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generations ago when Queen Elizabeth moved Scottish crofters and English lords across the Irish Sea “to civilize,” as she said, “the people of that unfortunate island.”
    An early Marquess of Deal had been one of her agents in this effort at altering the character of a land, and he had been a holy terror, rooting out priests and establishing in their stead reliable Protestant ministers. Subsequent members of the Bradcombe family had been more conciliatory, but all had one propensity: they lived in Ireland as long as they bore the subsidiary title Lord Luton, but once they inherited the marquisate, they moved promptly to one of their several senior estates in England and rarely saw Ireland again.
    The present Lord Luton, who stood no chance of inheriting the marquisate, was not at all like that; he liked Ireland, its gentle ways and lyrical manner; in particular he liked what he had seen of Fogarty. From the brash young lad’s first days on the Luton properties hehad displayed such an innate understanding of animals and fish that Evelyn had quickly designated him an apprentice to the elderly Irish gamekeeper who minded the wildlife on the estates. He proved exceptionally qualified to be a ghillie, the Scottish term that Luton used for his field helpers, and in addition, he was well-mannered and could sing like the paid choristers in a London church. He was big of chest, but not overly tall, and when he applied himself to a task he could do prodigious amounts of work. He had only a sparse education, which he fortified with common sense, and if a group of traveling Englishmen with money wanted a factotum, they could find no one better suited to this task than Tim Fogarty. Married to a responsible lass named Jenny, he was nevertheless always eager for a new challenge, and since he had the native intelligence to attack it in a new way, he was almost ideal for the job Lord Luton had in mind. However, he did have one weakness about which the noble lord did not know: Tim Fogarty, though in training to become a traditional Irish gamekeeper, was one of the canniest poachers in Ireland. No trout stream was safe from his attentions, and even those he was hired to protect fell prey to his nighttime explorations, for he was a master of the shaded light, the well-cast line. He did not consider his poaching criminal in any respect, for as he confided to his priest: “A man cannot love horses and roses and prize hogs unless he also loves fish…and I do love them.”
    Lord Luton could not command his ghillie to accompany him to Canada—the days of peonage were over—but he could make the trip so enticing that the Irishman had to accept. When Fogarty crossed the Irish Sea and presented himself in London, he listened only a few moments to the proposal before he said enthusiastically: “I’ll go,” and asked forthwith for permission to return to Belfast for his kit. Luton took out his wallet and said: “Not necessary. Take this, but buy only the necessities this afternoon. The rest we’ll get in Edmonton.” Fogarty demurred: “It’s not only me kit. It’s me wife. Jenny would be…”
    Lord Luton stiffened and a foreboding scowl darkened his face: “Buy it here, not in Ireland. Each moment of summer is precious,” and Fogarty, accepting the proffered money, nodded.
    Next day, when the Luton party entrained for Liverpool, Fogarty was aboard, because English gentlemen and Irishmen could act almost precipitately when they had to. Since both Luton and Carpenterwanted to reach the gold fields promptly, they booked passage on the first ship bound for Canada.
    —
    They embarked on 25 July 1897, and were agreeably surprised to find themselves on one of the most elegant ships to ply the North Atlantic: the
Parisian
, pride of Canada’s Allan Royal Mail Line. Long and sleek, she boasted four towering masts from which hung a forest of yardarms and a blizzard of white sails. But the power of this vessel was indicated by two big, blunt