The Lost Diaries of Susanna Moodie

by Cecily Ross

  I was apoplectic. How dare he? This rancid little squatter standing there, drinking my rum, still living in my house. I grabbed a broom and raised it over my head. “Get out, you sack of vermin, before I beat you to death.” And I would have too, if he had not fled like the coward he is. When Moodie came in an hour later, I was still shaking. I told him what had happened and he laughed. “That old rascal,” he said, as though I had just related an amusing anecdote. But it is not funny. How would Old Joe know of our debts? I can almost hear the whispering that is going on behind our backs.

  FEBRUARY 2, 1833

  James disappeared two days ago without a word, leaving poor Moodie with sole responsibility for chopping and splitting the firewood, as well as the care and feeding of the animals. Our delinquent servant had a riding horse, a yoke of oxen, three cows and a family of pigs under his care. I knew he was unhappy and have long feared this would happen, so it came as no surprise. But that has not lessened our desperation, considering the unlikelihood of finding a replacement this time of the year, a season the locals are already calling “the iron winter.”

  And then there we were, making the best of yet another interminable night in the wilderness—Moodie on his flute, Bel attempting to execute a miserable jig in the confined space, me defiling a pair of torn britches with a recalcitrant needle and fingers stiff with cold—when a violent knocking nearly stopped our hearts. Moodie opened the door, and the apparition standing before us set Bel to screaming as though she had seen the anti-Christ. Tall, so gaunt you could see the ribs through its thin shirt, with a head of black hair falling in thick, unruly mats that nearly obscured its dark and hungry sunken eyes. The creature, its flesh the colour of ash, its feet wrapped in rags, stood there shaking as though possessed by the devil himself. I immediately thought of the Windiga and cried out to warn my husband to shut the door against this embodiment of evil. Before I could pull myself from my chair, the flesh-eating creature collapsed like a suit of empty clothes across our threshold. And as Bel and I cowered in the corner, pleading with him not to, Moodie dragged the unconscious body across the room and propped it up against the woodbox.

  “For heaven’s sake, girl,” he said, rubbing the intruder’s thin arms and pulling a quilt over its purple feet. “Pull yourself together. Can’t you see the poor fellow is freezing? Bel, please, some hot milk. A bowl of soup.”

  I could see now that the body draped against the logs was more man than beast—indeed little more than a boy, and a gravely weakened one at that. Bel, however, was unmoved and, refusing to lift a hand, hung back, muttering angrily in the shadows. This was not the time to deal with her insubordination, so I got up myself to warm the milk and the remains of supper for our still groggy but now sentient guest. With a wan smile of gratitude but not a word, the boy quickly demolished the soup and half a loaf of yesterday’s bread with it.

  “Who are you, young man, and what is your business?” Moodie asked after the food was gone.

  “John Monaghan, sir, from Haldimand Township,” he replied. “I’ve been walking these past two days with naught to eat and neither shoe for my feet nor hat to my head. I beg you, let me spend the night, for if ye turn me out, I shall surely perish in the snow.”

  This pathetic plea was delivered in an Irish brogue as thick as boiled cabbage, the sound of which elicited a cry of outrage from Bel, who came forward, her terror apparently forgotten, her gentle blue eyes now dark with fury, to denounce our guest.

  “Filthy papist swine,” she thundered. “He’ll only rob and murder us in our sleep. I’ll not stay under the same roof with the likes o’ that ’un.”

  “You will do as you’re told,” said Moodie in his sternest voice, though I could see that underneath he was as bewildered as I at our usually obedient servant’s intransigence. “Isobel. Now! Make up a bed for Mr. Monaghan. You can leave if you like, but you’ll not have a say in whom we receive in our home.”

  Like Bel, I hold little respect for the Irish, but if our first day with John Monaghan is any indication, we are both mistaken: this Celtic boy is a credit to his race. He tells us his previous master beat him brutally (the still-bloody lacerations on his back and shoulders being ample proof of his mistreatment) for neglecting to unyoke a team of oxen. And so he fled, fearing the man and his sons would surely murder him one day.

  MARCH 15, 1833

  This morning, John Monaghan and I bundled Katie into her sled and tramped across the misty fields beyond the big house to the vast stand of sugar maples, where our neighbours from around the township have come to make maple syrup at a communal gathering known as a “sugaring off.” Although I have been sweetening my tea these past four months with this oddly flavoured condiment, until now I had little idea of its provenance. The day was wet and mild, a symphony of black and white, snow, trees, snow, trees, and a fog so pervasive it obliterated the horizon, making the sky above scarcely distinguishable from the wet ground under our feet. Red-winged blackbirds called from the marsh. Ka-creee. Ka-creee. A chorus of peepers filled the soft air with their song. As we approached, we could hear the voices of men and women, the children’s laughter; we could smell the smoke from the roaring fire, a bright ember in the distance. And before long, we could make out their ghostly forms gliding wraithlike through the foggy woods, gathering buckets of sap from where they hung on the mighty trees: the Canadian maples, whose stout trunks rise as straight and clean as ships’ masts until their branches, like the arms of angels, reach upwards to the heavens.

  The sap, which flows this time of year beneath the bark and is collected by way of wooden dowels hammered into the tree, tastes like barely sweetened barley water. Gallons and gallons are poured into a vast kettle and boiled constantly over a wood fire for days until the liquid gradually condenses into a thick, smoky syrup whose flavour can only be described as “maple” for it tastes like nothing else on earth.

  “Hullo, you there, missus. Bring us the babe. She’s in store for a treat.” It was Old Joe Harris, who seemed to have entirely forgotten our last encounter, calling to me as he stirred a large wooden paddle round and round in a steaming vat of boiling sap. As we watched, he instructed one of his daughters to ladle some of the thick, hot liquid onto a patch of untrammelled snow. The syrup immediately congealed, and grasping one end of the golden puddle, the girl handed the other to me.

  “Pull,” she commanded. “And turn, like this.” I followed her lead, and in an instant, we were swinging a thick, twisted rope of taffy, which we laid on a nearby log. Quick as an otter, John Monaghan appeared with a hatchet and chopped the maple rope into chunks, which he then distributed to the waiting children. Before long, Katie was a sticky, happy mess, her hair and face and clothing clotted with maple taffy. And for the first time in many months, I found myself laughing—not just laughing, but joining the others in a collective merriment I had thought I would never be part of again. At that moment, we all, the Harrises, old Betty Fye, even that conniving swindler Clark, seemed like fellow travellers, part of a harmonious whole. And there was music—Moodie on his flute, accompanied by a juice harp and a homemade guitar—and generous bowls of venison stew and bread and butter, food that now winter’s end is firmly in sight could be shared without compunction. It makes me hope we are being accepted at last.

  “Spring, ma’am,” said John Monaghan as we sat on a log and watched.

  “What?” I said.

  “Spring,” he repeated. “Back home, the daffodils will be in bloom.”

  I looked around me at the snow and fog, the roaring fire and the clouds my warm breath was making in the cold, damp air.

  “Spring,” I said. “Yes.”

  JUNE 7, 1833 (MELSETTER, HAMILTON TOWNSHIP)

  I am writing these words whilst sitting at a real desk in the bright, spacious parlour of our Melsetter home. At last. Old Joe and his brood vacated the big house a week ago, and a sorrier parade you have never seen: eight children (including a still feeble-looking Phoebe) Mrs. Joe and her new babe, as
well as a trio of half-starved dogs. They carried their belongings in two pushcarts and on their backs as they headed north in search of lodgings, an abandoned barn, perhaps, or a farm tenancy somewhere. Mr. Clark finally threatened to call in the bailiff and have them forcibly evicted. If only I had known last fall this was an option, but I suspect Clark kept it to himself in order to milk us for the rent on the cowshed for as long as he could. I also suspect my constant complaining persuaded Moodie to put greater pressure on his so-called business partner.

  In spite of everything, I felt a twinge of remorse as I watched them leave. The feeling did not last long. John Monaghan discovered that Old Joe, in a spirit of revenge, had girded all our best apple trees. And the state of the house was almost beyond description, the filthiest mess I have ever seen, worse even than our lowly cowshed: walls black with soot, windows opaque with fly dirt; dog feces everywhere; old soup bones, dirty rags and broken glass; and a chimney that has been leaking water, making large puddles on the kitchen floor. Then there was the noxious odour that permeated the whole house, a miasma that brought tears to our eyes. We searched everywhere for the source of the smell, until John Monaghan located the Harrises’ foul house-warming gift in the back of a high cupboard above the mantel: it was the rotting carcass of a skunk. The odour of death lingers still, though we have been burning salt and sulphur on tin plates, and Bel has arranged bouquets of pine and spruce boughs throughout. It took three days to scrub the house into a livable condition. And then on our first night, we found our beds so infested with fleas that we scarcely slept at all. As for the mice, Moodie has set traps, and so far, we have disposed of about two dozen of the intruders, which has certainly put a damper on their persistent society.

  Nevertheless, what heaven is this compared with our former quarters? Now that it is clean, it is as though I have returned to the womb—a vast, light-filled womb with boarded walls and ceilings, snow-white fringed curtains fluttering gently over windows that allow a view of distant hills and a clear blue sky. The chairs and tables are arranged by the fire as though waiting for a happy family to arrive. A gaily striped carpet enlivens the plank floors, and in a touch that brings tears to my eyes, Moodie has hung the cherished drawing of Reydon Hall (given to me so long ago by dear Kate) beside the portrait of Mama, both stored all these months in the barn, along with other nearly forgotten treasures, emblems of the life we once lived. Here is the precious Coalport tea service Mama gave us as a wedding present, rescued from the flour bin and arranged now in the glass-fronted cabinet, a silver platter set on the rough beam of the mantel, antimacassars (antimacassars!) draped over the backs of the chairs. Here in this, our first true Canadian home, I will bring forth our second child, our Canadian babe, and I am filled with hope for a future that only weeks ago seemed as constrained and limited as that rough and dirty cowshed.

  On the advice of Mr. Clark, we have let that unfortunate hovel to a young couple originally from Essex, Diana and George Owen, who have recently moved here from Hope Township, a few miles to the west. They dropped by this morning on their way to Cobourg and seem charming and articulate. They have recently sold their farm and need temporary lodgings until they can find a new property in the area. I am delighted to think there is to be such congenial company so nearby, and for me, perhaps, a new friend. Once this baby is born, I am determined to invite Mrs. Owen for tea. Moodie says Mr. Clark has arbitrated some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement with the Owens regarding the working of our farm, as Mr. Owen professes considerable knowledge of crops and the management of livestock. With his help and John Monaghan’s muscle, my husband is certain we can expect a profitable harvest this year—enough, I hope, to start paying off our accumulating debts. It will also leave Moodie more time to pursue his real estate ventures with Mr. Clark.

  I have received a letter from Agnes and with it another tidal wave of homesickness. It isn’t just my longing for England, which is always with me like a phantom presence, it’s that I crave good conversation and, above all, the society of like-minded women, my sisters, and the gentle friendships of my youth. My elder sister’s letter is filled with boastful news of her publishing successes—a poem here, a story there—and the kind of literary gossip I once devoured with great relish but now regard with sickening envy. To think that yesterday, my greatest delight was a supper of biscuits I made myself and a trout Moodie caught in the creek.

  It made me laugh through my tears to read Agnes’s suggestion that Kate and I should become editors, start a penny magazine and publish local poets and authors on subjects from history to homemaking. “If you could make but five pounds a week, it would be worthwhile trying . . .” As though Kate and I meet for luncheon every Tuesday, as though the miles between us are crowded with coaches and dotted with country taverns. As though my days are spent composing glorious odes to fallen kings, instead of plucking chicken feathers and combing the woods for wild greens.

  JUNE 21, 1833

  My waters broke in the late afternoon of June 8 as I was putting the finishing touches to a watercolour of two brilliant goldfinches perched upon a purple thistle. Moodie rode to fetch Betty Fye, whom I had already enlisted to assist me in my lying-in. The older woman has nine children of her own and has ushered dozens more into the world, and though her manner is brusque, it belies a gentleness she strives to conceal. An hour or so after her arrival, the usual agony ensued, lasting throughout the night and into mid-morning, the whole sordid spectacle witnessed this time by a reluctant Moodie, who (it gives me some satisfaction to know) now comprehends the full consequence of his conjugal overtures. Shortly before noon, I presented my husband with another baby girl. Though he had cherished a fervent hope for a son, he clasped little Agnes to his breast with extravagant delight, while I, in my stupor, could only gaze into the eyes of the squirming stranger and marvel that she had just moments earlier issued from my body. It was the most unsettling feeling of disconnection. I did not recognize her; she might just as well have dropped from the sky above into my arms.

  Her first week was peaceful enough, but she has been crying ceaselessly for the past three days. I sleep in snatches when she does, but it is not enough and I cannot shake the fog that has enveloped me since her birth. This morning, as I was hanging out some clothes to dry, I was overcome by an unnameable sadness and my tears flowed unbidden until her cries called me back to myself.

  Betty Fye tells me the worst of the mosquito plague is over for the summer (or nearly so), and if there is a little breeze, it is quite tolerable to be out of doors in the evening. The light at this time of day has none of the brittle harshness, the relentless reality of midday, instead taking on a melancholy softness that suits my temper. The auburn sky, sometimes streaked with the bloody entrails of the dying day, presides over a landscape of deep and mysterious shadows.

  Diana Owen paid me a visit, bringing a tiny smock she sewed for the baby. Since she has thus far been unable to bear children of her own, she told me, her pretty heart-shaped face clotted with sadness, it brings her joy to be able to provide something for my little one. Her kindness touched me deeply, and it has been so long since I have had a friend that I invited her to stay, and we talked until Moodie came in from the fields. In my weakened state, I found myself confiding in her my fears and my dreams. I leaned against her and wept until I had no more tears, and afterwards, a kind of peace settled over me. Through it all, she said nothing, just held my hands and listened. I have asked her to come again and she has promised she will.

  Yesterday, Moodie presented us with a dog, a black-and-white explosion of fur and happiness that, to Katie’s delight, covered her face with wet pink kisses before stampeding around the kitchen with unrestrained energy. The animal’s unfettered joy made me laugh despite myself. We have named him Hector.

  AUGUST 20, 1833

  Mrs. Owen has not returned. And with good reason. It had seemed like a sensible idea: Moodie and I are not used to hard physical labour, but we are in possession of some (limited) f
inancial resources. Mr. Clark said why not let this strong young couple do the ploughing, planting, clearing and harvesting, while we provide the seeds and equipment? The idea being that we would then share with them the vast profits generated by our farm operation. Naturally, Clark would oversee the couple—for a fee, of course. But now we find they have cheated us. When Moodie consulted Mr. Owen about “our share,” the man said the wheat harvest was poor and that he sold what there was and used the funds to repair the plough. The hay, our hay, he fed to his own cattle. We have been swindled. Mr. Clark has expressed dismay at this turn of events, but he stated quite clearly that the work was done, he had seen to that, and it was not his fault if Mr. and Mrs. Owen made off with the profits. Clark has put the couple out of the shed, but we have learned they continue to live in the area, perhaps working their charms on other unsuspecting fools.

  Moodie was in a fury. “How are we to get through the winter without hay for the livestock, without wheat to sell? How?”

  “Well,” I began, as calmly as I could, “we’ll just have to buy some more—”

  “Susanna, Susanna, Susanna. You don’t understand. We have nothing left. There is no money to buy hay or anything else. It is all gone. Spent.” And with that, he smashed his hat onto his head and left the house.

  Not only is our money gone, we are deeply in debt. Moodie has been borrowing money from Mr. Clark to buy tools, livestock, seed, even furniture—confident, I suppose, that with the first harvest, he would easily repay what he owes. And perhaps we might have, had we not been so heinously taken in.

  Of course, Mr. Clark is only too happy to extend the loan until next year. “Take as long as you like,” he told Moodie. Oh, how I imagine he would love to swoop in and repossess this farm for a second time should we default, the scheming buzzard.