by Paul Almond
“I have always wanted to sleep in the wild.” Catherine sped up and passed him, as though more anxious than he, or was it more enthusiastic? “I remember when I was seven, Papa took me back to a neighbour’s hunting cabin in the woods. Frightfully exciting, for someone my age.”
She’s just trying to put me at ease, James thought to himself as he followed her. Well, heaven knows, I need it. I don’t think I’ve been this anxious since the night I jumped off the Billy Ruffian. Was that only two years ago?
How much he had achieved! That first summer, with the help of his Micmac friends, he had found this brook and established his cabin. Then in the winter, he’d lived back in the interior with the Micmac, learning how to survive, trap small game, and other rules about surviving the extreme cold of the Gaspé Coast. The next summer in Paspébiac he’d learned a trade, caulking a ship’s hull for Robin’s, and last winter he’d worked in the woods for the Robin’s Company. This summer he’d spent alone, working on his cabin, trying to fend off his depression from losing Magwés.
He watched Catherine, striding gamely along ahead, taking in everything so boldly. “It’s so very wild,” she commented. “We must be miles from anyone.”
“Yes, miles,” he replied, pleased at the thought.
“I suppose you get used to that?”
“I certainly hope so. But you know, Catherine,” he said reassuringly, “it won’t be long before neighbours appear. It’s too good here. The land is rich and flat above, the trees tall and straight, just made for the walls of houses. It won’t be long before this becomes as populated as New Carlisle.” She laughed.
“All right then,” he said, “perhaps not like New Carlisle, but certainly I predict that one day there will be a string of homes all the way along the shore, from here to Paspébiac.”
“I wonder if we will ever live to see that?”
“Well, if we never see it, I shall be just as happy.” The sides of the Hollow, as James called it, became less prominent as the valley floor broadened into a flat and arable, though swamplike, land. So far so good, perhaps, but what on earth would she think when they actually came upon his meagre cabin, which now he saw through her eyes as very rough, indeed even primitive and uncomfortable? What had he got himself into? He should never have agreed to this. He’d lose her forever, he knew. Or else she’d insist upon them living in New Carlisle, with neighbours like Billy Brotherton.
Well, be prepared, he told himself. He could see even more clearly how no woman in her right mind would ever stick it out under these circumstances. And the closer they came to his cabin, the more nervous he got, the more torn, and the more he kicked himself for having been fool enough to allow this test in the first place.
“I do love you, James,” she had protested one night. “I’ll follow you anywhere.” He had been holding her in his arms for a brief moment when saying good-bye outside the door as he left for his week at the mill.
But this early morning as she had prepared for the canoe trip, he could see that resolve weakening. Her brothers, he guessed, had been working on her, especially Will, who for some reason seemed to have taken a dislike to him. Forget Billy Brotherton, tons of young men in New Carlisle would love to wed and bed her. She must know all that, he said to himself. Why wouldn’t she be leery? His nervousness rose exponentially.
“Wait, before we see the cabin, shall we rather look at what you intend to build?”
“You mean, go back up to the site of our future house?”
“Yes, is it so far?”
Cold feet, that’s what she had, he thought. But what a letdown to see that clearing. “No, but it’s a climb. Maybe we should wait until after you have seen the cabin.”
“I just thought it might be an idea to go there first.”
“Well, I’ve only got a few foundations placed,” he began, “and I’m not sure that —”
She stopped and looked at him. “James, I would like to see that first.” Yes, this was an important moment in her life, too. He’d been so centred on himself, on his own nervousness, he’d been ignoring the fact that she would be leaving house and home to come and live with him, and she was taking all this seriously. Almost too seriously. But then again, wasn’t it a serious decision?
“All right. There’s a pathway just ahead, the one I use going up from the cabin to the site. Follow me.”
James led the way up the path and then at the top, he stopped. Pretty well a disaster! Cut trees lay topsy-turvy, waiting for some future ox to sled them over to the rough foundations. Broken bushes and saplings littered the clearing. The open space itself was so small, you could never imagine the hard work he’d done to get it this far. Saying nothing, he forged on, leading Catherine and Ben through untamed underbrush. He stopped at the straight line of rocks he had brought from the beach. Each one had been such a struggle, and now they lay, hidden among shrubbery. Pretty sad.
“The bay!” Catherine exclaimed. “It does look wonderful from here.”
A rescue, sort of. “That was my idea.” James gladly seized upon the notion. “And see, up behind? That hill will shield us from the north wind.” He loosed his imagination:“I can just see us on the veranda, rocking, bringing up the children, looking out at the bay.”
“James,” Ben now stood beside them, “I’d say rockin’ on some veranda looks to me a long ways off.”
“I guess so. But how did everyone else’s house get built?”
“With help,” Catherine said firmly, “lots of help.” She looked determined, “I’ll see to that.”
“So you like the site?”
“I like the view,” she relied enigmatically. “Now I’ll visit the famous cabin.”
Oh-oh, even Ben looked despondent, James thought. His heart sank, but he tried to make light of it all, knowing he was fighting a losing battle.
Finally, the little party of three wound around a turn in the brook and came to the bridge James had built two years before. He paused, staring at the water flecked with sunshine, which had pierced the tree cover. Such a comforting sound. He had forgotten how delightful his brook sounded.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Catherine.
“Almost there,” James tried to sound reassuring.
“Pretty wild here, James,” Ben called. “Ain’t you afraid to live here all by yer lonesome?”
“Not at all, Ben,” James replied. “You have the sound of the brook for company, ’tis a real comfort, I can tell you.”
“Not when a bear comes up!”
“Oh, I’ve seen bears all right, and one time —” he stopped himself. That would just frighten Catherine. For he had nearly been killed in one encounter right here. “You built it all by yourself?”
“I did.” And all too soon, they came to the edge of the clearing.
James stopped. Catherine stepped up beside him, Ben third. They stood.
James shut his eyes. He couldn’t even bear to look at Catherine. The moment had come. Or had it? “This your cabin?”
“It is, Ben. Do you like it?”
“Terble nice fer maybe a few days. Never live here meself, though. I’d be much too scared.” Still Catherine hadn’t spoken.
“Thanks for the encouragement, Ben,” James heard himself retort. “We are trying to impress Catherine, remember?”
Catherine grabbed his hand, and he turned to look at her. She was smiling.
He turned to look at it again, trying to see it through her eyes. “Well?”
“Well... the outside is... not what I expected exactly. But...” She paused.
His heart pounded and then, as the saying goes, leapt into his mouth. “I think...” she went on. “I think...”
“Yes?” Lost forever, no doubt, he said to himself. Well, learn to live with it. “May we look inside?”
“Of course, of course. Come.” They started forward. “You see, Catherine —” he stopped himself. Don’t be pessimistic, he reprimanded himself.
Before opening the door, James pau
sed once more to offer up a prayer. He turned and saw Ben watching cautiously. But the lad did seem a little more pleased. Taking heart, James swung the cabin door ajar. Catherine stepped in.
Ben followed.
James waited. “It’s very rough,” he began, “and it’s not finished. There’s so much I intend to do, you know, I’m going to get us a better table, not hard to build, and I’ll be —”
She turned and put her fingers on his lips, to silence him. Then having taken in the interior, she moved around, studying each item carefully, stepping over to the open fireplace, kneeling and feeling the smooth stones blackened by fires, while his tension mounted. Worse than facing that bear, he said to himself. “You know,” he went on anxiously, “I’ve been working outside, but I promise —”
“James, don’t apologize.” Catherine rose from the fireplace and went on to examine the shelving. James closed his eyes.
“It’s amazing, one fella did this all by himself!” Ben went to sit on the bed frame.
Catherine came over to James and waited until he opened his eyes again. So much hung on her reply.
“We’ll make this work,” she said. “It’s a great challenge, but I will do my best.”
“You will?”
“Of course. We shall be very happy here, James. It’s not exactly what I expected. But perhaps... it’s even better.” She went to the door, and looked out. “You own all this land around here? It’s all yours?” He nodded. “Looks like it.”
“You mean, you don’t have any title?”
“No, of course not. But we can claim land we build on. Especially in waste lands of the Crown.”
“I hope so,” she murmured.
“So now, Catherine, you’ve seen it all. Well, not all. The land behind stretches a long way, and out along the cliffs too. Enough for generations of children to farm. Lots of acres for wheat and barley, and flax, and oats for the horses and hay for the oxen. We can expand here as much as we like.”
“Until those droves of settlers you talk about find out, and come to drive us out,” she said, allowing a little smile to cross her face. Was she teasing him?
“You’re right,” he said. “Well, maybe we should go back to New Carlisle. You can decide later, Catherine. I’m ready for anything. And perhaps one day...”
“One day, yes...” She paused. James looked at his feet. “And that day is today, James. I have decided, my love.” She reached out and took his hand. “James, you’re giving me what I always wanted, a home of my own.” He looked at her. “I’ve played second fiddle to my brothers for so long, and had to obey Father and Mother who don’t always make things easy. Now there is just you and me. No bride will ever have a better home than this one right here. It’s perfect. And whatever is not perfect, we’ll make it so. Together.”
Chapter Fourteen
Dear Mother,
I write to you this morning as a newly married man. There has not been one morning this summer that I have not awakened and told myself — today I will write to my dearest Mother. But so many events in this New World have conspired against my having the time to sit and compose a proper letter.
First, my new wife. Her name is Catherine Garrett, and she is all that I have ever hoped. In fact, she appears much as you must have looked at her age. Blonde, blue eyes, with her robust body she can be a real worker. Why the Lord above blessed me with such a gracious and hard-working partner, I have no idea. But I offer thanks daily, as you must know.
Secondly, His help brought me to a part of the wilderness with a vigorous stream running through, and lots of timber to build our own house — I have already made a small cabin. No neighbours for miles around. I know what you are thinking — how will Catherine like that? Well, in spite of the great risks involved, I brought her to see it before we wed. She approved. And thither we go this week to set up life together.
Through a stroke of good fortune, my Micmac friends (the Indians hereabouts who rescued me) gave me a birchbark canoe. So we shall canoe down from New Carlisle, the Loyalist village on the Gaspé coast, to my little brook, which the Micmac call Shegouac.
I have spoken to Catherine about you, dear Mother, and it is our combined plan to bring you across the sea to join us, if you would like. This promise I shall be in a position to keep next year, once Catherine and I have our little habitation built and in a presentable shape. Think about it, dear Mother, but not too hard, because things often take time in this New World. It would be a life of hardship, no doubt, but one of complete freedom. You will go where you like and do what you want. Although of course, we work from dawn to dusk, planting, cutting trees and making a farm out of what, so far, are desperately thick woods, rocks, and other impediments to any hopes of a leisurely life.
Please write care of William Garrett, my father-in-law, at New Carlisle, in the province of Lower Canada. This letter may take a long time to reach you but I am hoping to send it on a schooner direct to England in the hopes it will find you somehow at Raby Castle. When you have a moment, please write back to me about your present state, and your future intentions. I do of course hope this finds you well and happy, as I have no cause to believe otherwise.
Your loving son, ever,
James Alford
PS. You should know that because I was pursued as a deserter, I had to change my name. So please write to me as James Alford.
James sat back and looked down at the parchment. Already the sun had risen to shaft in the side window. It was Sunday morning; the wedding party the night before had been long and full of cheer — rum, good food, dancing, and now the entire family was asleep upstairs.
Although it had been their wedding night, both he and Catherine had slept here by the fire, his bed over the past two weeks. With little Eleanor sharing her room, Catherine preferred to use this room downstairs for the few nights remaining before they struck out to their own place.
His body still felt that beautiful relaxation, drained by love-making. He looked across at Catherine, still deeply asleep, a flush of passion upon her cheeks, her blonde hair awry, her nightgown beside her in a tangled heap. He got up, quietly tiptoed over, and tucked it under the covering. She did not stir.
He straightened and looked upstairs. How would she dress when the brothers came down, he wondered in an unusual proprietary fashion. Just as he was thinking this, he heard the boards creak above. Mrs. Garrett always came down first, to feed the fire and prepare a kettle for their tea and a cauldron for their porridge. Well, here comes breakfast. But his main thought was now, as it had been all along: how to tell his new wife of the journey he planned to see his son and the Micmac tribe?
***
“Mrs. James Alford...” Catherine was saying. She had a lovely red plaid shawl over her shoulders, one of the better wedding presents that they had received.
James was inordinately proud of his new wife as they took their walk down to the pier. The late October weather had turned cold, giving rise to a much earlier blaze of glory that covered the Gaspé coast every autumn. These last days working in Will Garrett’s fields, James had marvelled, as he did every year since coming to the New World, at the lime greens and reds, dark greens, lemon yellows, bright and dark, of the many trees surrounding William Garrett’s farm. The trees seemed to reflect his spirit, which soared like the colours of the landscape. A time of festivity, of rejoicing, a conflagration of yearning and satisfaction. So how would he break the news to her of his impending journey?
“You know, I have been Catherine Garrett for nineteen years...”
“Well, you will be Catherine Alford for nineteen plus nineteen plus another nineteen,” he said. “And I shall love you for twice as long as that.”
They walked a little further and stopped to survey the open common fields with their cattle and sheep. “So what is it you wanted to discuss with me, my dearest?” Catherine asked, reaching for his hand.
How shall I bring it up, he wondered again. “Catherine, I want to make a short trip by canoe down
the coast to make sure everything is fine before you come. I will be gone only two days.”
“A wife’s duty is to be by her husband. I cannot let you go alone.”
Exactly the answer he had anticipated. Did that mean he would have to tell her the whole truth? One day after their wedding? “No, my love. Absolutely not. I intend to go alone. Any storm may surprise me, and I would rather take as much of our supplies as possible down to our cabin in advance. I need the room in the canoe.”
“But I can learn to paddle, James. I have to start soon, as you yourself acknowledged.”
“We’ll have lots of time for that,” James replied. He saw Catherine look sideways at him. “I think you’re hiding something.”
Would he have rather had a less discerning wife? One with less intuition? Someone less intelligent perhaps? No siree! He loved her for that very perception. “You are just wonderful, Catherine!”
She said nothing, but withdrew her hand from his. “It will only be for two days,” James said. “I’ll be back on the evening of the second day, no matter what.”
“No matter if there is that storm you predict?”
“Well then, I shall come one day later. I have every reason to preserve my life, now that it seems so promising.”
“I can’t believe we’re disagreeing this soon after our wedding,” Catherine said with a hint of anger.
“No argument at all,” retorted James. “A husband has an obligation to prepare his house for his bride, and nothing you say will dissuade me. You think I have another wench hidden in the woods?”
“You have something hidden in the woods,” she said. “Of that I am sure.”
They kept walking toward the jetty without speaking. They reached it and stood out upon the floating boards, listening to the waters lap around them. The sky was half covered in lush clouds, different shades of a gentle blue-grey. To the right, white flecks and buffets crossed at different levels, some high, some low, exemplifying the immense variety of a Gaspé sky — wrought by a Master to whom James felt very close.