by James Spurr
He determined before even reaching the door that if his instincts, together with everyone else’s it seemed, were true, he would converse on the porch.
Oliver swung open the door, making certain not to do so with any force that could be interpreted as anger. William, looking perhaps worse than he would coming off successive night watches with a gale yet raging, began nervously, “Oliver, indulge me, I pray. May we have a moment together?”
Oliver nodded, trying mightily to take no attitude. He stepped out on to the porch and closed the door behind him. Blast, it was cold, he thought. At least he knew he would not be long.
“Oliver, my good man, I am heartily sorry for what pain I may have caused you and offer, of course, my… well, certainly… my resignation.” Oliver noticed William did not even look up at him as he stammered all about and around that last phrase. William avoided his glance, with not so much as a hint of insincerity, but rather as genuine shame. Good God, but he looked terrible, thought Oliver. He made to begin, but was halted by William’s gesture. “Of course I will continue to derig, haul, cover, and otherwise attend her as I would my own, at no charge or expense.”
“That will not be necessary,” Oliver said. Then, seeing the confusion on William’s face and realizing his own nervousness and the inherent ambiguity of his opening, clarified, “Your resignation, that is. Please, see to her as you would otherwise. As for your compensation, that is not an issue.” He looked William direct in the eye, “I would never think of taking advantage.”
Oliver purposefully let the irony of his last phrase sink in. It seemed to have the desired effect as William dropped his gaze yet again. William could only respond, “Of course.” He made to begin anew with still more, but Oliver intervened, putting an end to William’s attempt.
“As for you treating her as your own, I have no doubt. Indeed, it seems you already have.”
William looked run through, but Oliver was just getting started. He was polite, took no tone and remained almost cordial given the circumstances. It was the same tact he took in business negotiations and which made him so formidable: appearing under all difficult circumstances as entirely in control.
“And if you please, let us keep her on the hard.”
His implication that William would depart with Friends Good Will without Oliver’s knowledge or permission was devastating. William realized there was nothing more he could say. He nodded and shuffled off, leaving a crooked and uncertain wake behind him. He admitted to himself with all the objectivity he could summon that few men had ever been able to so manage him in that manner and with so much justification. He would rather anyone on earth deliver such a lesson than Oliver.
The weeks passed. Bemose and Mary tried to pretend it would work itself out and refused to allow the chill between their men effect their close bond and good works. Oliver took measures so to assure Bemose felt most welcome. Still, to have gone that length of time in the off season without several dinners together and conversations daily with William and among the four of them was most awkward. Oliver wondered if the others missed the old routine as he did.
It snowed hard one night in early November. Mary noted that for Oliver to not even visit the yard to assure the security of his investment was simply disturbing and most unlike her active and curious husband. Oliver bought Mr. Krueger’s tools, without so much as a word from Father Dupuis. He wondered if Mary was impressed or if she had guessed that the last person he wanted asking questions about what now seemed apparent through the village was his priest.
One day while walking to the store, he approached James, apparently flirting with Samuel’s granddaughter. Oliver’s angle assured James would not see him until the last instant and, fearing his embarrassment and awkwardness in the presence of a fair lass, combined with his young years, Oliver determined to take the lead. He called with early warning before their paths intersected, “I say, James, you look well, and good day to you too, miss!” Oliver had forgotten her name, but thought his good cheer and casual greeting would get him off the hook.
It appeared to work. James looked stunned, but recovered quickly. As Oliver passed not half a block beyond, he heard James call out from behind, “Uncle Oliver, please, sir, if you will…”
Oliver turned. James half-ran the last few yards to catch up, encouraged by Oliver’s acknowledgement, and instantly grew most grave. With his boyish charm yet apparent, James made to be a man. “I am terribly sorry and most distressed for having not shared with you our actions. As a merchant seaman, I was wrong to discount your interests. As a nephew, I beg your forgiveness.”
James looked down at the street, but what Oliver had to say required his gaze be met. He grasped his shoulder, their eyes met and Oliver half smiled, kindly and with understanding. “You are, James, as a young man yet learning what it means to be a mature man. I accept your apology, trust you shall ne’er deceive me again and we shall put this youthful misjudgment behind us, am I right?”
James nodded, beamed in relief and Oliver motioned to the forlorn and increasingly impatient lass left behind. Not recalling her name, he could only gesture for James to attend to more serious business for one of sixteen. As James drew away, awash, it seemed, in redemption, he felt a pang of discomfort. His uncle’s forgiveness was clearly offered on the basis of his youth. His father was no longer young.
William attended Friends Good Will daily. He unshipped the ballast with James. Together they sweated with Eckert’s crew as Friends Good Will was hauled to just where, in their hopeful judgment, the ice would halt. The cover was as light, strong and tight as they could make possible with the best materials available. Trove strayed off to the wilderness wetlands along Lake St. Clair for what could only best be considered some vague winter activities.
At first William hoped Oliver would stop by the yard, but as each week passed, he realized that was mere fantasy. Bemose was preparing their belongings and securing their small cabin just outside the walls for their routine trip to the Ojibwa villages in the north, near Mackinaw and the Sault. William and she often spent the winter months there visiting and assisting her lifelong friends. He was reluctant to leave, not sure he could bear the uncertainty, and fearing a long absence would only harden Oliver’s heart.
After dinner one evening and with James, who often joined them, having departed, William confessed his fears and concerns about this season’s trek north.
Bemose could well, if necessary, stay in Detroit. The work was plentiful, her friends numerous. So it was not of urgency for her agenda, but rather her realization that William simply had no idea, plan, device, or means with which to resolve his distress that she proceeded up into the loft. Amid what few personal items she held dear, she gathered from a well worn leather pouch what appeared as a near new, powerful symbol. She untangled the leather lacing and placed over her head and around her neck the only gift she retained from her father; an intricately carved crucifix.
Bemose wrapped a blanket around her and ironically, while armed with the symbol of Christian truth, for the very first time told William a lie. “I will visit Mary,” she announced and quickly closed the door behind her.
Chapter 10
Oliver worked a bit later than normal and was just closing and locking the door to Oliver Williams & Company, Dry Goods, when Bemose approached and called, “Good evening, Oliver.”
Oliver turned, smiled and inquired, “Bemose, what a surprise. What brings you at this hour? How can I help?” thinking she required something from the store.
She shook her head, watched his eyes fall to her crucifix and just at that moment as Oliver’s expression reflected curiosity, said softly, “In Nomini Patri.”
Well beyond curious, on the borderline of disbelief, he asked, “What was that? A Catholic phrase, certainly. Are you interested in learning our faith?”
“You asked what brings me to you this evening. I answered, in Latin. I come in the name of our Father. And I am already of your Christian faith.”
&nb
sp; Oliver was intrigued but still confused and almost wary of this strange conversation. Bemose continued, “Oliver, I am sent by our Christ, our Lord, to help you.”
Oliver half smiled, curious, of course, but not quite sure of whether to take the exchange seriously, “Help me? How? With what?”
“To forgive. His primary message, was it not; the very purpose for His sacrifice, which by so doing will redeem not only William but also yourself and wash you in His grace?”
Oliver was no longer smiling. Bemose’s message was accurate, impressive, and altogether on point in addressing the personal crisis in his life which he as yet was unable to resolve while kneeling in the pews of St. Anne’s these past horrid weeks. The pain was acute, and the scars already forming offered no hope or consolation.
Still, the pain caused him to refute her attempt, the familiarity with Bemose such a discussion required was well beyond his comfort level and he made to change the subject. “I did not know, I am sorry. Tell me, how did you come to know God and however did you learn some Latin?”
Bemose recognized the diversion and knew she must approach gradually for a time, now that she held his interest. “You and I have never talked of my earlier years. Now is a good time.” She turned, began to slowly walk Oliver to his home as she began, “My father raised me Catholic. And I did not merely learn ‘some’ Latin. Rather, I spoke it fluently for some years with him, but I admit I am a bit out of practice.” She smiled at the memory and her smile and the walking seemed to place Oliver at ease.
Oliver well recognized the start of an interesting story, and took the bait. “I had no idea. Tell me, where were you raised and is your father yet alive?”
“Father was French, tall and dark, and my earliest recall is of the Sault, although my tribe is from a river basin some days to the east. Did you know I am Matawan, but only half, on my mother’s side?”
“William had mentioned to me your tribe, but I have never heard of your people, I confess.”
“Matawans are not many. I have not spent a good deal of time among them yet I am proud to be one of them. Did you also know that I both speak and write my father’s language and use it often, especially in the north and in Upper Canada? I also know most of the native dialects of the Northwest. I think I am very much like him in my ease with languages. He taught me well. In answer to your question, he died when I was just a girl.” Again, she set the bait.
Oliver was impressed and just a little embarrassed he had been too distracted this summer to have not taken time to come to know more about Bemose. He also felt a bit uncomfortable with himself. Had he been truly distracted, or dismissive? The difference would haunt him, he knew, if he remained silent, so rather, he prompted, “Your father sounds like a most educated and fascinating man.”
Bemose stopped, turned and looked at him, touching her crucifix with one hand, his sleeve with her other, said softly in a manner that assured him, “Oliver, my father was a Jesuit Priest.” She allowed him a moment, then continued, “That is how I know of Christ, His teachings that heal, His command to forgive.” Her voice trailed off.
Some steps later, Oliver offered, “There is so much to say. I am at the same time interested in your past, while consumed with my loss of my dear William and trying to grapple with the force of your message to me. You speak as truly as Father DePuis at this moment, were he standing before me.”
“Perhaps he is not because you are yet resisting what you know is inevitable and best for you, and all of us as well.”
They arrived on Oliver’s porch. He nodded, motioned her inside and they strode in. Mary looked at them, saw their expressions, and she gathered Ephriam from his play and gave Oliver and Bemose the front fire. They continued to talk for some time, with Oliver confessing his sense of betrayal but also admitting he just did not know how to approach William, how to begin to build any trust once again. Bemose did not minimize the task, but simply insisted, correctly, that there was no Christ-like alternative. Oliver must begin with William so to heal his heart and soul as well.
Finally Bemose disposed of his last misgiving, his fear that William did not care to repair their friendship after the harsh words Oliver had resorted to while the wound was yet raw and his anger high. Bemose determined there had been enough talk.
She grew stern, leaned forward and with some urgency, exhorted him, “Go now.” Bemose nodded and with significant authority gestured forcefully for Oliver to get out of his seat. He was most surprised, given the late hour and the obvious discomfort at having rarely been ordered about in his own home, to find himself on the move with some urgency, a good deal of anxiety and a profound sense of hope.
He walked quickly through the dark streets. The light dusting of snow combined with the frozen dry leaves provided the only sounds of various crunching and cracking amid his heavy, visible breath in the deep November cold. Oliver began thinking what he would say but then purposefully rejected the exercise. If this were going to work, he could not approach it as a business meeting or negotiation. This was no time for strategy or subtle maneuvers. He would shed that comfortable habit and trust that among close friends, even at awkward moments, his heart would supply the words. He strode the one step up onto the porch, knocked lightly on the door and William answered near instantly. Oliver suspected William had long since grown concerned for Bemose. William’s surprise was evident, his trepidation palpable, but his greeting hopeful. “Oliver, goodness, please, enter.”
Both moved to the fire, which was on the decline, the coals deep red, radiant and shimmering. William awkwardly gestured for a chair, a wood rocker opposite his, high backed, but upholstered. William took the hard rocker and Oliver noted the gesture. Oliver threw off his coat, putting it on the table carelessly and assuring William that Bemose was with Mary. He stood for a moment collecting his thoughts, noticed the jug on the mantle and raised an eyebrow to William. With a half smile and a vague reference to it being a gift from Trove, William rose and snatched two cups from a modest cupboard and poured each a dram.
“William, I suspect I know how you feel, but before we set that sail, I suppose it is time I was informed of the facts. What is going on? What don’t I know? I ask that you make a full disclosure.”
William nodded and began, “You know well that cargo was contraband. What you don’t know is how, why, and for what duration. Oliver, that was only the third time we carried any goods in secret.”
Oliver interrupted, “William, really, you can at least admit you were smuggling, please, call it what it was!”
William was startled, considered the point, but equivocated, “Well, I suppose it might be. I am no lawyer, but I see this difference…”
Again, Oliver’s pent up anger was difficult to restrain. He took a large swallow, winced, but forcefully interjected, “Suppose it might be?” Oliver thought this was not going well at all. “Honestly, the thought of you enriching yourself with my sloop after the more than fair situation afforded you, I must say—”
This time, William interrupted, “Enriching ourselves? Never! Oliver, on my word, we have never taken a penny!”
Oliver was confused. He paused as William continued, “We likely were carrying illegal cargo. Not that the transport or sale of arms are illegal, but these, well… I strongly suspect they were stolen.”
“Stolen? By you?” Oliver asked, disbelieving.
“No, of course not. By whomever we bought them from. So is that smuggling? Hell, I do not know. I will leave that for your lawyer, Mr. Walbridge. Truly, we did not think of ourselves as smuggling.” He shrugged. “Not that I never have, mind you, but not with Friends Good Will!”
There was silence for some seconds as Oliver tried to comprehend what William was trying to convey. He reached for the jug, refreshed both their cups and admitted, “Well, you certainly have my attention. Let us start at the beginning.”
William nodded, lit a clay pipe he had packed while waiting for Bemose in indication he believed it would be a long night. Wh
en properly lit and drawing, he began.
“First, Oliver, I assure you, we accepted no compensation. Neither I, James, nor Trove took any money; rather we paid some fair sums. Not ours, but of certain persons: one in Cleveland, several in Buffalo and some here in Detroit. Sensing that war is inevitable, if not imminent, these what I will call various patriots recognize our woeful state of preparedness and engage us, gratis, to act as agent, if you will, in the purchase and delivery of arms.”
Oliver’s jaw was slack. He was relieved that his friends did not enrich themselves using his sloop, for the dishonesty inherent in ‘selling out’ the owner’s legitimate interest bothered him most of all. Still, at the same time, he was shocked and troubled that William would run such risks and deceive him in so doing.
“Continue,” was all he could manage and took another swallow of his drink, which William matched.
“We sailed Friends Good Will to various river mouths and creek outlets along the Canadian shore of Lake Erie, not exactly out of our way, enroute from Detroit to Buffalo. We met our contacts, paid the money entrusted to us and delivered small arms; typically in small quantities.”
“What makes you think they are stolen?”
William shrugged. “Well, they are marked as property of His Majesty and the price is but a fraction of market value,” he admitted.
Oliver nearly choked on his drink. “Stolen from Britain’s armed forces! Are you stark mad? I am no lawyer as well, but does not a basic instinct at some level of your being cry out these are likely not safe transactions?”
William conceded, “Is there risk? I strongly suspect so.” He grew quiet and sincere, offering, “That is why, Oliver, I want you to know that I am sorry. It was of course utterly unfair to subject your sloop and your company to such risk without your knowledge. I will never do so again.”