Over the next three weeks John Peyton accompanied Buchan and a crew of marines in a cutter and gig, travelling through the Bay of Exploits with Mary in hopes of locating and surprising a camp of Beothuk they might safely leave her with. The weather was fair and seasonable, but Mary wore flannel underclothes beneath her dress and a heavy cloak as well. Peyton and Buchan consulted her on likely locations of Indian encampments, but her ill health and lethargy dampened everyone’s hope for a successful outcome. They rowed forty miles west of Fortune Harbour to Badger Bay and a constant watch was kept to the shoreline for signs of fresh-cut paths that would indicate recent habitation by the Beothuk. On the evening of September 8, as they made way through a heavy thunder squall, a canoe was spotted a mile to the windward. The cutter gave chase, rounding a point of land beyond which the canoe had disappeared but there was no further sign of it. Buchan gave the order to come ashore where he guessed the Indians must have landed. He and Peyton and several marines spent more than an hour in pursuit through the bush. The marines grew increasingly sullen and uncomfortable the further they travelled inland from the cutter and Buchan finally relented and turned back. When they reached the shoreline they found Mary seated under a piece of canvas rigged up against the weather and showing no interest in the outcome of the chase.
The cutter was next taken up the River Exploits, rowed with muffled oars on a night guard almost twenty-five miles into the interior. Buchan and Peyton went into the woods with three marines, spending a full day in search of Indians. The only habitations they encountered had been abandoned since the previous summer. Mary remained at the camp and again gave no sign of wishing to join the search. They left the river that evening, rowing night guard all the way to the coast.
They camped near the mouth of Charles Brook and Buchan sat with Peyton after they had eaten. “That leaves us the area around Boyd’s Cove to look into,” he said.
“My guess is they’ve all begun moving up the river for the caribou hunt by this time.”
“Another winter trek up the Exploits then,” Buchan said brightly, as if he looked forward to the opportunity.
Peyton looked across to where Mary was bundled in a blanket on the opposite side of the fire. “If our girl lasts through to the freeze-up.”
Both men sat quietly for a few minutes. “This is one of your rivers,” Buchan said then.
Peyton nodded.
“Who’s on this one?”
“Joseph Reilly.”
“Anyone else near here?”
Peyton spat between his boots and kicked at the ground. The nights were coming on cold suddenly and he had his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. “Richmond has a weir a little ways west of here on Little Rattle River. He has a green man up there with him, Michael Sharpe. Everyone else is a day’s travel at least.”
Buchan nodded. As far as he knew, Cassie had said nothing to Peyton about their conversation with Mary, but he couldn’t be certain. “I wouldn’t mind taking a side trip to look in on Mr. Richmond while we’re about. Perhaps we could impose on Mr. Reilly and give the marines a day’s rest here tomorrow.”
“Burnt Island is no more than a couple hours’ haul from here. We could give your men a roof over their heads for the night at our place.”
Buchan shook his head. “The change of scenery would be good for the men,” he said.
Peyton chuckled. He was about to say the scenery on Charles Brook was no different from the country they’d been picking through the last two weeks. But instead he said, “As you like, sir.”
On the shoreline of Little Rattle River, Richmond and young Michael Sharpe were preparing the kit for winter trapping when the cutter first rounded a bend in the brook, making for the weir.
“Hello now,” Richmond said.
Michael Sharpe looked up at Richmond and followed his gaze downriver. The colour went out of his face.
Richmond gave him an angry look. He pointed a finger. “Not a word to him, you hear me? I’m going up to the tilt. You send him on up when he gets here. Not a word or I’ll cut your throat myself.”
Michael Sharpe nodded and as Richmond snuck away up the bank he made an effort to look engrossed in the work lying about him.
When the cutter made the weir, Buchan stepped ashore and walked across to the young man. There were half a dozen traps on the ground, a large cauldron of water was boiling over a fire. The traps had been left out in weather to accumulate an even coat of rust and Michael Sharpe was using a wire brush to scrape down to the bare metal. Several freshly scraped traps were immersed in the kettle to boil clean.
“Michael Sharpe?” Buchan said to him.
The boy looked up at the officer. His face was reddened and raw across the cheeks, as if he had only recently begun shaving. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground with a trap in his lap. “Yes sir,” he answered.
“I am Captain David Buchan of the HMS Grasshopper.”
“I know who you are, sir.”
Buchan crouched beside him. “And you know why I am here as well, I imagine.”
The youngster nodded.
“I wonder could I ask you a few questions —”
“You’d best go on up to talk to Mr. Richmond, sir.”
Buchan smiled at him. “You realize you could hang for your part in all this.”
Michael Sharpe nodded again and burnished furiously at the trap. His hands were stained with a mixture of rust and sweat. He said, “Mr. Richmond is up at the tilt, sir.”