Stolen Away

by Christopher Dinsdale

  Henri shook his head. “No way, Samuel. If I leave my post, De Chaste will have me tied to the mast and lashed. You're not an officer of the French navy. If you want to take off with these savages and have a knife put in your back when you're not looking, that's up to you. Just don't expect us to drag your stinking hide all the way back to France. If you die here, then De Chaste will bury you here.”

  Samuel shook his head, smiling. “I just don't understand you, Henri. You travel all the way across the ocean to this magnificent, unexplored world and you're still happiest when you have locked yourself away in your cabin. How can you possibly choose reading over a true adventure?”

  “To each his own,” rebuked Henri.

  Samuel started for the canoe. “I'll return shortly.”

  “God be with you,” Henri quietly muttered to his friend, then turned his attention back to his crew. “Come on! Put your backs into it! We have to get these casks filled and returned to the ship before sundown!”

  Samuel helped push the canoe into the water, then climbed aboard between the two lean warriors. He took in a deep breath of the fresh summer air as the canoe slid through the water towards the far shore of the bay. He couldn't help but smile. Truly, he didn't care if all he found were simply more trees and rocks. It was invigorating to finally be by himself, far away from the ship that had held him captive for almost four months.

  He allowed his thoughts to wander into the future. The King was paying him handsomely to map out the best locations for future villages in this massive territory. Using his imagination, Samuel could see French fishing boats plying the water with their bountiful catches, children playing under the wharfs along the shoreline and the smell of homemade bread drifting across the still water. Yes, New France would soon be a sight to behold. He felt honoured to be playing a key role in its nurturing and birth.

  The canoe slid to a stop in the soft mud. The silent warriors held the canoe while Samuel stepped out, almost losing his balance on the slippery surface. Safely on firm ground, he waited for the warriors to store their paddles and join him on shore. They led him along a well-worn path into the woods. After a two minute jaunt, the trees suddenly opened up into a partial clearing. A green mound rose up from the centre of the clearing, while smaller, less prominent mounds were scattered around the periphery. Younger trees were flourishing throughout the area, their branches stretching out to the life-giving rays of the bright afternoon sun. Samuel could gauge roughly by the age of the trees that the clearing had been deserted for at least several decades. Even worse, there was nothing here that pointed towards the possibility of treasure. The area was quite unremarkable.

  Then, to his surprise, the two warriors turned to the right, fell onto their knees and made the sign of the cross on their chest. After that, they lowered themselves until they were prostrate with the forest floor.

  The sign of the cross? How could they possibly know that? But then what about the Celtic cross of their chief? Perhaps this area did require further examination.

  He left the warriors and stepped forward. Something snagged his foot, and he fell hard onto his hands. He looked down and discovered that his feet had become entangled within a collapsed heap of long, rotting branches. Some of the branches were still bound together, as if they had been part of a fence at one time. Moving more carefully, weaving in and out of the young saplings, Samuel worked his way towards the centre of the clearing. On either side he noticed the distinct mounds. Something bothered him about the symmetry of the whole area. He had seen it before, from one of the hundreds of maps he had studied over the years. The answer was frustratingly beyond his reach.

  When he arrived at the centre of the clearing, he began to climb the hill, but stopped again when his ankle slipped into a rocky fissure. The small hill was actually a pile of stones. Some were still fitted together as if they were once part of a building. He had yet to see any evidence of stone buildings in this new land. The mystery deepened.

  He began to search around the hill for more clues. His foot hit something solid. Bending over, he pulled at a mat of vines until the object was partially revealed. It was a large, carved piece of wood, roughly the size of a ship's beam. He continued to remove the creepers and weeds, following the beam until it intersected with a second larger piece of wood. He froze. It couldn't be…

  Samuel, his hands trembling, quickly finished the excavation. Fully uncovered, he stood back in awe, stunned at the enormity of his discovery. The pile of stones, the symmetrical mounds and the natives crossing themselves at the edge of the clearing all suddenly made sense. He now knew exactly what this place used to be.

  His jaw dropped even further as he looked off to the far edge of the clearing. In the direction of the warriors stood a small field filled with row upon row of small wooden crosses. Some were so old that they lay sprawled on the ground, decomposing. Others, however, were upright and very recently constructed. A graveyard that was still in use! No wonder the warriors had bowed in respect.

  Samuel ran. The natives, surprised to see him fly down the path, took chase after him. By the time they had caught up, Samuel had already pushed the canoe back into the water. He was wildly signalling for the warriors to paddle him directly to the anchored ship.

  In the confines of Commander De Chaste's private cabin, Samuel breathlessly explained to him what he had found. De Chaste, considered one of The King's most loyal commanders and awarded accordingly, sat behind his mahogany desk, his narrow eyes sizing up the young mapmaker.

  Samuel shifted uncomfortably. The commander was as cool as ever, but still, Samuel could sense something was wrong.

  “Does anyone else know of this discovery?” asked De Chaste.

  Samuel shook his head. “No, sir. I came straight to you.”

  “That makes it much easier,” De Chaste muttered to himself.

  “Makes what easier, sir?” asked Samuel, confused.

  De Chaste leaned forward and stared at Samuel with a gaze that could wither the most hardy plant.

  “You are to tell no one about your discovery.”

  “Tell no one? I don't understand, sir.”

  The commander leaned back in his chair. “I want to see this place for myself. Are those savages still on board?”

  “I believe so. But sir, I…”

  “Then we will leave immediately. They will take us. Go make the arrangements.”

  As Samuel de Champlain led Commander De Chaste up the path to the clearing, he was confused by his commander's coolness to the discovery. He had not asked a single question during the canoe trip. Even more surprising was the commander's strict order of secrecy.

  Surely, thought Samuel, seeing the sight will change his attitude. As they broke into the clearing, the two warriors once again crossed themselves and fell face down onto the ground. The commander was unmoved by their actions and simply stepped over the savages. Samuel led the tour.

  “It is definitely a village built on the Irish design, sir. These tangled pieces of wood used to be a stockade-style defensive wall. The wood itself is no longer bound together, but you can still make out the circular shape. We just passed through what would have been the gate to the village and this pathway led down to the village centre. Over there, those long mounds would have been the living quarters for the families of the village. And I think that pile of rotting wood may be what is left of a watch tower.”

  “I've been to Ireland,” commented De Chaste finally, and much to Samuel's relief. “Their villages look nothing like what you are describing here.”

  “Ah, perhaps not now,” explained Samuel, “but I have studied the designs of villages built hundreds of years ago. This village has exactly the similar dimensions and structures as those earlier Irish settlements. I am guessing this village is based on a design that was used between 700 and 1000 A.D.”

  De Chaste snorted. “I find this all hard to believe.”

  Samuel smiled. “Wait until you see what lies in the centre of the village.”<
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  Samuel led the commander to the rotten, but enormous uncovered cross. Samuel beamed with pride as if he had found the treasure of King Solomon. De Chaste looked down at the cross, then scanned the entire village area with a cold, calculating gaze.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  Samuel's face dropped. “Uh…yes, sir. Isn't the cross magnificent? And these stones behind me are what I think must have been a church. Commander, we have just discovered an Irish settlement that is likely hundreds of years old! It is an incredible find! Who would have thought those primitive Celts could have travelled so far in their skin-covered boats?”

  De Chaste turned to Samuel, his face warming ever so slightly. “Samuel, you have discovered nothing. This is simply a series of dirt mounds and a pile of rocks. Perhaps it was an ancient native burial site.”

  Samuel gaped at De Chaste in disbelief. “But…but what about the cross, sir?”

  De Chaste kicked the base of the cross. The impact instantly collapsed a chunk of the cross into a pile of rotted dust. “A remarkable coincidence. Two logs falling on each other into the shape of a cross.”

  Stunned, Samuel pointed to the rocks behind him. “And the church? And the graveyard over there with the wooden crosses?”

  De Chaste shrugged. “All I see here is a mound of rocks, nothing more. By the savages, I see the sticks that look something like crosses. But in reality, it is nothing.”

  Samuel's cheeks flushed red in exasperation. “Coincidence? Nothing? Sir, I know what this is! This was an Irish settlement! I would stake my reputation as a mapmaker on it!”

  De Chaste's eyes narrowed into daggers. “Would you stake your life on it?”

  Samuel gasped. “Excuse me, sir?”

  De Chaste inched closer. “Why are we here, Samuel? Why did we travel thousands of miles away from our homes and our loved ones? We are here to claim this land for the King of France, to map its boundaries and to begin the process of colonization. This land will become New France, a glorious extension of our homeland. It will also allow our fellow countrymen a chance to immigrate to a land of plenty in which they can begin new and challenging lives.

  “Now what do you think would happen if you returned home with these outrageous stories of ancient Celtic habitations that perhaps existed hundreds of years ago? Do you think France would still have the legal right to colonize this land? Are you willing to jeopardize our future claim because you have let your imagination run wild while looking at a pile of sticks and rocks?”

  De Chaste lowered his voice to a growl. “The King himself has given me strict orders to ensure that the claiming and mapping of this land for France goes smoothly and as planned. Do not force me to mention your wild fairy tales of an Irish settlement to His Majesty when we return. I understand he will execute anyone he feels represents a threat to his plans of expansion.”

  De Chaste put a hand on Samuel's shoulder, his voice now becoming more fatherly.

  “Samuel, look around at this sight with new eyes. This is nothing more than, at most, a native burial ground. You do see that now, don't you?”

  De Chaste bent down and picked up the disturbed vines. He used them once again to conceal the wooden cross. Samuel stood and watched his commander, still dumbfounded by what he had just heard. De Chaste straightened and looked Samuel right in the eye.

  “I didn't hear you. What do you now see when you look around?”

  Samuel swallowed as he surveyed the area. “I…I see piles of rocks and sticks. It's nothing more than a native burial site.”

  De Chaste patted him on the back. “Good for you. You have a bright future, Samuel de Champlain. Don't throw it all away on several mounds of dirt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When we arrive at the ship,” De Chaste continued, “I want you to find a dozen of the thickest clods in the crew. It's a full moon this evening. Return here tonight by skiff with some pick-axes and shovels. Do a little rearranging of the stones and dirt mounds so that no one else comes to the same silly conclusion that you somehow arrived at. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Samuel, defeat permeating his voice.

  De Chaste marched back to the warriors, leaving Samuel standing alone beside the cross. The warriors, hearing the approach of the commander, stood up and followed him down the path. Samuel crouched down and removed the vines one last time, gazing at the ancient beauty of its design. He knew that by the end of the night, the cross would remain only in his memory. Sweeping his hand along the cross, he suddenly noticed under the wood a small, rectangular stone with a crude inscription. Amazingly, it was a rounded headstone with a Celtic inscription.

  “Here Lies Kiera, Devoted Wife and Loving Mother.”

  Unable to decipher the entire inscription, he managed to sound out the name at the top.

  “Kiera.”

  Samuel de Champlain allowed his fingers to retrace the etching of the name before he bowed his head in shame.

  “Forgive me, Kiera, for what I am about to do.”

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  In Stolen Away, I have attempted to bring to life the story of a people whose blood stains one of the darkest chapters of Canadian history. Genocide was committed against the Beothuck nation by English settlers throughout the eighteenth century. When the English arrived in Newfoundland, they built their first encampments within the handful of sheltered bays that contained an abundance of fish and wild game. Of course, those same bays were also the summer residences of the Beothuck people. The Beothuck were a generous nation and they were willing to share the resources of their island with the newcomers. Unfortunately, the British were not as hospitable to the Beothuck.

  The clash between two very different cultures became the flashpoint for one of the most gruesome episodes in North American history. The British, with superior weapons, forced the Beothuck out of their vital summer hunting, fishing and egg gathering sites. Retreating inland, the starving Beothuck were left with only two choices: suffer from malnutrition in the resource-poor interior, or steal from the newcomers. Soon, the British discovered that their drying meat, sealskins and fishing nets were being stolen from the villages in the dead of night.

  The British retaliated with sickening coldness. Hunting down the Beothuck summer camps one by one, armed British thugs executed entire villages, first by shooting Beothuck men and women in cold blood, then rounding up the remaining terrified children and slitting all of their throats. Finally, the native camps were looted of their food and pelts, leaving the torched mamateeks to burn to the ground. There are even stories of skilled French and Mi'kmaq bounty hunters being brought to Newfoundland to hunt down the Beothuck, with the reward of twenty pounds for each Beothuck killed, regardless of age. By 1827, the last of the Beothuck, a captured young woman who had been taken to St. John's, died of tuberculosis. Her name was Shananditti (this young woman should not be confused with Shawnadit, the young female character from my story who had a similarly tragic life).

  Before her death, Shananditti gave us a glimpse of Beothuck culture. Although she was not able to learn the English language, she willingly drew pictures of her beliefs and how her family of seventy-two members, when she was first born, managed to live off the land. She also illustrated the cold-blooded murders, by local English hunters, of her aunts, uncles, cousins, mother and father. Her entire family was destroyed within the short twenty-seven years of her life.

  It is hard to believe that such a crucial part of Canadian history has been successfully erased from our school textbooks. Who were the Beothuck? They did not have a written language, so their extensive oral history has been lost forever. Did they have contact with the Vikings? There is archeological evidence proving that the Beothuck mastered iron forging technology well before the arrival of Columbus, the only First Nation in the Americas to do so. Did the Vikings pass this technology onto the Beothuck?

  Were ancient Irish mariners also successful at crossing the North Atlantic, and did they have contact with the Beothuck?
Shananditti explained in her drawings how the Beothuck feared a devillike entity, making the Beothuck one of the few First Nations to have such a Christian-like concept of good and evil. Due to the brutality of the early European settlers, we will never know the full story of the Beothuck nation. Lost forever is the knowledge and wisdom of a First Nation that existed at the crucial cultural crossroad between Europe and North America.

  Christopher Dinsdale was born in Toronto. He grew up in Dundas, Ontario and spent his high school years in Ottawa. Throughout his life, Christopher has enjoyed working with children.

  Employed as a teacher in southern Ontario, he enjoys writing novels for both children and adults during his summer breaks. Broken Circle was his first published novel for young readers and was chosen as a Great Book for 2006 by the Canadian Toy Testing Council.

  Christopher lives in Newmarket, Ontario, with his wife and three daughters.

  Angry at missing a week of summer video game entertainment, Jesse, a twelve-year-old boy of Native descent, grudgingly follows through with his deceased father's request that he join his Uncle Matthew and cousin Jason at Georgian Bay for a special camping trip. Uncle Matthew explains that Jesse's father wanted Jason's vision quest to be his introduction to their culture. During their first night around the campfire, it is Jesse who has a vision, and the adventure begins.

  ISBN 1-894917-15-4 / Ages 9 and up / Softcover 104 pages / Cdn. $8.95, U.S. $7.95

  “This may be the novel to give to that teacher's bane, the reluctant boy reader. The author has created a solid first novel.” -Canadian Materials

  Named a Great Book by the Canadian Toy Testing Council