by Cecily Ross
Captain Rodgers, no longer amused by my intense discomfort, hurried us through the crowd toward a wooded area on the other side of the small bay, giving the quarantine sheds a wide berth. Even at a distance, I could see they were little more than cattle pens, and we could clearly hear, over the general din along the shore, the cries and moans of the poor wretches housed there. And every breath of the intermittent breeze carried with it a smell so foul, it paralyzed the senses. At long last, Rodgers ushered us into a sheltered glade beside a stream, and there we rested, surrounded by an Eden of evergreens and flowering shrubs, while he left to attend to his business. I was numb with the shock of it all, and I lay down on a soft bed of pine needles with my head on Moodie’s lap while Katie slept.
“My poor Susie,” he crooned, stroking my forehead as he had so often done on the endless, unendurable voyage. “It will be better. You will see.”
I was too tired to protest, only glad in that moment to be alone with my husband and child. The comfort of his hands upon me seemed as encompassing as the vast and cloudless sky. As I lay there, the very earth beneath me seemed to rock and sway as though we were still at sea, and I slid into a light, untroubled sleep. Then, as the sun began to slip below a great ridge of trees to the west, Captain Rodgers and Oscar returned to escort us back through the gauntlet of unruly immigrants that lay between us and the relative comfort of The Anne.
That evening, sitting on the deck of the nearly empty vessel, after a supper of beef and onions and potatoes—and yes, bread and butter—I was troubled by the intensity of my reactions to all I had witnessed that day. I have lived in proximity to the lower classes all my life: the hard-working Suffolk farmhands, the merchants and tradespeople in the towns and villages, the maids and cooks and stable hands of Reydon Hall. They had their place and I had mine. That was the order of things, an order as immutable as night following day, as roses blooming in summer. But I realized that I had never really been among them, other than during my flirtation with Reverend Ritchie and his simple church. And even that turned out to be an idealistic dream, a work of my imagination. What I saw that day at Grosse Isle, for the first time, gave those people a face and a voice. And I did not like what I saw and heard: the naked hostility in their eyes as we tiptoed onto the rocks, onto the unyielding footing that was as much theirs as ours.
“It’s the Irish,” my husband repeated. “Rascals and drunkards all of them.” But I know better. It has nothing to do with where they are from. It’s where they are going that matters, and they know it. The cheap fares aboard The Anne, honest and hard-working Scots who all during the filthy, claustrophobic voyage deferred to their betters and knew their place, changed once they set foot on land. On that fetid rock that day, the invisible bonds that had always held everything in place were ripped away. I knew there was no going back, and I was afraid.
Our next stop was Quebec, where most of our fellow travellers disembarked on their way to a better life. Moodie insisted on going ashore too despite the cholera that was rampant in the city as, hour after hour, the bells tolled each death from the dreadful disease. But this time, I chose the safety and quiet of the ship over the open sewers and general chaos that, judging by the vessels of every description crowding into the harbour, must have awaited in the busy lower town. In any case, the view from the deck was superb. The Anne was anchored at the foot of sheer cliffs of black rock rising up to the stone fortifications of the citadel, its walls standing like stern sentinels guarding the river and surrounding wilderness. Across the wide, swirling waters, the vast purple forests of the south shore spread out toward infinity under a cloud-dappled sky. For the first time, I felt a stirring of something like gratitude or even awe at the majesty of the untamed place called Canada.
The following day, with Moodie no worse for his adventures, a steamer escorted The Anne upriver to Montreal, and there we said goodbye to the little brig that had been our only home all summer long.
Of Montreal, what is there to say? Dirty, disordered, with open sewers, thoroughfares ankle-deep in mud and the disgusting effluvia of the wretched hordes of speculators, soldiers and sailors crawling all over the city. Coffins stacked six deep outside the cemetery gates, ragged urchins, starving dogs, half-naked women begging for coins. On our first night there, we elected to remain on board the ship, but when one of the crew came down with cholera, we took up residence at Goodenough’s Hotel, a tolerable oasis in that pestilential place. Thankfully, it was just one sleepless night before we boarded a stagecoach to Lachine. The rest of the journey is a blur, five days of dusty, bone-shattering roads, then two more by steamboat to some other unknown place—Cornwall? At Prescott, we boarded another steamboat, the William IV, bound for Cobourg and Toronto. At Brockville, we took on a party of ladies, which after days spent travelling in mostly masculine company, I greatly welcomed. The weather turned cold and stormy and a fearful gale assailed our little vessel, so that when I ventured on deck as we passed the famed Thousand Islands, I was soon forced back to my berth by the driving rain. The monotony of the voyage—and an entire night’s sleep—was finally broken by the antics of a fellow passenger, an Irish rascal who struck up a raucous, incomprehensible tirade outside our cabin door. When one of the lady passengers appeared and bestowed upon him several well-aimed kicks, it only accelerated his bombast.
“Ladies, I’m at yer service; I only wish I could get a dispensation from the Pope, and I’d marry yeas all.” Despite our immense fatigue, the unruly immigrant’s antics provided comic theatre worthy of Mr. Congreve, and Moodie and I were overcome with a mirth that verged on hysteria. We held each other close and laughed until our tears and exhaustion and the silent swells of the turbulent Ontario finally rocked us back to sleep. The following day, our William IV, plying the grey waters of the north shore, at last brought us to Cobourg (gateway to the backwoods). The scale of this vast land is already beyond my comprehension.
The weather soon turned, and it was barely dark on a thick and humid night when our small party made its way on foot through the lurid streets and noisy throngs of ragged, cursing immigrants, until we arrived at a small hotel only to be greeted by the news that the inn was completely full. After Moodie departed in search of other accommodation, I settled my weary bones against some sacks of corn piled in a corner of the main-floor tavern and dispatched a sullen Hannah to the kitchen to find bread and milk for my poor hungry babe. Katie’s exhausted cries had finally ceased, perhaps in despair at the futility of competing with the cacophony of carousing Canadians who milled about the airless room. In spite of my dishevelled state after all our travels, two drinkers stared blatantly in my direction with looks that could in no way be interpreted as mere curiosity, and I blushed with shame as well as fear for my person. As I contemplated the prospect of spending the night in such circumstances, I suddenly thought I glimpsed a familiar face. I looked again, but he was gone. And as I struggled to place those darting black eyes, I feared I had been seized by some kind of madness. How likely was it that I would meet someone I knew in this unholy backwater? Then, sure enough, there he was again, this time grinning like a madman, a young man of medium height and build, with hair to his shoulders and a thick, unruly beard. Despite the heat, he was wearing a tattered coat that appeared to be made of animal skins pieced together in a most haphazard manner. By his expression, it was clear he recognized me too, but still I could not place him. And then it came to me. Those eyes! Of course, I would know anywhere Moodie’s old Suffolk friend Tom Wales, who had sailed for these far shores six months before us.
So overjoyed was I to encounter a familiar face in this ghastly place that I burst into tears, and handing little Katie to Hannah (the maid’s incessant whimpering ceased momentarily at my shriek of joy), I fell into Tom’s arms as though he were the Saviour himself. He reeked of sweat and woodsmoke and tobacco, and something else that I later learned was bear grease, which he had smeared on his face and hands to keep the mosquitos at bay. Despite all this, I have never been a
s happy to see anyone in all my life. And the poor man (whose litany of woes I will elaborate upon later) did indeed prove to be our saviour.
“You shall have my room,” said Tom. “I insist. It isn’t much, but you shall have a bed at least, and some privacy. I will sleep in the parlour, wrapped in a blanket Indian-style. Don’t worry, I am quite used to worse than that,” he said, silencing my admittedly weak protests.
By the time Moodie returned, I had accepted Tom’s offer and fallen into a deep and tormented sleep.
And so, here we are.
SEPTEMBER 13, 1832
Tom Wales continues to make himself useful, and although he is not much of a comfort, he is kind and full of concern. To think that I disparaged him when he was part of our old life and now I find him the gentlest of souls. My husband, however, has taken an inexplicable dislike to his old friend. When Tom came by our room at the Steamboat this morning with a bowl of strong, bitter tea for me and some milk for the babe, I noticed he was shivering so violently that he resembled a man possessed by some terrible demon. His forehead shone with fever, and I immediately expressed concern and cleared a place for him on the disordered bed so that he could sit down.
“It is this blasted ague,” he said through clenched teeth. “I have been afflicted since I arrived in the bush last spring.” He glared at us with wild eyes, rocking back and forth and hugging himself in an effort to control the shaking. “Of course, our good friend Cattermole failed to mention the mosquitoes when he sang the praises of this earthly paradise. Or the blackflies, the impassable roads, the endless, impenetrable forests and swamps, the cheating land dealers, an interminable diet of potatoes and pork fat . . .”
Moodie, who must have been as alarmed as I was by this outburst, put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Now, Tom, get a hold of yourself. It can’t be that bad.” Poor Tom did not answer; he buried his face in his hands and began to weep in great wrenching sobs that made his shoulders heave. Moodie looked at me and said, as though Tom were not sitting there before us, “Susanna, the poor man is obviously not in his right mind. He is ill or drunk, or both. You mustn’t take notice.” Moodie took him by the shoulders. “Tom. Stop this. Look, you’re frightening Mrs. Moodie out of her wits.”
But Tom would not be silenced. He continued weeping and moaning. “All this, and now, with winter coming, it can only get worse. Six months in the bush and I am a broken man, financially, physically, spiritually. As soon as I can raise the money, mark my words, I intend to make the next passage home.”
I did not know how to respond to such misery, but my heart was filled with horror and apprehension at what we had undertaken. Tom fixed his frantic, yellowed eyes on mine and took a long draught of his tea, which seemed to still his quaking body momentarily. At length, the spell passed, leaving him pale and shaken, but he did not recant. After he had left, I was rigid with dread. Moodie tried to make light of it. He chattered merrily about the good burghers of Cobourg and the many civilized conveniences available in the town (among them, an academy for boys and girls, a weekly newspaper and an Anglican church).
“Poor Tom,” said Moodie. “He never was the most reliable fellow. Drink can do terrible things to a man.” And then he tried to distract me with the amusing fact that black bears can frequently be seen strolling the streets and avenues of fair Cobourg. I shuddered and hugged my poor mewling Katie closer.
My spirits lifted when my husband presented me with a creased and tattered letter from Catharine, which she had left behind for us at the hotel desk. To think she and Mr. Traill passed a night in Cobourg a month ago before being swallowed by the backwoods on their way to Peterborough to reconnoitre with our brother Sam. How bereft I am that we missed them! How thankful to know they are alive and well. Poor Kate wrote that she fell ill soon after arriving in Montreal, and though she relates her ordeal with characteristic understatement, her symptoms sound very much like the cholera that is rampant there. She wrote that she is fully recovered, but that she and Mr. Traill decided not to linger in Cobourg for fear of some other illness befalling them, and so, having no idea of our whereabouts, they hastened onward to their final destination.
My dear sister’s impressions thus far of this new land diverge greatly from my own, I fear. Where she saw neat white cottages and well-kept orchards hugging the shores of the Ontario, I saw only the dark shadow of the vast forests rising like storm clouds behind the meagre human settlement. Where she noted meadows of familiar flowers—goldenrod, valerian, viper’s bugloss—I was preoccupied with the coarse bread, bitter tea and grey waters we encountered en route to this muddy outpost. We seem to agree on one aspect, however, and that is the unremitting rudeness of our fellow settlers, especially the Yankees and the Irish, who are everywhere. In both our experiences, these low-born rustics show little respect for their betters, and in particular I have been disturbed by the widespread practice of allowing servants to sit at table with their employers. After seeing for myself the anarchy that results when civility and order are abandoned, I am determined there will be no such New World innovations when my own household is established.
Still, Kate’s fresh and good-humoured account of her experiences has provided a welcome anodyne to Tom Wales’s dire predictions of the years of back-breaking labour we face if we are ever to succeed as farmers in the bush. Moodie has dismissed Tom’s tales of woe as the product of a wild imagination and a weak constitution.
“I endured ten years on the South African veldt,” he boasted. “This will be as nothing to that, I promise you.” Moodie’s efforts to discredit Tom seem rooted in his desire to reassure me that we have landed in paradise—not, as I am beginning to fear, the fourth circle of hell.
My husband spends his days downstairs in the smoky tavern, buying drinks for all and sundry, who are, as far as I can see, a disreputable collection of promoters and pioneers. When I question him, he says he is trying to get the lay of the land before deciding on our next move.
“There are good farms to be found in these parts, Susanna, at reasonable prices. We could make a nice profit if we are smart.”
Tomorrow, while he meets with his new friends, I intend to venture into the town to see for myself if Cobourg bears any resemblance to what Mr. Cattermole described in his lectures as “a handsome and thriving place” with every “convenience anyone could desire.” As I write this in our new and barely respectable accommodations, the breeze toying with the soiled lace curtains carries the distinctive odour of fermenting grain (Cobourg boasts two distilleries) and the sounds of a lively brawl taking place on the boardwalk outside.
SEPTEMBER 16, 1832
Although my tour of Cobourg revealed little in the way of civility, I returned from our walk this morning convinced that the town’s scant resources represent a far more desirable situation than the hardships that surely await us in the backwoods. Tom Wales, despite his fever, insisted on accompanying me on my foray, saying that even in daylight, the streets and avenues of this rough-and-ready place are not safe for a lady to venture out alone.
Once we left behind the teeming harbour area with its taverns and Yankee boisterousness, a quieter atmosphere prevailed. But most of the hundred and fifty or so houses here are little more than wooden shacks. The few residents we encountered exuded an air of desperate respectability, their once-fine clothing stained and mended to a sad state of disrepair. Our first stop was the office of the Cobourg Star, where, upon presenting myself to the editor, Mr. Chatterton, I was pleased to learn that he had already made my husband’s acquaintance, and that my brother Sam has sent him some of my poems and stories. He also has more than a passing acquaintance with many of the London literati I have left behind forever. Oh, how lovely it was to share a few moments of intelligent discourse. Eager to promote his adopted home, Mr. Chatterton apprised us of the fact that Cobourg boasts a printing office, a music school and a book society. When I questioned him further as to the latter, he admitted that the only books currently available here are the novels of
Sir Walter Scott and a few editions of Lord Byron’s poetry, which society members have been rereading and discussing diligently, as it takes up to two years for bestsellers to arrive from England.
“But we are confident a shipment of new reading material will certainly arrive before winter sets in,” Mr. Chatterton predicted with a native optimism that seems to infect so many Canadians. “I hear that the novels of Miss Austen are meeting with much enthusiasm,” he said. “Have you, by any chance, encountered her work?” I assured him I had and, indeed, that I had brought with me to Canada, along with my Shakespeare, Tennyson and other precious texts, two of Austen’s novels, also Bulwer-Lytton’s Paul Clifford and a new edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which is signed by the authoress herself, and which I assured him I would be happy to share with him once my husband and I are settled. Chatterton urged me to submit more of my writing for publication in his newspaper, an opportunity that I will avail myself of as soon as possible. The prospect of publication in this modest enterprise almost makes up for Cobourg’s otherwise utter lack of civilized amenities, and I am eager to take up my pen once again.