The Beothuk Expedition by Derek Yetman Page B

knew that we would have to pose a question or else we would sit there all day.
    â€œMister Cousens,” I said, “The governor and Mister Cartwright would be deeply in your debt if you would arrange for a guide to take us into the interior by way of the River of Exploits. Are you able to do that for us, sir?”
    The question seemed to have the desired effect, as he removed the pipe from his mouth and looked around for something to spit in. Seeing nothing appropriate in the tidy parlour, he swallowed reluctantly and turned his gaze on us.
    â€œI am able, sir. But am I willing? That is more to the point.”
    Lieutenant Cartwright looked to me before he replied. I was well enough acquainted with him to know that he was barely keeping his composure.
    â€œYes, I take your point, Mister Cousens. Of course the Crown will compensate you for your trouble and expense—”
    â€œKeep your money,” came the response.
    The lieutenant reddened but said nothing.
    â€œWhat I require,” Cousens said, “is something that you cannot provide.”
    â€œAnd that would be?”
    â€œA guarantee that I will not lose my life by assisting you in such a ridiculous undertaking.” The pipe returned to his mouth and the cloud thickened.
    The lieutenant flared and bristled, as well he might. I didn’t care for the man’s tone, either, though I was curious to hear him out. Before Lieutenant Cartwright could muster an answer, Cousens was pointing the stem of his pipe at him.
    â€œHave you any idea, sir, of what you are inviting by going up that river?”
    The lieutenant was not given a chance to reply.
    â€œOnly one white man has ever gone past the great falls and lived to speak of it. The river is the domain of the Red Indians, sir. Do not push them more than they have already been pushed or we will all pay the bloody hayoot .”
    The lieutenant looked to me and I shook my head in reply. “Pay the what?” he asked.
    â€œThe hayoot —the devil, sir, in the language of the Red Indian.”
    I listened to this exchange with a returning sense of unease about our expedition. Threats and warnings have little effect upon my resolution, but I had been harbouring doubts about this scheme since our first misadventure off Bonavista and I could see no reason for renewed optimism now.
    â€œMister Cousens, our purpose is a peaceful one,” the lieutenant was saying “I am not about to ‘push’ the Red Indians, as you put it. I have come to make a lasting peace with them. And I cannot do it properly without local knowledge. I would not wish it upon my conscience, sir, that our venture failed for want of a man to assist us.”
    The planter sucked his pipe furiously until I could barely make out the shape of his hat. He said nothing and it appeared that we had momentarily gained the upper hand. The two men locked eyes until I felt compelled to break the silence in the room. “Mister Cartwright, I believe that Mister Cousens’ Indian is waiting.” Some minutes before, I had seen a man peering through the window and he was now pacing outside the door.
    â€œVery well,” the lieutenant said. “Show him in. Perhaps he may have some interest in saving the lives of his people.” The remark was intended to wound but Cousens did not twitch.
    I arose and opened the heavy plank door, allowing a young man to come silently into the room. I gestured that he might take my chair but he shook his head and stood against the wall, his dark eyes moving from his master to the lieutenant. I remained where I stood, which gave me an opportunity to properly assess the first Red Indian I had ever seen.
    I do not mean to be callous but Tom June was a great disappointment to me. Although I had no idea of what to expect, it was certainly not a youth of average build in the clothes of an ordinary fisherman. He bore no tattoos or designs of paint upon his face, nor was there a