by James Spurr
James began down the companionway hatch first and Oliver was surprised it was not William. Trove was next to leave the deck and as Oliver peered more intently, he felt William looking first in the hold, and then at him. Oliver returned William’s gaze and was puzzled and confused at the expression on his friend’s face. He looked into the hold once again. William glanced away, and when his eyes returned to Oliver they held only profound regret.
Oliver walked to the companionway, descended the stairs and proceeded forward through the hold with slow, deliberate steps, his boots upon wide plank pine amplified by the near empty hold and vacant bilge. Within a few steps, Oliver was under the hatch.
William stood motionless on deck in the fading light, observing from above, waiting for that which he dreaded, like the inevitable result of an error too late to retract.
Oliver took one knee, motioned for Trove and James to haul back and up on the gaff, and inspected not so much the damage, which by now was irrelevant, but rather what the damage revealed.
Oliver knew well enough a false bulkhead. The hidden space was not very large, perhaps just a few inches, but given the lines of the hull just forward of the midsection, the volume was considerable for whatever objects could be stowed in such manner as would not require much bulk. In this instance it appeared to serve nicely for a stand of muskets, stowed atop numerous small bags of black powder resting upon lead for shot and what Oliver guessed to be near 30 six pound round shot. Oliver’s face was grim; not so much angry as deeply hurt. His breathing was shallow, his face pale and his stomach turned. He felt foolish, betrayed and physically wounded. He turned away, noted neither of the boys met his eye, and he proceeded aft, his boots more shuffling silently than pounding proudly.
William met him as he rose up from the companionway. “My dear friend…,” he began, but Oliver waved him away. Not with a gesture suggesting threat or aggression, but with a despair indicating an irrelevance, as though nothing could possibly matter any longer. William followed for a step or two, reached out and touched his coat sleeve, but Oliver proceeded, either unaware of it or refusing to acknowledge. William made to explain, but could only utter a plea, “Please, Oliver, let me—”
Oliver grasped the backstay, to starboard, swung his leg over the rail and stepped heavily from the channel to the ship’s boat. Without bothering with the oars, painter in hand, he shoved from the deadeyes and was in just seconds secure to and upon the dock.
Without looking back at his sloop or his friend—brother-in-law and trusted Captain, Oliver shuffled to the shore, leaving behind three persons who cared for him deeply, sick at the thought of having hurt him grievously.
Chapter 8
Mary and Bemose were growing concerned. Dinner was prepared and their men expected well more than an hour before. Mary realized that she had heard nothing from them since they departed, in the finest of spirits, early that morning. Not knowing whether Friends Good Will had made Eckert’s yard or had encountered some difficulty, Mary donned her coat and hat and Bemose her heavier blanket and they set out across the village.
They had spent the day also preparing for winter. Not so much their homes, as Mary had already pulled the remnants of the garden, pruned the few vines and fruit trees, and put up much of the season’s yield in the cellar, but outside the walls of the village. There they helped those natives who had determined to winter at Detroit and recently arrived settlers who determined to make Detroit their home.
It was apparent to Mary that Detroit had outgrown its walled stockade. Although still lending some sense of security, if needed, in times of defense, the walls were viewed by her as an impediment. The walls frustrated convenient travel throughout what was obviously a growing community. Socially, they symbolized hierarchy, separating those with more seniority, implying a higher status and importance, from those more recently arrived without the means to purchase or occupy what few lots or homes were vacant inside the walls.
Mary attempted on several occasions to persuade the Village Council to plan and provide for those residents of Detroit outside the walls. She lobbied informally at social gatherings and implored Oliver do likewise at official meetings. She was met with only limited success. It was complicated by diversity among them in race, citizenship, language and culture. At times, she was convinced, the village leaders seemed to care little for growth and would take no measures to encourage or provide for such if those outside the walls depicted accurately what that future would hold.
Whereas Mary hated those walls, Bemose merely resented them as a highly visible sign of the inherent differences between those races representing the past and those claiming their collective future. Each woman harbored these feelings despite the undisputed, historic, common sense rationale for the walls’ continued existence. They were all living within just one lifetime of those walls having been essential in staving off a prolonged siege during Pontiac’s rebellion. Detroit had been one of his few targets Pontiac had been unable to destroy.
As they approached the southwest gate, Mary looked over to some logs lying ready to erect as replacements along the walls, stripped of bark and hewn to a point. She lamented, “The time and material invested in maintaining these walls are simply wasteful. Surely we have grown beyond a mindset of hunkering within a compound through the winter months. Whoever are we hiding from who would choose not to proceed against us were we to treat him kindly?”
Bemose smiled, “You have never been regarded as timid!”
“Why, think of how many proper houses could be built for the same effort! I have come to believe the frontier holds no placed for those who search for security in weapons and walls,” Mary pronounced. “Granted, our history includes plenty of both. Where has that led us?”
Bemose grew more serious. “I have always believed the frontier is particularly unsuited to those who feel a need to exclude and divide among those who look only to contribute. These walls divide and offend far more than protect.” She shook her head as she looked at the walls and Mary knew they were but a symbol of the treatment she had endured since a child, viewed as a native among increasing numbers of Europeans.
Mary nodded and offered, “You have suffered those slights and it has made you strong. You have taken your strength and intelligence and earned respect among both cultures.”
Bemose considered. “Perhaps, to some extent, and thank you. I must admit I consider my heritage as affording me, in many ways, more freedom than others of pure race will ever enjoy.”
Mary smiled. The walls were for the fearful, searching for security and the narrow minded, who in their attempts to divide, instead achieved only self-imposed confinement. Mary and Bemose were both unburdened and priviledged to require neither.
Still, Mary and Bemose spent a productive day, helping the influx of those coming from the wilderness prepare for winter. The newcomers had to first lay out the locations for their winter dwellings, whether tent, wigwam, cabin or hovel. Some arrived with means and had questions more appropriate for the land office. Many others had basic necessities but needed knowledge of the system the outside occupants had worked out for themselves for dwelling upon land few of them owned. Certainly such concepts were foreign and sometimes offensive to the natives and such decisions were made only after discussions requiring diplomacy, patience and tolerance. Other residents within the walls noted the efforts Mary and Bemose expended throughout the summer and joined during these urgent days and weeks, not all of them women. Both Mary and Bemose were pleased that all appeared to be conducting themselves peacefully and a single glance confirmed that it was indeed possible for people of deep diversity to live in close proximity. As they walked from one side of the Village to the southeast gate, they shared their impressions of the day.
“Mary, did you see the stock of tools Mr. Kreuger had available for sale in his wagon?”
“He only let me glance at them and seemed not to as yet want to display them to all. Do you think he is fearful of theft?”
; “I suspect he is more fearful of being asked to loan them to his neighbors,” Bemose mused. “The Kickapoo might simply demand them. The Wyandot will not react well were their rivals to acquire such wealth and status. Besides, the Wyandot have been most respectful of the notion of personal property. The Kickapoo have no such concept. Imagine, though, for a moment, what so many could have accomplished this day or could finish this week with those tools.”
Yes, Mary thought, and acknowledged, “Of course those are his prized inventory. Having brought them from Germany, a great weight and, I am sure, as much inconvenience, I suspect his hope is to sell them so to provide him the currency to get through the winter. There were far more tools than food in that wagon.”
Bemose nodded in agreement. Mary’s observation made perfect sense and was a common strategy for a new settler: command a valuable resource and leverage its scarcity so to earn all else one would need to survive. Of course, that only worked where a community was sufficiently growing and in need of differing skills so to enable many to focus upon their talents and strengths. It was a measure of economic diversity and interdependence of which Oliver often spoke and which Bemose knew he valued as much as she did diversity of races and cultures. She noted to herself that she would have to share that thought with Oliver when next they held one of their many fascinating discussions. Detroit was showing increasing signs of having achieved that critical mass necessary for it to now grow quickly.
Bemose offered, “Perhaps Oliver could purchase Mr. Krueger’s entire inventory.”
Mary turned, looked at her and smiled at the prospect. “That is a very good idea.”
Bemose continued, “It would instantly provide Kreuger the coins with which to obtain all else he needs, rather than trading the tools slowly over the course of months.”
Mary finished the equation, “Oliver often brings tools from the east, but with the expense of transport. Perhaps he could then loan them to some of the less prepared for winter, while holding them in his inventory at the store.”
“Shall we speak with him?” Mary knew Bemose was asking if Mary would approach the subject and make the appeal.
“I will, perhaps this evening. It would be such an act of Christian charity. Perhaps I will ask Father DePuis to join me in the request.” Mary smiled at the thought, confident if handled correctly, with St. Anne’s pastor joining her combined with Oliver’s generosity and, what she had for years witnessed, his inherent goodness and love for her, the proposition was all but certain.
Bemose smiled softly as well, but for another reason entirely. Mary asked what she was thinking. She grinned more broadly and confessed, “Father DePuis sounds so formal to me. I still think of him as ‘Little Jacque’. He recognized me this afternoon. I think it was quite a shock!”
They both laughed, then Mary suddenly took her arm as they passed through the gate. “Oh, look,” she exclaimed in relief. “Friends Good Will is at Eckert’s dock!”
Bemose observed, “Well, it looks as though they were as busy as we were. The ship looks so much smaller with her sticks lowered.”
Mary smiled at her use of terms, knowing her brother would cringe had he heard. Then she added, “I see little activity. They had better not have gone to the Pontiac House!”
Bemose noted that Mary was far more concerned for the activities and whereabouts of her husband than was she with William; an obvious cultural difference, one that she was certain William favored immensely. She looked more closely at William’s command, then offered, “Mary, look, James has just come up from a hatch. They are on board.”
Returning to their previous topic as they continued their way toward the ship, Mary asked, “So how did our young pastor react? You did not address him as ‘Little Jacque’, did you?”
Bemose smiled, “No, not yet! I will save that for a special moment. Of course, it has been many years since he had worked with my father at the Sault. He felt embarrassed, I think, that he had not made the connection until now, given our work together this past summer.”
“Perhaps he was embarrassed for what you signify to the Church and with respect to his mentor.” Mary and Bemose had grown very close over the summer and such candor was common.
Bemose shrugged, “His Church and mentor; my father.” She did not care. She did not trumpet the fact, and made little or no use of it. William knew, of course. Oliver, to her knowledge, did not. Often it helped in situations, just as often as it hurt and complicated her life. She had years before come to peace with the reality, largely through the Christian teachings of her father. Men were not perfect. Her father was a man. He was also a priest.
Father Armand LaPorte was ordained a Jesuit in 1783. After serving three years in France, teaching Catholic philosophy at a University near Brest, his restlessness was noticed and he was sent to Quebec, fortunately before the terror of the French Revolution had spread to destroy his family’s estate outside Paris and execute nearly all his relations. His sense of adventure soon led to his missionary work deep in the Northwest Territory, spreading the Gospel to native tribes and supporting frontier settlements, as had his Order for more than 100 years. He circled ‘Lac Superior’, founded a mission on the western outlet of Lake Nippissing, and grew very familiar with those tribes found to inhabit the rivers Thessalon, Mississaki and Mattawa.
Bemose explained to Mary, “I had not seen ‘Little Jacque’ since I was a very young girl. He was taking Latin lessons from my father. I teased him for his errors in translation. I was much younger but he took my teasing with fine humor. He had always told my father he wanted to become a priest. I have not seen him since my father’s death. Just imagine him making his way to France and then returning to the Northwest!”
Mary stated what she thought was obvious, but the compliment still touched Bemose, “Father DePuis was obviously deeply inspired by your father.”
They reached the dock and called their greetings as they strode down the planks. James was now on the dock, Trove in the Ship’s boat and William in the waist closing the companionway hatch. Their returns sounded a bit subdued and Mary noticed, with the companionway hatch closing, Oliver was missing.
“William,” Mary called, “where is that husband of mine?”
Mary found Oliver near an hour later. She left Eckert’s yard alone and checked the Pontiac House. Samuel confirmed that Oliver stopped briefly but left some time before. Samuel sounded as though he noticed something was troubling Oliver. She proceeded to the house, where the servant told her that Oliver had stopped home briefly, but finding her gone, announced soon after that he was going for a walk. Mary guessed he may be at the commercial dock, outside the southeast gate.
Oliver was sitting on a piling, staring at the stars and the river. While the temperature was falling steadily, it felt curiously warmer as the wind had diminished to near calm. He heard footsteps coming up behind him, but Oliver did not turn. He knew her walk. It was Mary.
She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, bending down slightly to couch her head near his neck. “Oliver, I am so sorry,” she whispered. The comment among other married couples could have been at best ambiguous and often interpreted wrongly. Not so with Oliver and Mary. He knew what she meant. She had nothing to apologize for and had done him no injustice. She was sorry with him and for him. He trusted her implicitly and determined at that moment she was one of the few he knew to be deserving of that status.
“I just never would have thought…,” he began but let his thought trail off so as not to hurt her. William was her brother and Oliver knew Mary adored him. He would, even now, seek to spare her what distress was inevitable from being caught in the middle. Still, she was his wife and he had been wronged. Oliver suspected that Mary might share William’s politics, but in this instance, he doubted she would endorse his methods.
She seemed about to speak, perhaps in confirmation of what he had just been thinking, but Oliver suddenly blurted, “And James, why… how could he…?” He shook his head in near disbel
ief. Finally, “Perhaps I could sell her, if not to William, than a group of merchants,” but then he shrugged, knowing that neither scenario was particularly likely at the beginning of the off season and with six months of inactivity looming.
It was a telling moment revealing Oliver for who he truly was. Most men, far the lesser, would have fired their Captain, if not instantly than near immediately, brother-in-law or no. Oliver, not wanting to play out that scene, given his affection for William and love for Mary, simply desired to be done with the entire experience.
Oliver fell into silence, having no more to offer as the tangles and implications were as yet far too complex and recent to expect careful planning.
Mary offered, “My dear, William was wrong to deceive you and wrong to use Friends Good Will in that manner. Still, I admire your restraint, or compassion… no, I love you for it, as I always have. Perhaps there is no reason to sell. Do not do anything quickly and I am certain William will speak to you about all of this tomorrow…”
Oliver gently advised, “There will be no need. There will be no talk. There is simply nothing to say.”
He stood, grateful that Mary did not press him further, and together they walked home, hand in hand. Oliver was pleased there was no moon. Perhaps the darkness of the night would hide his face enough that Mary could not be certain he had wept.
Chapter 9
More than three weeks later, Oliver’s prediction proved largely accurate.
William, to be sure, had arrived early the day following Olivers unfortunate discovery. Everyone in the house, it seemed, knew who knocked, rather timidly, upon the front door. Oliver hoped Mary had said nothing and was not sure, in fact, if she shared their predicament with anyone, but the drama and tension he sensed around the breakfast table in response to the knock was uncommon.