by Cecily Ross
And then we were gliding over the velveteen water in perfect rhythm, causing barely a ripple on the dark glass of the lake. And the faster we went, the more stable the canoe seemed. It was truly glorious. For a while, I could almost forget the heaviness, the awkwardness of my earth-bound self. For a brief time, as we slid through the water with amazing grace and in utter silence, skirting the rocky shoreline in the blue-black shadows of the mighty spruce, I became the swan I never, ever imagined I could be. We had not laughed as we did on this day for a very long time. Ever the Orkney lad, Moodie intends to erect a sail and affix a keel to our canoe. What a sight that will be. Whatever else he is, my husband, he is a boon companion, and his affection for me is as deep as the waters of Lake Katchewanooka.
No matter what chameleon tricks this, my adopted land, has in store, I will always cherish the peace and beauty I felt today. And soon enough, I know, poems will flow from my heart to my pen. When we are settled in our own little house. When this new baby is born. But not now. It is all too close and words desert me. The powerful feelings of the present are, as the great Wordsworth observed, better recollected in tranquility.
JUNE 22, 1834 (MELSETTER II, LAKE KATCHEWANOOKA)
It seems, these days, I have little but time on my hands. Mary, our new girl, is proving diligent and good-humoured, and after the morning chores are completed (eggs gathered, children fed and dressed, baking set out to cool and laundry done), the long, lovely afternoons spread out before us in unblemished, cloudless perfection. Moodie too, now that our log cabin is finished and we have moved in, has fewer chores to occupy him, the brute labour of clearing the trees and stumps being left to John Monaghan and the three hired Irish. I abandoned my objections to paying to have the work done when I saw how arduous a task confronts us here. It seems insurmountable and has altered forever my attitude toward the trees of the forest. No longer the monuments to God’s grandeur I once thought them, they now present themselves as intractable obstacles to our very survival. A single giant white pine takes three men as many days to fell, and then the stump must be extracted, a task requiring an even greater investment in blood and sweat.
Each week, the forest recedes a few yards farther, and swaths of merciless sunlight glare down on the small opening we have made here, an island in an ocean of green. The once mighty trunks of oak and maple and elm lay helter-skelter in criss-crossed confusion, waiting to be sawn into logs and stacked—and hopefully sold. Unruly piles of tangled brush litter the open ground, some burning in desultory conflagrations that thicken the still air with smoke. Armies of ragged stumps stand like twisted, blackened sentries. In the past week or so, the long, cool spring has turned dry and hot. And as I watch the men chopping and burning and excavating from dawn until darkness, I cannot help but make mental calculations as to how much longer our money can last.
The cattle and remaining livestock (we have only the few chickens and oxen we brought with us) will be driven up from Hamilton Township next week, which will add to Moodie’s responsibilities. Until then, he supervises the clearing or rides with Mr. Traill to visit my brother Sam at his thriving farm. His success is the ideal to which we all aspire. Not yet thirty, Sam and Mary are expecting their sixth child this fall.
“I take very seriously my avowed intention of bringing settlers to this vast, generous land,” my brother, the former land agent for the Canada Company, likes to boast, “even if I have to produce most of them myself.”
Sam is clearly suited to this life and takes as much joy in building fences as my own husband takes in dancing and playing the flute, or Thomas Traill in reading Voltaire. He is the beating heart of the small community we have found here. Just last week, my brother organized a barn building for Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, newly arrived from Dorsetshire. Strong as the oxen he so ably manages and a decade younger than his brothers-in-law, Sam is their colonial mentor, and I do not know how we would manage here without his common sense, good humour and encouragement.
On sleepy afternoons such as this, with the children napping and Mary putting out the wash, a complacency comes over me, and I am almost lulled into believing that generous days such as these are all that lie ahead. The simple fact of being mistress of my own house has instilled in me an attachment to this place I would not have believed possible mere weeks ago. But I’m afraid it has been months since I have written anything more than a few letters home, extolling with an enthusiasm I do not always feel “the august grandeur of the vast forest” and “the magic spell it has cast upon our spirits.” Sometimes I think it is Kate’s optimism and almost aggressive cheerfulness that has cast a “magic spell” upon my usual realism. Or maybe she is right and if I believe hard enough that all will be well, I can make it so.
In the meantime, my pen is as arid as July. Unless you count this, the meagre product of today’s indolence:
Come, launch the light canoe;
The breeze is fresh and strong;
The summer skies are blue,
And ’tis joy to float along.
Under the careful tutelage of the young squaw Ayita, I have become surprisingly adept at manoeuvring our little boat solo in the shallow waters along the shore. And now, before the babes wake up and Moodie returns, before the mosquitoes assail us on the late-afternoon breezes, I will indulge myself with a paddle in my beautiful canoe on our imperturbable Lake Katchewanooka, which truly does possess a thousand wonders in my eyes.
JULY 8, 1834
Emilia Shairp has returned. And when she entered our dark cabin this morning, she brought the light in with her. She has cut her hair short into a careless mop blown here and there as though she has been out in the wind all day without a hat. She seemed fragile (but then to me, in my advanced condition, everyone looks small). She was wearing yellow calico, a loose shift tied at the waist with a homespun apron. Her bonnet had fallen off and hung from her neck on a blue ribbon. In her arms, she carried a loaf of currant cake, still warm and wrapped in a checkered cloth. She placed the bread on the table almost shyly and clasped her hands in front of her, waiting to be acknowledged. I was washing, bent over the laundry tub, my hair pulled up in a torn cap, my sleeves rolled to my elbows. I stood and beheld her, a bar of soap in one hand, suds everywhere. Before I could speak, she came around the table to embrace me.
“You look a fright,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I should have sent word or waited for an invitation. I wanted to see you.” A certain sadness, like the pulse of a baby bird, trembled beneath her smile. She could see I felt awkward, dishevelled.
“It’s all right,” I said, drying my hands with the soaking wet apron that clung to my immense belly. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. Let me make some tea? No, of course not. It’s much too hot. Here, have a chair. Sit down, please.”
“Susanna, can we go somewhere—down to the lake, just for a moment? I know you’re busy, but . . .”
“It’s all right. It’s only laundry. It will keep.” I scooped up little Addie, a filthy bundle digging holes in the dirt floor with a tin spoon, and called to Katie. “Come, girls, we’re going fishing. Maybe we can catch a big pike for Papa’s supper.”
Emilia took Kate’s small hand in hers and we walked through the tall, wet grasses to the big fishing rock. It took me a few moments to set Katie up with her rod and bait. There, in the shade of a giant willow, I turned to Emilia Shairp sitting in the dappled sunshine with her skirt hiked above her knees.
“Now,” I said, leaning my bulk against the rough tree trunk, holding Addie on what remained of my lap, “tell me, what is it?”
“He’s back,” she said. “The good lieutenant has returned.” She pressed her lips together and said no more.
I could not read her expression, which remained neutral, though her lower lip quivered a little. And although we had never spoken of it before, I could tell by the way her eyes held mine that she knew I knew. About the drinking. Everyone did. But the community had neither applauded nor lamented Lieutenant Shairp’s abrupt d
eparture a month ago. A drunkard, they said—a handsome, charming rascal. Is one better off with or without such a husband? I do not know.
Addie, who had squirmed off my lap and the rock and was sitting waist-deep in the shallow muck, began to cry, reaching up her fat arms to be rescued. I passed her a small tree branch and her tears ceased abruptly. She began splashing and singing to herself.
“How sweet,” said Emilia. Without a word, she removed her shoes and stockings and slid into the water to sit with Addie, careless of the fact that her skirt and apron were completely drenched. “Oh my, that’s so much better. Isn’t it, baby girl?” she said, and the two of them began splashing lightly in unison.
“Is this good news or bad?” I asked as I rebaited Katie’s hook.
“I’m not sure,” Emilia said. “At first, I was overjoyed. All the ugly scenes forgotten. He simply rode up to the house two days ago and swept me into his arms like a returning hero. Irresistible. Now?” She shook her head. “I resent it, I guess: that all the choices are his to make. I love him. Or at least the idea of him. But it is difficult sometimes.”
I was silent. Emilia stood and began wringing out her skirt. Wet curls clung to her forehead. She sighed. “Of course, he has promised to stop.” She met my eyes. “You know. The bottle. And so. Good news or bad?” She shrugged and, reaching up, stripped a handful of leaves from a willow branch hanging about her head, crushing them in her fist and dropping them lightly into the water.
“Mama, Mama, a fish. Mama. Look.”
We turned our attention briefly to Katie and her predacity. But her line was merely caught on a dead head. Bored, she went ashore to pick flowers. Addie, tired of playing in the mud, allowed Emilia to pull her out of the water. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and curled up in my friend’s lap.
“Everyone knows,” Emilia said, stroking the baby’s forehead as she drifted into sleep. “About his drinking, I mean—though they dare not speak of it to me. As though it is my shame that my husband loves the bottle more than good sense.” She looked at me with bright, weary eyes. “I am tired of the awkward silences wherever I go. ‘Poor Emilia Shairp.’ I am tired of pretending everything’s all right. When it’s not.”
I was touched by her candour. “Are you safe with him?” I asked.
She nodded. “He is quick to anger when the whisky takes over, but he has never harmed me. I don’t think he would. I am not afraid of him. It’s his unhappiness I can’t bear. But no matter what I say, it’s the wrong thing. I must learn to hold my tongue. It is a curse sometimes being a spirited woman in a world that values daintiness and submission in the fairer sex.” She laughed as she said this, reaching over to place a hand on my belly. “Enough about me. How soon?” she asked.
I groaned and shifted uncomfortably. “Not soon enough. Six weeks at least.”
“You must be excited?” It came out as a question, and rather than answer, I rolled my eyes. We both laughed.
I took up Katie’s fishing rod and cast the line into the smooth water. There was little chance of catching anything in this heat, but a fresh fish for supper might assuage some of the guilt I was feeling for taking the afternoon off.
“You know,” I said, “I have never told anyone.” I hesitated. “Well, other than Catharine. But at times, I feel such rage.” I swallowed, surprised at the hot tears in my eyes. “Such . . . rage. Moodie is a good man, but he has no head for business and I fear his endless schemes will soon ruin us. But there is nothing. You know? There is nothing I can do. I love him. But sometimes . . .”
“And what does your sister say?” Emilia asked.
“She says I must pray for patience. That God will guide Moodie. That he is my husband and he will do the right thing.” Katie returned with a handful of limp buttercups, her face red and happy. I sat her between my legs and placed the fishing rod in her hands again. “But I don’t believe he will. I know he hasn’t in the past. And now”—I spread my arms—“his schemes have brought us here. To this. And like you, what can I do about it?”
“Mama!” Katie shrieked, and sure enough, a lazy pike sleeping away the hot afternoon in the cool mud close to shore had taken the bait. And with much ado, we pulled it in and dispatched the slippery creature with a rock. Mary would take care of the rest. Walking back to the cabin, our long shadows stretched up the slope ahead of us like advance guards. Emilia carried the still-sleeping Addie and we held Katie’s hands, swinging her between us. My friend broke the silence.
“Your sister is a saint, Susanna, but I could never talk to her the way I am talking to you. Sometimes saintliness is not enough. Sometimes you have to fight back. Just a little. The trick is knowing when and how much.”
I understood exactly what Emilia meant, and I felt a reassuring solidarity with her that made the weight of all this a little easier to bear. If only I possessed the wisdom to know how much to accept without giving in and what to rebel against if we are to survive.
Poor Addie. Diarrhea again. She seems oblivious, but I am beginning to worry. It started this morning—the result, no doubt, of all the lake water she ingested on our fishing expedition. I pray the well is not contaminated. If she doesn’t improve in a day or two, I’ll see what Kate has in her medicine chest. Moodie too is complaining of cramps and light-headedness. I hope it is only the heat.
JULY 10, 1834
I have sent some of my old poems to Mr. Chatterton at the Cobourg Star and others to The Albion in New York in hopes that seeing my work in print again may spur me on to greater literary endeavours. My motivation comes not from a sudden burst of inspiration, but from garden-variety sibling rivalry. While I have been languishing in my prenatal torpor, and penning this self-regarding diary with its useless reflections on my lugubrious moods and endless complaints, the ever-industrious Catharine has been keeping detailed journals of her Canadian experiences, as well as her extensive botanical observations and the medicinal plant lore she has gleaned from her Indian friends. Using these and drafts of her many letters home, she has cobbled together a text she calls Letters from the Wife of an Emigrant Officer. I have not read any of this masterpiece of domesticity; indeed, I had no idea my sister was even working on it until yesterday, when she burst into my kitchen, the pages of a letter fluttering in her outstretched hand like butterflies in a windstorm.
“Susanna, oh Susanna, I have the most wonderful news.” She stopped and executed a clumsy pirouette, banging into the sacks of flour hanging from the rafters, causing them to envelop her in a sifting of fine powder. Fairy dust for a domestic goddess, I suppose.
“I am to be published. Look. Yes, a book. Published. Truly.”
She was so out of breath that rather than go on, she handed me the letter. It was from Agnes, and as I took in its contents, I felt as though I had been stabbed. Yes, Agnes has taken Kate’s letters and housewifely musings and shown them to one Charles Knight, publisher for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (surely not!), and he, apparently desperate for new material to include in a series called “The Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” has offered my sister £110 for a completed manuscript, which he plans to issue as a book-length manual for prospective pioneer women.
How base and selfish I am. Instead of revelling in Kate’s surely well-deserved good fortune, here I am nursing my resentment like a sore limb. The worst of it is, it’s not so much Kate’s success that I mind (though I do, I do); what really burns is the fact that Agnes and Eliza have taken on the not insignificant task of deciphering Kate’s often-illegible script and organizing her tempest of notes and letters into some kind of coherent whole. I know only too well they would never extend the same support to me.
And so these meagre poems for now. God knows I am collecting enough stories about roughing it in the bush to yield a dozen manuscripts. I must continue with my notes and this journal too. If my sister can manage it, so must I. After expressing cursory congratulations at her news, I told her of Emilia’s visit and our fishing expedition, how muc
h the girls love her, how close we have become and so on. Kate took it all in without comment. I was trying to make her jealous. Now I’m sorry if I hurt her, but there is a smugness in her manner that irritates me profoundly.
I admit I am frightened by the powerful effect that Kate’s news has had on me. Why do I feel so threatened? Her success does not come at my expense, I know that, and yet in my battle to become a writer, she has emerged as the enemy. I will not be eclipsed by what I know to be an inferior talent. There, I have said it. I will show them all.
I was so distracted by all of this that, of course, I forgot to ask Kate’s advice about Addie’s ailment. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t bear the thought of going to her for help, so when Moodie returned (he is feeling better today), Emilia, who was visiting, and I tramped down to the cedar swamp to find Mrs. Peter. It was nearly nine o’clock when we set out, but a saucer of moonlight painted the evening sky as bright as day, and faint stars winked above us as we ran together down the shadowy slope, whispering and laughing as we went, along the path by the dark, shimmering lake as free and easy as children. And for a few glorious moments, all my worries fled and I was filled with great joy simply to be alive. Mrs. Peter invited us into her wigwam and spread out a buffalo skin for us to sit on. Outside, a group of little boys dressed in red shirts and nothing else played with a small puppy on the trampled earth. There were no men in sight, and Ayita explained in broken English that they were away in the forest, hunting deer. All at once, Mrs. Peter put a finger to her lips to quiet us, and cupping her ear with one hand, she whispered, “Whist, whist.” We stopped and listened, but there was no sound except the little boys scuffling in the dirt.