Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [155]
‘I didn’t see him go,’ Jack said wildly, as if he believed he might have been able to change the outcome if he had.
Theo knelt down beside Sam and smoothed his blood-streaked hair back from his forehead. ‘Oh, Sam, Sam, what will we do without you?’ he asked, his voice cracking with sorrow.
It didn’t seem real to Beth as she watched Jack and Theo lower Sam into the hastily dug grave. Her mother and father had both been buried on cold, grey days; she’d said goodbye to Molly in similar weather; even the day she’d lost her baby had been cold and bleak. Funerals were meant to be on grey days, in sober places, not here in bright sunshine by a sparkling river with clumps of vivid spring flowers growing along its banks. Sam was young and strong — he had his whole life ahead of him and so many plans and dreams; it couldn’t be right that he wasn’t going to achieve any of them. Beth almost felt as if any moment she would wake and find it had been a terrible nightmare, and Sam would laugh with her about it.
But it was real, for Theo was reciting a passage from the Bible, his voice trembling as he struggled not to break down. The wooden cross Jack had nailed together and roughly chiselled Sam’s name on to was lying on the mound of soil waiting to be speared into the grave.
Their voices were thin and reedy as they sang ‘Rock of Ages’, and Beth thought bitterly that God had deserted her once again.
All along the river bank others were dealing with the aftermath of the canyon, some digging a grave, some tending those who’d been injured. She could hear weeping and the distressed cries of those who’d lost their boats and goods. And she could hear the sound of her own heart breaking.
Chapter Thirty
‘How muchee? How muchee?’ Another group of Stick Indians called out from their camp on the river bank. Beth averted her eyes for they were dirty, ragged and sick-looking, and she felt guilty at not giving them anything. But they’d already given food to other groups further back along the river, and they could spare no more. Besides, she’d been told that the Indians sold whatever they were given back to other stampeders, and with thousands of boats passing every day, they were probably making a good living.
The early spring flowers had given way to bluebells and lupins, a sea of blue along the river banks. Every now and then Beth would spot a moose, sometimes with a calf, drinking from the river, or a black bear peeping from behind a tree as if astounded at so many humans going through its domain. Wild fruits — cranberries, blackcurrants and raspberries — were ripening amongst the rocks and mosses and the scent of wild roses wafted to her on the breeze.
It was spectacular scenery, and she wished she could delight in it all. But since Sam died back at the Squaw Rapids, it was as though the sun had gone in for good and she’d never rejoice in anything again.
Five men lost their lives that day, and countless more would have done if Steele of the Mounties hadn’t arrived to avert further disaster. Aside from the deaths, there were dozens of boats smashed up; all those sacks of provisions carried over the Pass were split open and ruined in the water, and many treasured possessions were lost. Some people were so distraught they were tearing at their hair, sobbing and screaming.
Steele made rules on the spot that no more boats should sail through the rapids without a competent person in charge, and that all women should bypass the rapids by walking the five-mile overland route.
Jack had hardly said a word since they buried Sam. Beth knew he was torturing himself with the thought that he could have prevented the accident. But both she and Theo knew he could not have done. He had done well to get the raft through in one piece with all their goods intact. Sam must have been careless and let go of the rail.
But rationalizing how it came about didn