Mrs. Martin put the cross down on her bedside table and rubbed her hands together.
“He’s packing up his things. He’s leaving for Ottawa tonight.”
“Why?”
“He’s going to a funeral.”
“A funeral?”
She nodded. “William Lyon Mackenzie King died.”
Mackenzie King – a Liberal, like Paul’s father – had been prime minister of Canada for almost 22 years and Paul knew that his father thought very highly of him.
“We’ve got to get going,” she said, standing up. “Dinner!” Mrs. Martin called, as she walked into the living room.
The response was practically immediate. Mary Anne entered the dining room holding her doll, Tom came down from the second floor, and Mr. Martin emerged from his study.
“Pauly-Wally,” Mary Anne said, “Me and Vincie saw a tree fort at the park.”
Paul looked up, willing her not to have realized whom it belonged to.
“We’re going to play in it all summer.”
“It isn’t yours,” he said simply, before helping his mother carry in bowls of chicken, potatoes and green beans. The family gathered at the table and Mrs. Martin said grace.
“I heard about Mr. King,” Paul said, as they all started eating.
Mr. Martin pushed his thick black-rimmed glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. “It’s a huge loss. You know, Mr. King had such an impact on Canada. Not just because he was the longest-serving prime minister.” Mr. Martin pierced a green bean with his fork.
“Although that certainly helped,” Mrs. Martin interjected.
“Of course, but he….” Mr. Martin paused, chewing on his green bean. “He was sensitive to the country’s feelings – as a whole – at every single moment of his leadership. You can’t say that about everyone. He was a politician who truly knew the people.”
“And,” Mrs. Martin added, “we certainly can’t forget his humanitarianism.”
Mary Anne’s eyebrows creased.
“It means that he wanted to improve people’s lives,” Mrs. Martin explained.
“Did you know him well?” Tom asked. “I can’t imagine meeting a prime minister.”
“I was in his cabinet, so yes, I knew him well. We’ve had many dinners together over the years. Remember the first time you met him, Nell?”
Mrs. Martin raised one dark eyebrow at him but smiled.
“Mackenzie King was prime minister at the time and of course, I had already decided that I respected him a great deal,” said Mr. Martin. “Nell here,” he said, gesturing to his wife, “met him at a dinner and chatted with him. She told Mr. King that I thought he was a great man. Which was true, of course.”
Tom nodded, listening.
“But then,” Mr. Martin said, “Mackenzie King asked her what she thought about him and Nell replied that she’d ‘take some convincing.’”
Paul had heard the story plenty of times before, but laughed anyway along with Tom.
“The next day, however,” Mr. Martin continued, “Mackenzie King came to our apartment in Ottawa and asked if Nell would accompany him on a walk. In the end, he didn’t mind her bluntness.”
A knock at the door interrupted dinner. Paul’s mother dabbed at her mouth and then jumped up to answer it. Everyone listened as the door opened.
“Hi, there. Are you Mrs. Martin?” the visitor asked. “I’m looking for Tom.”
“We’re just eating dinner. I’ll go and get him for you, but please come inside. We don’t want too many mosquitoes getting into the house.”
Tom got up to talk with the visitor, and Mrs. Martin returned to the dining room. She didn’t say anything, but instead started tracing the edges of her place mat with her fingertips.
A man stood just inside the doorway, his long black hair lightened by strands of gray, his skin wrinkled into deep folds.
“Hi Billy. Good to see you.” The two slapped hands together in a complex handshake.
“You too, Tom. We’ve missed ya back home.”
They looked at each other. Tom opened his mouth, about to ask Billy why he was here, but promptly clamped it shut.
“I’ve got some bad news. Your sister’s gotten very sick. She’s been worse tonight and I thought you’d want to know. I thought maybe you’d want to see her.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Tom asked. “She doesn’t have tuberculosis, does she?”
“We called for a doctor in Chatham, but they haven’t come yet, so we don’t know what it is. She’s got a really high fever and she’s been in bed for a few days.”
“Are you going back to Walpole right away?”
“Yeah.” Billy pulled keys out of the pocket of his soft brown leather jacket.
“Wait for me. I’ll get my bag.”
Tom rushed up the stairs, calling down to anyone who was listening. “I’ve got to go visit my sister.”
He continued up the stairs to his and Paul’s shared bedroom and pulled open each drawer of his dresser, leaving them dangling at awkward angles. He grabbed a pair of trousers and a t-shirt and stuffed them into his rucksack that still lay on the floor from work. Looking around the room, Tom plucked the small pouch of sacred tobacco from his windowsill and stashed it in his pocket. He hurried back downstairs and stopped in the dining room.
“I’ll have to be back in time for work the day after
tomorrow. So I’ll see you all soon.”
Paul looked back and forth between his parents and then back and forth between Tom and Billy.
“I want to go too,” Paul said. “I mean, if it’s okay with you.”
Chapter 8
Walpole Island
Billy pointed to the back of his blue GM pickup truck that was parked in front of the cottage. Paul and Tom both threw their bags into the back of the truck and Tom yanked on the passenger’s handle until the door opened. Inside, there was one long seat covered with grey fabric, so Tom got in and scooted over, making room for Paul on his other side. Billy joined them in the driver’s seat and stuck his key in the ignition, causing the truck’s engine to rumble half-heartedly.
“I dunno how long this truck will last,” Billy said, his silver key chain clicking against the steering wheel. “She’s a ‘38 – it was my good friend’s before he passed away last year. He had no family and left it to me.”
“It’s nice,” said Paul, who didn’t know a whole lot about trucks.
“Thanks – I hope it lasts.”
Paul waved to his parents as they set off for Walpole Island Reserve. Mrs. Martin had not seemed keen on sending her son off to the reserve with a man she knew nothing about. However, his parents had discussed it in the other room and Paul had heard snippets like, “Remember, he was surprised that they didn’t have a phone…it might be good for him.” Eventually, they had decided that he could go.
Billy urged the truck onto the road softly spraying gravel on either side. Tom had explained that he was one of the old-timers around the reserve. He had known Tom’s family for a long time and was well connected in the community.
As they drove past the park, Paul could make out the outline of his and Abby’s wooden fort tucked into the arms of the birch tree.
“Ever been to Walpole?” Billy asked Paul.
“No – but my dad’s told me a little bit about it. He was invited to some event up there one time.”
Billy chuckled. “Oh, must have been the old Walpole Island Fair. It’s pretty much been the only attraction there. We used to have wild ponies but they’ve long since disappeared.”
“Wild ponies?” Paul turned to look at Billy.
“The island used to be covered with them. Hundreds. They would feed on grass and you’d even see them in front of your house so
metimes. They were a part of our land. But then we started growing a lot of crops, ploughing too many fields. That’s when they had to go. People caught them and fenced them in.”
Flat green fields melded into each other on either side of the truck. Little clusters of trees stood watch over the fields, shielding them from the wind blowing in off the lake. Farmhouses speckled the landscape, sturdy and practical, while Lake Erie peeked in and out of view, never fully revealing itself.
“Did you know Billy’s a hunting guide, Paul?” Tom asked.
“No – that’s neat. Are there a lot of hunters on the island?”
“Yes, both Native and non-Native,” said Billy. “The factory jobs dried up after the war, like they have everywhere else, but hunting and tourism have taken off. A lot of white people like to come up here and have a hunting adventure – but they don’t know the land like we do.”
“Maybe next year I can get a job like that?” Tom asked.
Billy nodded. “Hey, you two want to hear a good story?”
“Just like when I was a kid, right?”
“You’ve known each other that long?” asked Paul.
Billy laughed. “I’ve known Tom’s family for many years. Our families go way back with one another.”
Billy slowed the truck down, as they entered the town of Leamington. A place that Paul knew for only one thing – tomatoes. Leamington was the home of Heinz ketchup and had a big Heinz factory, where they brought in tomatoes that were grown in the area.
“The story’s a bit complicated,” Billy warned. “It’s the tale of Tecumseh’s bones.”
“Tell us!” Paul said.
“Tecumseh or ‘Shooting Star’ was a great Shawnee Chief a long time ago,” Billy began. “His tribe lived in the United States, where whites were beginning to expand towards the west. They forced the Indians out of their native land, pushing them further west. Tecumseh fought against the Americans in many battles, getting the reputation of a fierce warrior.”
“Later, as Tecumseh gained followers, he began spreading the idea that Indian tribes needed to be united to keep their land. Now this, of course, was a very big challenge. Different tribes had vicious rivalries and spoke entirely different languages. But Tecumseh managed to bring a lot of them together, by convincing them that this was the only way to save their culture. And, I think he was pretty right about that.”
“Anyway, at that time, other conflicts appeared. The Americans and the British army in Canada were starting to prepare for a war against each other. The War of 1812. Tecumseh decided to join forces with the British army. I don’t want you two to think that he really liked the British army though – they just had a common enemy.”
“The war broke out and Tecumseh brought a bunch of warriors of all different tribes up to a fort in Canada. A bit later, Tecumseh met Isaac Brock, the general of the British army and they planned an attack on Detroit. It was a risky decision, all right. Tecumseh’s warriors and the British set off to Detroit. Here’s something that’ll make you laugh – the Americans were terrified of the Indians, so the Indian warriors made the Americans think that there were thousands of them. Actually, there were only a few hundred. No matter, the Americans surrendered their fort before they even started fighting.”
“The capture of the fort in Detroit was a huge victory for the British side. The American general, Hull, thought that Canadians would want to be a part of the United States. Just because the Americans had revolted from British control earlier, they thought we’d want the same north of the border. But this win was a turning point in the war and it showed that the British and the Indians weren’t just going to roll over and give up. After this battle, Tecumseh and Brock also found a real respect for each other. They were both great leaders and thought of each other as equals. All this happy stuff didn’t last, though, that’s for sure.”
“One night, the Americans invaded Queenston Heights and Brock was awakened to be told the news. When he arrived he decided they needed a direct attack to push the Americans back. They didn’t have time to wait for other soldiers, though. Again, it was a risky move. This time, it didn’t end too well. Brock was hit in the chest by a bullet while he was leading his troops. He died right away.”
“But what happened to Tecumseh and his bones?” Tom asked.
“I’m getting to it. About a year later, in Moraviantown, Tecumseh sensed there was trouble coming, so he and the British general, Proctor, lined up the British in the open and the Indians in the woods. Sure enough, the Americans attacked and they essentially destroyed the British line, causing them to surrender. Tecumseh, on the other hand, didn’t want to give up without fighting to their fullest. He was extremely outnumbered, but still initiated an attack. Tecumseh stood out in the open and yelled to his warriors. But he was shot dead. When Tecumseh died, the idea of working with other tribes died with him. It was a huge loss.”
“At night, John Nahdee and some other Indians found Tecumseh’s body and carried it away from the battlefield. Ever since that night though, the resting place of Tecumseh’s bones was a mystery. They were moved around a lot over the years, but one person always knew where they were. Apparently, John Nahdee had buried the bones on St. Anne Island – that’s a smaller island beside Walpole. It’s a part of the reserve too. Just before he died, Nahdee told Chief John White where he had buried Tecumseh’s bones.”
“Over the years, there were also a whole bunch of rumours going around that Tecumseh’s bones had been found. I guess a new one would just pop up now and then. Eventually, the Soldiers’ and Ex-Servicemen’s Club of Walpole Island – these were Indians from Walpole Island who fought for Canada or the United States during the First World War – they decided to do something about it. They thought that a chief like Tecumseh deserved a better grave. So, they raised money for the bones on St. Anne Island to be reburied with a monument over top. The monument’s at Walpole Island, looking out over the St. Clair River. Today though, there are still different claims that Tecumseh’s bones have been found. Even after the burial the mystery never ended.”
“That’s really neat!” Paul said, stretching his arms over his head.
“Yeah, Billy tells great stories,” Tom added.
The three sat in silence, bumping along in the pickup and watching the landscape. The sun was beginning to sink, frosting the sky with a pink glow.
Paul noticed a sign in the one of the fields that read: ‘Welcome to Wallaceburg.’ Tom explained this meant that they were close to Walpole Island. Again, Billy slowed the pickup down as they entered the town. On either side of the main road, there were a few stores open for business. The usual – a bank, a grocery store, a doctor’s office, could be seen. Smaller roads, jutting off the main street, directed traffic toward residential areas.
Tom began to tap his fingers absentmindedly against the seat, as the truck picked up speed, leaving Wallace-burg behind.
Billy looked over at Tom: “She’ll be glad to see you,” he said.
They reached a small bridge, and Billy guided the pickup easily over its paved surface. Paul realized that at that moment they were leaving the mainland and heading over to Walpole Island. It was a small bridge over a small waterway. But nonetheless, Walpole wasn’t connected to land.
“Welcome to Walpole Island,” Billy said, as they reached the other side of the bridge and continued driving along a winding road.
Tall, wild grasses encroached on their route, blowing in the breeze and grazing the truck. Wheat-coloured strands that looked just like cattails blended with a green base. A willow tree stretched its branches, letting its leaves droop below. A red-winged blackbird gave out its signature call, loud and persistent. Paul noticed a flap of black wings and a burst of red above a small creek, whose waters trickled peacefully through the grasses.
A river of turquoise water appeared and Bi
lly turned left, stopping at the corner.
“Here it is,” Billy said, pointing to a chimney-shaped stone structure. “This is Tecumseh’s grave and,” he waved towards the water, “this is the St. Clair River.”
Paul opened the pickup’s door and walked to the monument, feeling a swift breeze from the river. It was a very simple stone structure. Earth-toned stones and a plaque with the inscription read:
‘The bones of Chief Tecumseh are entombed in this cairn.’
No mention of his accomplishments or of the mystery. That, Paul guessed, you just had to know. Paul climbed back into the truck, while Billy started the engine without a word and pulled out onto the gravel road that followed the river. The St. Clair River was fairly narrow in this part, making it easy to see large homes on the other side that traced the edge of the water.
“What’s over there?” Paul asked.
“It’s Michigan,” Tom answered, taking up his habit of drumming his fingers once again.
In this part of southern Ontario, the United States was north of Canada. Detroit was the only major American city that could boast this claim.
Billy slowed the truck and turned into the driveway of a small property with plain, grey siding. The house was on a bit of a lean and it needed a new roof. It was smaller and poorer looking than most of the other homes on the reserve. The grey paint was peeling and the cement porch crumbled in front of the door.
This was Tom’s home.
Chapter 9
Nanabush
The engine rumbled to a stop, as Billy pulled the keys out of the ignition and patted the steering wheel with a leathery hand.
Billy opened the door and stepped onto a driveway overrun by weeds. Paul and Tom did the same, grabbing their bags out of the back of the pickup and slamming the heavy doors. They cut across the grass and Tom climbed up the two slabs of cement that were propped up against the house, reaching the porch. Before he could reach the door an elderly woman with grey hair and deep brown eyes opened it and peered out.
Showdown at Border Town Page 5