He felt so much comfort in the presence of order, determined by a rational set of calculations, grounded in a mathematical precision that pushed aside emotion. He thought love was the antithesis of order and the settling peace that accompanied it.
But Emmy’s determination drew him to think of her, and he could not put that out of his mind as he slept restlessly.
What did she need? Did he, by oath of his station and office, have a responsibility to her as a citizen, one that superseded his responsibility to follow his orders?
Did he, drawn as he was to her by his admiration for her qualities and equanimity, need to preserve her for his own peace of mind or, for that matter, some future opportunity?
Did he, from his notions of chivalrous behavior, have a sacred duty to protect her as a vulnerable woman? Could he extend his best efforts so that she might not suffer in her insane quest? How could she, the very epitome of order and control, framed in a wondrous sturdy and symmetrical visage, risk herself so?
By morning he still had not answered his many questions and self-doubts, but he took it upon himself to seek out Emmy with what he had concluded.
When he found her in the trading post that afternoon having a calm yet intense discussion with the provision merchant, he was again struck by her dignified demeanor and beauty.
He waited for her to finish her bargaining and then stepped forward, doffing his hat and extending a flourished but gentle bow. “Madame Evers. May I speak with you a moment?”
Emmy turned to him and, with a glance, dismissed the storekeeper.
She nodded to Pickett and stepped to the corner near the dry goods section, then turned back to face him, waiting.
“I know you will not be dissuaded, Emmy. I respect that. One part of me wants to defy my own orders and go there with you myself. But I cannot do such a thing. You know that. Another part of me wishes to extend a protecting wing over you. But I believe I know you would not accept that from me, or anyone. I have little to give to you other than a recommendation for a guide and this.”
He handed her an ornately carved and inlaid box. “Please take it with you. It has proven to be reliable.”
Emmy opened the box. Inside was Pickett’s pepperbox pistol, a Belgian-made six-barrel Mariette, and a note with an aborigine’s name on the envelope. She looked at Pickett and nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Best of luck to you also.”
Pickett watched her leave and carried to bed with him that night the image of her fierce resolve pushing her forward into dark winds. He did not believe in prayer, but he would pray for her, nonetheless.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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Emmy
In the port, Emmy booked a passage the next day on the Pietrevos, a Russian trading ship bound for Japan but scheduled to stop in Fort Simpson to drop off supplies and pick up whatever furs were still being harvested in the region.
The large, clumsy vessel had ample room for extra passengers. Its captain, Vladimir Varienko, a swarthy, tub-bellied lout with a greedy, incisor-dominant, salivating smile that immediately made her feel unsafe and uncomfortable, was more than willing to accommodate her.
She had purchased supplies and chests of trading goods to buy her way into the Tsimshian tribe’s winter camp, which served as a neutral trading place used by all the neighboring tribes to exchange supplies. She also carried with her a small box of gold coins minted in Philadelphia, a small diamond, and several semiprecious stones that would be part of the final exchange with the Northerners, should she be given the opportunity.
Knowing that Winfield had angry, vengeful designs that likely would thwart any chance for a trade, she asked him to take Sarah back to Whidbey and plan on joining her in a few weeks. She reassured him she would find assistance from the Brits and meet him in Esquimalt with Jacob.
Sarah protested vigorously and pleaded with Emmy to allow her to accompany her on the recovery of her brother.
But Emmy knew the real danger of this quest. She told Sarah that their best chance to find Jacob was if she went prepared to travel beyond Fort Simpson, quickly moving upriver for the winter encampment, if necessary.
Sarah did not seem convinced and sobbed angrily for a while, then suddenly quieted down and spoke no more of the matter.
The ship moved out on the next early morning tide and, despite a strong headwind and tumultuous high seas, reached Fort Simpson three days later, on the evening of January 4th.
Confined to her cabin, Emmy had tried to write in a journal, but mostly slept when she was not sick. She hated sailing, and this short trip brought back the horrid memories of sailing around the Horn, so terrible a journey that she vowed never to return to Boston unless she could go by land.
She thought of Pickett and wondered how he would fare in the future, sensed that his confidence diminished in her presence, and wondered whether he was like that with all women.
By his calm handling of the brief confrontation between him and Winfield, she knew that the killer in Pickett could dispatch most men easily. But she wondered about his deference to women, realized his chivalry was genuine, and that it made him exceptionally vulnerable.
She thought of Isaac.
As painful as it was to bring his memory forward, she forced herself to do so. He always had been so willful—predictably running down foolish paths so often but with a fervor that usually won him allies, outworking most and out-wishing everyone else.
In the last few years, she had hated seeing that part of him broken down, the stubbornness persisting so that it was
