Buchan was stunned. “Richmond vous a dit ceci?”
Young nodded. He said that later in the evening after the party had turned in, he and Richmond tended the fire and kept watch. Richmond talked, talked, talked, he was a big man, Young said, but it was his mouth that made him dangerous. He told Young about the trip to the lake and the struggle on the ice when Richmond subdued the Red Indian who was the size of a bear and so drunk on rage that there was no choice but to kill him. Reilly sat up from his blankets and told Richmond he’d best keep his counsel, which Richmond took exception to. “Now Mr. Reilly here,” Richmond said then, “never would have guessed he had it in him. Just walked up to the other poor bastard and shot him.” Young again used his free hand to indicate the placement of the muzzle. “Bang,” he said again.
“Reilly,” Buchan whispered.
They were hammer and tiss about it then, Young said, and he laughed and shook his head. The two men rolled about in the snow like women and roused the rest of the camp with their cursing. They had a time of it trying to separate them and it was fifteen minutes or more of pushing and shouting before anyone realized the woman had made off into the trees.
“Reilly,” Buchan said again.
There was a commotion upriver, the sound of oars in the water. Rowsell was calling across the water. “Captain Buchan! Is everything all right? Captain Buchan!”
The cutter rounded the point of land and Buchan stood slowly, holding the torch aloft. He swore under his breath. “I’m all right,” he shouted back. “Everything’s fine.” He looked down at the Mi’kmaq man who was shaking his head slightly and smiling into the river. Buchan said, “Everything’s fine, Corporal. We’re fishing.”
TWELVE
Notes from Buchan’s interview with Richmond were the most recent entries in the journal. Peyton guessed the officer had made them in the cutter, as they rowed back to Reilly’s tilt or alone by the fire on the beach after all others had turned in for the night. Buchan had written Micmac furrier on return trip and underlined the first two words twice. Richmond was subtler and more cunning than anyone gave him credit for. “Bastard,” Peyton said aloud.
There were a number of pages then referring to the fruitless days of searching the coastline, observations on the weather, Mary’s delicate state of health, John Peyton’s solicitousness where the Indian woman’s comfort and well-being were concerned. There was a long entry written just after the conversation with Mary and Cassie in the parlour.
Two Red Indian men murdered during expedition, not one as reported by P. Jr. Second murder excluded from account of expedition during Grand Jury testimony. Clearly no justification for second killing. P only witness to travel to St. John’s to testify, would have expected nothing further in the way of investigation. Obviously an attempt to protect murderer from prosecution. Most certainly J. Peyton Sr.
Previous to this, a scatter of notes from the interview itself, Two men underlined and outlined in a box, the word Husband underlined and then crossed out. There were two pages of the naive maps of the River Exploits and the lake, of the coastline around Burnt Island, sketched and detailed by Buchan and Mary on the very table at which he now sat. An entry written following Buchan’s first unsatisfactory attempt to examine Peyton’s testimony directly: Refuses to answer any questions, defensive and dismissive. Definitely hiding something. Under the influence of J. Peyton Sr. in this, as in all other things.
Then pages of references to duties aboard the Grasshopper during the trip up the coast; meetings in St. John’s prior to departure; a summary of Peyton’s grand jury testimony; a list of the men who accompanied the Peytons on their March expedition.
He stopped there and hid his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes fiercely and shook his head.
“John Peyton.”
He jumped back in his chair and quickly closed the journal, covering as much of it as he could with his arm. “Cassie,” he said.
She came into the kitchen behind him and sat in a chair across the table.
“How long were you standing there watching me,” he said as lightly as he could. Her face was as drawn and gaunt as the winter he carried her down from Reilly’s tilt on the river. “You scared me half to death,” he told her. Peyton reached out to push the candle back to the middle of the table. He crossed his arms over the journal and stared at the light.
“Did you know about the trip your father took with Harry Miller and William Cull down the river? After Miller’s house was burnt down?” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, staring across at the fire, and Peyton slipped the book underneath his seat.
“Where did you hear talk of that?”