The Tinsmith (23 page)

Falling back on his habitual courtesy, Anson asked the newcomer how long he planned to stay in Chilukthan.

“It depends,” Ambrose Richardson said, removing his hat from where he'd expertly tucked it under what remained of his amputated limb. He shook the rain from the hat before settling it back on his head. “If I like what I see of this salmon venture, I might want to stay a while and watch the proceedings. I understand the fishing is quite the spectacle.”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“And are you here as well, doctor, as an interested observer?”

Anson smiled thinly. He could hardly explain, even to himself, why he remained. To help an old friend, a comrade-in-arms? Yes. But also, perhaps, to confirm the rightness of the war and to honour its dead. Anson realized he couldn't say so, and he wondered how much of the thought could be read in his face. Well, no doubt there would be other conversations. Dare was not on the boat; Anson would be staying on at Chilukthan, if not as an interested observer, then as a patient witness of whatever the resurrected past had in store for him.

“I've come to visit an old friend who lives nearby. But he's gone away on business. I'm waiting for his return.” Anson looked at Henry Lansdowne, expecting some response in the form of a scowl or narrowing of the eyes, but the Englishman, surprisingly, was bent at the waist, speaking to his niece. Now the girl was indeed clapping; she could not contain her happiness, the words came rushing out.

“Oh, Uncle, really? Something for me? What is it? When can I see it?”

Henry Lansdowne hushed her gently, then rose.

“Mr. Richardson, if you'll just come with me. We've arranged for you to stay at my brother's home. Thomas will conduct you through the cannery when you've had a chance to get settled. Louisa here will accompany us.” He nodded to Anson. “Good day, doctor. We will see you this evening? Mr. Richardson and our relatives will be dining at the house.”

And with that, they were gone and Anson stood by himself once more, cold rain dripping down his neck, his body still shaking. He watched the two men and the girl enter the muddy field. Beyond them came the sound of wood chopping. The thick stand of trees just past Thomas Lansdowne's house loomed on the horizon. The axe blows fell heavily, in a dull, steady rhythm.

Anson realized that he couldn't stay much longer, but he had to wait for Dare's return. The rain that fell seemed even colder now. If Dare didn't come soon . . . But Anson didn't complete the thought. There was no need. He would stay as long as necessary. Looking across the muddy field, he imagined he saw his old friend against the light, just as he'd once seen the shell-smashed tree in the Antietam battlefield. But as Anson took a step toward him, Dare retreated, an image only, a trick of memory. And there was only the woodlot and the sound of the falling axe and the chilling feel of an old enemy's hand, the wrong hand, on his wet palm, so chilling it might have been the dead one, lopped off almost twenty years before.

•  •  •

Dinner that evening began politely, calmly, with experienced, time-hewn faces around a table in candlelight, gracious if tentative conversation, the aroma of roast beef pleasantly circulating, the light clink of cutlery, the illusion of a decorous and genteel world tucked neatly between a wild, powerful river and a billion cold stars with heathen Chinese going about their mysterious rituals in their own illusory imaginings, whatever they might be.

Yet as he cut into the blood-tinged meat on his plate, Anson shrank from the lightly probing questions of his countryman, the alternately distracted and raptly attentive features of Thomas Lansdowne, and, most of all, the ghostly urgency of Edney Lansdowne to belong in the material sphere. For the woman, it was painfully obvious after fifteen minutes had passed, was still grief-haunted and barely able to stifle either tears or screams—Anson had seen the malady in women before, and it always defeated him, medically and morally. Looking at her, he could not abide the artifice of gentility; she wore her dark but grey-streaked hair in two severe braids, leaving a part like a long, white scar on her skull. Her brow was creased, her cheeks sunken and the cheekbones prominent, and the black of her eyes dull. Anson was appalled. The woman should have been home, resting, especially since she was clearly with child. But he couldn't bring himself to inquire after her health; to do so somehow seemed akin to attacking her. In any case, he kept expecting one of the family to relieve her of the burden of hospitality.

But Thomas Lansdowne, looking ill at ease and pulling periodically at the shirt collar around his thick, ruddy neck, was intently seeking Ambrose Richardson's impressions of Victoria. Was it not a thriving capital city? And New Westminster, the visitor would find, was equally prosperous.

The Southerner responded amiably, neatly dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. Yes, Victoria appeared lively, there was certainly considerable evidence of commercial enterprise. And then the blood on Anson's plate and knife appeared to shine.

“In a warehouse near the harbour,” Ambrose Richardson said, “I almost made the acquaintance of one of your fellow salmon canners, Mr. Lansdowne. At least, I had him pointed out to me by the proprietor, but he was gone before I had the opportunity to speak with him. The name was Dare. He is familiar to you, no doubt?”

The Lansdowne brothers exchanged glances. Then Thomas Lansdowne cleared his throat and took a drink of water, his other hand clenched around a fork that he held, motionless, at chest height. Into the silence came the keening of the wind.

“Perhaps I'm mistaken in the name?” Ambrose Richardson blinked benignly at each of the brothers in turn.

“William Dare,” Anson said, watching one of the candle flames flicker and go out, “is the man I've come to visit.”

The Southerner smiled. “Well, now, if that's not a coincidence? I wish I had spoken with him. But, as I say, the moment he'd been pointed out to me, he was no longer there. An energetic and industrious man. And one of the more successful canners, I understand. The proprietor of the warehouse said as much.”

The air thickened. Anson looked away from Thomas Lansdowne's white-knuckled fist to his wife's uncomprehending stare—neither sight calmed him. In fact, he could sense his impatience and irritation rising.

Henry Lansdowne laid his knife down carefully and said, “Mr. Dare has made several good packs, I believe. But he's not exactly free with such information. He does not . . . that is, he is not a man to fraternize.”

Anson had had enough of the cautious English equivocations. Damn it, what was going on? Here he was, politely dining with a woman caged in her own thoughts, whatever they were, and a wounded Virginian whose arm Anson might well have cut off in another age and place, and all the while he was fighting the desire to join a Chinese work crew for a long smoke of an opium pipe. The illusion had to cease.

“Dare has always been a private man. It's a trait that I've grown to appreciate more over the years, given its rarity. Men, as a general rule, take too great an interest in the affairs of others, wouldn't you agree?”

“But, doctor,” Ambrose Richardson said, “you have very succinctly described the world of business.” He winked at the Lansdowne brothers. “And if Dare is successful in business, he must, therefore, take a most considerable interest in the affairs of his competitors.”

Anson bristled. He disliked the wink and the supercilious tone, but the stolid, closed faces of the Lansdownes bothered him even more. Turning to the elder, he said, “Is this true? Is this your impression of Dare?”

“My impression,” Henry Lansdowne responded flatly, “is of no consequence.”

“He is”—Thomas Lansdowne began with energy, ignoring his brother's raised hand—“rather more combative than private.”

“Combative?” Anson's pulse quickened. “In what way?”

Ambrose Richardson said, “Sir, you are too sensitive. We must consider the company.” He smiled across the table. “Business cannot be but a dull subject for the ladies. We must reserve such conversation for after this fine meal.”

Reserve the conversation be damned, Anson thought. And if you're considering the ladies, you might have noticed that one, at least, is ill and not even listening.

“I've been here nearly a week, sir, and in that time any mention of my friend's name has resulted in a definite air of disapproval. Mr. Lansdowne says that Dare is combative. I think the accusation merits an explanation.”

The Southerner flushed; his smile vanished into a tight line. “Doctor, if you do not have the manners to be composed when a guest at someone's table, you ought not to accept the hospitality.”

“You've only just arrived, and you presume too much.” Anson leaned forward into the candle flickers, staring hard at Thomas Lansdowne. “I believe this gentleman possesses the good grace to answer my question.”

“Dr. Baird,” Henry Lansdowne said calmly, “we know little of your friend. If we knew anything that would be of any use to you, of course we would have shared it.”

Thomas Lansdowne opened his clenched fist and let his fork drop to the table. “You ask why I consider Dare to be combative? Well, you've met his crew. Does a peaceful man chase off his Chinamen with a shotgun?”

“What's this?” Ambrose Richardson said. “A shotgun?”

Anson crossed his arms over his chest. “And are you privy to his reasons? The Chinese said he thought they were spies. Now, would my friend, whom I regard as the most sensible and practical of men, dream up such an idea without foundation?”

Thomas Lansdowne pushed back his chair and stood. The veins in his neck bulged. He leaned hard on the table. “What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting that . . .”

“Sit down, Thomas,” Henry Lansdowne said. “The doctor's not suggesting anything. He is, quite rightly, concerned for his friend. Dr. Baird, I am certain Dare will return soon. When he does, you can no doubt gather his impressions of the delta.”

But this effort to defuse the tension failed miserably. Ambrose Richardson had stood as well, his back very straight, his pinned sleeve completely still. “I would apologize, ladies, for the behaviour of my countryman, if indeed we shared the same country.”

Ah, yes, Anson frowned, it was only a matter of time. He steeled himself for the fight, but a small gasp from across the table stopped him from responding.

“Edney, dear, what is it?” Mary Lansdowne reached a hand out to her sister-in-law, who was staring wide-eyed at the black window. Her mouth hung open, the fingers of one hand were splayed at her throat.

Then, from outside, came the rapid, violent barking of a dog.

“Here, Edney,” Mary Lansdowne urged, “drink some water. Oh, Father, perhaps a little Madeira. To settle her nerves.”

“I'll see to the dog,” Thomas Lansdowne said and charged around the table, out of the room.

“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Henry Lansdowne said, rising. “I must speak with my brother. Mary, take Edney to lie down.”

“If there's anything I can do,” Ambrose Richardson said, addressing Mary Lansdowne.

Anson rose and went to the stricken woman's side, feeling guilty that he had not acted sooner upon his observance of her nervous condition. She was pale, her pulse very rapid.

“May,” she whispered. “Outside. Mary, I'm certain of it. It was she.”

“Hush now, hush. Let the doctor tend to you.”

On his knees beside her chair, Anson gently let her wrist down into her lap. “A small glass of spirits is sensible. See if you can get her to take a few sips before she lies down.”

Edney Lansdowne gazed at the air. “May. Oh, child, what is it? What can I do?”

Distressed, Mary Lansdowne hurriedly helped her sister-in-law to her feet and gently led her away.

Two candles had gone out, dimming the room. The keening of the wind increased until it seemed to surround the house. But the barking, at least, had stopped. Anson returned to his chair at the table, thinking, of course, she's suffered the loss of a daughter who was almost a young woman, that explains it. And now, in her condition, she doubtless fears another loss, the two events becoming one in her mind; it's not uncommon, and, yet, it seems close to unbalancing her reason. I must speak with the husband.

Ambrose Richardson's continued presence took Anson by surprise, more so than his contentious manner.

“I would not think,” he said, all pretence of manners dropped like a gauntlet, “that you'd have the gall to speak of interfering in other people's affairs, as if it were something that offended you. Your country's interference in my country's affairs cost me a great deal more than my arm. You're fortunate that my losses have not deprived me of my adherence to the proprieties of civilized life. But I warn you, sir . . .” He pulled his shoulders back and glared down at Anson. “I'm no more apt to forget an insult to myself than I am to forget an insult to my country.”

Anson rarely had any taste for such argument. The past, as it had often done, exhausted him. He had spent the better part of twenty years trying to escape the honest, killing errors he and his medical colleagues had perpetrated in the name of healing. All those surgeries performed in filth, all those wounded men lying in stables and barnyards and manured fields, all those instruments cleaned in bloody water. It didn't help to know that they'd done so much damage in innocence, just as it certainly didn't help to know that victory had not put an end to the hatred between the two combatants. And Anson knew that he'd come to the aid of Dare for the sake of washing away the ugliest memories of that past; his friend was still the cure for futility and despair, just as he had been at Antietam. There might not be a god or a country worth all that suffering, but there remained the idea of a certain kind of man, an idea Anson continued to put his faith in. If he did not, then there was no reason at all to respond to the hatred directed at him now.