The Last Crossing (57 page)

Charles Gaunt smiled in a way that expressed his doubt about his accomplishment or that there was anything he could provide, and
offered Harkness a Turkish cigarette from a silver case. The two men lit up and blew savoury smoke at the ceiling. Gaunt said, “I am curious about one thing, Mr. Harkness. Does a newspaper in … in
Calgary
, is it? Remind me, that is the place?”

“Yes, yes, Calgary,” Harkness confirmed.

“Does a newspaper in Calgary maintain a correspondent in London?”

Harkness bobbed his head sheepishly. “No. My new bride and I are honeymooning in Europe – our first time abroad – and the expenses are rather heavy, so I occasionally send dispatches back home to make something extra. Chiefly to Calgary, but sometimes Montreal or Toronto. Depending on public interest in the topic.” Gaunt said nothing, simply tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. Harkness continued. “I believe that our little out-of-the-way place ought to learn something about Charles Gaunt the poet.”

“Not the poet. A single volume hardly earns me the right to the title poet.”

“But
The Spanish Steps –
several of the most noteworthy critics deem it something special.”

Gaunt avoided comment on the taste of critics. “I had not thought
The Spanish Steps
had travelled so far, all the way to Calgary, the North-West Territories, Canada,” was all he said. Harkness wondered if Gaunt was intending irony when he stated the address in such detail.

“The fame of the newer authors of the British Isles does take time to reach us. But I correspond regularly with friends in Montreal, fellow graduates of McGill …” Harkness’s confidence dipped when he realized the name of his alma mater meant nothing to the Englishman. “At any rate,” he said, hastening on, “one of my old classmates spoke very highly of your poems – went so far as to send me a copy of
The Spanish Steps
. I found it remarkable.”

“This is all very flattering, very gratifying,” murmured Gaunt.

To the reporter, Charles Gaunt did not look gratified at all. His gaze wandered about the lobby as he spoke, noting the comings and goings of the hotel’s residents, an elderly porter’s struggle to wrestle a steamer trunk into submission. “Readers would be very interested to
know something of the life of a London man of letters,” Harkness said. “Do you move much in literary circles?”

A shadow of a smile appeared on Gaunt’s lips. “No, certainly not. I live a very shy, retiring life. An old bachelor’s existence.”

“Who among the Greats were your friends?”

“Greats?”

“Perhaps you were acquainted with Lord Alfred Tennyson?” Harkness inquired hopefully.

“Alas, our paths never crossed.”

“Given the strong link with Italy in your work … perhaps you knew Mr. Robert Browning?”

“Regrettably, I never had the pleasure of Mr. Browning’s acquaintance.”

“Hardy?”

“No. No Hardy. Sorry.”

Gaunt registered the reporter’s disappointment. Really, he ought to give the poor fellow something. “Those poets I knew, or know- and I caution you my knowledge of them is very slight – were those connected in some way with the world of painting. William Morris, both Rossettis, Dante and Christina–”

The young man could not curb his enthusiasm. “You know Miss Rossetti!”

“A little,” Gaunt admitted grudgingly. “She is even more private than myself. Her interests now are chiefly religious.”

Gaunt was startled to hear Harkness launch into a recitation from Miss Christina’s work. “ ‘My heart is like a singing bird / Whose nest is in a watered shoot: / My heart is like an apple tree / Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit.’ ” The fellow suddenly arrested his declamation. Clearly abashed by how he had spontaneously combusted, he scrambled back to a more suitable, proper journalistic detachment. “Mr. Gaunt, you say you know those poets who have some connection with the world of painting – does that mean you are a connoisseur of fine art? Perhaps a collector?”

Gaunt was amused. “No. Painting has been my profession for the last twenty years – principally portraits.”

“A man of many talents, many parts,” Harkness said, embarrassed by his ignorance. “And what brought you to poetry, Mr. Gaunt? Caused you to change horses, as it were?”

To the young man, Gaunt’s self-possession appeared to waver. The poet won a little time to compose himself by stubbing out his cigarette with great thoroughness. “A difficult question, Mr. Harkness. As clearly you are yourself, I have been a lover of poetry. One day I thought I would try my hand at some verse – only for my own amusement, you know. Later, I showed my poems to a friend who I thought was qualified to give an honest opinion, a gentleman in the publishing trade. Against my better judgment, I was persuaded to allow his firm to print them.”

“But what pushed you to write at this time? There must have been some remarkable inspiration that turned you from pictures to words. What was it?”

Gaunt studied Harkness’s face. Was that a glint of cunning in the young man’s eye? What was he attempting to draw out of him? Steadily, he said, “Let us say I found a subject not amenable to expression in portraiture.”

“The woman with ‘the hair burnished red’ who haunts you in Italy, you mean. Your own Beatrice. Why could she not be painted just as easily as written? Seated under an olive tree, say?”

“Because she is imagined,” said Gaunt curtly. “There is no model who might have sat for me. My poems have nothing to do with an existing person.”

“But surely–”

Gaunt cut him off. “That is all I have to say on the matter.”

Harkness contemplated pressing the question. For the briefest of moments, Charles Gaunt looked like prey pursued. Harkness immediately apologized. “I am sorry. Of course, I should not be so forward.”

Gaunt, seeking breathing space, remarked, “Lately, one sees a good deal in the British press of your part of the world. Advertisements for settlers, much talk of boundless opportunity.”

“One could say Western Canada changes by the hour,” Harkness said with fervour. “Towns and cities arise almost overnight. Why,
Winnipeg, in the province of Manitoba, already has a population of several hundred thousand and is a bustling rail centre. There are those who say that in a decade it shall surpass Chicago. And Calgary, only a short time ago, it was nothing but a whisky post on the Bow River, and now it is the coming place. Hotels, businesses, it boils with activity.” He paused. “You might pay us a visit. The better class of citizen is very eager to attend lectures on literary topics. We do not wish to moulder in a cultural wasteland. You should give it your consideration.”

Harkness was studying his reaction to the proposal. Being watched so closely disconcerted Gaunt. He decided to surprise the reporter. “I think not,” he said. “It would be disappointing for me to see those wild prairies I visited as a young man so changed.”

Harkness let the remark pass without comment. All he said was, “Perhaps you shall reconsider. You might find it pleasant to revisit old memories and old acquaintances.”

Gaunt found it very strange that the reporter expressed no surprise that he, Gaunt, had once visited the West. It would be best to find out exactly what he knew of his personal history and how he knew it. “No,” Charles Gaunt said, “I prefer not to. Besides, who would be left from the old days? Only several months ago I was informed of the death of a former acquaintance. It was a sad moment, to learn of the demise of Jerry Potts. I had not seen him for twenty-five years, but one still feels the loss.”

“Consumption and drink did him in, poor fellow,” said Harkness. “But perhaps it was for the best. He had outlived his day.”

“A rather harsh judgment,” said Gaunt, disguising his astonishment that the young man recognized Jerry Potts’s name.

“No, no,” said Harkness, hurrying to correct himself. “I did not express myself well. I do not mean to dismiss him. I have the greatest sympathy for Mr. Potts and, in fact, regard him as a tragic figure. A man who had a hand in every step that brought the citizens of the North-West to our present state of peace and prosperity but who himself received no share of it. He was, unwittingly, a tool in the destruction of the world he loved.”

“I know nothing of his later life,” Gaunt confessed.

Harkness did. Eagerly, he related Potts’s apparently famous rescue of the North-West Mounted Police force. He described the red column coming to the end of their long march West, the representatives of Canada and the Empire on the verge of starvation, demoralized and on their last legs until Potts led them to food, water, and secured them a safe haven in which to regroup. Shortly after that episode, Potts had guided the police to Fort Whoop-Up, helping to destroy the American liquor trade and perhaps in so doing, saving the North-West from falling into Yankee hands.

Harkness painted a heroic storybook picture. He claimed Potts had been not only a guide to the lawmen, but also their teacher. He spoke of his work as a translator during treaty negotiations between the government of the Dominion of Canada and the Blackfoot. The reporter said that Potts had exerted influence with the Blackfoot nation in all their dealings with the whites, and had actually had a hand in persuading his war-like people not to join forces with the Cree and Métis when they rose up in revolt against the federal government eleven short years ago. Harkness went on to speculate that if an alliance had been forged between the plains tribes, who could say what the outcome of the rebellion would have been, or how much blood would have been expended in an endless, brutal repetition of the American Indian wars?

Gaunt perceived that the young man was riding a private hobby horse; he glowed as he spoke. Very earnestly, Harkness declared the fascination Potts held for him. He saw the half-breed scout as a perfectly equipped factotum for a crucial transition in history. Master of Indian tongues, mental geographer of an unmapped land, Potts also had strong links to white society, all this making him an invaluable bridge between two worlds. Yet once civilization had been established in the wilds, and railroads, banks, and schools had been established, Potts was dispensable. Rather grandiosely, Harkness said, “To me, Potts is a mythical being – avatar of the old
and
the new.”

Gaunt felt he had been audience for both a history lesson and a eulogy. Still, he was grateful to know these things. Quietly, he said,
“News of the rebellion did, of course, reach London. It was not perceived as being of great moment. The newspapers here had nothing to say of Jerry Potts, as far as I can recall.”

“Well, now that he is dead, Potts has gained a certain fame in our part of the world. We can forget our guilt in using him. Acknowledge a debt which is safely beyond reach of paying.”

“You are very philosophical,” remarked Gaunt.

Harkness realized he had been commanding the bully pulpit. With a deprecating smile, he tried to excuse himself. “Let us say that the editorials I am not permitted to write must find an outlet. Even if that outlet is an unsuspecting stranger. My views on Potts are informed by my father-in-law’s long friendship with him. In latter years they shared many a bottle reviewing their salad days.” Harkness saw the austere figure before him smile knowingly. Perhaps a pleasant memory of Potts in his cups had been awakened. “You see, when Potts was alive, I never heard anyone speak of him as if he were anything but a child – or an amusing mascot for the Mounted Police. I find it hypocritical, an insult to his true stature.”

“Yes,” said Gaunt, “Mr. Potts was a man of remarkable qualities. However, I confess I came to realize the full extent of them only upon reflection, after we parted. He was of great service to me once and I, like your countrymen, did not give him my thanks when I should have.”

The conversation fell into a pensive lull. The two men turned their attention to the gentlemen and ladies who were coming down the hotel stairs prepared for a night out on the town. Dinner jackets and splendid gowns were much in evidence.

Gaunt startled Harkness out of his reverie. “There is more to this than a simple interview, Mr. Harkness. Isn’t there?” Gaunt saw he had struck home. The reporter grew red and flustered. “I thought so. What is behind this exactly?” He offered another cigarette to Harkness to give the reporter an opportunity to collect himself. Harkness took the cigarette but did not light it, simply flicked it rapidly against the back of his hand.

“You are right,” he said at last. “Although I wish to make it clear that I would have been delighted to meet you for no other reason than to express the esteem in which I hold your book.”

“Go on,” said Gaunt. He suspected the young man had poetry he wished to show him.

“I come as an emissary. With a message.”

“A message from whom?”

“Mr. Custis Straw.”

Consternation sprang into Gaunt’s face, swiftly followed by a look of profound distaste. “I desire no communication with Mr. Straw,” he said stiffly.

Having come this far, Harkness would not swerve from his purpose. “There are several things he wished you to know. The first was that he did not betray your trust. Your letter to Lucy Stoveall was delivered. He did his duty by you.”

“It is impertinent of you to raise such matters. Even more impertinent of you to seek me out under false pretences,” said Gaunt furiously.

“Mr. Gaunt, I have the greatest respect for you. But on balance, I owe my father-in-law even more consideration.”

“Father-in-law, is it?” Gaunt began to rise from his chair.

Harkness was not prepared to yield until he had his say. “And Custis Straw wished you to understand he did nothing to come between you and Lucy Stoveall. It was she who proposed marriage to him when she found herself with child.”

Charles Gaunt was on his feet, but he was not moving.

Quietly, Harkness said, “Mr. Straw would have preferred to put this in your hands himself. But he died several months ago.” Harkness rummaged in his satchel, produced a rectangle wrapped in white tissue paper. “He particularly wished you to have this.”

Gaunt accepted the article and dropped back down in his chair like a man exhausted. He removed the paper wrapping, revealing a photograph in a silver frame, a picture of a young woman somehow familiar to him. Then he recollected the daguerreotype Lucy Stoveall had proudly showed him so many years ago. He was looking at her
murdered sister, Madge. Yet something about the picture perplexed him, something he could not quite put his finger on. He held it up to Harkness. “Who is this young woman?”