“Would you rather be dead?”
“It would be better.” Francis’ face was flushed and he was hot to the touch.
“You are not well enough to leave,” the doctor said.
“Yes, I am.” He held onto the end of the bed then staggered over to the door. He opened it with his left hand, his right arm hanging useless by his side.
“Go with him,” the doctor said. “He has to do this.”
Jarvis and Henry hurried after him.
“We are going to have to cut that arm off,” the doctor said to Luke who was helping Thomas get settled in bed. “Under his clothes it is as bad as the toes we just removed and it will kill him if we do not.”
White Paddler burst into the room then stopped at the sight of Thomas on the bed with a bandaged foot. He smiled his relief as he walked over to the bed. He looked down at Thomas’ foot.
“What happened?”
“I had four toes amputated,” Thomas said.
“I heard two of you were lost overnight. Where is the other man?”
“He went back to the quarters.”
“Then no one froze his arm as I had heard.”
“Francis did. His right arm was completely frozen.”
“And he is all right?” White Paddler asked. He looked at the doctor.
“No. He just does not want it amputated,” the doctor replied.
“Is there anything I can get you?” White Paddler asked Thomas.
Thomas shook his head. “The doctor thinks I will be up and walking in a few days.”
Little Bird quietly pushed opened the door. When Thomas saw her he smiled broadly not wanting her to know the pain he was in. After all, he was a man and a man was not weak, especially in front of his girl. And he did think of her as his girl although he had not said anything to her or anyone else.
* * *
Two days later, Jarvis held the sick room door open as Luke and Henry carried Francis back to the bed. He was in a state of delirium and his sleeve was wet with oozing fluid. The doctor slit his sleeve and revealed a blackened arm with decaying flesh. Thomas held his breath at the smell.
The doctor began to layout his saw and knife and he put the poker in the fire.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“I have to operate.”
Francis was floating in and out of consciousness. Once he looked up and smiled at Henry. “Father wants me to clean the store,” he said.
“It might be too late,” the doctor said, after cutting off Francis’ sleeve. “It is worse than I thought. I will need you men to hold him down.”
Henry, Luke, and Jarvis, grabbed hold of Francis’ body. Thomas stood beside the table, leaning on a chair for support.
Suddenly Francis opened his eyes wide and stared at Thomas. “Do not let him cut it off,” he begged. “Please, do not let him.”
Thomas put his arm on Francis’ shoulder. “He has to.”
“Nooo,” Francis yelled drawing out the word. He began to fight off the hands holding him.
“Keep him still,” the doctor said.
The men tightened their hold. Thomas kept his eyes on Francis who stared back at him.
“Please,” Francis whispered.
The doctor picked up his curved amputation knife and held it over Francis’ arm. Francis fought harder when he saw the doctor’s hand and let out a long, pain-filled howl when the knife cut into his flesh above the infected area. The men worked hard to hold him down while the doctor began to saw the bone and when he was just about through, Francis passed out.
“It is about time,” the doctor said, with a sigh. “I have never seen a man stay awake this long.” He completed his work, cauterized the open wound with the poker then bandaged the stump.
“Can I stay with him?” Henry asked.
“He will probably be out for a long time.”
“That is all right. We have a pact.”
“Let me know when he wakes up, then.”
The pact. Thomas thought of the pact the four of them had made so long ago. They had agreed to look after each other, but so far John was dead, Francis had lost his arm, and he had lost three toes. It was almost as if the pact had jinxed them.
Chapter 22
Thomas lay on his bed in the corner. In spite of using a cane for support, he had trouble walking on his foot and had not gone back to work at the store yet. He was thinking of returning soon because he found his days even more boring than if he was taking inventory.
It was mid-December, and winter had settled in bringing an intense cold that caused the buildings to groan and pop. The snow crunched underfoot and breath hung in the air. Daylight was short, with darkness remaining long after the men got up in the morning and returning in the early afternoon.
Thomas began to notice a change in the men. The isolation, the boredom, and the constant cold, began to tell on them. Tempers were short and fights erupted over nothing. No one removed his winter wear, and cleanliness became a thing of the past. Their hair grew long and greasy. Everyone who could, grew a beard, and faces above the beard became as black as those of chimney sweeps.
Although fires constantly burned in the crude brick stove, on really cold days the inside temperature rose only slightly above the freezing mark. Many of the older men who had come to the bay when they were young stayed in bed. Arthritis in their joints and chilblains in their hands and feet from repeated exposure to the cold over the years rendered them unable to work and barely able to get across the room.
The room was continually dim as the windows had been boarded up with thick shutters. Some men tried to increase the warmth by heating iron shot red-hot in the stove and hanging it around the room, but it did little to keep out the cold. At night, the fires were banked in the stove.
The frost came through the cracks in the caulking between the logs. It thawed by the heat of the stove during the day and froze at night until the ice was thick on the walls. Twice a week the men took axes and chopped at it.
Shortly before Christmas, Francis returned to the men’s quarters. Silence descended on the room as everyone watched him walk to his bed, his right sleeve hanging empty. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling as he had done in the sick room. Henry, who had spent much of his time running between the cook house and the sick room feeding Francis, dressing him, and taking him outside when he needed to, sat on his own bed beside him.
Thomas limped over to him. He had tried many times to speak with Francis, but Francis had not allowed anyone to see him in the sick room except Henry. Thomas, however, was not going to be stopped now. He felt guilty about Francis losing his arm. He was the one who had slowed them down and caused them to lose their way, and Francis had been friend enough to wait for him. If Thomas had been better on the snowshoes, Francis would still have both arms.
“I am sorry about your arm,” he said. “I know it is my fault. If I had not been so slow, we would have made it back with the other men.”
Francis never took his eyes off the ceiling.
Thomas leaned down and put his hand on Francis’ shoulder. “I am truly sorry.”
Francis shook off the hand. “Sorry is a stupid word,” he said, harshly, looking at Thomas for the first time. “Saying you are sorry will not bring my arm back. It will not make me a whole man again.”
“I know, but....”
“No, you do not know. You do not know what it is like to dress with one arm, to cut your food with one arm, to even do your toilet with one arm. You know nothing.”
Thomas stood for a moment looking into the angry eyes, then limped back to his bed.
* * *
The planning of the Christmas Eve Ball began. This was the first bit of excitement Thomas had seen since Guy Fawkes Day. Again, the Factor invited the Indian village to the Bachelor Hall.
The squaws came with plaited hair down their backs and their heads covered with blankets which smelled of smoke. Some carried babies on their backs. The bucks wore colorful coats th
at had been part of past trades and their hair, too, was braided. Little children ran wild amongst the revelers and young maids were the object of many a white man’s attentions.
When White Paddler arrived along with Spotted Fawn and Little Bird, Thomas immediately limped over and held out his hand to Little Bird. She was his girl and he wanted everyone to know it. Henry did the same with the girl he had begun to visit. Francis did not attend the party.
The make-shift band played while the men invited the women to dance. Thomas watched White Paddler do the jig with Spotted Fawn, although in that crowded room it was almost impossible to get much movement. The temperature in the room rose due to the presence of so many people and the men removed their winter layers. Soon the walls were damp, and in some places, moisture trickled down the logs.
Thomas sat beside Little Bird and watched the partying. He could not dance with his toes gone and his thoughts turned to Stromness. This was his first Christmas away from home. He began to tell Little Bird about his Stromness Christmas.
“We decorated on Christmas Eve,” he said. “There are few trees on the islands, so we set candles and hung mistletoe while the small children hung their stockings hoping for treats from Saint Nicholas. My Mother did some special baking, making plum pudding and oatmeal cookies. She heated cloves, nutmeg, ginger, sugar, eggs, roasted apples, and ale, on the stove then poured it into the wassail bowl. We all drank the mixture to each other’s health.
“After we decorated, we went into Stromness and walked the streets singing Christmas carols in return for a drink from the homeowner’s wassail bowls. Of course only the adults got a drink, we children were given oatmeal cookies.” Thomas felt a pang of homesickness. By now Molly would have had her baby, and probably Stuart and Emily were expecting one.
There had been little talk about their home since their arrival, but Thomas looked at Henry on the dance floor and wondered what he was thinking. Was he missing his family at this time of year? And what about Francis? So much had changed since his last Christmas.
Toward the end of the evening many of the men gathered around White Paddler to ask him more questions about life inland. White Paddler eagerly answered them. Thomas knew this was one of his favorite topics and it did not take much prodding to get him to tell his stories.
As Thomas listened to White Paddler’s stories of paddling the rivers, talking to the people in their own language, and walking on land no white man had walked on before, his face glowed with admiration. “I wish I could go inland with him,” he said to Little Bird. “It sounds so exciting.”
“You want to stay here?” Little Bird asked. “You do not miss your home?”
“Yes, I miss it, but I like it here and one day I will be like my brother.”
He thought about that day, the day he would be accepted by the Indians and respected by all the men at the post. He would know about the land to the west and would tell stories about the rivers, the Indians, and the French. It was the life he wanted, the adventure he had left home for.
When the night’s entertainment ended, Thomas and White Paddler wished each other Merry Christmas. Thomas bent and kissed Little Bird and whispered “Merry Christmas” in her ear. He watched as they left the post, then with a sigh went back into the hall, helped Peter to his feet and half carried, half dragged him to his bed.
* * *
On Christmas morning when Thomas walked into the hall he was surprised by the beauty of it. It was as if it had been especially decorated for the day. Overnight, the moisture created by the dancers had frozen and changed the hall into a crystal shrine. The wetness of the walls turned into frozen flowers, figurines, leaves, and stars, all overlapping and brightly clear. The whole hall had a cheerful, light appearance. Soon, though, the heat from the rekindled stove began to melt the decorations, and they slowly slid down the walls returning them to their usual drab yellow color.
When it came to the feast of Christmas, the Factor was very generous. Extra ration was given to the cook for each man for the three days of the Christmas celebrations. These included a goose, pork, drippings, butter, flour, fruit preserves, a slice of beef, cheese, and raisins. To wash that down, half a hogshead of beer was divided among four men. For those three days, little work was done save hauling wood from the piles for the fires.
The last evening Thomas watched as a pillow fight broke out among the men, with two pillows bursting and feathers flying around the room. Some of them landed on the stove and the smell of singed feathers permeated the air. In fun, men picked up handfuls of feathers and threw them on the stove. Soon the stench and the smoke drove them laughing outside and they floundered in the snow until the cold made them hurry back inside.
After Christmas, Francis was assigned to keeping the men’s quarters clean. Thomas watched the first time he tried to use a broom with his left hand and how it kept falling from his grip. He rushed to help him. Francis, seeing the pity in his eyes, threw the broom at him.
“I just want to help you,” Thomas said, picking up the broom.
“I do not want your help, or your pity,” Francis said tersely and stomped out of the room.
Before Christmas, the men had been sympathetic towards Francis’ plight. They had been careful about what they said or did. But once he began to clean the quarters, a slow and subtle change of attitude took place. And Thomas did not like what he saw. Now that they had someone who would clean up after them, the men began to leave garbage on the floor and spit their tobacco juice only as close to the spittoon as they felt necessary. They constantly called upon Francis whenever the stove needed replenishing. Soon Francis was like a slave who was owned by all the men in the quarters.
With the loss of his arm, and then the respect of his peers, Francis became more and more withdrawn. As the weeks passed, he barely spoke to anyone. One Saturday evening, Peter, who was lying on his bed, began complaining to the men at the stove. He had been drinking all day and his words were slurred.
“Why not get away from the stove so the resht of ush can get some heat?” Peter hollered.
“Why not get off your ass and come closer to the heat?” Luke shouted back. He, Francis, Henry, and Jarvis, were the ones closest to the stove, with others around them.
This argument had been ongoing since the winter started. No one won, but some frustrations were released. However, this time Peter’s anger seemed more intense, his mood blacker.
“Francish, put more wood in the stove,” he ordered.
“Put it in yourself,” Francis muttered.
“If I have to come over there, I will break your remaining arm.”
One of the other men snickered. “You could not break a dry stick.”
Peter struggled to get up off his bed. “I will show yoush what I can break,” he said, as he stood up. He staggered over to the stove and took a swing at the men with his jug. They all managed to miss being hit and laughed at Peter as he nearly lost his balance.
“Do not laugh at me,” Peter hissed. He swung the jug again, this time hitting Francis on the shoulder.
“Hey!” Henry hollered and stepped closer to Francis.
“What ish the matter?” Peter sneered. “The cripple cannot defend himself?”
“He is not a cripple.” Henry pushed Peter.
Peter stumbled a few steps.
“Leave us alone,” Thomas said.
“I am only having a little fun.” Peter straightened up and walked over to Henry. “You know what fun ish, right?”
Thomas stepped forward, He was suddenly very tired of having to look after Peter and put up with his constant drinking. “I know what fun is and it is not hitting someone with one arm.”
“What is it then?” Peter asked.
“This.” Thomas swung out with his fist and hit Peter squarely on the jaw. The force threw his head back and he fell heavily to the floor.
Immediately, the fight began. It did not matter whose side they were on, the rest of the men fought each other. Unless a punch was l
anded on the face, not much damage was done because of the layers of clothing. The important thing, though, was that they swung, which they did heartily. Men were hit in the bellies and laughed. They were pushed over beds, their landings softened by their garments.
Thomas could see Francis’ anger grow as the fight progressed. He tried swinging with his good arm but was thrown off balance each time. He could not block a punch with one arm, then hit with the other and when he was pushed he had to struggle to get back up.
Like fights in the past, this one was over as quickly as it had started. When the energy ran out, the men returned to their bunks or the card table.
For many, Thomas had noticed, this form of release worked, while for others it just increased their hostility towards the life they led. Some reacted with depression, a few with unsociable behavior. The older men who had been on the bay for years had got over that time in their lives. It was usually the new recruits in their first or second year who had the hardest time coping with the isolation.
* * *
Late the next afternoon, Peter lay on his bed, growling to himself. Suddenly, he jumped off the bed and tore at his clothes. He pulled off the outer furs as he ran towards the door.
“Someone stop him,” Luke called.
Thomas reached for him as he passed by but missed, and Peter was out the door. Thomas grabbed his outer wear, pulled it on then followed Jarvis and Luke after him. Peter’s mental state had given him a great amount of energy and he was half way across the snow-covered yard, leaving a trail of furs and skins behind.
“He is headed for the river,” Jarvis said. “We have to stop him.”
They picked up the furs, then a coat and shirt as they ran on the cleared path to the river. Thomas could not keep up to them and he reached the bank above in time to see Peter run out onto the ice. He was bare from the waist up. Jarvis scrambled down the slippery pier. Thomas watched in horror as Peter headed for the hole cut in the ice for water. He grabbed the axe left beside the hole. He pounded on the layer of ice that had formed since the water had been hauled earlier that afternoon. It broke open. He threw the axe aside and jumped into the freezing river.
West to the Bay Page 17