October skies

CHAPTER 22

10 October, 1856

I share this small space with Mr Keats and Broken Wing. I have to admit they have built a very robust and surprisingly snug shelter. There is no room, of course, to stand upright. One enters on hands and knees, and at best, in the very centre of the shelter, may stand, but only if stooped over. At the top, where the saplings converge in a knot of coerced boughs, there is a small gap that frequently needs a stick poked up through it to clear the snow. This small hole in our roof allows for us to burn a modest fire inside, the smoke being very efficiently sucked away through this improvised chimney. Not every shelter, I notice, anticipated this luxury, and I have often seen less fortunate people spilling out of their shelters coughing and spluttering.

I have much to be thankful for, having such experienced and knowledgeable shelter companions. However, I do find many of Keats’s personal habits quite repulsive at such close quarters. His incessant ritual of snorting and spitting, whilst tolerable outside, is utterly unforgivable inside. So much so that I gifted him with one of my own fine linen handkerchiefs — a present from mother. I imagine she would be mortified at the unimaginable material that gets deposited into it every hour of every day. But as a small consolation, now at least my hands are less likely to find congealing, tar-stained globules of mucus on the floor of our shelter.

Ben looked up at them. Broken Wing was absorbed in carving an intricate pattern of criss-crossing lines into the bark of a log. Keats was smoking his pipe silently. Ben wondered how much tobacco the man had brought with him, since he seemed to be always either at the point of filling his pipe or emptying it.

Keats looked his way and took the stem of the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What the hell you scribblin’ ’bout in there anyway? I seen you doin’ it enough. Been meanin’ I gotta ask.’

‘My journal. I…’ Ben shrugged self-consciously. ‘I have always aspired to be a writer.’

‘Thought you was a doctor.’

‘I am, at least… I was studying anatomy before I changed to psychiatry.’

‘Si-what?’

‘Study of the malaise of the mind. But to be a writer of tales, like Charles Dickens — that’s my dream.’

‘Never heard of ’im.’

The fire in their shelter had died down to little more than a bed of embers, which every now and then sprouted a flickering flame.

‘That’s why I came across to the Americas. To explore the wilderness, to have an adventure to write about.’

Keats chuckled. ‘Reckon you got more ’venture than you bargained for, eh?’

Ben smiled. ‘I console myself with the thought that my journal will turn out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped.’

‘Aye,’ grunted Keats.

‘I think I’ve used enough candle tonight.’

Ben closed the lid of his inkpot, noting as he did that it was approaching half-empty and that he’d need to weaken the mix with some water to let it stretch further. He snuffed out the small candle beside him, instantly throwing the shelter into complete darkness save for the occasional guttering flame from the middle that illuminated them with a staccato amber light.

It was then that they heard the first sound of disturbance. A moan that was a note deeper than the wind. Then they heard the muffled scream of a woman.

‘The hell was that?’ growled Keats.

Another, more intense scream.

‘Come on!’

The flap to their shelter swung open, letting in an icy blast. Keats scrambled out, followed by Broken Wing. Ben reached for his poncho and crawled outside. A gusting wind was carrying small, stinging, powdery granules of ice.

The scream came again.

‘Over amongst them Mormon shelters!’ said Keats, immediately setting off across the clearing, pulling out his hunting knife. Broken Wing followed, instinctively pulling out his tamahakan from a sheath strapped to one thigh.

Ben looked down at his hands.

And what did I bring? A bloody writing pen.

He shook his head, chastising himself for not reaching for his gun, then set off after them.

They scrambled through knee-deep snow, around the huddled mass of oxen baying pitifully in the cold, towards the more congested end of the clearing — almost a village-worth of ramshackle shelters clustered around the only construction that looked remotely like a building: their church.

Ben could see movement in between the shelters. The glow of their communal campfire provided enough light to see a confusing melange of fast-moving silhouettes but nothing he could make sense of yet.

They heard the deep moan, and even Ben’s untrained ears identified what he had heard.

‘Bear!’ shouted Keats. ‘Goddamned bear!’

They saw it, reversing out of a shelter, its powerfully muscular hindquarters back-pedalling, its head and shoulders angrily shaking off the pine branches and snow that had tumbled onto its back as it probed inside through the low entrance.

The shelter shook violently as it pulled out and turned round to face the gathering circle of people. Immediately it reared up on its back legs, bellowing furiously and waving two enormous paws in front of itself, claws protruding and glistening like knife blades.

‘Anyone with a primed gun?’ shouted Keats.

There was a confusion of panicked responses from those gathered. Already a dozen men had emerged, most clasping a rifle, but none, it seemed, loaded and ready to fire.

The night was alive with cries of alarm, dancing half-light from the nearby campfire, shadows darting in fear, and the towering form of the bear in the midst of it all. Ben saw Preston’s tall frame emerge from their church and quickly join the crowd.

‘Who’s the night watch?’ Preston called out.

‘Aye!’ a voice called out from the growing cacophany.

‘Can you fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do so!’

Ben saw a man emerge from the confusion and take several fearful steps towards the bear. He saw the long barrel level horizontally, wavering for only a moment before discharging with a deafening boom amidst a cloud of powder smoke.

The shot missed.

The bear dropped down onto all fours and then, with terrifying speed, charged across the snow towards the man, who remained frozen to the spot with fear. Too late he gathered his wits and turned, but the bear was on him, swiping both legs from beneath him with a casual blow of his forepaw.

The man fell on his front and flipped round onto his back to fend off what he knew was coming, his hands held out before him — a pitifully futile gesture. The bear’s jaw snapped open and closed on one hand. The man’s voice became a scream of terror as the bear swung its muzzle ferociously from side to side, snapping bones and tearing off the man’s hand and forearm, leaving a tattered and ragged stump at the elbow.

The man showed surprising prescience by taking the fleeting opportunity to try and escape as the bear mauled for a moment on its prize. With his one good arm he hurled the spent rifle at the creature, then attempted to pull himself to his feet.

There were screams of encouragement from those gathered.

Short-lived.

The bear again swiped at his legs, and this time collapsed its heavy weight onto his back, driving the wind out of him — more than likely crushing his ribcage. Without any hesitation this time, the bear’s long muzzle closed on the man’s head with a sickening crunch.

It was then that Ben noticed Preston stepping quickly forward from the crowd, a smoking branch in one hand.

‘Get away!’ he roared angrily, charging the last dozen yards forward and poking the smouldering end of the branch into the bear’s flank. It let go of the man’s head and turned to face Preston, roaring with wild rage at the intrusion and swinging a claw at the branch.

Get back, you fool, Ben found himself urging Preston.

‘Away!!!’ shouted Preston, taking a step forward and jabbing the creature in the flank again. The second jab was enough. The bear abandoned the man on the ground who, Ben was surprised to see, was still moving. It advanced on Preston, rearing up on its hind legs and baring teeth red with blood, from which dangled tatters of flesh.

‘Can anyone fire?’ Preston called out over his shoulder, his voice broken with fear.

Ben looked around to see at least half a dozen men frantically and shakily priming their guns with powder and shot.

The bear dropped down on to all fours.

‘Can anyone fire?!’ Preston shouted again, backing up slowly. There were screams of alarm, people begging Preston to turn and run while he still had a chance. But he stood his ground, bending his knees in readiness, holding nothing but a smoking, fragile branch.

Then the bear charged.

One paw swiped aside the pitiful stick. The other swiped across Preston’s chest, hurling him a couple of yards across the snow, where he landed heavily and almost immediately began to stain the snow dark.

The bear was astride Preston when another shot rang out, this time punching the bear heavily in the side. It reared up in rage and agony, losing its balance and tumbling over. It recovered its footing, but the shock of the wound seemed to have been enough to change its agenda. With surprising speed, it raced away on all fours from the baying crowd, out of the pall of light from the fire and into the darkness.

Ben looked around to see where the shot had come from, and saw Keats still squinting down the levelled length of his rifle and a cloud of blue smoke languidly rolling away from the muzzle.

Ben rushed towards Preston, lying on the ground and clutching his side painfully, gasping short little breaths that peppered the snow with dots of blood.

He looked up at Ben and managed to rasp, ‘I’m fine, man. You tend to James first. I’ll wait.’