The Survivor

by Paul Almond

  “Seems like it,” Mrs. Garrett responded. “Catherine is upstairs with the midwife. I have a fire going for hot water. All is well. You and the brothers will eat tonight next door at the neighbours’.”

  “May I see her?” asked James.

  “Of course, but don’t stay long. This is women’s business.”

  James went in and climbed the stairs in mounting terror, but he cheered up when he saw Catherine in her new nightgown, comfortable in her parents’ bed. All the lamps in the house had been assembled and stood unlit upon the chest of drawers. He came forward anxiously. “How are you doing, my love?”

  “Quite well, thank you, James. But please, try to appear happy.”

  “We all are,” the midwife chimed in. “Merciful Lord, it’s a blessed occasion, indeed it is.”

  James hadn’t realized how clearly his concern showed. All the same, her reprimanding tone of voice struck him like a blow.

  “No no, of course. Forgive me.” He tried to smile. “This will be the happiest night of my life,” he lied. For he was swamped by a sickening gloom, might he never, ever see her again? He watched, helpless, as his beloved wife twisted in the fierce pain of a contraction.

  Almost as quickly as it came on, it disappeared. The midwife said cheerfully, “That’s soon, dearie. ’Twill not be long. So off you go, Mr. Alford.”

  He and Catherine locked eyes in a loving connection. Then he turned, and stepped heavily downstairs.

  The brothers were waiting for him. They got up in anticipation. “We got a surprise for you, James.” John gathered round with the others. “Gonna be fun.”

  “Yes, lots of fun,” Will chimed in. “We all want to celebrate with yez. Not every day a fellow’s sister gives birth to a baby! So let’s get going!”

  “Oh well, I think perhaps I’ll just —”

  “You’ll just nothing!” laughed John and grabbed James by the arm. “Come on now, we’ve got your house built for you, you’re coming to celebrate.”

  So off the four young men went, down the muddy main street and north up a side road. Will led them to a shack half buried in the woods, where men sat on rough benches, quaffing pints of rum and homemade beer. As they were settling themselves, a rough-looking oaf came out and Will called, “Innkeeper! Your finest rum. My sister’s having a baby. We’re here to celebrate!”

  Innkeeper? Hardly a denomination James would have used — the fellow appeared more like a pirate or a rumrunner. James looked around. No moon, but lots of stars flashing bright across the blackness. On rough tables sat whale-oil lanterns.

  The rum appeared, and they each helped themselves to a good slug. James sipped at his, just to show he was one of the boys. “Now what are these plans you have for building a ship, John?”

  “Maybe in a year or two we’re gonna get Mr. Day to help us build a coastal schooner.”

  “And Will, you’ll be master?”

  “No siree, that’s John. Me, I’m only a farmer. Oh, I’ll sail along the first year, just to see my little brother gets to no harm!” He nudged him in jest. And the two set about arm wrestling, after throwing down a challenge. Oddly enough, John won.

  After a while, James rose. “Well, I’m off. This was a real celebration! Thanks so much.” All three rose to protest. “No, I’ve really got to get back. Rum doesn’t sit well tonight.” He gave a rueful smile.

  After another round of protests James took his leave, and headed back.

  ***

  The sky above James glittered with a million stars. He sat, legs outstretched on the bare planks of the floating dock and leaned back against a stanchion. The highmasted schooners rocking at anchor had a calming effect. High above to the south, he saw Orion striding across the sky with his trusty dog, Canis Major. Sirius, the Dog Star, seemed especially bright. Even Canis Minor was trotting calmly along behind, clearly visible. He tilted his head back further to see the fixed pole star. The rectangle of Ursa Major, the Great Bear, seemed to be ambling happily across his darkened woods, paying little attention to his companions. Hydra, twirled snakelike around the North Star, served to remind James of the evil and misfortunes that sometimes befell, not only sailors, but landlubbers. He shut his eyes quickly.

  A time for prayer. If the baby were born healthy, he would write his mother again. He had spoken with Catherine and the next year they would bring her over for sure. Catherine said she would welcome the companionship, especially a hand with chores and the baby. William Sr. had said that he might help with the passage, for he too was pleased that another grandparent might accept to come to that god-forsaken spot. He presumed she was of good stock, though James had been careful to speak of his British background only in the vaguest terms.

  James checked upwards again, and saw the gentle Cassiopeia in her rocking chair, knitting calmly. Had she been there knitting for all time? So far as he knew, she would do so far into the future. Perhaps the image calmed him, for suddenly he sat up with a shock. How long had he slept? Orion had been replaced by the noble Boötes. How awful! To drift off while his wife was in labour. With a wave at the great inventor of ploughs and his lovely bright star, Arcturus, James hurried over the broad meadow, peopled as always with the sleeping forms of cattle and sheep. Then he slowed down, heart sinking. All was dark and silent. Like a tomb? Even the dead seemed to be moving in wisps about the town. The long-dead shades of the first settlers: had Catherine already joined their ghostly throng? He turned along the Garretts’ street. On the corner he saw the house, but all the windows were lit. Were they even now laying out her body? He almost cursed himself for his lack of faith. Ah well, the moment had come: he must, like Caesar, cross his Rubicon. He mounted the steps.

  Sounds of jollity, whoops of joy. Could this be true? He strode quickly to the door and threw it open. Everyone was in there, neighbours included, celebrating.

  “The happy father! Come in, come in. Run upstairs. Catherine has been asking for you. She’s really worried. Where have you been? Run up quick.”

  He needed no second urging. Up he went, and there she lay, the baby in her arms. “Well, James, we did it! It’s a girl.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Soon after the baby girl’s birth, James decided to return alone to finish the half-completed house. Catherine should remain a while longer before bringing her newborn into the wilderness. They had named her Mariah: Mary, the mother of his Lord. An acknowledgement.

  Once back in Shegouac, he knew he must first visit his other baby, John, in the Micmac community behind Port Daniel. He found the band in fine spirits and decided to stay two days this time, especially wanting more time with his son, and with the aging Tongue, whom he found slowing down somewhat. Sunrise had gone back with her husband to the encampment at the mouth of the bay in Listiguj.

  He bartered items for a new bow and arrow; this winter with Catherine and Mariah he’d need meat for sure. With his musket he might bag a moose, but remembering his nearly fatal encounter back in the Highlands, James determined to hedge his bets and get a spear. He did reveal details of his new wife, though not of their daughter. Soon he’d start the difficult, perhaps even impossible, negotiations to fetch his Native son for integration into a white settler’s life.

  Two weeks later, at work on his own barn roof, James saw a boat rowed by two sturdy men and poised between them, a woman holding a baby. Catherine! He scrambled down the ladder and raced to the brook’s mouth. Any doubts were cast aside — Mariah must be healthy for Catherine to come home this early.

  And what an arrival! Wading out into the waves, he picked her up and carried her and Mariah ashore as her brothers John and Joseph pulled the rowboat up onto the beach.

  “I’m sorry, James, I just couldn’t wait. I didn’t want you to miss one minute of your daughter’s growth. Look, even in three weeks, hasn’t she grown?”

  Indeed she had. “Thank you Catherine, thank you so much.” Delighted, he led them back along the trail, the brothers carrying additional food supplies.


  William Sr. had finally promised his son the wherewithal to begin his boat. So now, with the spring planting over, John was spending a couple of weeks here helping James on the house. He wanted to learn something from James of the lore of the sea, and any seafaring yarns. And so John and James worked together, first making the farmhouse a fitting establishment for the lady Catherine and her lovely daughter. Young Joseph had rowed the boat back the next day.

  While they worked around, James let his newly bought chickens loose to scratch among the trunks for sustenance. So easy to feed and keep. Eggs for the summer; Catherine’s idea was bearing fruit. He especially loved the sound of the rooster waking him in the mornings as he slept on the rough boards by the fire. He’d gotten a rooster so the eggs would produce more chicks. During the winter, Catherine could butcher a hen every couple of weeks to augment their supply of meat. Already it was beginning to feel like a farm.

  “You know, James,” asked John, “with this here barn getting ready, when are ya going to get yourself some animals?”

  “An ox, an ox is first. But how can I ever pay for it?”

  “Scarce as hens’ teeth, them baby oxen,” John agreed. “I’ll watch out for one, but every calf — well, the owners want them for themselves. Impossible t’buy, I’d say. Them that can afford one, they’s after one, too.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  “Any bull calves to spare, the farmers butcher in the autumn. Gotta get food somehow.”

  James nodded. “But without an ox, how can I clear my land?”

  “Now James, where’s the tar?” John changed the subject. “With the barn roof finished —”

  “Tar? I’d forgotten. Oh dear!”

  “A roof without tar, how long do you think it’ll last in our weather?”

  James knew tar from his sailing days and working on Robin’s barque. This meant an urgent trip to Paspébiac. So when the day came for John to leave, James paddled him up to New Carlisle and stopped at Paspébiac on the way back.

  “I’ve come to buy a barrel of pitch,” James said, as he walked up to the counter of the Trading Post he’d first visited with the Micmac.

  The trader remembered him from the time James had borrowed a leather hat as a disguise, when on the run from the British Marines, and had returned it promptly. “Got any tar?” James asked. “Pitch for roofs?”

  The trader nodded. “Take time. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Yes, thought James, you’ll fetch it at Robin’s and then sell it to me for double the price. Pity I can’t go myself — they only work in the truck system, he knew. “How much?”

  “Half a barrel, one livre.”

  A pound sterling, James told himself, double the ten shillings he had planned on. He sighed. “All right, thank you.”

  He paused to join with the men who stood around the stove in sombre conversation.

  “You not hear the news?” one said. “A man, he found dead on beach. Jump off cliff.”

  “Someone dead? Who?”

  “Young fella. Il voulait être fermier. He want become farmer, him. Live back in woods. He start to clear land. Now all finish, for sure.”

  So this had been the topic of their bleak discussion. And indeed, for Paspébiac, big news. Curious that someone would have jumped over the cliffs. Not at all like a settler. “Est-ce qu’il s’est suicidé?”

  “Peut-être. Me, I t’ink bad things happen. Tout le monde pense la même chose,” answered the man.

  Bad things indeed, James reflected, and they all agreed. Then, his eye was caught by a curious sight. Huddled in the corner, lifeless, but twitching an ear: a calf? Three or four weeks old, he guessed. “What’s that?”

  “She for sale. But no one buy, I think. Half-dead.” James went over to the little calf and knelt. The calf tried to lift its weak head to look at him. He reached out and scratched it behind the ear. What a shame. He looked closer. A bull calf.

  Just what he needed! His mind whirled. Dying, obviously, so it couldn’t cost much. How did it get here? He rose and went to the counter. “Who is selling it?”

  “Tu veut l’acheter?”

  “I might buy it, depending on price.” Should get it for a shilling or two, he thought. But he’d like to know a good deal more. Had it been stolen?

  “For sure. De owner, he come soon,” the trader told James.

  James went back to the little calf. Thin, but nice red and white markings. Not well looked after. Who knows, he thought, could it be rescued? An ox for his farm — how long had he dreamed of that? But his money — he needed that for pitch.

  Through the open door walked the scrawniest, meanest individual James had seen in a long time. Long scraggy hair, a slight but wiry frame, black beard, and clothing that had not been washed for ages. James looked down into his darting weaselly eyes.

  “Tu veut achêter mon boeuf?”the man asked.

  “Peut-être.”James went on in French: how much do you want?

  “Cinque livres,” the man replied.

  “Five pounds? Go on! You must be joking.”

  “No joke,” said the man. “Fine bull calf. Make ox one day for farmer.”

  “Half-dead,” James replied in French, thinking fast. All he had in the world he had brought with him, thirty shillings. “I’ll give you ten shillings. Gonna die any minute.”

  The weasel stared him up and down. “Never she die. Thirty.”

  James waited, thinking, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll give you twenty but that’s all.”

  “You got de money now?” asked the weasel. “You give me now, I give you calf. Then you go. Where you bring?”

  “Oh, I have a canoe down at the wharf,” James replied without thinking. “I’ll carry him down.” Then he thought, why did he ask that? And why did he agree so quickly on the price? Something did not add up. The weasel held out his hand.

  The men around had stopped talking and were watching; the innkeeper leaned forward on his counter.

  “All right,” James responded. “I’ll be back in a minute.” And out he went.

  He was not going to let the weasel see where he kept his money, which Catherine had sewn into his waistband. He leaned against the log wall and with the knife he still carried Micmac fashion round his neck, he slit a stitch and pulled the thread. The waistband opened and he took out the money. Was he being foolish? Spending their hard-earned money on a bull calf that might die at any minute. But something told James it might just be the chance he’d been counting on. Then and there, he grew determined to save the little bull’s life. Resolutely, he walked back into the store.

  “Here.” He handed over the precious twenty shillings. The weasel’s eyes glowed. He grabbed the money, thrust it in his pocket, and ran out quickly. In the doorway he paused. “You go now your canoe?” he asked. “Later this afternoon. I have some business first.” Why did he let him know that, he asked himself. Well, he was not used to such shenanigans. The first thing, he decided, was to visit Monsieur Blanquart and beg some gruel for the calf before the long journey back to Shegouac. Afterwards, he would return for his roof pitch.

  James walked over and picked the calf up, finding it heavier than he expected. Sixty pounds anyway. He hiked it up into his arms and out he went, down the wooded lane toward the shack of M. Blanquart. When he reached the door, he set the little fellow down, trying to make it stand, but it crumpled. “You like it closer to the earth, huh?” Starving, thought James, and knocked on the door.

  No answer. He paused, and then in the custom of the time, opened the door. The room was much as he had seen it the year before: tiny models of ships on the worktable, a bunk, and over the open fire, a kettle, still steaming. So M. Blanquart could not be far away. James went through his meagre shelves and found some oats, roughly handmilled for porridge. That would do. He put some in a bowl with hot water from the kettle, and brought it to the calf. The little bull smelled it, but did nothing. “Come on, little calf, eat. It’s good for you.”

  But eat it would not.
Probably never drunk out of a bowl, James thought. Probably so far just suckled its mother, who now would be either dead or faraway. What could he do? He placed the bowl again under its nose. Nothing happened.

  Monsieur Blanquart arrived at the edge of the clearing and stopped short, seeing a stranger. James turned his head and saw the old man run off. He rose quickly. “Monsieur Blanquart! C’est moi!”

  M. Blanquart hurried forward and embraced him. “J’avais peur,”he told James, and went on to explain that there had been strange goings-on recently. A man had been found dead on the beach, and he, like many others, suspected foul play.

  James explained about the calf, and M. Blanquart knelt. With practised fingers, his friend daubed gruel on the bull calf’s nose. The calf licked it off. Then he put his hand in the bowl and stuck two fingers up to resemble teats.

  The calf inspected them, smelled them, and then dipped his little chin into it and began to suckle. James grinned broadly. “M. Blanquart, you have the touch!”

  The old man nodded, and James sat back. Now maybe it would live. The calf had a broad red slash across its face, a pink nose surrounded by white. One ear was red, the other white. His ribs showed through. How long had he been like this? And where had he come from? Had there been dirty work at the crossroads? Why hadn’t he thrown more questions at the weasel? Well, he would have learned nothing. Perhaps it had been sick and left to die? More likely, it had belonged to the young farmer found dead on the beach.

  James handed the now-empty bowl to M. Blanquart, who filled it again and brought it back. This time James himself tried putting his hand in the bowl with two fingers stuck up. The little calf seemed decidedly more perky as it dipped its nose in to suckle. “What am I going to call you?” he asked the little creature.

  After two bowlfuls, James saw its eyes fluttering shut, and let it rest. Its head flopped on the ground, and it gave a low moan. “Hope it’s not dying...”

  “Presque,” M. Blanquart said, ‘almost,’ as he invited James into the shack for a cup of tea. The first subject, before he could speak about the daughter, was the death of the young man found on the beach. M. Blanquart agreed there might have been foul play. Possibly the young man had been pitched over the bank to make it look like an accident — to avoid the Sheriff and Justice of Peace from New Carlisle coming to investigate. With such evil abroad, James knew he’d better be doubly on guard.