Chapter One #2
John Shaw was a tinner for three years in the Ladock stream works in Cornwall before he came out to the Bay.
It was wearying work for slender reward—pushing barrowloads of shoad uphill or standing knee-deep in leat water all day long.
He would have quit it much sooner than he did except that some few days of every year, perhaps once every two or three months, when he was working down in the tyes, rinsing off the leavings to reveal the black ore, he’d see a fleck of something else lying in the water among the pebbles of granite and feldspar, just a glimmer or a blink, nothing more.
But a morsel of gold, however small, will catch the light and hold it like nothing else on this earth.
Shaw had the eye for it then and he has the eye for it still, so when Norton beckons him closer, he doesn’t need any magnifier because, right away, he can sense what it is; he can feel its deep, silent calling like a thrill in his blood.
“Where did you find this?” he says to Patterson.
“I got it from a Chipewyan fellow I know.”
“And where did he find it?”
Patterson grins and rakes his fingers through his long red beard, then gazes around the room with a gleeful look on his mottled face.
“I knew you’d change your tune quick enough when you saw it,” he says. “I knew you would. You had me down as a fool and a wastrel, but now it turns out I’m the man you’ve been dreaming of all your long lives.”
“You’ve taken us by surprise,” Norton says. “I can’t deny that. We’ve all heard the stories about gold fields to the north, about men who went looking but never came back.”
“This ain’t a story or a rumor, though, is it?” Patterson says, cutting him off. “This is the thing itself. Pure and true.”
Norton glances across at Shaw, then stands up and goes to the sideboard to get a flask of the best brandy. He fills three glasses and gives one to Patterson, who sniffs once, then swallows it down.
“A nice drop, that,” he said. “Very nice. I thank you.”
“Sit with us,” Norton says. “Please.”
They fetch another chair, and Patterson sits.
“There’s more gold where that came from,” he says. “Plenty more. That’s what the Chipewyan fellow told me.”
“And where is all this gold?”
Patterson chuckles softly to himself and looks down at his empty glass. Norton hands him the flask of brandy and watches as he pours and drinks then pours again.
“Do you expect me to cough up that secret for nothing?” he says. “Do you think I’m as thickheaded as all that? You give me a hundred guineas in coin and all the brandy and tobacco I can carry out of here, then I might tell you.”
“If you know where the gold is, why not go there yourself?” Shaw says.
“Because it’s too far and too hard a journey for one man alone.”
“You could find yourself a partner.”
“I’m not the partnering type, never have been. I prefer to keep my own company.”
“That’s sensible,” Norton says. “You’re a trapper, not a miner, after all, and wherever this gold is, it won’t be an easy task to dig it up and transport it back. You need the might of the Company behind you to accomplish such a task.”
“That’s what I figured too.”
“We’ll give you the brandy and tobacco,” Norton continues. “But a hundred guineas is a lot to ask. How can we be sure that whatever place you send us to is the real place? And even if it is the real place, how do we know how much more gold we’ll find there?”
“There’s plenty more gold, you can be sure of that.”
“That’s what you promise, but why should we believe you?”
Patterson shrugs.
“It’s the plain word of an honest man,” he says. “I’ll swear it on the Holy Bible if you like.”
If Norton has a copy of the Holy Bible close to hand, he doesn’t reach for it. Instead, he looks at Shaw.
“What do you say, Mr. Shaw?”
They’ve played this same game a hundred times before in the trading room, so Shaw knows exactly what is expected.
“I’d say a hundred guineas is much too much,” he says. “If he’s not been there himself, it’s only a rumor he’s passing on. Why should we pay so much money for a mere rumor?”
“A mere rumor,” Norton says. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“It’s a secret, not a rumor,” Patterson says with a frown. “Secrets are worth paying for.”
“Some may be,” Norton says. “And some may not.”
They talk on through that afternoon, Norton and Shaw asking questions and trying to wear the pedlar down, to test his patience or trick him into revealing more than he intends, and all the time Patterson holding firm, grinning and cursing and chuckling to himself now and then, telling them they can play all the games they like, but he won’t be saying any more until he has that money in his hand.
In the end, Norton decides that nothing more can be gained from such haggling and that the pedlar, if not entirely trustworthy, is not, so far as they can tell on this point at least, an obvious or outrageous liar, so they settle on fifty guineas plus the brandy and tobacco and a new harness and sledge for the dog.
Once Patterson has gathered his prizes and is ready to leave, he tells them that the gold comes from a place called Ox Lake, which is five or six hundred miles away, deep in the Barrens two days north of the White River crossing.
“The Northern Indians all know where it is,” he says.
“You can ask around and find one who is willing to take you there, I’m sure.
But if you aim to find the rest of the gold and dig it up, you’d also be wise to make friends with the esquimaux band who have their summer camp on the lake’s north shore. ”
Late the next evening, once Patterson is gone and the rest of the day’s labors are complete, Norton and Shaw meet again and begin to devise a strategy.
They agree, first of all, to seek out the services of Datsanthi, the most intelligent and biddable of the Northern Indian chieftains, as their guide.
Norton will make him a generous offer, and if he accepts, then Shaw will head the expedition, accompanied by Abel Walker, Norton’s young nephew who has worked as assistant clerk these past two years and can be trusted to keep quiet and do only as he’s told.
To anyone who asks, they will say they are going north into the Barren Grounds to look for copper ore—a plausible if unusual excuse that should discourage any speculation among the men at the Fort.
The Company will be kept completely in the dark.
The fifty guineas paid to Patterson will be hidden in the accounts, and no mention of his visit will ever appear in the governor’s journals or reports.
Before the expedition leaves, they will need the blacksmith to fashion some new equipment—mattocks, hammers, sifting pans, et cetera—and they will have to remove sufficient small trade goods, knives, awls, and needles, from the warehouse to smooth their passage and win over the esquimaux band when they reach Ox Lake.
All that can be easily achieved. More troublesome is John Shaw’s belief that if they find the gold, then two men alone will not be sufficient to dig, crush, and winnow it.
“Abel Walker is willing,” he says. “But he’s a scrawny lad, and what if he gets sick or has an accident? The Indians won’t help us much either. They see everything aside from hunting as women’s work.”
Norton knows he’s right. It would hardly do to go all that way, he thinks, find the treasure, then lack the proper means to remove it.
“How many more men do you need?”
“Two would be safest, but one at a pinch.”
“Whoever we choose, he will have to be reliable and tight-lipped. We can’t have our best secrets being spread about. It can’t be any of the officers either; they’ll want too large a share for themselves. There’s Haycock, I suppose. He’s as strong as they come and loyal.”
“Haycock might do, except he’s a fool. I’d rather take a man with an ounce or two more brains in his head.”
“Brains can mean slyness, though, and we don’t need someone who thinks for himself too much.”
They sit in silence for a while meditating on this knotty paradox as the icy wind outside rattles the bolted shutters and the damp wood in the fireplace crackles and spits.
“And there’s the Esquimaux to think of besides,” Norton says after several minutes. “According to the Indians, they’re a barbarous bunch. What if they refuse to help, or even turn against you?”
“We’ll have to charm them somehow,” Shaw says.
“The fellows off the whaling sloop know all about the Esquimaux, at least the ones who live near Marble Island, since they trade with them most summers. Perhaps we should consider taking one of them along.”
“Not Purvis.”
“Of course not Purvis, no, but the other one, the quiet one. What’s his name?”
“You mean Tom Hearn, the first mate?”
“Aye, Tom Hearn. What do you make of Hearn?”
“He’s orderly and sober,” Shaw says, “but he prefers to keep apart, which means he’s not well-liked. Most evenings he has his nose buried in some old book. I’ve never seen him drunk or playing at cards or cribbage with the others.”
“If you ask me, that’s all to the good,” Norton says. “The fewer friends he has, the less opportunity he’ll have to gossip, and if he knows something of the esquimaux ways, that could be useful too. Perhaps we should call him in?”
“If we do, what will we say?”
“Not the truth, of course, or not all of it, anyway, but you can leave that part up to me. When I sit him down in that chair and look him square in the eye, then I’ll know just how far he can be trusted.”
Shaw nods, then leans forward and holds his hands up to the fire. Light and shadow slip and slide across his narrowed eyes and stubbled jowls.
“We’ll be taking a risk whoever we choose,” he says. “That can’t be avoided, I suppose, but then you and I have never been scared of a little gambling if the time is right, have we, Magnus?”
Norton nods in agreement, then reaches for the flask and pours them both another glass of brandy.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time, John,” he says. “I didn’t know I was waiting, but now I do. This is the final part of it for me, the crowning glory, if you like. If we get this gold, I can go home to England satisfied at last.”
“You’ve been talking about going home for the last ten years,” Shaw reminds him. “Yet here you still are. Ask me, you’re rusted in place and they’ll need a crowbar to prize you free.”
“But I mean it this time. When I saw those yellow lines in the pedlar’s rock, I knew it was a sign. I thought, This is it, finally. After so many years, this is my just and lasting reward.”
Shaw, looking across, thinks he sees the glint of a tear in Norton’s rheumy eye.
My old friend is getting longer in the tooth, he thinks, and softer in the head, but he’s still right about one thing at least: A chance like this doesn’t come along but once, and if you don’t grab it hard when it shows itself and hold on tight like the devil wherever it tries to take you, then you surely don’t deserve to thrive.