Clothes for Wolves

Prologue

​The men of the Peters family, well not all of the men, suffered from a peculiar ailment. At some point in their lives, for the last 140 years, the patriarchs had one by one lost their minds. They weren't "crazy" crazy, but they were eccentric bordering on the ludicrous. Most of the locals blamed it on the combination of living on haunted ground and searching for Pedro's gold. All of the Peters men who had chosen this path had gone mad. That's who they were and that's what they did. Since Old Tom decided to start digging on The Devil's Rowboat, the family name Peters provided the punch line for any joke involving a shortage of encephalographic function.
In 1852, Tom Peters boarded the Molly Flanagan in Cork, Ireland, with ninety-seven other souls, and set sail for the Promised Land. Along with a profound hatred of the British monarchy, Tom brought his wife Irene and their two young children. He was a proud man and had loved Irene since they were kids. Over the years their friendship turned to courtship, and no one was surprised when they were wed. Nor were they surprised when they left. They watched as the land failed and their neighbours lost sons and daughters to the blight. Every Sunday the list grew longer, and every Monday more planned to leave.
Tom and family made their way to the southern shores of Cape Breton Island and to all appearances they seemed to fit right in. The Peters settled on a small plot of land in West Portage and lived as everyone else did: they attended service every Sunday and sang along with great reverence to Our Lord. Most people in Portage were Catholic, and the biggest public gatherings occurred on Sunday. All local news, whether truthful or not, was shared both inside and outside the church. Services were usually finished by ten, but many lingered until noon. If there was nothing new to talk about it didn't matter as there was always speculation and hearsay. Old stories were retold with varying degrees of exaggeration, and any unexplained absences were duly noted and thoroughly questioned. God help you if you were absent without a good excuse.
As long as you didn't stand out in Portage, you were accepted. Those who did had their family histories debated and discussed outside the church at the end of services every Sunday. The Cabots were thieves, according to the devout, and the indiscretion of a relative long dead meant that during their trips into town, women held their empty purses tightly and shopkeepers stopped whatever menial task they were doing to make sure that no Cabot would sneak off with anything of value. The Abbotts were drunks. Everybody knew that except the Abbotts.
The town of Portage had one thoroughfare, and every business that lined Main Street was owned and operated by the MacIsaacs. The MacIsaacs were five brothers who purchased and built upon a hundred acres of land clustering around the centre of town. Everyone knew they owned Portage because they let everyone know it. When construction began on the canal that would link the Bras d'Or Lake to the Atlantic Ocean, the brothers were each given high paying managerial positions and never actually lifted a finger. They certainly didn't need the money, as they already had more than enough, and most of the locals felt it was in bad taste for the MacIsaacs to take good paying jobs from those who could use the income. However, if you needed to buy something in Portage, you were dealing with one of the MacIsaac clan.
The oldest brother, James, ran the blacksmith; and the general store was owned and operated by the quietest of the brothers, John. Twin brothers Angus and Malcolm were the proud owners of the Aberdeen: the only saloon and rooms to let in town. Everybody in Portage referred to Angus as Angus the Arsehole—when he wasn't within earshot.
The youngest and brashest of the lot was Ian. He ran the farrier and was the only MacIsaac with a practical role in the dig: shoeing and caring for the equines that hauled rubble away from the canal. Like most of his brothers, he adopted an evident superiority complex and particularly enjoyed belittling the men who actually did the physical labour of digging.
One of the first to aquire gainful employment at the canal, in the illustrious position of pick and shovel man, was Tom Peters. He didn't mind the work—it was mindless and the pay was decent enough to be able to afford one or two luxuries. Tom proved himself to be a formidable and trustworthy employee. He liked what he did—it was predictable work. Day after day you showed up, you dug, you went home. You didn't worry about what you had to do. For six days a week, you knew you were digging.
On another typical Monday on the job site, Tom arrived at seven, grabbed his tools from the small outbuilding that housed the shovels, and started off to where he and his partner, Lauchie MacDonald, had completed last Saturday's toil. When Lauchie didn't show up, Tom wasn't surprised. What surprised him was that someone who hated digging so much took the job. Lauchie was a big man, much bigger than Tom, but he did as little as possible—especially on days like this. Tom told Irene before he left in the morning that he knew Lauchie wouldn't show. This didn't bother Tom though. A day without Lauchie meant one less annoying buzz. Lauchie liked to complain about everything: too fucking hot, too fucking cold, too fucking windy, and way too much fucking digging. For a man in the prime of his life he suffered from inexplicable problems of the back. He would frequently require several minutes of break time just to stretch out the muscles in his lower back and rest his lazy ass. It was a regular joke on the job that the only exercise Lauchie got was pushing his luck and jumping to conclusions. Tom didn't care. He ignored it, as he could turn Lauchie off when he wanted to. He didn't tune Lauchie out to be rude—he just preferred his own thoughts.
At eleven on that typical Monday, Tom took his first break after spending most of the morning getting nowhere and taking Lauchie's share of the mosquito bites. It had been at least thirty-six hours since his last drink with BS, and his stomach still rolled at the thought of food. He hadn't notice it until he stopped for his break because he had spent much of the morning lost in his new favourite thought: The Legend of Pedro's Gold.
It was customary at the end of the dig on Saturday afternoons for all the workers to meet and share a bottle or three of rum. Tom wasn't much of a drinker for an Irishman, but he would manage to get it down and enjoyed the second glass much more than the first. During last Saturday's gathering, he enjoyed the second and third so much that he found himself sharing stories with three others well after most had staggered their way home to angry wives. Church would be hell in the morning.
His company consisted of Henry Turcotte, Mickey Johnson, whose real name was Donald, and old William Shea. Henry was a Frenchman who lived a mile or so east of the dig: along the coastline that stretched its way to the Acadian village of Gracieville. He was a small man, not much taller than five feet, but worked as hard as anyone on the dig. Henry spoke in broken English and was difficult to understand at the best of times. After several glasses of rum, all you could make out were the tabernacs.
Mickey was a notorious drunk, but he still managed to drag himself to work every day. You could throw a rock to his doorstep, which greatly aided with his work attendance. Mickey was a digger too, but he worked at the other end. The northern portion of the dig provided a bit less morning shade in summer and less protection from the wind for the rest of the year. It was considered a punishment if you were moved to the north.
Bill Shea, most people called him BS, didn't work at the dig—in fact he didn't work at all. He lingered around the dig most days being a pain in the ass; and when not at the dig, he was telling anyone who would listen about the integral role he was playing in the construction of the canal. Nothing happened without his okay; he was often called in as an advisor, due to his many years of digging in the surrounding area; he had saved many lives; the project could not exist without him; and so on. Everyone knew it was bullshit, but that was just BS. If you didn't know him, and if he wouldn't open his mouth, he appeared normal. He was far from normal. He spent most of his life searching for cursed gold and because of that he was crazy.
BS was eighty years old and had searched for Pedro's gold for four and a half decades. He was the leading authority on the subject and relished any opportunity to expound on all things Pedro. Tom had seen BS around town and heard of his exploits, but he'd never had the chance to speak to him personally. The legend drew Tom's attention from the moment he heard it, and he thought about it often.
As Mickey and Henry nodded in inebriation, Tom asked Bill the question that had been nagging him all evening. "Is there really gold buried in Portage?"
BS flushed crimson and in his nasally fashion said, "What the fuck you think I've been looking for? There's gold all right, as sure as that fucking Frenchman can't count to dix!"
Henry stirred out of his stupor and shot back in his thickest, drunkest Acadian accent: "Calais you English pricks. All you guys, you think me, I know fuck nothing. But me, I know fuck all."
Henry stood up, drained his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, turned, and staggered for home. He wasn't really mad. Mickey wasn't long behind him; he had been nodding for a while and only stirred with the commotion of Henry's exit. He invited the others to join him for some shine, but both declined graciously. There was half a bottle of rum left, which would be more than enough libations for the evening. Mickey bid them a good night and left without the showmanship of the Frenchman. Tom was already way past due at home, but the rum's effects and the chance to hear more about Pedro's gold outweighed the hangover and supper waiting for him.
For the next hour, BS told Tom all he had ever known, or could now remember, about Pedro's gold. In brief, BS told him of two brothers' mutinous actions and subsequent theft of a king's ransom in gold, which they were rumored to have buried somewhere in the surrounding area. Both brothers were unceremoniously shot when their crimes were revealed; and for the next two hundred years, the unimaginable wealth of their ship, the Santa Ana, lay hidden in Portage.
According to BS, the story had been lost for several generations to all but the Native population that lived to the east; for most people the legend of Pedro's gold was nothing more than historical fiction. It was only when he took up the cause forty-five years ago, and started digging, that the legend was reborn and the old stories were retold by those who had dismissed them. Gossip in Portage drifted away from the everyday transgressions of the populace and focussed on BS, as his obsession was more entertaining and could hold people's attentions much longer than the minor affairs of the indiscreet.
Tom sat and listened curiously to the tale, but something in his facial expression told BS it wasn't all believed. "Anyway, there might be a lot of bullshit in my story," said BS. "I like telling it like that, it makes it more interesting. If I was to sit here and state what history tells ya, I'd be finished my tale in a minute. Now that's not very fucking interesting and lacks true showmanship. I've spent a lot of time thinking about Pedro, and I like my version. I think it's just as accurate as any other historical comment. One thing is fact, as sure I'm staring at a drunk Irish idiot, there is gold here somewhere."
They emptied the bottle of rum and BS continued. "You remember those fancy fucking arseholes that came here when the dig began and the orders they gave all employees? Don't look at me like I don't know what I'm talking about. All employees, and yes even you, got them. If you find anything unusual while you're digging, you hafta report it to those lazy fucking MacIsaacs or one of the other bosses. Anything unusual. What the fuck do you think that means? It means gold to me you drunk bastard."
Tom remembered the meeting clearly, and it was just as BS had said. They were indeed told that if anyone found anything unusual they were not to touch it and were to send for a boss immediately. He sat for a time in silence thinking about everything BS had said and the orders they were given.
BS broke the silence. "Now don't you go getting any ideas Tommy," he said. "That gold will drive you crazy. I've been lucky. I got a strong mind."
Tom chuckled to himself, recalling the events of two nights ago while he tried to finish his cold chicken sandwich. He stood up slowly, picked up his shovel, and swatted at the flies. He began where he had left off earlier and was five minutes into the next two hours labour when he struck the muddy earth and heard the distinct sound of his shovel hitting metal. It was a jarring sensation, but it wasn't a new sound or feeling. He had already found a number of metal implements, several bottles, and fragments of old pottery. All of which he'd duly reported. He bent down to work the object out of its grave, and see what he had unearthed this time, and was surprised to remove a large, tarnished, silver snuff box. He cracked open the hinged lid to discover two round disks and a small piece of cloth, rolled up tightly and tied in the center by frail and yellowing twine.
Tom looked around to ensure he wasn't being watched and carefully slipped the objects into his pocket. He went back to work thinking that whatever this was he wasn't reporting it to his bosses. He had too much taken away from him in his life. This was his.