Peyton was still wearing his hat and coat. He said, “May I see her, Captain?”
The officer motioned to a marine standing at attention against the wall and he walked across to remove the cover and the coffin’s lid. Peyton stepped forward then, taking his hat from his head and folding it between his hands. The light in the room was dim and undulated like a web of shadow in dark weather. Mary’s arms had been folded on her chest, two bright coppers covered her eyes. But the details of her features, whether her expression was serene or troubled or indifferent, Peyton could not say. He reached to touch her face: the skin was already cold as candle wax and had the same peculiarly oily feel. It made him want to wipe the fingers clean on his sleeve. He said, “What does this mean for the expedition, Captain?”
“I was to return her to her people.” Buchan raised himself slightly on the balls of his feet. “I see no reason to alter that plan.”
“I would still like to accompany you, if I may.”
Buchan nodded. He said, “We did everything we could.”
“I understand,” Peyton said. His voice broke slightly and he cleared his throat. He felt embarrassed to be standing there suffering his mild fever of grief. For the first time it seemed true to him that what happened to this woman touched something larger than his life, the fate of the few people he cared for. Without turning to the officer, Peyton said, “I feel I owe you an apology, Captain.”
“At this juncture,” Buchan said, “apologies would seem to be beside the point.” He motioned again to the marine to come forward and the coffin lid was closed, then covered with the finely decorated red cloth.
A warm shift in the weather delayed their departure another ten days and conditions on the river were still less than favourable when the decision was finally taken to set out. On January 21, a party of fifty marines, hauling twelve sledges of provisions sufficient for forty days’ travel, a neat-deal coffin and a number of gifts meant for any Red Indians they might encounter, turned their faces to a cold easterly wind and crossed the harbour towards Little Peter’s Point. They were accompanied by an auxiliary party of ten Blue Jackets and an officer who were to assist in the initial twenty-five miles of the journey, as far as the first great waterfall, and then return to Ship Cove.
Much of the River Exploits continued to run open and the ice along its banks was broken and unpredictable and the party was able to cover no more than four miles on the first day of the journey. The second day they managed only three more, with damage to a number of the sledges and several members of the expedition soaking their feet through to the skin. By early afternoon it was apparent to Buchan that they would soon have to make a stop for the night.
Peyton said, “We’re not an hour from Reilly’s old trapping tilt. It’s been abandoned years now, but it might serve for the ones that have gotten themselves wet.”
Buchan nodded. “Take Rowsell ahead and see if you can make something of the place, get a fire started. We’ll be along directly.”
The two men set out at a near trot and made good time along the shoreline. They both smelled the woodsmoke before they came within sight of the tilt and remarked upon it. Rowsell worried it might be a group of Red Indians, but Peyton assured him they were too near the coastline for that to be the case. He thought it was probably one of his furriers making use of the camp for the night.
As they came up towards the tilt from the riverbank Peyton shouted a greeting. The snow around the building was trampled and well used, a fine stack of split wood was laid against an outside wall. When he called again she came to the door and stood under the lintel, staring down at them where they had stopped.
“Good afternoon, miss,” Rowsell said.