I’ve always thought,” interjects Reverend Wentworth. “The Indians are savages at heart. It makes my task even more essential, to preach the Glory of Almighty God and set them on the path to salvation.”

Izzy feels her cheeks redden. She hates it when her father turns sanctimonious. Every Indian he’s ever encountered he’s seen through a haze of preconceived ideas – learned, she supposes, in divinity school.

“More like they’ll turn your head around, and you’ll end up beating drums,” she shoots back, pretending that she’s joking.

Arthur is trying to decide if the ‘lunch’ – fruit cake, cheeses, berry pie, coffee and tea – should be set out before the guest of honour arrives when Sinclair Lewis finally bangs through the door. Offering no apologies for being late, he yells out, “Hello everybody.” Before the others can reply, he begins striding back and forth, peering at Arthur’s pictures and
objets d’art
.

“Swell digs you have here, Arthur. Goddamn, look at this beauty!” he roars, as he spots a 60-pound sturgeon mounted on the wall. Arthur had caught it at Reindeer Lake. As Sinclair backs up to take it all in, he bumps into a commode and his elbow sends one of the Royal Doulton
Toby Jugs – the precious Robin Hood – crashing to the floor.

“Oh, sorry about that,” The Famous Author says, showing no genuine remorse at all.

Arthur’s stomach heaves, but he utters not a word. Holding back tears,
he picks up the pieces. Meanwhile, Sinclair continues to flap around the room, poking his nose close to all of Arthur`s precious things.

Lucretia has been watching The Famous Writer’s every move. His ugliness actually gives him character, she decides. “Like our Prime Minister King, revolting as a toad, but smart,” she whispers to her daughter.

Izzy agrees. With his high, wide forehead, and his long face that narrows at the chin, The Famous Author reminds her of the tormented soul in Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’, a reproduction of which had hung in her art class at school. His arms are so long that his wrists dangle down from the sleeves of his flannel shirt. His eyebrows are colourless and his hair, combed back slick to his head, has an unbecoming orange tint, like carrots. His bright-blue eyes are large, round and bulging. But it’s his complexion which Izzy thinks is hideous. The sun has baked it a beet colour, the skin is still peeling, and the entire surface is riddled with red pustules and pock marks, with a scar jagging down his lower right cheek. During her last semester at school, Izzy had been assigned Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
, and here, surely, is a living example.