“Miss Jure, I am in the greatest suspense,” Buchan said in mock anguish. “Please.”
“It has always been her custom to go up to her bed early. But she was sleeping less than we believed. We found sixteen pairs of blue moccasins, all of different sizes and with the finest needlework.”
Peyton said, “The wigwam where we stayed that night on the lake. There were, as best we can recall, seventeen or eighteen sleeping pits around the fire.”
There was a pause around the table.
“She will of course be returned to her people,” Buchan said.
Peyton nodded. “I’m not averse to the idea.”
“We’ve yet to see any of the governor’s reward for our trouble,” John Senior said.
Buchan said, “In the event that Mary’s return to the Red Indians leads to improved relations, the money will be forthcoming.” He sounded as if he was reading a public proclamation he found personally distasteful.
Cassie brought a full jug of water to the table and refilled glasses all around.
“There’s a few weeks yet we might hope to find some of the Indians around the bay,” Peyton offered. “Otherwise we’ll have to wait till the freeze-up and carry her to the lake.”
“We, Mr. Peyton?”
“I feel some responsibility for her well-being given the circumstances under which she came to us. I’m at your disposal if you’ll have me.”
John Senior forked into his plate of food and chewed fiercely, but said nothing.
Buchan nodded. “You would be welcome.”
After the meal was cleared away and the dishes done, Mary was brought to the table and sat in a chair beside Buchan. He used a blank page in his journal to trace a rough map of the Bay of Exploits. He drew a boat manned by marines and a figure he pointed to with the tip of the pencil and then touched Mary’s chest with his finger. On a point of land, Buchan roughed in triangular shelters and a fire to indicate their being inhabited. Mary leant over the table, the weight of her breasts pressed into the tied kerchief of clothing in her lap. She looked from the paper to the face of the artist and back again, as if she might be able to somehow influence what he would draw there. Buchan drew the boat along a dotted line to the point of land and placed Mary on the shore. Then he showed the boat travelling away without her.
“No, no,” she said. She waved her hands before her face. “No good for Mary.”
Buchan looked around the table at the others, but no one offered assistance. “Why not, Mary? What is no good for Mary?”
She continued shaking her head.
“I don’t understand,” Buchan said. Finally he relented and placed the abandoned figure back among the crew of the boat.
“Yes, yes,” she said. The relief she felt was obvious but listless, enervated.
Peyton said there was no telling who they would happen upon in the bay, if they managed to find anyone at all. It was possible she wanted to be returned only to the group she was found with at the lake.
“Very well,” Buchan said. He roughed in a sketch of the river and the northernmost section of the lake and the boat appeared there as if by magic.
John Senior protested. “There’s no way on God’s green earth to get a boat from the bay past the falls on that river.”
Buchan looked up at him. “It’s just a symbol,” he said. “A mode of transportation. This isn’t meant to be literal.”
“And you see her following your meaning in all this?”
Buchan stared at the old man for a moment, but turned back to the map before he said anything. Mary continued to stare at the paper. “Mary?” he said. “Good for Mary?”
She nodded.
He placed her figure on the shore, watching furtively for signs of how she would react to this. She placed her hand to her mouth. Buchan began drawing a dotted line to indicate the boat leaving the lake and Mary immediately sat back in her chair.
“No,” she said. “No no no no no.” Her expression was pained, helpless. She covered her mouth with her hands.
“We are meant to bring you back to your people,” Buchan said, but she continued offering her one word repudiation through her cupped hands.
John Senior made a noise somewhere between disgust and satisfaction.
Cassie said, “Let her do it.”
“I’m sorry?” Buchan said, looking up quickly.
“Let her draw what she would like.”
“Can she draw?”
Cassie leaned forward to examine the crude figures Buchan had sketched on the paper. “I’d say she would be able to meet the rigorous standard set by His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
Buchan felt himself beginning to flush. It was such an unusual sensation that his visible embarrassment compounded itself, until he had turned nearly the colour of his tunic. He held the pencil towards the Indian woman without taking his eyes from Cassie. The men around the table were doing a half-hearted job of suppressing their amusement. Mary looked back and forth between Cassie and the officer and would not touch the pencil for fear of seeming to take sides.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Cassie prodded.