by Paul Almond
Then a cry came from the Hollow.
He leapt up and was shocked to hear another yell. “James! James!” Catherine screamed, and then silence.
He broke into a run. He soon reached the clearing around his house. No sign of Catherine anywhere. “Catherine!”
He ran to the door quickly, looked in. He came out, ran behind. No sign. Had some villain grabbed her? Was she being raped in the woods? “Catherine!” he yelled again, and stood, listening hard. Silence.
Where was she? Where was Mariah? Frantic, he came to the front of the house and then, out on the bay, saw war canoes.
Oh Lord, a flotilla! Two, three, yes, four loaded canoes heading his way. So where was Catherine?
“Catherine!” She had hidden herself. But Indians would find her in no time.
He ran back and forth, peering into the bushes that lined the foot of the hill. “Catherine, come down,” he called again. “Get in the house. We’ll barricade ourselves in.”
Oh yes? They only had one measly fastener. He’d been meaning to put up a stout wooden bar. But now, anyone could break in.
So what to do? Get upstairs, load his flintlock and sight down through the dormer window? Thoughts of his pure wife made him panic. So many stories: men scalped, women raped — who were they, coming in full regalia? The Iroquois? Had they massacred his tribe? Should he go and negotiate? With no bars on the door, no real means of defending himself, that was the only option. He headed down his trail, pausing halfway to check once again.
Could it be... he peered intently. Was that man in the costume of a Chief in the central canoe his own Chief from Port Daniel? But why so many canoes? Why head so ominously for his own landing at Shegouac Brook? Coming to seize Mariah? Or snatch his wife, to make up for the loss of Little Birch? Crazy ideas lurched about in his brain.
He kept on down the trail — to reconciliation or death, he knew not which. If he greeted them, diverted them, perhaps Catherine could get away.
On the beach, he stopped. In the canoe with the Chief — did that not look like a woman, holding a baby? Not John? He leapt across the shelving of red rock and stood, a solitary figure, waiting.
One after another, the decorated canoes beached. The occupants nimbly leapt out to haul their crafts above the high-tide line.
James signalled with open arms his welcome. The Chief’s canoe drew up, and from the prow Tongue got out.
James’s head spun. What on earth? A ceremonial occasion?
His whole family came ashore: Full Moon carrying John, Brightstar, now a fine young lad of twelve, and One Arm, dressed in his best outfit.
James was so pleased he grabbed Full Moon and hugged her, forgetting again that this was not the Indian way. Gravely, he shook hands with One Arm and Tongue; and finally he could not avoid giving Brightstar a big hug too, as though he were still a little lad, embarrassing him no end, though he did giggle with delight. Full Moon gingerly handed him his son, and he looked for a long moment into the sombre little face.
They all gathered round while he made a short speech, welcoming them to his farmland, expressing extreme pleasure at their visit. He handed back his son to Full Moon and started up the trail, waving them onwards.
His first thought was Catherine. She should be there to welcome them, as right and proper and only to be expected. But was she still hiding somewhere, off in the woods? Had she climbed the hill behind the house, carrying Mariah to safety? When he reached the yard in front of the house, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Catherine, come down. Our friends have arrived. Come welcome them.” No answer.
What should he do? How far had she gone?
He tried again: “Catherine, come quickly. We need you. Please! Help me greet them!” Still no answer.
The entourage broke out into the flat clearing and gathered silently, staring at this newly finished farmhouse and barn, roofs pitched with tar.
In spite of the natural reticence of the Micmac, he could see their eyes glow with satisfaction. He waved them forward, standing by his open door.
They moved forward, albeit with some awkwardness. Brightstar, unable to contain his excitement, ran over to Broad and began to pat him. But frightened by the enthusiasm, the calf had pulled back to the length of its tether. And then, James saw their heads turn. He looked round. There stood Catherine at the edge of his cleared land — the picture of an angel, blonde curls over perfectly formed full features, holding a lovely baby daughter, four months old.
“Catherine,” he walked quickly over, “come and meet my former family.”
“Why have they come?”
“Who knows? Catherine, please be gracious.”
“Of course, James, but I’m nervous...” He brought her down to meet them. “This is Full Moon. And One Arm. Look, little John.” Catherine stared at her new son, stricken by this avalanche of new sensations. “Brightstar, come on over and meet my wife,” he called in Micmac.
Shy greetings took place, and then they all began to relax, pointing at the house and talking quietly. James could see they were pleased.
Full Moon came closer to Catherine, interested in how she carried Mariah: a piece of cloth improvised around her, on her back. At that age, John had been securely carried on his cradle board. Full Moon was talking volubly all the time in Micmac, explaining the advantages of a cradle board, clearly worried that Catherine’s homemade piece of canvas was not sufficient.
“Hold it, hold it,” James said in Micmac to Full Moon, “she doesn’t understand.”
Catherine gestured gracefully for them to enter her home. Cautiously, they picked their way closer, talking among themselves in low tones, admiring the buildings and land.
James held his door wide and ushered them into his all-purpose room. Leading the Chief to the place of honour before the fireplace, James came and sat beside him on the rough bench. Catherine approached, full of conflicting emotions, though her fear had dissipated.
The ceremonial pipe was lit with Indian tobacco that the Chief had grown, as Tongue explained. Catherine went over to take another close look at John. Then she noticed Full Moon checking her utensils on the shelves. Gesturing, she explained each one, and how she cooked with them. James guessed she’d give her selected ones later.
Soon Tongue rose, and the gathering fell quiet. Their shaman, the Buowin, who had rescued James from his utter despair, had signified that in a dream Little Birch had come, and ordered the band to rethink their decision about John. Magwés had commanded him to send their best scout to Shegouac to investigate John’s father and his new wife. The Buowin had been so firm and insistent that the Chief had dispatched their foremost scout, who had indeed come and, unnoticed, observed James and Catherine at work. His report had been positive.
The Chief now rose and spoke in Micmac, of which James caught the gist, announcing the tribe’s considered decision. They had reached a consensus that John would be safe in the hands of these English settlers. Then Full Moon, with short but touching phrases, handed the yearold baby to James.
“We should take care of him now, Full Moon?” James asked in Micmac, in formal fashion, Catherine at his side.
Full Moon nodded her full accord, and little John for his part looked up and actually smiled. The group reacted approvingly.
James put John down, now over a year old, so that he could crawl and pull himself up at the bench. He tottered over to the Chief. Smiling, the stately Indian turned him around, and John tottered back to James and reached up to be taken into his arms. Mariah lay quietly in her pine cradle.
Catherine had stoked the fire, got a kettle boiling, and was able to hand around piggins of valuable tea, though some visitors had to share, there not being enough to go round.
During the ensuing encounter, Tongue translated for Catherine their delight at what the young couple had managed to achieve in such a short time. James gave all credit to Catherine’s United Empire Loyalist family. He went on to promise that he would bring John back to the encampmen
t and never let him lose touch with his Native roots, of which he should be justly proud. None of them made mention of Little Birch, for the names of the dead were rarely spoken.
When the time came to leave, as they wanted to be back before nightfall, Full Moon picked her grandson up. She hugged him and kissed him and closed her eyes, from which tears began to fall. James glanced at Catherine.
She, too, had tears in her eyes. “Tell her, James, we shall always be grateful.” James translated and Catherine went on, “Tell her that I shall look after John as though he were my own. He will be treated as I would treat my firstborn.” James translated, though his brimming emotions almost put a stop to his words. “I shall make sure that he grows into a fine young man.”
When James had translated this, he saw Full Moon crying and others holding back tears.
Finally, he walked with them down to their canoes, and stood as one stricken, looking out over the blue-grey sea, waving after them until they rounded the last point and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On the bay, a single boat approached.
James and Catherine stared anxiously. Two men? Not Micmac. They appeared to be settlers. Arriving from the west, presumably from Paspébiac or New Carlisle.
“I’m going inside,” Catherine said firmly.
“They’re only settlers. Don’t worry, Catherine. I’ll go down.”
“Be careful, James!”
He picked up his firearm and strode off down the hill. The trail had been purposefully designed so bushes would obscure his movements from the bay. Halfway down, at an opening, he peered again: two oarsmen for sure, in a fairly new boat. With their backs to him as they rowed, they didn’t see him until they were close to shore. The man in the stern turned and said something to his companion in the front, who was pulling hard. They both wore heavy jackets.
James waited on the beach till they arrived and then helped them pull the boat up above the high-tide line. “We seen your building from the bay,” said the man, getting out of the stern. “I’m Bill Mann. This here’s my brother, Isaac.”
“I’m James Alford. You folks in to check out land?”
“Isaac figured there might be a vacant piece hereabouts. I brung yez a letter.” Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a parchment package, sealed with wax. Such was the custom of the Coast to pass on letters like this.
“Lotsa land, lotsa land hereabouts,” James said, and looked down at the package. “Old Garrett gave it to us.”
“Good acreage on that other side of the brook, if you want it.”
“Thanks,” said the man called Isaac. “John Gilchrist claims she’s a right pretty spot here.” Isaac’s bushy beard hid a slightly mean mouth. His heavyset shoulders were stooped; James guessed him to be a carpenter, probably early thirties. His brother Bill seemed somewhat less taciturn.
“If you’d like to come up to the house, my wife will offer you both a cup of hot soup and a slice of bread.” James was dying to find out about the letter.
“Thank you kindly.” Bill looked over at his brother getting his rucksack out of the boat.
“We’ll just take a look-see first,” Isaac muttered. “Thank ye, but we must get back afore nightfall.”
James watched the two of them take their tools, an axe and a saw, and splash across the brook. Isaac turned. “Ya say this here waste land’s not occupied?”
“That’s right,” replied James.
“This here brook got any name?”
“The Micmac call it Shegouac.”
“Shegouac? Thanks.”
“Planning on staying?”
“Just for the day, maybe,” said Bill.
“Good flat land up there,” James called after them.
Isaac had the grace to turn and wave before he joined his brother scrambling up the steep hillside through the bushes.
James hurried up his path to report on the newcomers and read his letter. He was not sure if he liked the demeanour of the person who might end up being his neighbour. But then, any man was better than none. Their clothes and appearance gave them a look of substance; Catherine might well know them. Well appointed, they would not be an added responsibility this winter.
After James told Catherine about the Manns, he handed her the opened letter, eyes glowing. She looked down. “From your mother?”
James nodded. “You can read it if you like.”
“James you know I am not able to.” She blushed. “You read it out loud.”
James frowned. “Your parents didn’t school you?”
She shook her head. “Now go on, read it.” She added, “No need for extravagances like reading. What is there for me to read anyway?”
“Letters.” Gingerly he spread the parchment out on the table.
My dearest son, he began, trying to hide his intense excitement, I am sending this short note to let you know I’m in good health and looking forward to the trip next summer, although the thought of a passage over the Atlantic fills me with dread. We hear about so many good people coming to their end, their bodies consigned to the deep. I must now inform you of rather sad news. Your great ship, the Bellerophon, has been taken out of commission in the Port of London, and made into a floating prison. After its many great deeds, how dreadful for the Admiralty to consign it to such a fate. I shall try to find out more details.
On a trip to town, Goodman the butler was kind enough to enquire into sailings. I shall take a ship from Liverpool, our closest port. So before long, and certainly after the winter, I shall be with you.
I cannot wait to meet your new wife and her family, and especially, to help look after your children. Your loving mother.
“Welcome news indeed!” Catherine exclaimed. “You must reply at once. The sooner she gets here the better. Mariah will be a year old, and John two. What with all the work, the chickens and bull to feed,” James looked up, “and so many vegetables and jams to put up for the winter, I’d welcome another pair of hands.”
“I’ll write to her immediately. Isaac and his brother can take the letter back to New Carlisle today. And your father, Catherine, will help with the next schooner.”
***
Late in the summer, James had been fashioning a large safety bar across the front door at last when out the door he saw two men arriving. The first wore a bushy beard and a floppy hat under which James saw handsome, if somewhat ravaged, features.
“Hello there. I’m Samuel Allen. This fella here’s John Rafter.”
“Pleased to meet you both.” James went forward to shake hands. John, younger than Sam, had a quick and ready smile. Built like fence wire, he was all muscle and clearly used to working hard.
“Sam is getting to be one of the family, so he asked me along.”
“This is my wife Catherine, old Will Garrett’s daughter. I guess you know them? Come in, come in.”
They appeared wet and weary, having rowed all day. “Us saw your house from the bay,” Sam said. “Mighty fine building.”
Catherine took their wet coats. “I do remember you, Mr. Rafter. You’re a good friend of my brothers.”
“John and Will? That I am, ma’am.”
“John here’s involved in shipbuilding, too,” Sam said. “His mother and me, we figured I should bring him down for a look-see. Your brook’s getting a pile o’ mentions as some fine place. But we stopped in every cove first, to look around.” Samuel studied the house as they went in. “Well built. Old Gilchrist?”
“Sure was,” James replied. “John Gilchrist must have been taken a liking to Shegouac. Told Isaac Mann to come, too.”
“Mentioned it to me, too. We work for Isaac sometimes.”
“Sam here’s a carpenter, builds ships,” John volunteered. “Makes the best blocks and tackles.”
“Isaac’s got a terble pile o’ land up round Matapedia. He don’t need any here. Anyway, he said this here brook looked good enough for us all, and told me I should row down.” He scratched his head. “Seems like No
uvelle River up there, it’s got a bunch o’ settlers already. Starting both sides, now.”
Catherine had hung their heavy outer garments on pegs near the fire. “You’ve been looking along the Coast?”
“Not a lot of land free with a nice brook like this between here and Paspébiac,” Sam acknowledged.
James motioned for them to sit at the table. “Lots down Pabos way, I believe.”
“Anyone live across the brook?” Sam sat down, and John joined him.
“No sir. Isaac Mann came looking. Might have staked out a piece before he went back. But we’d be pleased to have neighbours.” James pulled over a chair. “Winters are long. Safety in numbers, I guess.” Catherine hurried to offer them warmed-over vegetables and set down cups for their tea.
The Manns, including John’s mother, Widow Rafter, and her sons, did end up building a cabin, and came to stay with their children and supplies. The Smiths, prosperous landowners from around New Carlisle, also turned up, and during autumn worked clearing some land further down by the point. But they returned home for the winter.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Spring 1816
The next year, shirt sleeves rolled up, James worked with his shovel out in the spring sun, digging a trench to divert the fast-running water coming off the hill that threatened the foundations of his new house. Thanks to the good store of moose meat from his first successful hunt, they had weathered the winter. But now, in these early days of May, they were happy to see the snow melting at such a furious rate. Happy, but for the approaching trip to New Carlisle. Spring had come at long last, and with it, the worry of their promised visit to Catherine’s family, with the hitherto unknown John, son of a Micmac mother.