West to the Bay

by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

  If the numbers did not correspond, they were counted again. If they matched, he had to carry the items to where the clerk indicated in the back room. The barrels were to one side, the boxes stacked against the wall, the bundles beside them. While he worked he tried to compose a letter home, but he found it hard to do.

  One morning Master Givens entered the storeroom. “How much longer are you going to be?” he asked the assistant clerk.

  Wemple shrugged. “Until everything is counted and in its proper place.”

  “I want to get out of here,” Givens said, angrily. “I do not want to be caught by the ice.”

  “We are going as fast as we can.”

  That evening, in the men’s quarters, Francis and Henry discussed their assignments with Thomas. Richard lay on his bed exhausted after his day.

  “How do you like being in stores?” Henry asked.

  Thomas shrugged. “It is boring. The clerks do all the counting, and I do all the stacking. What do you do?”

  “Francis and I go out and load up the wood that the woodcutters chop for the stoves.”

  “Have you seen some of those Indian girls?” Francis asked. “They are always outside the post and some of them are very pretty.”

  Thomas thought back to the maiden who had stared at him the first day. He did not know her name, or where she was from. He did not even know if she was still at the fort. He had not seen her since.

  The lights out bell rang and the boys went to their bunks.

  For a long time after the bell, Thomas lay in his bunk thinking about what he was going to do. He wondered if he should just write a note to his family stating that Edward was fine, or should he tell them that he had not seen him yet.

  He had to make up his mind soon. In spite of what the clerks had told Givens most of the stores had been counted. When Givens found that out, the ship would sail. The men whose terms were up and who were returning to their homes in England or Scotland were already on board.

  The next morning on his way to the stores, Thomas heard a loud crash in the cookhouse and someone yell. Thinking Richard might have been hurt, he ran over to the building. He got there in time to see the cook, a large, mean-looking man, slap Richard across the face.

  “Hey!” He ran over to where Richard had fallen. His nose was bleeding and he seemed dazed.

  “Leave him alone,” the cook said, angrily.

  Thomas ignored him, taking a rag from Richard’s hand and trying to stop the bleeding.

  “I said leave him alone.” The cook pushed Thomas away from Richard.

  Thomas jumped to his feet and faced the cook, his fists clenched. “What are you doing hitting a boy half your size?” he demanded.

  “That is none of your business. Now get out of here.”

  Thomas had only been in boyhood skirmishes at school, but he swung his fist at the cook. He missed completely. The cook laughed and was about to swing back when Manchester appeared in the doorway.

  “What is going on here?”

  “Get this boy out of here,” the cook said. “He is disrupting my work.”

  “Come along, Thomas,” Manchester said, putting his hand on his shoulder.

  “But look what he did to Richard,” Thomas said, desperately. “He beat him up.”

  “The boy dropped a pot of hot water all over the floor. I was just disciplining him.”

  “Richard is sick. He cannot lift heavy things.”

  “Then he had better soon learn.”

  Thomas had never been so angry in his life. He looked at Richard who had managed to sit up. It was not fair. Richard should be working at something easy. Could the cook not see that Richard was not very strong? Could Manchester not see the cook had hit Richard and he should be reported?

  “Get up and get some work done, you lazy whelp,” the cook said, kicking at Richard.

  Thomas shook Manchester’s hand loose and jumped at the cook, knocking him down. He managed to hit him once in the face before strong hands grabbed him and dragged him away.

  “What are you doing?” William Manchester yelled, pinning Thomas’ arms to his sides.

  “Keep this boy away from me, Mr. Manchester,” the cook said, angrily. He rubbed his cheek where Thomas had landed his blow.

  Manchester dragged Thomas out of the building. Thomas struggled against the solid grip. “Leave him alone,” he yelled at the cook, as Manchester closed the door.

  “That is it, you are going to see the Factor.” Manchester dragged Thomas to Smith’s office. He opened the door and threw him inside. Thomas landed against the desk, startling the Factor and knocking the ink bottle over.

  The Factor jumped up to avoid being spattered by the ink. He swept up some papers to keep them dry, then dabbed at the ink with a cloth.

  “This boy attacked the cook,” Manchester said.

  Smith looked at him. “You, again?” Smith’s voice quivered with indignation. “I have never seen a boy come from Stromness with so few manners and such little respect for his superiors. Put him in confinement.”

  The prison was a small, square building set back in one corner of the compound. It was made of logs and divided into two tiny, cramped cells. The door to each cell opened to the outside. Manchester opened one door and shoved Thomas inside. Thomas banged his head on the low doorway. After the brightness of the daylight, the small room was pitch black. Thomas fell onto a mattress. He heard the door close and the lock turn.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light let in by a narrow opening in the door he looked around him. There was not enough room for him to stand up straight, nor to sit with his legs stretched out in front. The space was just as wide as the mattress, but the only way Thomas could lay on it was on his side with his legs bent. He wondered if it had been built small because of lack of wood, or to cause added discomfort to the prisoner.

  The day passed slowly. At supper time Manchester opened the door long enough for Richard to hand Thomas a plate of bread and salt beef and a cup of water.

  “When do I get out of here?” Thomas asked.

  Manchester closed the door without answering.

  Although the night was chilly, there was only one blanket on the mattress. At first, his anger kept him warm, but soon the cold crept in, and within a few hours he vowed he would never be put back in this cold, dark place again. When sunrise came he knelt on the floor and peeked out of the hole in the door. He could hear activity, but his view was limited to the back of a building.

  When his knees were too sore to kneel he lay on the mattress and waited. Eventually he heard the sound of voices. Two were low and rumbling while the third was high pitched and terrified. Thomas could just barely make out what he was screaming.

  “You cannot put me in there. You have to let me get back on the ship.”

  Thomas raised himself and looked out of the hole. Two men were wrestling with a third, trying to get him around the corner of the building. Thomas recognized the third man as Peter. He was kicking and fighting against the hands holding him and yelling like a maniac.

  “I have to go back. I cannot stay here any longer.”

  The two men hustled Peter towards the cell next to Thomas’ and although he struggled against being put in, they did manage to shove him through the door and slam it shut.

  “Do you know when I will be let out of here?” Thomas asked, looking out the hole in the door.

  Neither man answered.

  “Will I be getting anything to eat?” he yelled.

  They walked out of sight around the building.

  Thomas lay back on his mattress. He could hear Peter crying in the next cell. He wondered what had made the man go crazy. He called to him, but received no answer. After a few more tries he fell silent.

  With nothing to do, Thomas found himself thinking about his family and was surprised to find his homesickness had dwindled. He still missed his family and home; he always would. But he was convinced he had made the best choice for his future and nothing could change that
. Now that he was here he was looking forward to exploring the post and area around it.

  * * *

  Later that day, Thomas called to Peter again. There had been no sound for hours.

  “Peter,” he tried again. “It is me, Thomas. One of the new men who came on the supply ship.”

  “You should not have signed on,” Peter said, his low voice lacking any emotion. “You will never get out of here alive.”

  “Why do you say that?” Thomas asked.

  Peter did not reply.

  “Why did you say that?” Thomas asked, louder. He raised his head and shoulders and pounded on the wall between the cells.

  “Because this place is not fit for people to live in,” Peter replied bitterly. “It is too solitary, too quiet, and too far from home. There is nowhere to go here. You have to stay in this post day and night, week after week, month after dreary month.”

  “Why did you sign on?”

  Peter laughed, a hollow, sad sound. “I had no choice. It was either that or go to prison. I wished I had gone to prison.”

  “What did you do that would send you to jail?”

  There was silence, then. “You are an inquisitive boy.”

  “I guess I am just looking for something to take my mind off being in here,” Thomas said.

  Peter slowly told his story. He had been a gentleman’s valet in London, but gambling had led him to steal from his employer. At first he had only stolen money then he had taken a diamond brooch which he hawked. When the theft was discovered his employer called him into his study and threatened to have him arrested if he did not return the brooch. Peter left the house, signed on with the Company, and sailed within a week.

  The new land had been a shock to him. Coming from a better quality of life, he had had a hard time adjusting. He was used to going to the pub for a drink with his mates, going to the country with his employer and his family for the summer, living in fine quarters. He had been totally unprepared for the solitude, the confinement, the short hot summer with its mosquitoes and flies, and the long cold winter with its deep snow. He realized his mistake soon after arriving but was unable to return to England.

  He had begged the Factor all summer to be allowed to go back on the supply ship, but he had been ignored. In desperation, he had tried to sneak aboard the ship before it left and was caught.

  “That was my last chance,” he finished, quietly. “I do not think I will make it through another winter here.” He lapsed into silence and nothing more was said between the two prisoners.

  Finally, Manchester came around the building and opened Thomas’ door.

  “The Factor wants to see you.”

  “At last.” Thomas felt elated as he stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.

  “I would be a bit contrite, if I were you,” Manchester advised as they walked to the Factor’s office. “His favorite punishment is putting men in the jail for days. He may let you off if you apologize to him and the cook and promise to behave yourself.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  At the door, Manchester paused. “You might try complimenting him on his new wig. It came on the supply ship and he is very pleased with it.”

  Manchester knocked on the door and at the invitation, the two men stepped inside the office. Factor Smith was seated behind his desk, the new wig curled and powdered on his head. He stood and glared as Thomas walked across the room to stand in front of him.

  “You apparently have no regard for the rules here,” Factor Smith said, shaking with anger. “You were hired on as a laborer and that is what you do. You do not pester me with questions and you do not attack the cook.”

  “I just wanted....”

  “What you want is of no importance to me.” Smith walked around the desk and stood in front of Thomas. “You are a servant of the Company, and as a servant you are here to work and to do as you are told. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. And now before you go back to the storeroom I want you to listen to what I am putting in my report about your conduct.”

  Factor Smith called his writer into the room. “Write this down, Jonas,” he said. As he waited for the man to get his ink and quill ready and to open the journal, he explained.

  “This journal contains the daily and seasonal events of the post. Weather conditions, trading information, and the behavior of all officers and servants are carefully recorded by me during the year and then sent to the London headquarters on the supply ship.”

  When Jonas was ready, Smith put his hands behind his back and strutted back and forth in the office as he dictated. “Sirs. There are problems with respect to one Orcadian, named Thomas Gunn, who has arrived on this year’s supply ship. Unlike his fellow countrymen, he does not appreciate the fact that the Company has given him a job, a place to live, and wages for his work. He is neither uncomplaining nor servile. In the short time he has been here, he has caused many disruptions in the daily life. He refuses to respect the title of Factor and insists in making a nuisance of himself by pestering me and attacking the cook. As a punishment for his rebelliousness and his disobedience of the authority of the Company, it is my recommendation to you that his pay be docked. Respectfully yours....”

  Jonas handed the journal to Smith who dipped the goose quill pen in the ink and signed his name with a flourish. Jonas blotted the page, then closed the journal and put it in a wooden box.

  “This is the packet which carries the mail from York Factory to England,” the Factor said to Thomas. “I will make sure it is safely on the ship when it sails.”

  Jonas had just closed the packet when Master Givens burst into the room. “Smith, I am leaving in the morning,” he said, ignoring the ritual of a greeting. “There was frost on the ground this morning and soon the ice will form on the bay. I will not be here when that happens.”

  Thomas had never seen him so agitated, not even during the storms on the ocean.

  “Now calm down,” Smith said, putting his arm through Givens’. “My men are working as fast as they can. You have to understand that we are alone out here and our survival depends on making sure all the items have been delivered as promised. We need them to keep us going from now until you come again next year.”

  Givens shook off the arm. “I cannot wait another day. Whether the supplies are counted or not, I am sailing in the morning.” He stomped out the door.

  “Take this boy to the stores so he can get some work done today,” Smith said to Manchester.

  As Manchester led Thomas away from the office he leaned over and said. “It is not known if those journals are even read.”

  Thomas looked up at Manchester. He had seemed so abrupt and unpleasant, but Thomas realized he had a soft spot in him. He felt grateful for Manchester’s words.

  “Because you seem to feel the need to look after people, from now on you will be responsible for Peter,” Manchester added.

  “Responsible for Peter? There is nothing wrong with him.”

  “He is a sorrowful man who has not made any friends since he came here,” Manchester said. “You stick close to him and keep him out of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He likes his drink, and he sometimes needs a little guidance to his bed.”

  As Thomas was leaving the stores that evening he met Master Givens.

  “You are sailing in the morning?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes.”

  Thomas held out the letter he had written. “Will you be able to send this on to my parents, Sir?”

  “I will be going to Stromness when I get back to London,” Givens said. “I will take it to them.”

  “Will you be seeing Mrs. Kirke?”

  “Yes. She will need someone to look after her when she hears the news.”

  Thomas felt tears prick his eyes as he talked about John. “Will you tell her how sorry I am?”

  “That I will, son. That I will.”

  Chapter 13

  Little Bird l
ooked up from her work at the sound of approaching footsteps. They slowed as they neared the teepee. She knew it was her grandfather. All the men of the village, and most of those at the post, wore moccasins and made little or no noise when they walked. These footsteps were made by boots. And the only one who would be coming to see them in boots was her grandfather. She wondered, though, why he was so hesitant.

  Her mother laid aside the leggings she was sewing and stood. She walked to the flap and opened it.

  “Hello, Father,” Moon Face said. “Spotted Fawn, Little Bird, and I were just talking about you.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” Little Bird stood beside her mother. “I wish to make you some moccasins and I want your foot size.”

  “There is no time,” Givens said. “I will be sailing in the morning.”

  “That is all right. I will have them for when you come next year.”

  Little Bird saw the sadness on his face as he looked at each of them. She felt a sudden chill. There was bad news.

  “Where is your mother?”

  “She is over at Red Elk’s teepee,” Moon Face answered. Little Bird could hear the fear in her voice. She also knew.

  “May I talk with you, Moon Face?”

  “Yes, Father.” She stepped aside and let him into the teepee. They sat on the floor and Moon Face picked up the leggings. “Is something wrong?”

  “I will not be returning next year,” Givens said.

  Moon Face’s hand faltered over the stitching. “Will you return the year after?”

  “No.”

  Little Bird bit her lip to keep from crying. She saw Spotted Fawn do the same.

  “Have you told Mother?” Moon Face asked.

  “No. I wanted you to know first so you can comfort her if she needs it.”

  Moon Face nodded. They sat in silence although Little Bird wanted to scream “Why? Why?”

  “I cannot come anymore,” Givens explained. “I... I am just too old to handle the voyage.”

  “Why not stay with us? We will look after you in your old age.”

  “There is a woman I know.”

  “And you wish to live with her.”