The Canadian Highland

Preface

  Like a second layer of skin, the dirt and mud on my face covers my tears, hides my emotions from the bitter wind and pelting rain. George slowly sulks beside me, head down, showing the strain of placing one foot in front of the other. In the distance, faint across the horizon, lies the fort we have been searching. You would think I would be happy with the sight, but every pace aches with the failure of the past.

  “George,” I quietly whisper, “It looks like we’ll be at Fort William within the next couple of hours.”

  He quietly looks up, but doesn’t say anything. Ever since Seven Oaks, he has not been himself. So much death all around him; there was nothing he could do. Some things men should not have to see, let alone live through. He listens to me, still responds slightly to the touch of my fingers on his hand and my lips on his cheek, but he is so distant, and I’m not sure if in time things will go back to the way they were?

  The rest of my family are not fairing much better. My brothers now look like walking skeletons. They have not eaten for a couple of days. My youngest brother pushes food away when given to him, and my older brother Liam can’t seem to hold anything down. The pemmican may keep for long periods, but you get so sick of it day after day. If things don’t change soon, I don’t know how they are going to make it.

  George uses his musket to support his bad leg. The scar on his shoulder has healed well over time. The bullet only grazed him there and he was wearing a heavy coat. His leg, however, has not fared so well. He has not had enough time to recover from his injury. We left soon after he was wounded in battle, and we have not had time to rest. He doesn’t complain, but his limp has become more and more noticeable with each step.

  As we draw closer to the fort, people start to look up from their work. We must seem like a strange sight, not your typical North West fur trader with a load of skins. Approaching the main building, a path is made for us. People stare. No one dares interrupt our arrival with signs of greeting. No one knows what to make of this sight, of people who have just travelled from beneath Hell’s doormat.

  This is the main trading post of the North West Company. It is the gateway to the west and there is activity everywhere. It’s almost as grand as York Factory for the HBC. There are soldiers here, fur traders, businessmen dressed in fine clothes, and one man in particular who stands out from among the rest. I have never seen anyone dressed so well.

  Sensing our distress, a couple of the company workers gestured for us to follow them outside into a small cabin where we could unload ourselves and rest. Tea was immediately brought which we accepted with as much grace as we could. George spoke to these men briefly. The surprise these strangers felt was clearly obvious. With looks that bordered on disbelief and shock, these company workers took their leave so we could try to sleep off some of the effects of our journey.

  A knock on the door pulled me out of troubling dreams. In came that distinguished man I had seen earlier, followed by two soldiers with their muskets at the ready, although from us there was nothing to fear.

  “Is it true where you have come from?” he demanded, looking at George with an astonished expression on his face.

  Pulling himself to his feet, George looked carefully into this man’s eyes, trying to figure out how much he should say. But before he could open his mouth to speak, I got up beside him and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Before you ask anything,” I replied, “Who is it is asking the questions?”

  “This fort has been taken over by me. Those men who have mistreated you have been arrested. I am Lord Selkirk, and you are the first colonists I have met. So I ask again, is it true you have come from Red River?”

  I stared at this man with disbelief. All the hardship, all the pain, everything I have suffered from these past four years… he was the reason for it all. This nobleman with his grand scheme for poor Highlanders was standing in front of me, not just a name used to justify a dangerous course of action. This man killed Isabella McIntyre as she tried to cross the ocean. This man has turned my little brothers into walking corpses. He’s taken George’s spirit and crushed it in his own vain and stupid attempt to be charitable. And my poor Uncle Willie, who I will never see again: never to hear his laugh or scold for drinking just a bit too much. This man took it all!

  I quickly pulled back my hand and struck him across the face as hard as I could. The snapping sound startled everyone. Selkirk fell back a few steps and would have surely fallen if not steadied by the men standing behind him. Sensing I might pounce like a wild animal, George held onto my shoulder while giving me a little squeeze to show he supported my action.

  Pulling away from George, I made my way through Selkirk’s soldiers and ran out the door. I had new strength, and I started to run. I needed to leave that man, that bastard whose decisions led to so much suffering. After a while I stopped, realizing no one was going to chase me. I wasn’t worried about any punishment for what I did to him. He got exactly what he deserved. It’s the price for doing business in Canada.