Free Reckoning of Boston Jim by Claire Mulligan Page A

fierce, green-eyed men with shanks of black hair. Coom treats them with some respect, allows them a larger cell, extra rations, easier tasks, and when they speak in their odd patois—no doubt mocking him, no doubt plotting—he resists the urge to whip them. They once, after all, belonged to the Voltiguers, a regiment that kept the peace in ’ 58 during the Fraser Rush when a canvas town erupted out of the mud ’round the fort and the Americans swarmed like bottle flies. The Dupasquier brothers wore extravagant uniforms then and one of them always walked three paces behind the Governor. Three months for them this time for brawling in a saloon.
    Next in line is the coloured man Enoch Handel. He is a tinsmith and former member of the African rifles who is serving a month for throwing night soil into his neighbour’s yard. Next is the new man, Boston Jim, a mixed blood as well, by the look and manner of him. Coom has heard this Boston Jim speak only once or twice and though of average height and build he has a way of keeping to himself, not out of fear for the others but out of a kind of disdain. Coom has seen the like. Men who hoard words like they were precious coins, who prefer the middle ranking of the chain gang so that they may watch both ends, so that they may remain unnoticed. They are the most unpredictable, these men who care little for status, and the most vengeful. Did not this Boston Jim smash the property of the curio dealer Mr. Obed Kines, and then the nose of Kines himself when payment was demanded of him? He was fortunate the justice gave him only six weeks, that he did not order him to pay for the replacement value of the curio. But then the justice had no love for Mr. Kines, known for his insults to the monarchy in general and to the Queen in particular.
    The Russian Ivan Petrovich is next. By some accounts he deserted a trading ship some thirty years previous. He is stick-thin and grizzled and ties his spectacles ’round his head with a grimy red ribbon, wears a battered top hat, a frayed silk cravat. Not only for such pretensions does Coom despise him. Petrovich is a bootlegger. He sells tanglewood to the Indians though such trade is clearly outlawed. Spirits are a vice that Coom once indulged and has since foresworn, along with tobacco and cards and all women except his blessed wife.
    Behind Petrovich is one Tom McBride, a stunted lowland Scot. His voice is high-pitched and nasal. “Been punched once too often in the face?” Coom asked him, jovially enough. This McBride is the very neighbour who accused Enoch Handel of throwing night soil into his yard. Much to his chagrin, he has been given a week for lighting Handel’s fence on fire. Much to Handel’s satisfaction.
    â€œPerhaps on the chain gang you two will learn some form of co-operation,” the justice reportedly said. Though Coom, having noted McBride’s constantly aggrieved expression, does not share the justice’s optimism.
    Toolie is second to last. He looks mournfully at the others with odd eyes in a pale fat face. He purses his moist lips. “Good morning,” he says finally, and closes his eyes in exhaustion. Coom works up a Christian pity for him. An idiot, after all, cannot be held to the same standards as others. Still, Coom is determined that his chain gang be well-ordered, presentable, and useful; and thus he has warned Toolie that if he shits in public on his watch, he’ll be forced to dine upon it, and if he exposes his privates he’ll be heartily flogged.
    The boy Farrow is the last. He is an Irish waif for whom Coom had to order small leg irons made. He stumbles often and holds up the work and lately has been given to fits of crying. For months he slithered unnoticed into the finer homes of the citizenry, causing alarm and a belief that a large gang of thieves was at work. The constabulary found him living in a driftwood shelter near the mud flats. He was surrounded by