Buchan disliked the man, it was true. He’d made attempts to interest the governor in the plight of the Red Indians without much success. “I have other things to worry about,” Pickmore had said, shaking his handkerchief like a man engaged in an act of perpetual surrender. It seemed to Buchan he worried mostly about himself. Pickmore’s endless complaints, his nagging sickliness, gave him the air of a spoiled child. He had said so to Marie on a number of occasions and considered saying something to that effect now. But in the end he said, “I have a position, Your Worship. Not opinions.”
During what remained of the afternoon Buchan toured the burned-over area above the harbour. The jet-black of char still showing through the snow that had fallen in the days since the fire. Along Water Street, men picked through the ruins of the warehouses and stores with sticks, hoping to turn up bits of burnt fish or salt beef to feed their families. Three women in long skirts and kerchiefs sat in an alcove where the remains of two walls still formed a corner, their arms around a handful of children between the ages of two and ten. Towards the east end, along Hill o’Chips, a row of recently erected shanties stood shoulder to shoulder, tiny shacks of scavenged wood and canvas not high enough to allow even a man of his modest height to stand upright inside.
Somewhere an infant was crying inconsolably. The sun was falling behind the western hills and the piercing, disembodied wail of the child seemed to Buchan to be the sound of the sun’s descent. Long winter shadows seeped across the harbour, dragging dusk in their wake. He turned away from the waterfront and started back up the steep hill towards the fort.
He found the navy patrol as they prepared for their evening’s tour of duty and he repeated his orders to use any force necessary to protect the citizenry from the gangs roaming the streets. “You are permitted five minutes on the hour to shelter inside out of the cold, not a minute more,” he told them. “Am I understood?”
He marched across to the mess where supper was just being served. He stood behind an empty chair and placed both hands on the wooden rungs until the room had fallen silent. Three hundred marines and Blue Jackets turned to watch him. A piece of cutlery clattered to the floor. Someone asked, “Are you joining us, Lieutenant?”
“Corporal Rowsell,” Buchan said.
The man jumped to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over behind him. “Sir,” he said.
“In the morning, you will take a patrol of eighty men to the Hill o’Chips and remove, by force if necessary, all men, women and children residing in temporary shelters built since the fire.”
“Sir.”
“The shelters will be torn down. The people will be moved to the church hall most amenable to their faith. If necessary, tents will be erected in the churchyards to accommodate the numbers.”
“Yes sir.”
Buchan took a breath. He had deliberately avoided raising his voice and he could feel the men in the room leaning towards him, straining to hear. He said, “As of this evening, all members of His Majesty’s Service will be put on half rations.”
Rowsell cleared his throat. “Yes sir,” he said again.
Buchan turned his attention away from the corporal then and spoke into the centre of the room. “The extra rations will be distributed evenly through the churches to those people residing within their doors.” He looked back to Rowsell. “Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir,” Rowsell said.
He stood there a moment longer looking at the faces of the men, all of them staring straight ahead now or into their plates. “Thank you, Corporal,” he said. He pulled the chair away from the table and took a seat. “I would be pleased to join you.”
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time he made his way back to the apartment he shared with his wife and four-year-old daughter within the walls of the fort. The child was already asleep. Marie was sitting near the fire under a thick layer of blankets and shawls. She was pregnant a third time and expecting the birth within days or weeks. Her belly distended the flow of material around her and her exposed head looked comically tiny atop the mound in the chair. Yellow ringlets in her hair. A small delicate nose, a high red blush in her cheeks as if she’d spent hours running outside. It was still the face of the girl he ’d met when she was fifteen and barely conversant in the English language.
“Your supper is ruined,” she told him without turning from the fire.
“I ate with the men at the mess,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You are always sorry, yes?”
He pulled a chair next to hers and smiled across at her.
“Do not smile,” she said. She shifted uncomfortably, unable to find a position where the baby did not press against her ribs or her spine. She took quick, delicate breaths to avoid the painful stitches that folded through her stomach, across her back. “You ’ave no idea what it is to live in this condition. I cook for you in this condition and you eat with the men in the mess.”
“You have a perfectly capable servant to cook for you.”
“She is useless, the Irish ’ave no ideas what is cooking. They are worse even than the English.”