Ever since MacDonell held court over the fourteen accused, things have been tense at camp, yet still bearable. I try to keep to myself, but time alone is impossible with so much work. I take care of Calum to give Mama some rest, help prepare meals for everyone in our cabin, and mend clothes with needle and thread. When outside, I try not to walk or even look in the direction of the cabin that has been taken over by Finlay and his gang from Orkney and Glasgow. At all times of the day, one of the men can be spotted outside with a gun at his side. No one from that cabin works with the other settlers, building the boats that are to take us to our settlement. They are among us, but they stand alone.
Illegal supplies continue to flow to the camp. Papa and Willie sometimes talk to Finlay outside his hut. I wondered about this one night, and Papa said it does not matter where you come from in Scotland. Scottish folk need to stick together. When you have lived so long with people, you have to let go and accept there may be differences, but what we have in common is more important.
I appreciated hearing this even though I am still on my guard. It’s getting warmer outside, and people are cheering up. The scurvy, which caused such pain in camp, has now completely vanished, and with it, the order to drink that terrible Spruce Beer.
Men have started to hunt deer, and they have been plentiful. This month alone, hundreds of deer of have crossed over the Nelson River, some daring to come close to camp. Only two days ago, I came across a small doe not a stone’s throw from our cabin. I felt a small twinge of sadness for these animals, knowing our survival depends on killing them, and I hoped this one in particular would not find its way into one of our traps.
So far this month, the men of the encampment have shot fifteen deer. Every day, we are able to eat fresh venison. The river is still frozen, but the days are growing longer. The sun makes everyone feel better. Mama is getting more rest, and Calum is crawling around in our cabin, getting into everything.
It was too good to be true. As always, there had to be something to come along, something to remind us of the difficulties and challenges of this remote outpost. And something did happen, two days ago, something I will never forget. There are things a person sees that etch into memory and never leave, things that send a shudder up and down your spine. This is how I felt about poor Mr. Redden who made his way back to camp after a deer hunt.
I do not know all of the details, save to say that this poor man, Hugh Redden, an Irishman from Dublin, was shot by accident in the arm from another man in his hunting party. As the men made their way back to camp, I could not quite believe the screams I was hearing.
Mr. Redden was helped to his cabin. Behind them, there was a small red trail of blood, pointing the way back to where the terrible accident took place. Mr. Redden looked pale. His arm hung limp at his side, and with every small step, a grimace of pain covered his face. All other activities stopped. Everyone was a statue except for their heads which all moved in one direction, following the stain on the snow.
“Molly,” Mama whispered, “Come back inside immediately.”
I dutifully obeyed, but the damage had already been done. In our cabin, everyone started looking sadly at the floor not knowing what to say, except for baby Calum who continued to tug at Liam’s pants and hit him with a small stick he found on the floor.
“Mama,” I asked, “He was shot wasn’t he?”
“It looks that way. Poor man! Even if in my heart I can’t stand the Irish, I would not wish this type of ill to come to any man.”
“What will become of him?”
“The Doctor will have to take a look and figure out what to do. If it’s bad, really bad, then there might not be anything he can do…”