33. Lighthouse Point, 1856“Why didn’t the government tell us it was going to pay someone to look after the lighthouse? I’d do it.”
François was grumbling as he examined the few furs he’d been able to gather during a rather unfruitful winter. At the beginning of December, John Beatty had left with the last ship of the sailing season. The lighthouse, painted white except for the bright red covering its lantern room and its guardrail, had blended into the winter landscape. Two days ago, Beatty had returned with the first boat of the spring. Every evening now, the lantern cast its ray offshore.
Beatty’s return had also revived François’s resentment. By befriending and visiting the keeper, he’d realised that he’d have been quite capable of doing this work just as well as the crabby outsider.
