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them.”
    â€œEh?”
    The factor shoves his hands into his pockets and stares off into the distance. “I am afraid so. I must have a Company man at the settlement to find out what in blazes Macdonell is doing. The rumours are disturbing, and London wants more than just rumours.”
    The blade of dried grass he had been chewing blows from Turr’s lips. Laughter carries from below. “Perhaps you would consider someone else? Someone younger? I had hoped …”
    The factor shakes his head. “I need someone I can trust, a man who can give an accurate report. Besides, there is no one else I can spare.” He pats the cannon beside him. “God’s blood, I would love to fire this. It does a man good to make a great noise and smoke every now and then, eh, Mr. Turr?”
    Cecil Turr nods, not trusting his voice. His hands shake. Without taking his leave, he turns away and shuffles back towards the fort.
    Rude bastard , thinks the factor, his heat increasing again. He takes several deep breaths then dismisses Turr from his mind. His musings on the joy of cannon fire had reminded him that the supply ships had not yet arrived from their searching for the lost frigate. He swears volubly at the cannon, a stream of blistering invective. Only a factor for a year, and now this. He is sure he will be blamed.
    The flood of furs to the Bay has slowed to a trickle despite recent company expansion inland. The widely scattered forts they built at great risk and expense had come to naught; the Nor’westers were always there first, having bullied or bribed the Indians into long-term allegiances. In their arrogance, they even established a post on the Hayes, a mere three-day journey upriver. The Company is on the verge of becoming irrelevant in its own territory, and even if policy is decided in varnished, smoke-filled luxury thousands of miles away, it is the poor bastard on the frontier who will be blamed. God rot it, it is just not fair.
    Many more Indians have gathered to join the party on the river, and a fuke is let off. The factor jumps. Damn it to God-rotting hell , he thinks. That fucking sod Spencer has traded too much liquor to the Home Guard. He turns and stomps into the fort. Several colonists are milling about behind the palisade, staring and pointing at the unique things that catch their eye. The chief trader sees the approach of the factor and turns toward him, smiling.
    â€œYou can smile all you like, Mr. Spencer, but I find little to be amused about. Your carelessness has roused the Home Guard, and I want those gates locked, now !”

    Rose sits on her hard bunk, listening to the yowling and gunfire not one hundred feet away. She had been rereading a dog-eared copy of Richard Allestree’s The Whole Duty of Man, Laid Down in a Plain and Familiar Way for the Use of All , that the Factor had given her . The commotion had started late that afternoon and carried on well past sunset. After the murder of the Indian boy, she had tried to comfort herself with the book, but the frightening whoops and singing kept cutting through her focus. She has never heard such chilling sounds before, and feels afraid and unsafe, emotions becoming all too familiar. They had been given one tallow candle, and its pale light only seems to deepen the shadows.
    When the factor offered a private dwelling, she had been delighted that they would have their own space, a wall to put between themselves and the rest of humanity. But with the horrid sounds carrying from the other side of the palisade she finds herself yearning to be again surrounded by her countrymen.
    Lachlan sits on a polished section of a log, staring in fascination at the mosquitoes circling him, tiny wings shimmering in the wan candlelight. At the sound of another gunshot, he gets up and peers out the rickety door. A great fire is burning outside the fort, with sparks soaring heavenward to blend with the sharp, cold stars. Through narrow gaps