by Cecily Ross
Moodie wrote that he is settling into his new position in Belleville, a community that he says has much, including a moderate climate and a strong Loyalist presence, to recommend it. He is determined to sort out the rather chaotic regimental accounts in hopes his efforts will bring him notice and a permanent position of some kind. And in typical fashion, he is touting the advantages of purchasing a two-hundred-acre farm on the shores of the Ontario, though he knows that barely a week goes by that I do not have some creditor or other demanding payment. And not a penny of his salary has materialized—delayed, Moodie says, by circumstances beyond his control.
“I am certain, my dearest,” he goes on, “the economy will soon recover and our shares in the Cobourg will finally pay off.”
I am more certain than ever that my dearest husband has lost his senses. And yet I cannot help but be optimistic. As I sit here writing, and nursing this babe, this tiny citizen of the New World, I am warmed by the conviction that all will be well.
JANUARY 19, 1839 (MELSETTER II)
So much for conviction. Two days after Christmas, my left breast began to ache, a persistent throb at first, but within hours, an obstinate and ongoing agony. Jenny tried to apply a mustard poultice, but I could not tolerate even the slightest touch. Every movement was excruciating, and nursing Johnny a torture I had no choice but to endure. I know I should not have let it continue for so long. Perhaps it was the pride I take in my strong constitution. While everyone else is brought down with an assortment of fevers and ailments and injuries, I have managed to remain strong and healthy. I thought I was somehow blessed, invincible, and that time and rest would do their work, as they always have. But this was different. For more than ten days, I suffered the most unspeakable agony, unable to move or be moved without screaming in pain. I was like a snake writhing and groaning, feverish and raving, almost wishing for easeful death to deliver me. Finally, I could bear it no longer, and uncertain I would live until morning, I sent Jenny to find Mr. Traill, who made the three-hour walk to Peterborough in the darkness and bitter cold to fetch Dr. Hutchison, the man who delivered all four of my sister’s children. It is the first time a doctor has crossed our threshold since we came to Canada.
At first, in my delirium, I mistook Hutchison for my husband. His cool hand on my forehead, his soft Scottish burr, so like Moodie’s, might as well have been the attentions of an angel. Then he instructed Jenny and Mr. Traill to restrain me, pinning me to my bed as though I were a pig about to be slaughtered. And when I beheld the thin steel blade glinting in the candlelight, I thought I was under siege by the devil himself. Without a word, he applied the knife, and with a sharp, decisive slash, like a trout breaking the surface of a lake, he lanced the flesh of my angry, swollen breast. I cried out, but in truth, I felt nothing. No pain at least, only a blessed sensation of release as the poison poured from my body. Dimly, as though from deep under water, I was aware of Mr. Traill letting go of my right arm and shoulder, and of the sound of retching as he moved away from the bed. It must have been a fearful spectacle, for Jenny told me later that more than a pint of noxious effluent drained immediately from the abscessed area.
For the first time in days, I was able to move my arm, and realizing that I would live, I was immediately overcome with gratitude to this man who had travelled through the cold, dark night to deliver me from the jaws of death.
“You are not out of danger yet, Mrs. Moodie,” the doctor said as he bandaged the affected area. “This dressing must be changed daily and compresses of hot water applied every four hours.” He looked down at the children gathered, shivering, at the foot of my bed. “How old is the infant?” he asked as Johnny’s mewling gave way to a full-blown wail and Jenny placed him at my breast.
“Three months,” I said.
“Normally, I would insist you find a wet nurse to take over the feedings,” he said, letting his gaze travel over and around the darkened interior of my home. As he looked about, even in my weakened condition I was compelled to see the place through his eyes, and I was filled with shame. The smoke-blackened walls, the rags and newspapers bunched into the gaps between the logs, the film of soot that covered everything, the hard dirt floors, the stovepipes so brittle we dare not keep a fire going at night. I was both thankful and humiliated that in the meagre light thrown by the wretched coal-oil lamp, all we had to ward off the darkness, Dr. Hutchison could not see the condition of the furniture and books, eaten by mice and mildew. Though he must have noticed the children’s scanty, torn nightclothes, their tangled hair and pale faces.
“But I can see,” he said, “that finding such a nurse out here in the bush might be . . .” And then he stopped. He slammed his medical case shut and struggled into his coat. “For the love of God, Mrs. Moodie, get out of this place.”
The following day, I had barely left my sickbed when Donald and baby Johnny came down with the scarlet fever that is sweeping through the township. Thankfully, the other children were spared, but my two youngest languished for nearly a week, both covered in an angry red rash and wracked by coughing fits and burning fever. Jenny and I did what we could to relieve their suffering, applying mustard plasters, warm baths and liberal doses of castor oil. Traill went again to fetch the doctor, but this time Hutchison refused to come because of the weather. “He said there is nothing he can do,” my brother-in-law reported. “The illness must run its course. Keep the little ones warm, and pray.”
When she heard of our illnesses, Mrs. Caddy walked here in a terrible snowstorm. She wanted to stay to nurse me and the children. I would not consent to it. But I accepted her gift of fresh beef broth gratefully. Emilia came up from Peterborough on New Year’s Day, after hearing from Dr. H how ill the children and I were. She stayed a week, and I could not have managed without her. The charity of my kind neighbours is causing me much distress. How shall I ever repay them?
There was nothing left but prayer. All day and night, I held my babies to my breast, rocking and singing and begging God not to claim their precious souls. The fever has taken the lives of children throughout the district. Mr. Traill says my sister is too ill herself to come to my aid, or I know she surely would have. He refused to enter our cabin for fear he might carry the affliction home to his own little ones.
Moodie wrote that he misses me “as the stars miss the moon.” It is the first letter I have had since Christmas. He says his appointment in Belleville is for six months only. The news has dashed my hopes for moving the children and our goods before the sleighing is over. This illness has tamped down my spirit. I do not know how I can continue here. Nevertheless, the good Lord has heard my prayers. We did not die. We are weakened in body and in spirit. But alive. And in my darkest moments, I wonder: To what end? So that a merciful God can strike us down once more? These thoughts infect my mind and poison my imagination.
Today, on my way out to the woodpile, I discovered a brace of partridge hanging from the porch rail. A gift from Mrs. Peter. Looped around the neck of the largest bird was a webbed circle made from deer hide, decorated with green and purple beads and four iridescent feathers.
“A dream catcher,” said Jenny. “Hang it above your bed and it will keep the nightmares away.”
I am touched by their kindness. A dream catcher. But in this waking nightmare, I am too tired to dream.
FEBRUARY 10, 1839
I had just sat down to give Katie and Addie their lessons when Hector began barking at two men riding into the clearing on a pair of mules. Through the window, I could see them, dressed in ragged deerskin tunics and raccoon hats. The taller one dismounted, walked to the house and began banging a belligerent tattoo on the door. Their general appearance was one of dissolution and menace. But as I observed them, I realized, to my astonishment, that the taller one was no other than the land jobber Charles Clark. I immediately sent Jenny and the children into the back bedroom and then peered out through a crack in the door. Without opening it, I demanded to know their business. Hearing my voice, the shorter
man pulled a piece of paper from his saddlebag and, dismounting, took his place beside Clark.
“Official business. From the sheriff’s office of Hamilton Township,” Clark bellowed, and began banging again with his open hand. “Open up or we’ll break it down. Mrs. Moodie, I know you’re in there. Open up.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” I called again through the rough planks. By the look of him, it seems the past few years have not been kind to our old nemesis. He was unshaven and dirty, and he did not look like official anything. I was only too aware of how vulnerable we were, two women and a cabin full of babies, our only protection an old musket and an aging dog. Nevertheless, I opened the door about a foot and positioned myself in the gap.
“My husband has gone to the post office,” I said, still not acknowledging him. “He will return this afternoon. Please save your business until then.”
Clark ignored this and gave his partner an elbow in the ribs. In a parody of civic rectitude, the short man began reading from the paper in his hand. “Aw right, then,” he said, clearing his throat. “Youse be informed that the government herein demands payment of sixty dollars immediately to one Charles Clark of Hamilton Township or face the consequences.”
This was too much. We owe money all over Douro and in Peterborough, but we long ago settled our affairs with Mr. Clark. I opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind me.
“That debt is paid,” I said. “We do not owe you a thing, Mr. Clark. In fact, if there is any kind of divine justice, it is you who are beholden to us. The good Lord knows you have already made untold profits at our expense.”
Clark placed his hands on his hips and spread his legs. His laugh oozed insolence.
“Ah, but you are mistaken, Mrs. Moodie. I have it right here. A note signed by your husband nearly four years ago. I have come to claim what is rightfully mine.” He waved a scrap of paper at me, then removed his cap and bowed ostentatiously.
“Impossible,” I said, though a needle of doubt pricked my conscience. How much do I really know of my husband’s affairs? “Now, I warn you, leave before he returns and shows you the way himself.”
Clark looked around the dismal clearing. “Them cattle,” he said, pointing at the two heifers and Daisy, our milk cow. “They yours?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I told you: we do not owe you anything.”
He stroked his matted beard and gave me a look of pure condescension. Turning, he took his partner’s shoulder and pushed him roughly in the direction of the cattle shed. “Go on, Orville, round ’em up.”
Orville ambled off and Clark faced me again. He sighed heavily and took a step closer. “Me and my partner is awful thirsty, Mrs. Moodie. We’d be most grateful for a bit of whisky and a brief rest.” He grinned and then let his eyes travel slowly down along the length of my body. I stood still, not breathing. “Mighty lonely out here for a woman, I imagine,” he said as his gaze retraced its path up again and met my eyes with unveiled contempt. I stepped back until I was up against the rough logs of the cabin. Clark moved toward me and, placing the flat of his hand on the wall beside my head, leaned his face in until I thought the stink of his breath, putrid as a rotten animal carcass, would make me faint. I tried to slide away, but with his other hand, he gripped my throat and pushed my head back cruelly. “Like I said, ma’am. Orville and I were hoping for a little hospitality after riding all this way.”
Inside the cabin, Hector raised a frantic alarm, barking and at intervals hurling himself against the closed door. But Clark ignored the noise. I silently prayed Jenny would stay inside. Then my assailant loosened his grip on my neck and let his hand slide down over my collarbone, stopping at my left breast; with a sadistic grimace, he twisted it so hard that I cried out in pain. A moment later, the door flew open and Jenny stepped out, shouldering Moodie’s musket, which she pointed directly at the intruder’s head.
“Git,” she barked. “Now. Or I’ll blow a hole right through you.” At the same time, Hector catapulted into the yard, knocking the man called Orville face-first into the snow.
Clark put his hands in the air and backed away slowly, grabbing his mule by the bridle to stop it from bolting into the woods. “Whoa, Mrs. Moodie. Like I said, I just want what’s mine.”
His partner lay on the ground, whimpering, while Hector, a snarling bundle of fur and teeth, hovered over him.
“And I told you, that debt is paid,” I repeated, indignation trumping my fear, though I knew the gun Jenny brandished was not loaded. “Now get off my property.”
“Do as you’re told,” growled Jenny, taking another step in their direction.
“Well then, I guess we’ll be off. We don’t want no trouble,” Clark said, tipping his cap in Jenny’s direction before slowly remounting his mule and addressing me. “You tell your husband he owes me and I aim to collect.” His sidekick mounted up, and without looking back, the two rode off in the direction from which they had come.
Jenny led me, shaking, back inside. The little ones gathered around me and I held them close one by one.
“Mama,” said Katie (she is seven years old and understands more than I give her credit for). “We heard you scream. We thought he kilt you. Mama?”
“No. Not this time,” I said. “It’s all right.”
Though it’s not. I dare not consider what might have happened. How can I protect my children with nothing but an empty musket and an old dog? When Moodie’s debts erupt like mushrooms in the darkness, poisonous and invisible? If my husband has kept this from me, what else?
FEBRUARY 12, 1839
I feel another toothache coming on, its faint throb a familiar echo of the exquisite agony that will surely follow.
In search of at least temporary relief, I strapped snowshoes over the moccasins I have fashioned from old cloths and went to the Traills’. The day was bright and still, with a lightness in the air, something benign—birdsong, I realized, chickadees stupid with happiness. Things seem easy between Kate and me these days. While I warmed my feet by her fire, I told her about Clark’s visit, but not wanting to burden her, I turned the incident into a light-hearted anecdote starring Jenny and the dog and a pair of bumbling rascals. We talked of everyday matters: firewood, the weather, baby teeth, roasting chicory, mending socks. She praised my skill at drawing and lamented her own clumsiness.
“If only I had applied myself more fully to Eliza’s lessons when we were little,” she said. “I try to make accurate sketches of my specimens, but I will never equal your skill.”
Yes, I thought, while I was submitting to the rigours of Eliza’s exercises, you were tramping over field and meadow with Papa. Serves you right. (How is it that reaching adulthood has so little effect on the atavism of a shared childhood? Sometimes the most striking thing about getting older is not how much we change, but how little.) I held my tongue and offered instead to make a few drawings for her.
She showed me her collection of moths, a dozen or so, labelled and neatly pinned in rows on a pine board. If the leaden presence of her husband, slumped at his post by the hearth, weighed on her in any way, she did not show it. I have learned that the key to getting along with my sister Catharine is to rake the soil lightly, to avoid the cultivation of troubling ideas, to be cheerful at all times. When we are together, I relinquish any impulse to dig deeper, to look beneath the surface. And I never complain. I think it is only by keeping her eyes relentlessly focused on the tiny things, by taking the moments of each day one by one like flower petals or moth wings, that she survives. I think her impulse to classify and label, to collect and list is a way of exerting control in a place where we have very little. And I do understand. As bewildering as I find her inability (or refusal?) to acknowledge the tragic absurdity of our situation, it is a relief sometimes to allow myself to float along encased in the shiny bubble of her optimism. But the realization that we are not, after all, two sides of the same coin, but rather different currencies altogether, saddens me and makes me feel more alone t
han ever.
She does not look well. The last baby, little Annie, is sickly and as difficult as my Addie was, and I can see by the dark circles around Kate’s eyes that exhaustion stalks her like a hungry fox. Give in to it and the black clouds of sickness will descend without mercy. We are both hanging on, but barely.
She gave me a precious vial of oil of cloves for my tooth. Then, over coffee (roasted chicory) and hard biscuits, we shared the latest news from home. The first two volumes of Agnes and Eliza’s Lives of the Queens are to be published soon. Her work on the books has catapulted Agnes, at least, into the upper reaches of high society. (Although she does at least half the writing and research, Eliza is not named as author. My retiring sister regards any kind of notoriety as vulgar.)
“Since I last wrote you, I have been down to Windsor,” Agnes wrote, “and had a long morning in the Royal Library. Yesterday, I drank tea with Lady Bedingfield . . .” And so on.
Reading these words aloud in the menial comfort of a wilderness cabin as the snow began to fall in the waning afternoon, even Kate could not help but reflect on the strange and unpredictable twists of fate that find us in this place.
Mr. Traill escorted me home, and we indulged in a lengthy lament on our situation, regretting we had ever left England, cursing the Canadian climate and expressing many more sentiments neither of us dares raise in the presence of our defiantly optimistic spouses. And yet how far away my old life seems, that “sceptred isle” obscuring into the passing years. I had not thought it possible. Before leaving to head back to Westove, Mr. Traill told me he believes that the sale of his farm, something he has been desperate to achieve for some time, may be imminent. And then what?