His muscles soon grew fatigued, and his fingers became numb from the cold. But he continued to fight, focusing on first one stroke and then the next. On and on he went, blindly following the course of the river until he was able to make out the shape of tents on the high banks.
He had no concept of time, or how long it had taken, though the sky was still dark. He couldn’t rest, at least not yet. He still needed to get into the camp without drawing fire from one of Selkirk’s men.
Wet through, Arran landed the canoe and pulled it to shore, securing it under a bush so it wouldn’t float away.
Eleanor was not far from his thoughts as he worked. It was his love for her that gave him the courage to keep going. If he failed, he and his friends would suffer much more than they already had. But if Arran could get to Selkirk, and the earl had the de Meuron soldiers, then perhaps they would all be free soon. That thought alone gave Arran a surge of energy to pull himself up the riverbank in the slippery mud.
“Who goes there?” A tall, barrel-chested man appeared from around a tent. He brandished a musket in a flash, pointing it at Arran’s chest. He wore the uniform of a soldier. A red coatee, gray trousers, a black shako on top of his head, and the white leather baldric, which he wore crossed over his chest. “State your business,” he said in a French accent.
Was this one of the de Meuron soldiers? Arran lifted his hands and blinked as the rain dripped over the brim of his hat. “Arran MacLean, Lord Selkirk’s agent at the Red River Colony. I’ve come to see his lordship.”
“We heard you were a prisoner at Fort William.”
“Aye. I escaped to warn Lord Selkirk of a plan to assassinate him and remove myself and my men in secret.”
“How do I know you are MacLean and not a clerk from Fort William, come to assassinate the earl with this story?”
“You may check me for weapons. I have none.”
Another guard appeared from the opposite direction, his musket raised. The first one nodded toward Arran. “Search him for a weapon.”
The morning hours were quickly approaching. Arran had little time to tarry, but he waited patiently as the guard searched his person.
“He has no weapons.”
The first guard motioned for Arran to follow him. They moved around several tents and past doused campfires before coming to a large, white tent. It sat in the middle of the others, with an ornate fringe around the top.
“Lord Selkirk?” the guard asked, loud enough to wake him. “My lord?”
“Yes? What is it?” came the startled response.
“A man claiming to be Arran MacLean is here to see you.”
“MacLean?” Selkirk’s voice was more awake now. Within a minute, he was at the flap, squinting into the night. “Arran? Is that you?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Selkirk grinned and motioned Arran into his tent. “Come out of the rain.”
“Is he safe, my lord?” the guard asked.
“Yes, yes.” Selkirk put his hand on Arran’s shoulder and drew him into the tent. “I am surprised to see you, my boy. You are drenched.” He took a quilt off his cot and draped it over Arran’s back. He then went to a lantern and struck a match, lighting the wick. “How did you get away?”
“I waited until dark and made my escape. I had to come and tell you not to delay in your plans. The Nor’westers plan to remove us from the fort and get us to Montreal before you can release us. They also hope to assassinate you.”
Selkirk paused as he drew bread and cheese from a box near his table. He slowly set them down and then took a glass goblet from a different box. “I am aware of the threat to my life.” His face had aged a great deal since Arran had last seen him in Scotland over four years ago. As the youngest of seven sons, he never thought to inherit the earldom. Instead, he had spent his early years in educational pursuits, hoping to become a lawyer. While studying at the University of Edinburgh, he took notice of the poor Scottish Highlanders being displaced by their landlords. When he became the 5thEarl of Selkirk, after the untimely death of each of his brothers to yellow fever and lung disease, he decided to use his wealth and power to help colonize the Red River Valley for his fellow kinsmen. He was only forty-five, but he looked much older. The work with the colony had not been kind to him. “I have fought enemies every step of the way,” Selkirk said. “First in England, then in Montreal, and now here.”
“I am sorry, my lord.”
Selkirk shook his head and lifted a hand to stop Arran’s platitudes. He put chunks of bread and cheese on a plate, then poured Arran a glass of wine. “It is to be expected. The fur trade is one of the largest industries in the world.”
“What do you plan to do?” Arran received the plate and goblet and set them on the table nearby. He was hungrier than he thought and soon devoured the food and drink.
“When I learned about the increasing trouble in Assiniboia, I came to Montreal and petitioned for assistance from the Canadians, but was given none. I finally was able to secure a position as Justice of the Peace and was awarded six armed guards for my protection—but that is all the help I was given to combat what is happening to my people in the Red River Valley.”
“I’m surprised you were given that much, since the majority of Montreal is in the control of the North West Company.”
“I am well-aware.” Selkirk poured himself a glass of wine and took a seat across from Arran. He wore his long shirt untucked over a pair of breeches. “When I knew I would get no help, I hired the de Meuron soldiers.”
