by Paul Almond
After the Garretts’ warnings, James began to be nervous. These sturdy twoand three-foot trunks appeared larger than in his Hollow: above, their interlocking branches blocked out the low sun, making the roadway ahead somewhat menacing. He kept his ears tuned, but all he could hear was the occasional crow, or moose bird, that would startle him with a scream as it swooped past. His practised eye picked out disused tracks, and former pathways of smaller game. The cart tracks were not fresh either. He knew the workers slept at the mill, so there’d be few passersby. Truly, he was here alone and undefended.
Too bad that in this land of plenty, some wretches resorted to banditry, a role assigned to highwaymen back in the Old Country. He remained on guard, but he’d left his flintlock back at the cabin, and carried only his knife in the Micmac pouch around his neck. How much good would that be?
As it grew darker, he began to doubt the wisdom of this expedition, every sense alert. And before too long, he heard the whine of the saw in the distance. He quickened his pace. Coming around a bend he saw the low, grey, hunched building, its weathered form somehow inviting. The river had narrowed at this point for the mill dam to reach across. The sluiceway ran with swift water, turning the paddle wheel. Two men, with long handled pick-poles, or pikes, actually walked on floating logs. He marvelled at their agility — not for him, he knew. Mr. Hall was certainly squeezing every last drop out of the daylight. Hard to make a go of it in these tough times, with little money changing hands.
He leaned against the rough boards of the building and watched the saw sing its way through log after log. Neat stacks of pale yellow boards lay beside an ever-growing pile of sawdust at one edge of the woods. The throb of the pulleys beat in his ears, a sound he decided he liked. It would slow its beat as the saw bit into a heavy log and then speed up again after it sliced off a board.
He went to look under the mill. Beneath the uneven flooring, a lad, an urchin really, wheelbarrowed sawdust onto a pile spreading into the trees. He seemed no older than little Eleanor, or perhaps just skinny so that he only looked young. After dumping the load, he turned to see James, and waved cheerfully.
James wandered over and the lad stuck out his hand. “Hello mister,” he said. “I’m Ben.”
“And I’m James, my lad. Are you the son of Mr. Hall?” That did seem unlikely, with those ragged trousers and skimpy shirt, and more especially, a swarthy skin that could perhaps have only been darkened by the sun. But an urchin for sure.
“Oh no, sir, I came here because Mr. Hall gives me a good meal or two every day. And you know, sir, last week he started even to pay! I get me a shilling a week.” He held up his first coin with glee.
“And you like your work?” asked James.
“Of course, sir.”
“I’m sure you do. Out here in the woods, no one to trouble you to, and no school to go to either.”
“Well, there’s a school in New Carlisle, sir,” Ben replied, “and a schoolmaster, old Mr. Hobson, but you have to pay for books and such, and I...”
“Your parents don’t have the money?” James asked.
“No sir, no parents.”
James absorbed the fact: an orphan, here, working in the mill. But then, he knew of plenty of stories of London’s orphans — pickpockets and prostitutes. So perhaps this lad was not so badly off.
“Well, Ben,” James volunteered on the spur of the moment, “I’ll see what I can do about teaching you your L M N O P’s.”
“Oh, no thank you, sir. All them learning and books — I got no time for that. I gotta earn me money.”
“Ben, you can still earn your money. Just maybe in the evenings —”
“Evenings, sir? I don’t have no oil lamp nor candle in me tent. How’ll I see?”
“Well, maybe I can buy us a candle,” James said. “But hold on, I don’t even know if I’ll be working here.”
“Well, sir, you look like a strong man and you look like you’ve had education. I bet he hires you. He needs a good Number Two man, Mr. Hall does. I’ve noticed that.”
“Oh you have, have you?” James offered. Smart little devil, he thought. No problem to teach him reading and writing. Another reason to hope for the job.
Chapter Seven
As darkness fell, the work stopped. James, with his heart in his mouth and a prayer on his lips, strode into the open end of the mill where the logs were brought in off the river. James selected one man who from his bearing and look — a vigorous short fellow with large ears — must be the owner. “Excuse me, Mr. Hall, sir!”
The man stopped and took James in with a long suspicious look. “What can I do for ye? Come to buy lumber?”
“No sir, in fact, I was looking for work.” James spoke firmly even though he felt anything but firm.
“Were ye now?” Mr. Hall gestured for the lantern which one of his men had taken down from its hook on a low beam. “Thank ya, ’Ti-Pete.”
James noticed his worn trousers and torn shirt, out at the elbows. Not the look of a rich man, he thought, but then, that was applying Old World standards. Here, clothing meant nothing. He liked that.
“Yes, I am, sir,” James added in affirmation, though he hated to push himself. “I’m a hard worker, not afraid of any task. Trained in the British Navy,” he added, and then bit his tongue.
“Well,” said Mr. Hall, eying him from under bushy eyebrows, “we’ll see about that. We work from daylight to dusk. Them’s long days now, summer time and all.”
“Long days for sure,” agreed James, “as I can see now. But that’s just what I need. I would welcome a spell of good hard work.” Especially with the news he had just heard back at the Garretts’ about Catherine being taken forever, this might get his mind off that piece of ill fortune.
The millwright drew on his pipe and studied James in the low light of a lantern.
“I brought you this letter.” James took it from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who’s it from?”
“Mr. Garrett. He thinks I might be of some use, I believe.”
“Does he now?” Mr. Hall took the folded parchment, and tore it in pieces. “So William thinks he’ll plant the spy in my camp, does he?” He turned with his lantern as though the interview were at an end.
“A spy, sir?” James added quickly, following. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Don’t ye now?” Hall stopped and looked back at him. James’s mind tried to fathom what was being said. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hall, but I just do not see what you are telling me.”
The old man studied him. “How well d’ye know old William?”
“We met briefly two years ago, but then, not again until yesterday. He comes from the north of England as I do, and perhaps he feels some kind of kinship.” And then it hit him, William Garrett Sr. must want him out of the way until Catherine and her fiancé could tie the knot. Off here in the woods, James could do little harm. They probably see me, James decided, as a threat to their arranged marriage. But at the moment, he must make every effort to get the job.
He noticed little Ben by his wheelbarrow watching with keen interest. Hall followed his look, and frowned. “Go on with ye now, Ben, get yourself some supper.”
Ben turned and walked sheepishly toward the lodgings.
“Actually, sir, I’ve been chatting with him. I had in mind that if I worked here, I might teach him some reading, writing, and ’rithmatic.
“Now why would ye do that, for pity’s sake?”
“Well sir,” said James, noticing a hesitation in the millwright, “I know what it is to be uneducated and to be in a class where you’re ignored. Everything I learned was from a kindly old tutor who took pity on me and encouraged me to study hard. That’s how I came to be, in some small way, an educated man. I’d feel it were my duty to do the same for Ben.”
“And I suppose them Garretts saw you as an educated man? And that I could need that kind o’ help?”
“No no, sir, they see me, I hope, as a new settler, with dreams for his futu
re, and who is not afraid to work extra hard to realize those dreams.”
Hall stared after the men who had gone to their bunkhouse, then pulled out his pipe and tinderbox. He worked at it with the most amazing agility, fingers moving so fast that James could hardly follow him. The tinder was alight in a trice, and from that he lit his pipe.
James felt that Mr. Hall must now be tossed upon the horns of a dilemma: reject James as a spy from his coowner, William, or accept James as an innocent, and so harness his youthful energy to the sawmill.
James stayed silent. Damn! Why had he given him the letter? Maybe by now the job would be his. He felt oddly as if his thoughts were travelling in some curious link to the millwright’s brain.
“Why not just give me a try, sir?” James ventured. “If I prove unworthy, I shall earn nothing. If I succeed, then you will see your output rise in accordance with my hard work.” He looked down, nervous lest this last plea had been overdone.
The millwright turned abruptly and started to walk off. James heart sank.
Then he heard Hall call out, “Come with me.” They walked over to a clearing where stood a cabin of rough logs, roofed with overlapping planks. “Had this here built some years ago so the fellas wouldn’t have that three-hour walk from Bonaventure every day. French, good workers, though helluva time training them.” He shoved open the door.
James saw, in the light of a lantern hung from a beam, four men gathering round an open fireplace in the middle, under a hole in the roof. Kettles and a cauldron hung over the open fire, heating the men’s supper. The room contained six rough bunks, much like his lumber camp that winter back of Paspébiac. Here, Hall had provided straw mattresses and the floor was of rough planks, not mud as in the lumber shacks.
“That bunk in the far end — the top one — ye can take that,” the millwright said, and made an introduction to his other workers, in French.
So he was hired! James thought. Thank the Good Lord above!
***
“Throw her out o’ gear,” called the millwright as he hurried down to join James below the heavy flooring of the mill.
Above, ’Ti-Pete slid a lever back, and James heard the system of pulleys and belts slowly wind down. When the whirring stopped, James began to trace the power. He’d always had a yen for mechanical things, although he was new at this sort of work. In the Navy, he had to learn, as had all Midshipmen, the way of sails and jibs and how they worked. And now he marvelled at both the simplicity and complexity of the mill’s design beneath the floorboards. Belts and pulleys transferred power from the paddle wheel, through a system of smaller wheels linked by broad belts perhaps six inches wide, to the actual wheel that drove the saw.
“This’ll ruin me!” the old man said. “Finish me off. I knew it!”
“No, no, just wait, Mr. Hall. We can fix it. Watch.” Curiously enough, James had only spent ten days at the mill, carrying out boards, rolling logs into place, fastening them for the saw. But once Hall had seen how smart he was, he’d put James in charge of the saw itself whenever he became occupied with customers. This time, James had been hearing a slight difference in the sound of the throb of the cogs and pulleys and, handing over to ’Ti-Pete, he had run below, calling out to Hall.
It wasn’t long before they both found it. The main belt had developed a tear that flapped as it careened around the pulleys.
“And wouldn’t I be clean out of glue!” Hall sat back disconsolately on the wheelbarrow which Ben had drawn up.
“Well sir, I’d be glad to take a run down to New Carlisle. They must have lots there.”
“You’re dreaming, laddie. They only make glue in autumn when they butcher the animals. Mostly used up by now.” The old man took off his floppy black hat and mopped his forehead. “I knew I should’a been more careful, but already I had four breaks this year.” He shook his head sadly. “We’re terble behind.”
“I can do my best,” James said, turning to go. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“You’re off now, laddie? Better eat something first.”
“No sir, if it’s as bad as you say, I’d better be off. We can’t shut the mill down for long, or I expect I’ll be out of work with the rest of them.” He winked at the old fellow, who was now taking considerable cheer at his apprentice’s initiative.
***
And so, sooner than expected, James found himself on the trail back to New Carlisle. It was a fine morning and he had time to think as he trotted Indian-style down the wooded trail at a pace learned during his contact with the Micmac. Or at least, dwell on his nightmare: the loss of Catherine. Thoughts of her were better left behind but, like an irritating sore, they kept tormenting him.
Now why is the soul of a man so contrary? he wondered. Why on earth had he set his cap at Catherine, after she’d been taken? But how much that vision of her by the open fire two years before had grown, when down she had come, to waken him with a warning that her brothers were up to no good. That kiss they shared then still haunted him. Now, on the rough track, he longed for those lips again.
Go on, torture yourself, he exclaimed. She’ll never be yours. You had your chance and you missed it. Content yourself with the one great love, Magwés, who will never return. Pay Magwés the compliment of being the one and only love of your life. But what about your son, John, back the Port Daniel river with the tribe? Does he not need a surrogate mother? And in his heart of hearts, James knew absolutely that Magwés would want him to have a full life, with a wife and family in which to rear John safely.
So he must learn this new trade at the mill, save his money, and perhaps even bring his mother over. That might be a good way to manage having his son with him: she could look after him of course. But would trading the comparative luxury of Raby Castle for this harsh wilderness life be in her best interest? Well, just leave that choice to her. At any rate, he must get on and write a proper letter, and get it off on the next schooner.
Then how should he deal with losing Catherine? Might he find some way to repair the damage? Might she talk the whole thing over? Not much hope there, alas. Stymied again.
Chapter Eight
“So what on earth are you doing?” Catherine asked. Bent over and carrying a boulder, she seemed shocked to see James in her field.
James stood tongue-tied. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Catherine. I came to find William.”
Catherine dropped her stone on the growing rock pile at one side of the field. “My father has gone to Bonaventure. The boys are in the back field, picking stones there, too.” She turned back to the field for more rocks. “Did you not get the job at the mill?”
James had to grin. “He’s keeping me, heaven knows why.”
“I had heard, I confess. So why are you here now?” He found himself falling in beside her as she strode out toward the next big rock. “We need glue. And good stitching. One of our main pulleys is about to go.” When she picked up a rock, James got an even larger one and they both headed back to the rock pile. “I went to the house, but found no one.”
They dropped their rocks and walked out for more. “Who do you think has the best glue in town?” He stooped to pick up another. “I tried the general store, but he is out of it. The storekeeper suggested I ask the neighbours around, to see who’s been making glue recently.” They picked a few more stones and headed for the rock pile.
“I think we have some somewhere, left over from last year.” She dropped her rock on to the pile.
“I also need some sturdy material to stitch onto the main belt.” They returned for more stones, their movements forming a rhythmical pattern as they laboured under the almost clear sky.
“I think we may have some stitching also.” She stooped for another stone. “So you can sew? I have a hole in one of my blouses...”
“Send it along! James Alford, tailor and profiteer!” He picked up a heavy rock and hefted it back to the stone pile. “How long ago did your family clear this?” He meant, of course, clear the l
and of trees.
“Before I was born. But every time we plough, we turn up more rocks. I don’t know where they all come from. This field is the worst. Too busy to clear it this last while, what with all the work over on our other land.”
“You do a lot of this?”
She nodded. “Even little Eleanor picks stones, the smaller ones, but she’s needed at home to help Mama.” They brought several more stones back to the pile. “I suppose this work you’re doing with me means you expect to be invited to eat once again...”
He glanced at her, to divine her intent: teasing him? Or being nasty. “No expectations.” But then he added quickly, “Lots of hopes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” James kept silent.
She went on: “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”
They worked on in silence. After a bit James asked, “So when is the wedding?”
“Not sure.”
Was that a glimmer of hope? “Billy will be a very lucky man. I hope he is worthy of you.”
“I think it’s more a question of — will I be worthy of him?”
“Ridiculous!” James said. “Who thinks that?”
“Everyone. They don’t see me, I’m afraid, the way you do.”
“And how do I see you?” James teased.
She remained silent.
“All right, so how do they see you?”
“Too headstrong. I won’t put up with balderdash!”
“Oh-oh, I’d better watch out.” At the same time, Catherine grew in his estimation. Working hard on the farm, doing a man’s work, and even now, able to divine his inner feelings. Don’t give up any pursuit right now, he told himself, as the glue and stitching went right out of his mind.
“Oh, for that,” Catherine interrupted, “use the rock sled. It’s up there in the corner.”
“All right.” He trotted off, got the sled, manhandled the heavy stone onto it and hauled it across to the pile. When he rejoined her, he said, “The way I see it, there’s not a man alive who isn’t a hundred times better off with a wife. Any wife,” he added, so as not to be too pointed.