His Brother's Bride
Page 11
. He was gassed and spent some days in
I hope this finds you well and in good spirits. I see no end to this conflict and wish I could be back with you walking through the bush and listening to the whippoorwill in the evening as the sun sets.
Hoping to hear from you as soon as the mails can bring me your words.
Best Regards,
Pte. George Richardson
Canadian Infantry (Eastern Ontario Regiment)
21st Btn
“Oh my, George.” Annie crushed the letter to her breast and blinked back tears. Poor Peter, catching the influenza and then getting gassed, how horrid. A flash of shame lanced through her at the thought that at least George was safe.
Shoving the thin paper back into her reticule she composed her features and re-joined her family just as the whistle of the approaching train split the air. Then it was all a flurry of following Mother, having her ticket checked and getting into the passenger car. She sat beside her mother who motioned her to take the window seat, Mother having no interest in the scenery. Ivan and Father took the seats facing them. Mother tutted about the condition of the car, much too dusty and unkept for her liking even though it was the best money could buy.
Annie shifted the small finger purse on her lap strangely comforted by the faint crackle inside. This was her first ride on a steam train, or any train for that matter. While she wasn’t as over the moon about it as her younger brother, it was certainly an exciting experience.
* * *
The novelty of riding on a train wore thin fairly quickly. The seats were uncomfortable and she was forced to shift her weight often to ease the numbness in her bottom. The train slowed as it climbed the Algonquin Highlands, newly minted spring leaves met her gaze as the engine strained onward. The early morning frost had burned off now and the sun picked out flashes of colour in the bush. Beds of white trilliums lay scattered under the edge of the trees, bright yellow coltsfoot waved their heads in the ditches beside the tracks. Chokecherry, wild apples and raspberry brambles reared snowy heads while the birch tossed pale green catkins against the vivid blue of the spring sky. Their forward movement slowed further allowing Annie to press her face to the window and admire the delicate purple and yellow violets massed in the damp low places by the tracks. The windows did open, but remained closed to keep out the smoke and dirt. Eventually she tired of staring at the passing scenery and glanced at her mother who was studiously reading her Bible verses. Father caught her eye and fixed her with a stern stare. Sighing, Annie dug in the satchel at her feet and removed a small battered Bible of her own. Turning to Job, she found one of her favourite passages. Job 3919. Hast thou given the horse his strength? Hast thou clothed his neck in thunder? She skipped over the bit about making the horse afraid as a grasshopper because who would want to do that? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. She skipped another line as her eyes closed and she jerked back to wakefulness. He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted.
Annie’s fingers clenched on the thin onion paper pages. Was Evan afraid when he leaped out of the muddy trench into no man’s land and a hail of bullets? And Steve, was Steve afraid when he died? Did he know he was going to die, or was it quick and fast and a surprise as he ran and fired. Dear Lord, please if it had to happen let it have been quick. Don’t let him have lain broken and bleeding and alone as he passed. She blinked back tears at the memory of Sarah’s brother who came home to Eganville just a month ago, missing a leg and blinded by the mustard gas. Just like Sammy’s brother. He’d laid in the cold and wet for hours before anyone could get to him and transport him to a field hospital. She shivered and clasped her hand around the Bible. Dear Lord God Almighty, please keep Evan and George and Peter safe. Please let Steve come home to us.
“Ouch!” Annie came awake abruptly, a hand pressed to her aching forehead. The train must have come to a quick stop. When did I fall asleep? What time is it? Careful Mother wasn’t paying attention she pushed back her sleeve and checked the time on George’s mother’s watch. Her fingers caressed the smooth mother of pearl warm from her body heat. Goodness, she must have slept for hours. The sun was slipping down the western sky ahead of them throwing long shadows across the bare ground by the railway tracks. She straightened up and glanced at Mother. The older woman’s head nodded over the Bible still held open in her hands on her lap. Ivan was sprawled in his seat, legs spread wide, chin resting on his chest sleeping as only the young can sleep. Father had moved down the car and was talking to another gentleman who Annie didn’t recognize. With another jerk the train began moving again, pulling away from a small station.
The next thing she was aware of was the train jolting to a halt and Father telling her to gather her things and be sure Ivan left nothing behind. She did as she was told and followed her family out into the chill Ontario night. May days could be hot but when the sun went to bed the nights were still chilly enough to make Annie pull her shawl tighter over her jacket.
“Where are we?” Her voice was still husky with sleep.
“Scotia,” Father’s reply was terse. “I have booked us rooms for the night. Hurry along now.”
Annie followed behind her mother while keeping an eye on Ivan who was wont to stop and explore whatever might catch his attention regardless of what time of night it was. She was surprised when Father turned in at the gate of a two story clapboard house. What manner of hotel was this? The door was opened by a stout motherly looking woman who welcomed them warmly and ushered them into a tiny but neat dining room where sandwiches and tea awaited them. The meal was a blur of tiredness and Annie was happy to curl up on a pallet on the floor while Mother and Father lay down fully clothed on the single bed in the room. Before she dropped into sleep she heard Father whispering, apologizing to Mother for the spartan accommodations.
Morning dawned bright and clear and early. This close to mid-summer’s day the light came early into the sky and lingered long into the evenings. A quick wash and equally quick morning repast found Annie once more clambering up the steps of a passenger car. This was a different train she realized. The name on the side was different, and the seats even more battered than the last one. In quick order the train got underway. Her eye caught the headline of the paper Father was reading. It was out of date by about three weeks but the headlines were full of the war in Europe and doom and gloom about the war going badly. She shoved down the cold fear in the pit of her belly. Yesterday there had been sentries posted at some of the big trestle bridges. She’d overheard Father and another man speaking of the fears the Germans would infiltrate the country and blow up the bridges. The idea seemed unlikely to her.
The engine blew its whistle long and loud. Peering out the window Annie gasped as three moose flashed past her window. The blackflies in the bush were fierce this time of year and the wild life routinely sought open places where the sun helped to keep the little pests at bay. She as very glad she was sitting in the relative comfort of the passenger car rather than out in the field digging the soil for the vegetable garden and getting eaten alive. She shuddered. Black flies and sand flies were a scourge. The little beggars could get through the tiniest of openings and before she’d been in the outdoors more than a few minutes they’d be feasting. Father would rub mineral oil or oil of citronella on the plow horses faces and in their ears and nostrils. Turning the earth seemed to drive the vicious things into a frenzy.
The distance from Scotia Junction and Bill Beatty’s general store to Sprucedale was much shorter than their earlier journey from Golden Lake to Scotia Junction. The train puffed to halt at Sprucedale station in the early evening. Again Father had arranged for them to stay the night in a private home. A correspondent of his, a Mister Ford and his wife. Hetty and Clarence were waiting for them as they descended to the platform. Mother enfolded her eldest daughter in her arms and the pair went off towa
rd the Ford’s arm in arm leaving Annie to deal with Ivan and their hand luggage. She waited with the small huddle of bags, keeping Ivan on a short leash, while Father and Clarence dealt with the larger items being unloaded. Apparently the larger things would be stored at the station and then delivered to the new farm as soon as possible.
Annie took the opportunity to look around at her new home. Well, at least the closest thing to civilization that was near her new home, which was apparently out in the bush somewhere near someplace called Doe Lake.
Chapter Twelve
Summer 1917 passed in a blur of setting up house, getting used to the new barn and digging the large vegetable gardens needed to supply food over the winter. Ivan and Father built a root cellar and repaired the hen house and hog pen. The old barn was sturdy enough and suitable to house the horses, cattle and sheep which arrived soon after the Baldwins did.
The news from France and Belgium was grim. The Germans were winning and even in the backwoods of Ontario paranoia was rampant. Even a perceived sympathy for the Germans was enough to ostracize someone or worse. There was a woman in the village whose son would never come home again, who was heard to mention she was sure the mothers of those poor German youngsters ground through the war machine were just as grief stricken as herself. It had been said in a moment of passion and the throes of grief, but no one would talk to her now for fear of being branded a spy or espionage agent. Annie felt sorry for her, but Hetty advised her to mind her own beeswax and keep her mouth shut. Of course, Mother agreed with her.
There had been no word from Evan for months and nothing new regarding Steve’s missing in action status. The last letter from George said the fighting was fierce and they had suffered some heavy casualties. At least that’s what she thought she gleaned from reading between the lines and around the censor’s blacked out sections. There had been a brief note from Peter, forwarded from Eganville Post Office, which he sent from a convalescent home before going back to the front. It seemed that being a sapper meant going ahead to lay roads and track for the troops to advance. It also meant he was exposed to mustard gas again, which was what landed him in the convalescent home again. They were nice to him, he said, for which she was glad. Peter was a nice lad, more her own age than George.
* * *
Annie stood at the edge of the crowd on the main street of Sprucedale watching but not really participating in the Labour Day celebrations. Where did the summer go? She glanced down at her gloved hands, glad the covering hid the calluses and nicks she earned helping to get the garden in and then building and repairing the out buildings. The blister on the web of her right thumb was squishy courtesy of the shovel handle that needed sanding—again. With any luck it wouldn’t break before she could get the gloves off, they were a pair of Mother’s and Annie would catch the rough side of her tongue if they were spoilt. She sighed. Mother had few fine things left from her early life in Ireland and she cherished them above all else. It was only family pride that prompted her to insist Annie wear them to cover her work roughened hands. No lady should be seen in public with hands like that, her mother declared.
“Let’s go see if we can help the church ladies with the supper,” her new friend Della whispered. “If I have to stand out here in the sun much longer I’ll melt.”
Annie nodded and poked Ivan in the ribs. He towered over her now, having experienced a growth spurt over the summer. Annie’s head barely came to his shoulder now. “Hsst, Ivan. I’m going with Della to help with supper. Stay out of mischief.”
“Don’t I always?” He winked.
“On your head be it, then.” She linked arms with her friend and slipped away while Father mounted the back of the buckboard that served as a stage for the occasion. Since they’d arrived in May, word of mouth had spread the news that Mister Baldwin was doctor trained at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland and also a preacher. Annie wasn’t sure he was ordained, but having come from a family of Church of Ireland reverends, Father could preach hell fire and brimstone with the best of them. Mother often spoke of her father-in-law’s country manor house in County Dromore.
Once the girls reached the long trestle tables set out beneath the shade of the spreading maples Annie was too busy to think of much else except what needed to be done next. By the time the festivities wound up, everything was in place for the hungry crowd to descend upon the tables and devour everything in sight. Annie and Della found a quiet place on the steps of the church out of the sun. The light breeze kept the mosquitos somewhat at bay, but the little devils still whined annoyingly in her ear. She slapped at a huge deer fly hovering over her bare arm where she’d rolled up her sleeves earlier. Annie had no wish to let the thing settle and bite, the result was a large welt and the actual bite hurt like the dickens, no wonder the poor horses snorted and stamped and threatened to bolt when the big flies swarmed around their bellies.
The pocket of her skirt crackled, reminding her of the precious still unread letter from George. The first one in what seemed like forever. Resisting the urge to open it right this moment, she listened with half-an ear to Della’s chatter and picked at the food on her plate. By the time everyone was full and the babble of voices raised in conversation dissipated to a quiet murmur the sun was sending long orange-gold beams slanting across through the trees. Wriggling her aching feet in the confining boots, Annie let Della pull her upright. If only I could take them off and go barefoot. She shook out her full skirts and flipped the hem to remove some of the dust. Mother would kill me dead if I went barefoot and embarrassed her by acting like a hoyden. But, my stars, these boots are torture. The first step she took after picking her plate up from the church step decided her.
“Wait a moment, Della,” she called and plunked back down on the step. In a matter of seconds the boots and her stockings were tucked under the edge of the steps. Annie wriggled her toes in the sandy soil in relief, made sure her long skirts hid her secret well enough, and picked up the discarded plate again. She joined Della who giggled and lifted her skirts to reveal long bare toes. Laughing like loons, the girls made their way toward the gaggle of church ladies packing up the remaining bits of food and filling the big washing tub full of hot water heated on the fire nearby and soap. Another galvanized tub of clear water stood on the other end of the Beatty washstand for rinsing the dishes. Annie grinned. “Better to wash dishes than clothes,” she whispered to Della.
The girls grabbed drying towels from the stack of flour sack dish towels and joined the line of women waiting for clean wet dishes. Once dry they stacked them on the now cleared trestle tables for their owners to claim them later. Billy Munro’s voice accompanied by his guitar and his brother on the squeeze box, or concertina as Mother insisted it be called, silenced the buzz of conversation. With the clean-up done, the women dispersed to find their men folks and enjoy some relaxation as well. The early fall dusk fell and with it a fresh breeze sprang up to cool the heat of the day. Annie found a quiet place and folded her legs beneath her, leaning back against the cool smooth bark of a large white birch. Archie Eady brought out his fiddle and joined the Munro boys picking out a lively jig. Annie wondered if they were relatives of the Munroes near Eganville. Soon the open space was filled with dancers. Young couples sparking and oblivious to anyone else mingled with married couples. Even old Mister and Mrs. Allen were dancing the jig, their eighty year old feet remembering the quick deft steps from years of practice.
Annie closed her eyes and wished with all her heart George was with her, sitting beneath the tree with his fingers wound with hers. Her hand brushed the pocket with the hidden letter, she itched to pull it out but there was insufficient light to read the pale spidery writing. Later, she promised herself, when she was alone in her room with the light of the lamp. Then she could savour it without fear of interruption.
* * *
My Dear Annie,
I long to hear your voice. It seems like a dream to remember sitting with you in the woods and sharing my thoughts with you. I find
it hard to believe this war will ever end. The hellfire and brimstone your father preaches about cannot be worse than what I am living through. I despair of it ever ending. But enough of this gloom and misery. I received your last letter and have read it over and over hearing your voice in my head and blocking out
It’s raining, again, so please ignore the blotches and ink smudges. One of the lads made a tiny container out of a spent bullet casing for me where I keep the lock of hair you sent last. It is safe on a thong around my neck and keeps you ever near my heart. Enclosed you will find a similar token. I caution you to clean it well before handling it as the cooties are most persistent. I will close now as the lad with the mail bag is waiting and I hear the Archies in the distance. Things will be
May this find you as it leaves me
Pte. George Richardsont
Canadian Infantry (Eastern Ontario Regiment)
21st Btn
Her fingers trembled while searching for the bit of hair tucked into the thin paper. Finding a curly twist secured with a bit of twine, she got to her feet and moved closer to the lamp. Turning the strands this way and that, they appeared to be free of nits. To be sure, she found the small jar of coal oil she kept to refill her lamp and dipped the lock of sandy blonde hair until it was thoroughly soaked. Resealing the jar, she set it back and rummaged in her top drawer for an old handkerchief. She soaked up the excess oil before laying the precious curl on another clean bit of linen on the wide windowsill. Once it was dried Annie planned to sew a tiny pouch and wear it around her neck under her blouse like the amulets the Indians who came for doctoring wore.