Chapter Seventeen
The band of quartz that Hekwaw leads them to looks like a hard-frozen stream three feet wide.
It runs aboveground east to west for twelve or fifteen yards, and inside it the lines of gold ore are so thick and pure that John Shaw, after he has Hearn dig down a little at either end with his mattock to test just how deep and long the vein might stretch, declares with a look of pure joy and vindication on his face that, by the end of the summer, if they give it their all, they could have enough gold in their possession to buy Prince of Wales’ Fort and everything inside it.
In payment, they give Hekwaw the hammer he craves, and Hearn promises that they will keep the role he played in the discovery to themselves so as not to cause any trouble between him and his father.
“I knew in my bones that old goat was lying to us,” Shaw says once Hekwaw has left them. “He knew where it was all along. Of course he did.”
“Hekwaw told me there are superstitions attached to this place,” says Hearn.
“Some of the older men believe the stones are inhabited by spirits or ghosts of some kind. Owliktuk knew what we were looking for as soon as he saw the pedlar’s rock—they all knew—but he persuaded the others that it would only bring down bad luck upon them if we stayed here any longer. ”
“I’ll bring down some bad luck on that mendacious bastard myself if I ever see him again,” Shaw vows with a grin. “We’ve wasted two weeks near enough on scratching around when we could have been out here digging already.”
“If Hekwaw hadn’t been so eager for iron, we might never have found it at all,” Hearn says. “It’s much farther from the lakeshore than we ever planned to look.”
“We have Abel Walker’s delicate charms to thank for that. He don’t speak a word of their language, but he managed to coax the truth out of that fellow nonetheless.”
“When I saw that gold sitting there in my hand, I almost swooned,” Walker says. “I swear I almost shat myself.”
Shaw laughs and slaps him on the back with his one good hand, then grabs him and gives him a hard squeeze.
“You played your part, lad,” he says. “You did more than play your part. And when we get back home, I’ll tell your uncle all about it. He wasn’t so sure you’d flourish out here on the Barrens and neither was I, but you’ve swept all them doubts aside. You’ve proved yourself today, you truly have.”
That same evening, they move the camp from the lakeshore to a more suitable spot close by the vein, and the next day, still in high spirits, after laying out all the equipment they brought with them from the Factory and discussing how best to divide up the work in light of Shaw’s infirmity, they commence their labors.
Hearn and Walker break off lumps of the gold-bearing quartz with pickaxes first, then they crush those lumps into a fine gravel using a heavy mortar made from an oak log hooped and cogged with iron and a large pestle similarly fashioned.
After the crushing is completed, they scoop the gravel into wooden pails, which Shaw carries over to the stream and tips into wide copper pans before sifting.
The work is slow and tiring to begin with and they end each day blistered and aching, but after a week or two their muscles and sinews become accustomed to the strain, and their minds become used to the dull monotony of the routine so that later, even when a summer heat rises and shimmers the air, and blackflies and musketos descend on them like a plague from the Bible, the work continues brisk and unabated.
Each night, with a ritualistic regularity before they go to sleep, Shaw gets out the brass scales he brought from the Fort, and Walker watches on in a reverent silence as he carefully spoons that day’s gold onto the tray and weighs it.
Most days the scales will settle at six or seven ounces and sometimes a good deal more.
Shaw estimates that if they continue at this pace and empty the vein completely before the snows begin to fall again, they will have forty or fifty pounds of gold to carry back home—a hoard so considerable that in London it will need to be sold carefully, in separate batches, so as not to flood the market and collapse the price.
“But we don’t need to worry ourselves about that part yet,” he says to Abel Walker.
“Once we’ve done our job here, Magnus will see to all the rest. He’ll strike the bargains and bank the proceeds for us, and all we need to do is remain as we are a little while longer, then, when the time is judged to be right, we return home to claim our great fortunes.
We’ll have carriages and stables and fine houses soon enough, Abel,” he promises, “and sweet-smelling bitches to soothe us asleep and tickle us awake again. Just you think of that.”
Now that the gold has been discovered and is something real, not merely dreamed of, Shaw has forgone any pretense that they are working for the Company rather than themselves.
He has offered Hearn another twenty pounds on their return to buy his complicity and silence, and Hearn, since he is now resigned to the fact that nothing can prevent the journey from being a great and resounding success, has accepted the bribe.
The work is all that matters, he reminds himself again each morning as he wakes and each evening as he falls asleep; the work is the thing to trust and hold on to, and wherever it comes from or leads to for good or ill is not my concern.
If Shaw and Walker wish to lose themselves in fantastical dreams of the future, then let them do so, he thinks.
I will put my faith in the minute and the moment, in the purposeful occupation of hand and brain, and in that way, although my existence may seem bare and paltry to some, I will not delude myself with imaginings or start believing, as prideful men the world over like to believe, that I am something far greater than I am.
The two women, Keasik and Pawpitch, are out together early one morning gathering moss and lichen while at the same time keeping a careful watch, as usual, for any sign of roaming Esquimaux when Pawpitch, who’s been reminiscing about the last time she came up to the Barrens and who she was with back then and what they got up to, realizes that Keasik has suddenly fallen silent.
Thinking this strange because the girl has been more cheerful lately, she calls her name, and when she doesn’t answer turns about and sees the willow basket lying on its side on the ground and Keasik bent over double with her hands on her knees, gasping and spitting out drool.
Pawpitch walks across, kneels down quickly to scoop the spilled contents back into the toppled basket, then standing again, puts her hand on Keasik’s back and brushes the strands of damp hair away from her face.
Keasik, taking no notice, groans twice, sighs, pukes again, then stands upright slowly and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.
“You can go back to the camp and rest,” Pawpitch says. “I can do this alone if you’d like.”
Keasik winces. Her skin is damp, and her lips are pale.
“It must be the fish we ate,” Pawpitch says.
“I don’t think it’s the fish.”
Pawpitch wonders for a moment what else it could be, then looks at Keasik again more carefully and, noticing the roundness of her cheeks and the tightness of her tunic across her breasts and belly, feels foolish.
She picks up the basket and hands it back to her, then smiles and kisses her on the cheek.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“About what?”
“Now that I look at you, it’s so obvious.”
Keasik shrugs and looks uncomfortable.
“I wasn’t sure at first.”
She smiles warily, and Pawpitch, remembering how much Keasik has wanted a child and how hard it has been for her to cope with Nabayah’s anger and moodiness, feels pleased on her behalf and newly hopeful.
Perhaps life really will improve for the two of them after this, she thinks.
Perhaps encouraging them to get married really was a good idea.
“Does Nabayah know yet?”
“Not yet. I should tell him soon, but I’m too nervous.”
“Why be nervous? He’ll be happy when he knows. It’ll make things better between the two of you, especially if the child turns out to be a boy. This journey’s been hard for all of us, and especially hard for you, but this is something we can celebrate together.”
Keasik nods as if she understands all this and wants it to be true, but Pawpitch can see that something is still troubling her.
“What is it?” Pawpitch says. “Just tell me, daughter.”
Keasik frowns, then sniffs and rubs her eyes.
“Just tell me,” Pawpitch says again.
“It’s been three months,” she says quickly. “The last time I bled was the day we arrived at Crow Lake.”
Pawpitch is about to say that yes, that makes sense, because the third month is when the sickness is always worst, but then she stops herself.
“Before the wrestling?” she says.
“A week before. That’s why I’ve kept it to myself until now. I’m scared that he’ll lose his temper when he understands.”
So that’s why she looks unhappy, Pawpitch thinks.
It makes sense to me now. If I was her, I’d probably be worried too, because if Nabayah learns that his wife might be carrying a half-breed child inside, he’s not likely to be pleased.
Some husbands can take things like that in their stride.
They willingly lend out their wives to other men and don’t worry very much about the consequences, but Nabayah isn’t the easygoing kind. Not at all.
“He might not ask you how long it’s been,” she says, “but if he does, you could always lie a little. Tell him it’s only been a month. If you smile when you say it and look confident and proud, he’s bound to believe you.”
“I already thought of that, but I’ve never been good at lying and, besides, if I tell him it’s just been a month and then the baby comes out with green eyes or brown hair, it’s even worse.”
Pawpitch nods and then breathes out with a sigh.
“Maybe it’s better to be honest from the beginning,” she says. “But if you’re going to tell him the truth, do it when we’re all there together, so that his father and I can help if he becomes angry.”
“I thought things were getting better between us. I hate to ruin it.”
“A child is just a child, that’s what we need him to understand.
We found Nabayah wandering alone in the woods, after all, and raised him as our own.
We didn’t waste any time asking ourselves who his real parents might be; we just gave him enough food to eat and kept him warm and taught him what he needed to know. ”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Life can be very simple if you allow it to be, but men worry so much about honor and reputation sometimes that it makes them confused.”
Pawpitch puts her arms around Keasik and holds her tightly for a moment, then lets her go. Keasik sniffs and wipes away a tear, then speaks again, but now in a calmer and more pensive tone.
“I’m scared,” she says, “but underneath the fear I still feel happy. I really do. I can’t help myself.”
“Because a child is a gift,” Pawpitch explains to her, smiling again and touching her on the cheek with her thumb. “No matter where it comes from, it’s always a gift.”