Where the River Takes Me Read online

  In return I gave her my deerskin pouch, the one Nokum had made and decorated with porcupine quills. My eyes welled up as I was handing it to her, and I let her know, by pointing to Kwetlal and then back to her, that my grandmother had made it and now she was dead, and I put my hands over my heart to show how much I had loved her. This needed no telling in words.

  Oh, how hard it was to give it up! I keep wondering if I should have kept it, if it was too precious to give away — even for something as valuable as a dog-wool blanket. But Kwetlal’s grandmother has been kind to me, and I am grateful.

  Well I had put some pemmican into the pouch, and explained as best I could how it was made, and how it would give her energy and strength and last for many years. It took a long time, especially when I tried to describe the buffalo.

  The porcupine was even more difficult! And as for describing how it defends itself with its quills — well I finally took a sharp splinter of cedar, pricked it into my skin and yelped! Oh, how it hurt! And how they laughed!

  We were enjoying the game of charades, and I was thinking what else I could describe when Jimmy appeared and said it was time to go. He was agitated about something — Kwetlal noticed too, for she gave me a nervous look — and I began to fear the worst, especially when he picked up his harpoon.

  We left in a hurry but had scarcely taken two steps when the commotion began.

  Men were coming from all directions, shouting, whooping and running towards the beach. Their faces were painted and they were armed, with axes and knives and harpoons and fishing poles — the long ones they use for herring, with the sharp spears at the end — and some of the men had muskets. Jimmy ran to join them, and Kwetlal and I followed, keeping well off to the side.

  When we got to the edge of the village we saw two Company boats approaching the shore, the men armed with muskets.

  I could not believe my eyes. We were going to war because of a cow?

  The men in the nearest boat looked ready to jump into the water and storm ashore, but the Songhees had their weapons pointed straight at them and before the Company men could make a move, the Songhees rushed into the water and seized the muskets! Whereupon there was a bit of a set-to, but nothing serious that I could make out, and by then the second boat had gotten closer. The man standing in the bow was waving a pistol and yelling at his men to charge or do something, but they stayed in the boat looking nervous.

  By that time the oarsmen had turned the first boat around and those in the second were hard at it to do the same — but as it was turning, the man at the bow looked in my direction and I recognized Dr. Helmcken.

  Once the Company men had rowed across, Jimmy paddled me to the Point and I walked hastily back to the Fort with one thought in mind — had Dr. Helmcken seen me? Would he tell Mrs. Staines? Would I fret for hours, wondering if she knew and when she would confront me? I decided to save her the trouble by confessing.

  I told her I had gone to the village, knowing it was forbidden, because she would not have given me permission had I asked. And I had to go, out of politeness, for I had received an invitation. I even showed her the beautiful gift I had received. I told her I was sorry if I had upset her, and would confine myself to the dormitory for

  Time to Spy! There is movement afoot down below!

  Later

  I cannot believe what has happened! To think that I have spent months exploring beyond the stockade in search of Adventure, only to find it directly under my nose! I am in a Delirium of Excitement — not the happy or thrilling sort, but the dizzying, heart-sinking-with-dread sort that is churning my stomach in a wretched way — for I have uncovered a Despicable Crime, committed by a Real-Life Villain. Mr. Cavendish is a Murderer!

  My Spying is no longer the game I once thought it to be, but an act that has thrown me into a mess of problems and secrets and I do not know whether to keep the knowledge to myself or to tell someone, but who? If only Aunt Grace were here!

  And if I do tell someone — Mrs. Staines, for instance — would she believe me? Would anyone believe me? Mr. Cavendish is an officer, everyone likes him and admires him, whereas I am only a schoolgirl, known to be reckless and wilful and inclined to exaggerate. And to admit that I have been Spying —

  Or if I tell Lucy — no, I trusted her once before and it was a grave mistake

  Mon dieu, did I just write grave?

  I must calm myself. If I record the matter as faithfully as I can remember, I may see my way more clearly.

  To begin, I heard movement below. It was early afternoon and, knowing that the girls were in Deportment Class and that I would not be disturbed, I knelt down at my secret Spy Hole and saw that Mr. Cavendish was in his room. There was a knock on his door. Mr. Cavendish opened it and in came Mr. Hammond.

  Mr. Cavendish greeted him in his usual hearty way. “Afternoon, Hammond! What can I do for you?”

  Whereupon Mr. Hammond said, “Afternoon, Cavendish. Or should I say, Collins?”

  There was a long tense silence as the men stared at one another. Finally Mr. Cavendish said, “How long have you known?”

  “Not until this very moment,” Mr. Hammond said. “Your answer has just confirmed my suspicion that you are in fact John Collins. The very John Collins who killed my cousin, Julia Lindsay.”

  His cousin! I was mesmerized — so caught up in the conversation, it was as if I were reading a Novel! But suddenly I stopped short. This was real life! Mr. Cavendish was somebody else! I was peering down at a murderer!

  By then my heart was beating wildly. I felt anxious and afraid. I wanted to move away but did not, for fear of being discovered. So I stayed and listened — straining hard, for they had lowered their voices. I stayed until they had gone, and I have been writing in a fury ever since.

  Here is what I have come to understand. Mr. Hammond’s cousin Julia had been engaged to marry Mr. Cavendish but had broken her engagement because of his “excessive drinking” and “fits of jealous rage,” and she had died at his hands not long afterwards. (Mr. H had produced one of her letters, and he read aloud the part about drinking and rages.) Mr. Cavendish swore it was an accident — he had been begging Miss Lindsay to reconsider when she had slipped and fallen down a flight of stairs. But Mr. Hammond said the courts would decide whether it was an accident or not. And Mr. Cavendish is also wanted in London for desertion from the Royal Navy — which would have been crime enough!

  Mr. Hammond has been

  Back to writing. Deportment Class is over, and Lucy and Eliza have come and gone. I heard them coming and remembered I had forgotten to replace the knot in the floor. So I raced to do that and covered it up, with only seconds to spare. We talked for a while and then they left. I was glad of the distraction, for I was in quite a state, and feel the same now, but I have to continue before I forget everything.

  I gathered from the men’s conversation that Mr. Hammond had been “abroad” during his cousin’s involvement with Mr. Cavendish, and had learned of him only through her letters. Another one of the parts he read out loud was a heart-wrenching plea for Nigel (Mr. Hammond’s name) to hurry home, as she was growing “ever more fearful of Mr. Cavendish’s violent temper.” I think those were the words, or close enough.

  By the time Mr. Hammond received the letter and got back to London, it was too late. He learned what he could and has been tracking Mr. Cavendish for months. And now he means to have him arrested.

  But Mr. Cavendish just laughed at that idea, saying things like “no proof” and “your word against mine,” and Mr. Hammond said nothing.

  I wish I had told Lucy and Eliza, even if it meant revealing the Spy Hole, because then I would not be on my own. But would they believe me? They’d laugh! Mr. Cavendish, a murderer with a violent temper? It cannot be true.

  Sunday, April 6th

  When I am talkative and energetic I am scolded for not being quiet and still. Today was the opposite. I kept to myself and spoke to no one. At one point Lucy said, “Are you ill? You’re not bouncing
or humming.”

  At Service this morning, I listened intently to Rev. S’s sermon, hoping that his words might carry a message or give me an inkling of what I should do, but they did not.

  At the end of the Service, as we were filing out, Mr. Cavendish caught my eye and smiled. But instead of smiling back as I normally do, I turned away, my face hot and my heart beating painfully. Now I have a new cause for worry. Does he know I was listening? Did he catch sight of me at the Spy Hole? Was his smile a warning? Did my turning away so rudely tell him I had something to hide, that I can back Mr. Hammond’s word? Does he know that I know?

  I am ill with speculation.

  And where is Mr. Hammond? I’ve not seen him all day.

  Later

  Mr. Cavendish did not raise his eyes to the ceiling while I was Spying, not once. I would have noticed if he had, so of course he did not see me.

  Monday, April 7th

  After Dinner I spoke to Mrs. Staines in private. I asked what one should do if they knew something about someone, or if they heard something — I should have rehearsed what I meant to say, for it came out in such a muddle that she stopped me and said, “I don’t follow you, Jenna. Speak plainly.”

  I had scarcely started my second attempt when Rev. Staines came into the classroom with Radish and Thomas by the ears and demanded that they confess to Mrs. Staines whatever it was they had done.

  I slipped out without being noticed.

  Later

  I am at my wit’s end with worry and frustration. Why hasn’t Mr. Hammond at least tried to have Mr. Cavendish arrested? Maybe he has, and nothing

  A few moments ago Lucy burst in to tell me that a group of Songhees, including the Chief, have come into the yard and they’re talking to Mr. Douglas, and they’ve all got muskets, and if I want to know what’s happening I’d better get outside.

  Maybe in a while, I told her, and pleaded a head-ache.

  She gave me a puzzled look — no doubt thinking, How unlike Jenna — but went off without asking questions.

  I think I already know what’s happening. The Songhees are here to make some sort of payment for the cow, and to return the muskets they took from the men in the boats — mon dieu, was it only two days ago?

  Tuesday, April 8th

  At Breakfast I learned that I was right about the Songhees’ visit. At least some matters can be resolved.

  I came back to the dormitory after Breakfast, and lay down with my special wool blanket.

  Lucy came in and asked what was wrong. I told her I did not feel like going to School and, if Mrs. Staines questioned my absence, Lucy could tell her whatever she liked.

  Within an hour Mrs. Staines appeared at my bedside. “You look well enough for a girl who’s been bitten by a spider and come down with malaria.”

  Lucy’s excuse for my absence was so unexpected I would have laughed had I not felt so miserable. “What is the real reason?” Mrs. Staines said, and the grilling began.

  Was I ill? No.

  Was my aunt ill? No.

  Was there something troubling me? No.

  Had someone hurt me in some way? No.

  She knew there was something, but there was little she could do except order me to go to School. She said I would feel better if I concentrated on my lessons.

  “Yes,” I said, but stayed where I was.

  She tried again, said that everyone knew I was a “determined young lady,” but even the strongest needed assistance sometimes and I should not be too proud to admit it. Her parting words: “You no longer have to prove your mettle.”

  I wish I could have told her the truth. Her face showed concern and, by calling me determined rather than stubborn or pig-headed (names she has used in the past) she seemed to be taking me seriously. Otherwise I would be sitting in class with a twisted ear.

  She was wrong about one thing, for I do have to prove my mettle. If this were my Novel, my Heroine would not hesitate, she would go bravely forth and do the right thing — she would not be cowering in her room writing about what she ought to do.

  Wednesday, April 9th

  I have to stop this cowering and tell someone, but I cannot, because I am afraid of being punished for Spying or accused of lying and I’m afraid of Mr. Cavendish. Somehow he knows that I overheard his conversation with Mr. Hammond — I’m sure of it — because yesterday when I passed him in the yard he said, “Off for a walk, Jenna? Be careful in the woods. Accidents happen. We would not want you to get hurt.” I’m certain he was warning me to keep quiet.

  Has he warned Mr. Hammond? Or threatened him? He might think Mr. Hammond really does have proof. That must be why Mr. Hammond hasn’t told Mr. Douglas, because he’s afraid —

  Where is Mr. Hammond? Someone said he hired some paddlers and went up the coast to Sooke Inlet to do some sketching, but he should have been back by now — it is not that far, only 23 miles from here. Is he not worried that Mr. C will run away somewhere? What if Mr. Cavendish has murdered Mr. Hammond?

  This would make a fine Plot —

  Oh I am so ashamed, how can I even think of a Plot at such a time? I always thought of Adventure as a Journey with Excitement at every turn, not real Danger, and not something that involved Murder — that was for Novels. I never thought that a Villain could exist in Real Life, and I never imagined that a Villain could be someone I liked. Mr. Cavendish was meant to be my Hero!

  It is now time for Dinner but I’m not hungry. I’ll eat some pemmican and go to my Lookout and I will stay there until I get enough courage to tell someone, even if it takes all afternoon. If I happen to see Mr. Hammond — and I pray that I do — I’ll tell him what I know and we can go to Mr. Douglas together. As long as Mr. Cavendish does not try to stop us.

  Monday, April 14th

  Five days since my last entry and much has happened. If I were writing a Novel, this chapter would be called:

  In which Jenna Survives a most Thrilling and Dangerous Adventure, aided by some Unlikely Heroes, including one Edward Radisson Lewis otherwise known as Radish

  Where was the body? Jenna had to find it — for without the body, justice could not prevail! And where to begin her search? Where else, but at the scene of the crime!

  Her body trembled as she was leading her companions through the meadow, for she could not prevent the details of the horrific scene from flooding into her mind.

  The Lookout! High in the cedar, from where, horror-stricken, she had witnessed the grisly attack, unable to utter a sound!

  The boulder, not far from the tree, where an unsuspecting Mr. Hammond had been sketching the majestic mountains across the strait!

  The spot where the forest trail opened onto the meadow, and the stealthy appearance of the villainous Mr. Cavendish!

  The knife in his hand, its steel blade gleaming with menace!

  His cowardly attack on Mr. Hammond — sneaking up from behind and viciously stabbing him in the back of his neck until the blood spurted forth and he was stone cold dead!

  Jenna looked at the blood-splattered boulder and remembered the deep swoon she had fallen into on witnessing the grisly murder and how, an hour later, she had come to her senses to find herself still in her Lookout, cradled by the protective branches of the cedar.

  But wait! What was this? On looking down from the tree, having steeled herself for the sight of Mr. Hammond’s lifeless body, she was shocked to discover that his body was gone! She had swung down from the tree, raced to the Fort and gathered her stalwart companions.

  “We must search the woods!” she cried. “Leave no stone unturned!”

  They fanned off into the woods, crawling through the dense underbrush, climbing over fallen trees, growing ever discouraged as an ominous purple twilight bore down upon them. And at last, when all seemed lost, Radish, the smallest and youngest of the group, cried out, “Eureka!”

  He had found the corpse of Mr. Hammond!

  The handsome, talented, adventurous, honourable Mr. Hammond! To have come so far to seek justic
e for the death of his beloved cousin, only to find himself cut down in the prime of his life by a Villain, and his body stuffed inside a hollow log. Such an inglorious and undeserving end!

  Jenna seethed with rage and loathing. How dare the odious Mr. Cavendish betray the fondness and admiration she had placed

  Damus interruptus!

  Radish has just come in and asked if I’ve finished my chapter. I haven’t, but I’ll read what I’ve written so far and see if he likes it.

  Later

  Radish liked the chapter, especially the part about him, and he is thrilled that I used his real name in the title. His only complaint was the word Eureka, but when I explained it is a famous Greek word (not Latin) that means “I found it,” he was content. He plans to use it in class to impress Rev. Staines.

  Tuesday, April 15th

  In which Jenna Records the Facts in a Manner Befitting a Post Journal

  I keep hearing Aunt Grace: “Keep to the facts! Life is not a Novel!”

  Indeed it is not.

  The chapter I read to Radish is for my Novel. It is not a true account.

  The true facts are these:

  1. I was up in my Lookout.

  2. I saw Mr. Cavendish attack Mr. Hammond.

  3. I screamed and fell out of the tree.

  Here are the details:

  I was sitting in my Lookout, thinking of Nokum and what she would have done in my situation, when who should come into view but Mr. Hammond. I was so relieved to see him! He crossed the meadow, sat down on the boulder and opened his sketchbook. I was about to climb down and talk to him when I saw Mr. Cavendish creeping out of the woods behind Mr. Hammond with a knife in his hand.

  My heart leapt into my throat. I tried to utter a warning but no sound came out. So I summoned my strength and courage and every bit of mettle — as well as my fury at Mr. Cavendish — and screamed, “Mr. Hammond!”