The drive back to Skidegate was made in mournful silence. Along with the lorries that had made the trip north from the naval base came a flat-bed machine driven by one of Lieutenant Commander Woodbridge’s sailors. In the staked bed, covered by a large canvas tarpaulin from the Grampus, lay the bodies of Felix Crooke and the slain Royal Marines and Sons of Liberty. Dr. Lansing, the Port Clements physician, drove some of the wounded to Skidegate in the town ambulance. Another sailor drove the rest - including Elgin Goldsmith - in Lansing’s private steamer.
It was nearly four o’clock by the time the sad convoy reached the naval base. Redcaps took charge of Goldsmith, and of the dead; Navy doctors saw to the injured Marines. The flatbed lorry, ambulance, and motorcar steamed back toward Port Clements.
Commander Hairston met the returning RAMs and Royal Marines with half a dozen yeomen, each poised to record witness statements tachygraphically. Four of the six clerks were Negroes; their predilection for bureaucratic slots seemed to hold good even in the Navy. Bushell spoke mechanically, as if someone had wound up a platter and were playing it through his mouth rather than a phonogram. A yeoman’s pen raced across sheet after sheet of paper, covering the pages with arcane pothooks. Hairston sat in a chair off to one side, listening like a man carved from stone. When Bushell had finished, Hairston spoke to the yeoman: “Thank you, Washington. Now go transcribe that; I’ll want Colonel Bushell’s signature on the fair copy before he leaves Skidegate.” Saluting, the colored yeoman departed. Hairston turned to Bushell. “You got your tail in a crack, didn’t you, Colonel?
God in heaven, what a mess.”
“God in heaven,” Bushell repeated dully. He shook his head, still having trouble believing how things had turned sour so fast. “Everything was going just as it should, and then - “ He didn’t go on. He didn’t need to go on.
“Not your fault, Colonel, I shouldn’t think,” Hairston said. “You and your party did everything right, up to the very last minute. For whatever it may be worth to you, you have my sympathy.”
“I don’t want your sympathy,” Bushell said. “I want to - “ To get drunk and blot out everything that happened today. But he couldn’t say that. Worse luck, he couldn’t do it. Haltingly, he continued, “I want to get on with the investigation. I want Felix still to be alive, and your Marines, too.” He couldn’t have that, either.
In a room not far away, a typewriter started tapping. After a while, another joined it, then another and another. The clattering keys and the warning bells as the machines reached the ends of lines were normally sounds of purposeful activity. Now they reminded Bushell of the other, more violent activity they were setting down on paper, magically transmuting terror to evidence. Hairston said, “I’m afraid the afternoon ferry will already have sailed for Prince Rupert, Colonel. You’ll be laying over here another night.”
“Yes, I know.” Bushell kept his temper under tight rein - as well he was sober. Rationally, he knew the local security chief was doing his job, and doing it properly. Rationality had nothing to do with the way he wanted to storm forward after The Two Georges - and escape the Queen Charlotte Islands as fast as he could.
“Will you take charge of Lieutenant-Colonel Crooke’s body?” Hairston asked. “I’m sure you RAMs have your own procedures for comrades killed in the line of duty.”
Bushell covered his face with his hands. Wish as he would, he couldn’t escape what had happened. “I’ll see the body across to Prince Rupert, at any rate,” he said. “I’m sure we do have procedures for such a case, Commander, but I’m damned if I know what they are. I don’t remember when the last RAM was shot dead attempting to make an arrest. It’s been years - I know that.”
Yeoman Washington brought in a typed version of Bushell’s statement. Bushell skimmed it, scrawled his signature, and thrust the papers at Hairston. The security chief took them, then reached for the telephone.
“I’ll get you and Captain Stanley a driver to take you back to the Skidegate Lodge,” he said. The ride to the hotel passed in almost complete silence. The sailor at the wheel of the steamer knew what had happened up at Buckley Bay. His mute outrage blended with those of Bushell and Stanley; the men understood one another without need for words.
“Evenin’, gents,” the clerk who had registered them the day before called from behind the desk. He suddenly noticed that, while he’d registered three men, only two were walking into the hotel. “Where’s your friend? The fish catch him?” He laughed at his own wit. Bushell crossed the lobby in half a dozen long strides. Eyes blazing, he seized the clerk by the cravat and dragged him forward across the registration desk until the two men were nose to nose. The clerk let out a strangled squawk and tried to break free, but Bushell slapped his arm aside. Samuel Stanley hurried up, set a hand on Bushell’s shoulder. “Let him go, Chief!” he said in a low but urgent voice.
As if throwing a piece of garbage, Bushell pushed the clerk back to his place. The man stared at him, popeyed. “I’ll have the redcaps on you,” he gasped.
“Our friend is dead - shot dead,” Stanley said. “So are two Royal Marines. So are three villains. Aside from those small details, the world’s a lovely place.”
The clerk’s eyes got wider. Bushell watched the process with a certain abstract interest; he hadn’t thought it possible. “I - I’m sorry,” the fellow stammered. “I didn’t know - “
“Why does this not surprise me?” Bushell turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs. Stanley followed him. As they climbed to their rooms, Bushell said, “We have a lot of planning to do, if we’re going to find the fastest way to get to Doshoweh from Prince Rupert.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” His adjutant started ticking possibilities off on his fingers: “Train back to Wellesley and then airship - or airships; I don’t know the routes offhand - to Doshoweh; train all the way from Prince Rupert; or train partway east from Prince Rupert to Doshoweh and then pick up an airship. Which one’s fastest is going to depend on what sort of conditions we can get and the layovers we’ll have to make.”
“We can’t find out what we need to know, not here in this one-lung town,” Bushell said. “We’ll learn more in Prince Rupert - at the train station, or else from the RAMs: they’ll have to do a good deal of traveling, I expect.”
“Yes, Prince Rupert’s a long way from - anywhere, when you get down to it,” Stanley said. “For tonight, what say we wash up and eat some supper in the Haida Lounge?” He paused, then added cautiously, “And maybe we could have a couple of drinks, too.”
“Now you’re talking,” Bushell said with such enthusiasm that his adjutant looked at him in alarm. He patted Stanley on the shoulder. “Relax, Sam. I don’t have to be functional till tomorrow afternoon. When the ferry comes, I’ll be ready to meet it.”
“All right, Chief.” Stanley still looked dubious. “See you downstairs in, oh, half an hour?”
Bushell nodded and went into his room. He spent most of the time in the showerbath, with the water as hot as he could stand it. Scrub as he would, though, he couldn’t wash away the feeling that Felix Crooke’s blood still stained him.
In the Haida Lounge, he ordered salmon cheeks. Samuel Stanley surprised him by picking the dried herring eggs on kelp. He started to ask Stanley about it, then held his peace: his adjutant had found his own way to memorialize their fallen comrade.
Both men chose Caribou Ale. Bushell resolved to stick to that. Getting drunk on ale took application; it wasn’t as easy as it was with Jameson. After the third bottle, the tip of his nose began to go numb, a sign the brew was starting to have its way with him. After the third one, though, he also had to visit the jakes, and he sloshed when he got up to do it. Dedicated drinkers of ale and beer could put away vast amounts of their chosen beverage, but he hadn’t developed the knack. After five ales, he was logy and yawning and ready for bed. Samuel Stanley beamed with well-hopped approval as the two of them, none too steadily, headed up to their rooms.