by Cecily Ross
“A deer,” said Ayita. “Listen.” Apparently, the old squaw had heard twigs cracking in the distance as the animal wandered through the forest. All at once, she whistled to an old hound and, grabbing her rifle, ran off into the bush. A few moments later, we heard a shot, and Ayita left to help her mother haul home her prize. We waited perhaps twenty minutes until the pair returned, dragging a mortally wounded doe, which the other women immediately set upon, brandishing knives, while the children used sticks to keep the dogs away.
Before we left, I addressed myself to the smiling squaw. My attempt to describe diarrhea using sign language and sound effects defies description here, but when Mrs. Peter finally understood what I wanted, our mutual amusement needed no translation. She sent us home with a small packet of herbs that I think come from a plant known as jack-in-the-pulpit. After two doses of the bitter tea, Addie is already improving.
As much as I find the Indians here an unkempt, uncivilized lot, their natural talents—an uncompromising honesty and senses as acute as the animals they hunt—continue to command my utmost wonder and respect.
JULY 13, 1834
My sister and I have quarrelled. Silly, really. Ostensibly about a bake kettle they borrowed from us a month ago. Mr. Traill returned it yesterday. After he left, Moodie turned the pot over and saw that the cast iron was split across the bottom as though it had been left on the fire too long.
“Damn that man,” he said. “Look at this. It will mean a special trip to Peterborough, if it can even be fixed. As if I didn’t have enough to do. I have a mind to take it back to them. Let Traill deal with it.”
Not wanting a confrontation, I urged him to let it go for now, saying I would speak to Kate myself. And so this afternoon, I walked to Westove, leaving the little girls with Mary, and with Moodie, who had come in from the fields early. The heat was formidable, exhausting. Even Hector declined to accompany me. Nevertheless, Kate was in her garden, thinning carrots with a kitchen fork.
“How can you work when it’s like this?” I said, fanning myself with a handful of leaves.
She straightened and regarded me for a moment, then offered me a ladle of water from the bucket by her side.
“What about you, walking all this way in your condition?”
It was true. I sat heavily on a stump and drank.
“I’ve come about the bake kettle.”
“What about it?”
“It’s cracked.”
“I know. We couldn’t use it.”
“What?”
“It leaked. So we returned it to you. Without using it.”
There was something about her attitude, an evasiveness, an impatience that I had not seen before.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“I’m telling you, Susanna, that kettle was cracked when it came here.”
Something flared, and I shouldn’t have, but I brought the subject around to the thing that had been simmering inside me for days.
“You know, Kate, just because Agnes is writing a book for you doesn’t make you better than everyone else.”
“I beg your pardon.” She pointed the fork at me. Her hand was shaking. “I know what this is, Susanna. You’re jealous and you’re behaving like a petulant child. If you would cease your continual whining and complaining, and spend less time gossiping with Emilia and more time working, you might accomplish something other than producing a new baby every year or so.”
I was aghast. Kate accusing me of being jealous? Though I am, of course. It’s true. I immediately felt ashamed that it had come to this.
Just then, the door to their cabin opened and Traill emerged. He walked stiffly, like an old man. I could see the coming of winter in his face. He came over to Kate and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. To my astonishment, she began to weep.
“That’s enough, Susanna. I think you should go now.”
I ignored him. “Katie, what’s the matter?”
But she only shook her head and buried her face in his chest.
“Please go,” said Traill. “If you insist, I will have the kettle repaired, but your sister is right: it was already broken.”
There was nothing for me to do but leave. All this over a pot? Something is dreadfully wrong.
Moodie went to bed early without any supper, complaining of a headache and chills.
JULY 17, 1834
My husband has not left our cabin since the ague struck him like a battering ram three days ago. How well I remember poor Tom Wales’s suffering, and to see Moodie, who has not been sick a day in all the time I have known him, ailing this way fills me with dread. He is alternately delirious with fever, sweat pouring off him in rivulets, and then overcome with shaking so violent that his teeth chatter until I fear they will break. At times, he does not know me. Small sips of water are all he will take when these fits abate and allow him brief periods of sleep.
How long he will be laid up I cannot tell. One of the Irish labourers, a young lad named Paddy, told me this morning, when I took the men water on their break, that during the summer of 1832, while he was employed building locks on the Rideau, operations ceased during the entire month of July, so many men were afflicted. He said the fever is caused by the “bad air” in and around areas of swampland. And indeed, I have often noticed a noxious odour rising when the muck is disturbed in the marshy regions adjacent to our land. Paddy said he had seen many a good man die from the ague, and he prayed such a fate would not befall Mr. Moodie.
“Sure and he’s a gentleman and yet can do the work o’ two,” he said. “We’ll not be getting near as much done, ’thout his help.” And with that, he shouldered his axe and went back to work.
I cannot help but notice that their progress has slowed considerably since Moodie became ill. John Monaghan has taken charge, but the other men do not pay him the same heed as their master. I pray that Moodie recovers, and soon, or I’m afraid we will never realize our goal of clearing ten acres before winter. And the construction on the barn is halted, as well as a shelter for the oxen and chickens. There are fences to be built, cows to be milked, pigs to be butchered. Yesterday, I endeavoured to help John Monaghan with tethering the cattle that had arrived that morning from Hamilton Township, but my fear of the beasts was so great, I could not bring myself to approach them. Our beleaguered servant finally ordered me back to the cabin lest they sense my terror and trample me for sport.
Little more than a month until my time. Please, God, spare my dear husband. I beg you.
JULY 19, 1834
The fever has passed and Moodie felt well enough this morning to set out for Toronto. He has asked Mr. Traill to accompany him—an olive branch, I suppose, after the contretemps over the bake kettle, which Moodie has apparently forgotten, though nothing has been settled. Both men appeared pale but happy as they rode off. Moodie’s mission has something to do with securing official title to our increasingly vast land holdings. I think my brother-in-law went along more for a change of scenery than any official business. Rather than increase his acreage, Mr. Traill is talking of selling his farm altogether and finding some kind of civil sinecure, perhaps in Toronto or Cobourg, a life more suited to his aesthetic temperament.
While my sister Kate goes about merrily finding heaven in every wildflower and joy in all manner of adversity, her dour husband makes no secret of his hatred of this place and his regret at ever leaving England. The daily toil is anathema to him, and after long days spent clearing brush, he is too tired to read, the only occupation that he truly enjoys. He complains constantly now and makes no secret of the fact that their funds (like our own) will soon be depleted. In his opinion, the land here is unsuitable for growing much more than hard wheat and a few potatoes. What Kate makes of such negativity, I can’t imagine. Moodie, who of course is gripped by a completely different outlook, can barely tolerate his brother-in-law’s company, so I was surprised when he informed me of Traill’s intention to accompany him to Toronto. I stood in the doorway and watche
d as he saddled Ebony. Hector whined persistently from inside the shed, where I had locked him so he couldn’t follow his master. The breeze was rising and the gelding, eager to be off, pawed the dry ground with a forefoot. Moodie had donned his best boots and waistcoat for the journey.
“Thank you, Moodie,” I said.
He placed a foot in the stirrup and in one smooth movement was astride the horse. Despite his recent illness, or perhaps because of it, he looked almost boyish, eager for adventure as always. A quizzical look came over his features.
“For what?” he asked.
“For taking Traill with you. Things have been so tense between us.”
“Well. Perhaps the diversion will dilute the bile that seems to be his main source of sustenance,” Moodie said. “But I swear, if he begins again with his infernal, incessant whining about the drought and the drop in wheat prices and, oh, I don’t know”—here, he slapped his own thigh, causing Ebony to skitter sideways and execute a polite little buck of impatience—“I swear I shall spook his horse and leave him by the side of the road.” Then he smiled and tipped his hat, and the sight of him like that, my good-hearted Moodie, made me thankful for his ebullience in the face of all that confronts us. How my sister can bear the sucking sound of energy leaving the very room her husband enters is beyond me.
Kate and I hardly speak, but when we do, it is as though her tears the other day never happened. I cannot forget the things she said, however. In anger, yes, but still . . . In what I hope is a gesture of reconciliation, she has invited me and some of the local ladies to Westove for tea this afternoon. Emilia and I will walk over together with the children. Her reconciliation with Lieutenant Shairp seems to be complete, and to my great happiness, she says they intend to reside permanently at their log cabin. She tells me her husband is like a new man since his return. I hope so.
Kate has also invited our sister-in-law, Mary Reid, and another neighbour, Mary Hague, whom I have not met. She is the daughter of a former neighbour of ours in Hamilton Township, now a lumber baron in Peterborough. Mary and her husband, James, live four miles south on the Otonabee River in considerable comfort. And of course, Mrs. Hannah Caddy, wife of Colonel John Caddy, will be there. Mrs. Caddy is a decade older than my sister and I, and frankly, I would never seek out her company on my own, as I consider her a common old fusspot who talks incessantly without saying much of anything. But then, Kate’s standards have always been far more catholic than my own. I wish I didn’t have to attend. I welcome the social contact, I suppose, but I dread the prospect of having to endure the mindless domestic patter of other women, as though jam-making and straight seams will save the world. And then there is the awkwardness between my sister and me.
In the beginning, it was all harmony and happy talk. Kate had gone to considerable trouble (and expense), laying out her best china (oh, my lost Coalport!) and an impressive array of cakes and nutmeats, dried fruit and preserves. She even unearthed from her dwindling store of treasures brought over from England a few hard candies for the children. It was Addie’s first experience of the sweet bite of peppermint, and she howled in shock and then nearly choked on the offending candy, which I quickly replaced with one of the plain biscuits I had brought with me. I was soon relieved of the little harridan’s incessant demands by Mrs. Caddy’s eldest daughter, a sturdy girl of about twelve, who took the younger children—my two and little James, as well as two of her own siblings—out to play a rudimentary game of Scotch hobby in the dust. Mrs. Caddy’s two older boys shinnied up and down the limbed trunk of a giant spruce. The possibility that they might fall and injure or kill themselves did not seem to cross her mind, as the mother of five (who appears to be expecting another, though it is difficult to tell as she is naturally stout) ignored her offspring other than to bark the occasional order, preferring instead to regale us with detailed accounts of how to remove the grit from bread flour before baking and the best uses of whey. While Mrs. Caddy held forth, we worked on the sewing each of us had brought—“idle hands,” as they say—in my case, a new pair of sorely needed trousers for my husband. Emilia, who says she is hopeless with a needle, helped Kate set the table for our tea, then produced a book of sonnets, which she read aloud while we worked. For once, the heat had lifted; the day was cool and verdant under low clouds imminent with rain that didn’t come. And for a short while, I felt safe and enclosed in the small, pleasing room.
When Mary Hague arrived, the mood changed from one of cosy diligence to alert attendance. Of French–Irish heritage, Mrs. Hague has an inherent dignity and warmth not eroded by the decade she has already lived in these woods, or by her unfortunate inability to have children of her own, which may account for her obvious delight in the sound of ours, who could be heard right then chanting rhymes in unison outside the open door. Emilia suspended her reading, and we all admired a basket Kate had assembled, a rainbow of dyed rushes decorated with quills and filled with an array of botanical specimens—tiny animal skulls, bear claws, eagle feathers, arrowheads and fossilized rocks. The children pounced delightedly on this amazing display while my sister outlined the provenance of each one.
Not to be outdone, Mrs. Caddy resumed her litany of domestic trivia. Kate was very attentive to all that the older woman had to say, even stopping to take notes at times. Material for another book, I’m sure. She also offered some of her own domestic truisms as well as an amusing anecdote about discovering a patch of wild garlic at the edge of her clearing after the milk from her cows became unpalatable. To all appearances, she was in her element: my sister, surrounded by others, busy as a bee, jumping up to pour more tea or slice the cake, the perfect hostess. And yet there was something brittle about her good cheer, a whiff of despondence beneath the bustle. Kate paid particular attention to Emilia’s comfort, insisting she sit by the open window, where it was cooler, even bending down to whisper some secret thing in her ear, which made them both laugh. All this for my benefit, I am certain. Mrs. Caddy rattled on, now in a distinctly confidential tone.
“Why, the colonel says the roads are nearly impassable from Gores Landing to Cobourg. They’ve had rain on the south shore of Rice Lake and it’s washed away the bridge over Gage’s Creek. His horses almost foundered trying to cross last week. I do wish they’d send some of that rain our way, though. The fallow here is like tinder—one spark and whoosh. Our corn is barely knee-high and it’s already the middle of July, and the wheat . . . well, the colonel says there’ll be none to sell this year . . .”
She put down the cotton dress she was piecing together and began fanning herself ostentatiously, taking two deep breaths before beginning again. “They’re saying, you know, that we can expect dire shortages this fall and winter. Tea, rice, sugar. So I hope you ladies are stocking up. It’s because of the tariffs, the colonel says, though I’m sure I have no idea what that means. I only know I do cherish my cup of tea.”
“Now, Mrs. Caddy,” said Kate, passing around a plate of walnuts and dried apples, “let’s not borrow trouble. I’m sure the good merchants of London and Toronto would do anything rather than deprive gentlewomen such as ourselves of the sustaining pleasure of a cup of tea just for the sake of a few tariffs.”
Emilia and I exchanged glances. I rolled my eyes, then went back to my work.
Mrs. Caddy continued. “And did you know that new reports show that immigration has nearly dropped off completely? The rush of the past two years seems to be over, and Cobourg has become a ghost town. They say it’s the fear of cholera here, and the rumour that there’s free land for the taking in America. Everybody’s going to Texas now, that’s what the colonel says. I think the word is getting out that the joys of pioneer life have been somewhat exaggerated.”
We all laughed at this observation, but in some ways, it sounded like the laughter of the doomed. Who now, I wondered silently, will buy the uncleared land that is our investment in the future? Who will seek passage on the mighty Cobourg? The room was silent for a while until Kate, sitting by Emilia
, turned to the younger woman and cheerfully asked her if she had any idea how the Lloyds were getting on.
“Your husband and Mr. Lloyd are good friends, I know. They say Captain Lloyd has been away on business. I imagine it must be lonely for his wife. Have you had any news?”
Sometimes I think my sister has potatoes for brains. Either that or she was deliberately provoking Emilia. Captain Lloyd and his wife, Louisa, and their six (or is it seven?) children live over in Dummer Township. It is a well-known fact that the captain, though outwardly respectable, is an abusive drunkard who mistreats his servants and neglects his family. Kate was present last month at the logging bee Sam organized to help us with our clearing. She witnessed the captain in full bore as he whipped his oxen viciously and would have turned the leather upon his manservant had not my brother intervened. Surely Kate is aware that before Lieutenant Shairp’s rehabilitation, he and Captain Lloyd were frequently seen drinking together. And though none of us (except my credulous—or cruel?—sister) would ever speak of it in Emilia’s presence, Captain Lloyd is widely thought to be the cause of the younger man’s bad behaviour (now thankfully at an end, I assume).
Emilia blushed and frowned. Why would Kate, her friend, bring this up now, and in company? She shook her head and gave me a beseeching look. Kate continued to stare at her in innocent expectation. If I had been sitting next to my sister, I would have given her a sharp kick in the shins. Instead, I was trying frantically to think of a way to change the subject when the ever-well-informed Hannah Caddy delivered Emilia from the necessity of responding to my sister’s cross-examination.
“No one knows, Mrs. Traill, if or when Mr. Lloyd will return from his ‘business’ trip,” she said, laying her sewing on her lap. “The colonel told me just yesterday that he has it on good authority the rogue has gone to the United States, abandoning his wife and children. And that is all we know.”