Free Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Page B

probably cold,” I told Dickens, “but I’d like to see Victoria Mission for myself before questioning Wandering Spirit. What transportation can your detachment arrange?”
    Dickens’s look of relief, now that the matter of Wandering Spirit was in someone else’s hands, was palpable. “There’s the riverboat North West . It’s due to stop at Fort Pitt tomorrow on its way upriver to—”
    A ghastly wailing sound interrupted whatever Dickens had been about to say. So discordant was the noise that wafted in through the open window that it took a moment for me to recognize it as the pipes of an organ in full throat. Whoever was playing it was either completely untutored or halt of limb.
    “Who or what is that?” I shouted over the din, which seemed to be coming from an adjoining building.
    Dickens had cupped his hand behind his ear again. His frown indicated that he hadn’t heard me clearly, but he guessed my question.
    “It’s probably one of Factor McLean’s brats,” he shouted back. “Too bad I hadn’t gotten one of them to play the blasted thing while Wandering Spirit was in custody: the pipe organ terrifies the Indians.”
    He grinned at his own joke, but his eye was on the empty brandy bottle. I could see that he still had fearful memories of his encounter with Wandering Spirit and was looking for some liquid courage, even though the Cree shaman was probably nowhere near Fort Pitt.
    I just hoped that my own mettle wouldn’t be found wanting when it came time to question Wandering Spirit about the disappearance of the McDougall family.
    I embarked upon the riverboat S. S. North West , which sailed from Fort Pitt the next day. The riverboat was long and low, with a flat hull that drew only eighteen inches of water, and the vessel had an open lower deck that used to be stacked high with cordwood back when the boat was steam-powered. Above this first deck was an enclosed passenger deck with a long, narrow saloon and cabins, encircled by a railed promenade where travelers could take the air. The third deck, known as the “hurricane deck” was a flat expanse that was open to the elements, punctuated only by a small pilothouse. Twin smokestacks still pointed toward the heavens near the bow of the vessel, even though the steam engine that had once powered the North West was no longer in use. Engine and boilers had been removed and replaced by a gigantic perpetual motion device, housed on the lowermost deck near the huge paddlewheel at the stern of the vessel.
    Once my belongings were safely stowed, I walked to the rear of the boat for a closer look — but not too close, lest my presence jinx the mechanism. The perpetual motion device, in this case, was of Swiss manufacture: a buoyancy motor. A series of huge, air-filled balls, connected by slim metal links, bubbled up through a water-filled chamber that from the outside looked like a gigantic brass boiler. The device transferred its energy by means of a series of cogs of ever-increasing size, culminating in the gears that drove the paddlewheel. The machine wasn’t any use when the water froze — but that didn’t matter since the North West ended its season each September, as soon as ice began to form in the river.
    The trip upriver to Victoria Mission, one hundred and forty-four miles in all, took three full days, due to the delays caused whenever the ship ran aground on a sandbar. I kept to myself during the voyage — as much as my scarlet uniform would allow — but even so I faced a barrage of questions about where I was going and why, and what the Mounties had learned about the disappearance of the McDougall family. Everyone had a theory, each more ludicrous than the last: that the McDougalls and their six children had all gotten into a single canoe and drowned after it tipped in mid-river; that Indians had carried away the family and cannibalized the men and made slaves of the women; that the reverend had gone mad, murdered his wife and children,