The Survivor

by Paul Almond

  Day after day this summer, he and Catherine had arisen and had been forced to dress warmly to do a day’s work. Time after time, they had tried to nourish a few small plants. And time after time, with the temperature so low, most plants had withered — even the stoutest would produce little corn; few potatoes of decent size lurked in the rich soil. Would the trout in the brook be fat and sleek this autumn, as in other years? Of course not. Even the small game, on which he relied for trapping, would diminish as their habitat was unable to replenish itself. The sun daily declined to show its face, hiding behind a cloak of continuous cloud.And what a curious colour in the sky: dark red sunsets and, all day long, a murky grey-brown pall hanging over the landscape.

  The talk, up and down the Coast, was how to face this winter. What could James feed the chickens? They’d all have to be eaten eventually. Devastation everywhere.

  Nor was the news from Quebec City good. This snow had struck the capital in all its fury, smothering buildings, outlying gardens, and fields as well. The government would surely have too many problems of its own to bear in mind this distant Coast. Schooners had reported in Paspébiac that city markets carried far less produce than normal. Last week, James had trudged up the now familiar path to Nouvelle and spent the afternoon discussing matters with John Ross. He was even more worried, with eleven mouths to feed. Everyone agreed this had never happened before.

  James happened to turn his head and see, on the brow of the hill, the figure of Catherine. She started down the trail.

  “I’m sorry,” James said simply. He waved his hand at the smashed bucket.

  “I understand, my dearest. I understand very well.” She nodded to herself. “You know, James, these last three or four weeks, I have been speaking to you roughly, as no wife should. But ’twas only the frustration talking.”

  James sighed. “And I thought, myself, I could be strong for both of us.” He shook his head. “I’ve lost the will to go on.” He let his head slump into his hands.

  Catherine reached out and touched him. “It will pass, James. It will pass.” He felt her bend and kiss him on the head.

  “It’s all very well to say that, but when there’s nothing to eat, how shall we go on?”

  “I have no answer. But I do believe that we must.”

  James gestured at the dirty, decaying drifts still lying in hollows around. “Snow. In August. Am I seeing things?”

  The happiness bird, his companion at the cabin, called from a nearby tree. Yes, in the past it had seemed like a promise, but now James wasn’t so sure. But with Catherine’s motherly comfort, James found himself feeling a bit better. He surveyed the remains of the bucket he had carefully crafted over two days, now a victim of his tantrum.

  “I’d better hold myself in check, or I’ll be spending all my time making new implements!” An odd smile grew on his lips and he reached over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “You are the best. If any man can look after you this winter, it will be me. That cloud of despair, which clung to me all that spring before we met? I did survive it. And look what came next — you, the one treasure of my life. Where the next will be found, I know not, but find it we shall.”

  “The treasure, my dear James, is in your own heart. You will discover strengths that you never even knew existed. And that strength will carry me, and our two children, and dear Broad,” she slapped at the ox and he swished his tail, “and all of us will survive.”

  “By the grace of God, Catherine, yes, survive we must.”

  ***

  James heaved hard, dug his feet into the pebbled beach, and pushed out the rowboat. The Allens were leaving, bent on their own survival. Samuel had gathered his family, given James and Catherine some of the stores they had gathered through the summer, not very much, but welcome indeed.

  Samuel had hurt his leg rescuing a distressed boat last winter, and now had two ulcers, one above and one below the knee. Some midwife in New Carlisle might help, or perhaps the doctor would return for one last visit. Catherine had come down to the beach with the children to see the Allens off.

  “As you know, I’m expecting my mother,” called James.

  “I’ll keep my eye on any schooner that arrives from the Old Country,” replied Samuel as the boat drew out of earshot.

  “We’re sorry to see you go,” James called, echoed by Catherine.

  “We’ll be back in spring, no fear.” Samuel dug in his oars. His three children were seated in the stern, with Widow Rafter in the prow facing the bay. They turned and waved. The two families had shared many a good time over the summer, even in the midst of their general despair. With a tot of rum and a draft of good friendship, they had seen their way to merriment in the midst of gloom, and it was with sinking heart that James watched them move off over the waves. All their hoped-for neighbours had dispersed: the Smiths, David Senior and Junior, were going back to their original farm; Isaac Mann too — everyone seemed to think that survival in New Carlisle might be a better option than Shegouac, so aptly named by the Micmac: Nothing There.

  The family made their way up the hill, as though it were the Mount of Desolation. So little to eat, so little harvested, and nothing to help them understand how to survive that cruel winter rapidly approaching.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bundled up against the cold, James had spent a weary morning out with his shovel looking for roots, and searching among the bare trees for cattails. Not as tasty as cow-lily roots, these roots could be cooked like potatoes and would provide some nourishment. Catherine dried them under hot ashes and ground them into a kind of flour for cattail bread or soups. He’d taken note of a couple of new red oak trees. The ones closer to home had all been picked over for their acorns, which Catherine duly roasted, ground, and made into a kind of acorn bread.

  Worn out, James was walking up the trail from the Hollow carrying his sack of cow-lily roots when Catherine greeted him. She held a battered and folded paper, sealed with wax. “This might be important. One of my father’s friends brought it by boat while you were off this morning.”

  James fingered the heavy parchment, turning it over and over. Must be his mother; though the writing was different. He and Catherine had both been waiting for her. Not a day had gone by when they hadn’t questioned why no word had arrived. Of course, the journey might be difficult, and they presumed she may have stopped in Quebec, or Halifax, both places requiring an overland excursion.

  Summoning all his strength, he hurried up into the house, and sat down to break the seal. Catherine watched as he unfolded the outside paper, which contained the precious letter from his mother inside. And he started to read.

  My dearest son,

  I cannot believe what has been happening on board. But I am determined to tell you everything, until I can write no more. First let me tell —

  James stopped, put the letter down, and gazed into space. Until I can write no more. What could that mean? He had better involve Catherine. “Let me read you the first paragraph.”

  James read the words slowly, ending with until I can write no more. He looked across at Catherine and she dropped her eyes.

  “Go on, James,” she said gently.

  First, let me tell you how overjoyed I was to get your letters. They filled me with such hope. I read them to some of the staff at Raby Castle, who ended up being very helpful with my preparations to leave. As you may know, this trip has been long in the planning. And but for my present unfortunate predicament (which I shall explain below) it has turned out to be everything, and more, that I could ever have hoped for.

  James paused, and glanced over at Catherine. She did not meet his eyes, but sat motionless, like a statue. Did she know what was coming?

  James went on reading.

  You will be pleased to know that I came into an inheritance which permitted me to buy suitable clothes for the voyage and a good ticket on the schooner.

  You would not believe what fine clothes and the rattle of coins in one’s purse can do for a w
oman of my age. I have never before experienced such attention. When I arrived in Liverpool for my departure, I stayed at good accommodations, and even treated myself to a hairdresser. I find it alarming, even so, to see how appearances count. Not so, I gather, in your part of the world. You must tell your dear wife how lucky she is to avoid such prejudice.

  I did spend two days seeing around Liverpool, sparing no expense. Such a lovely time! You will see how this inheritance, my dearest son, has been very well spent, considering the state I find myself in now. Although I worried you might have needed it, I believe you are in good enough circumstances to be happy with how my last days were spent.

  James paused again. This time Catherine reached across and put her hand on his. He dropped his eyes, hoping for the best, but fearing what lay in the pages beneath.

  First, let me say that only now do I fully understand what you must have gone through in the British Navy. How do those sailors, poor things, manage to climb such horribly high masts, furling and unfurling the topmost sails so very high in the air? When I boarded my ship, full of hope, it looked quite large, but now in the midst of these enormous waves, I feel I am in one of the cork boats you used to launch on Belham stream near the Castle, when you were eight years old.

  Thank the Lord I am not among the lower classes, where the poor dears huddle in the bowels of the ship, vomiting. So terrible for them, and it makes me careful not to list my own limited sorrows here. Not a day goes by but another body is wrapped in canvas and committed to the deep and the arms of our dear Lord Jesus.

  When I came on board, I was that evening introduced in the mess, as it is apparently called, to a fine gentleman who also hails from the North Country. A widower, he was coming to see his son, just as I was coming to see you. His son has also done well, too, opening a branch of his father’s trade in Montreal. This ship is ending its voyage in Montreal, where he would have disembarked.

  James paused, then went on,

  In the few short days before we dropped anchor in the Canary Islands, we got to know each other quite well. I felt the contact would be useful for you in the New World, for he was a man of substance, and I’m sure his son must be also.

  “Was?” James again looked over at Catherine.

  We talked of many things, and spent time on the deck in the blowing wind, for at first the ship sailed under clear blue skies. Our course was directed toward the Caribbean Sea, which I discovered lies to the south of those new United States. Although they did break away from the King, that war between us is over and so we were due to call first at Boston, then proceed to Quebec, where I intended to disembark. I am told it is close enough to the Gaspé Coast.

  Tenerife in the Canaries was extraordinary. I don’t think I have ever felt in Northumberland such warm weather. Glorious days we spent, just the two of us, John Westberry and I, such a gallant gentleman, he took me everywhere. I felt young and attractive again. No don’t laugh at that, for it would not be too much to admit that these last two weeks, I was very, very happy.

  Dear James, our last day in Tenerife, my John complained of a headache, and the next day ran a high fever. And this is where I must admit that the dreaded typhus raging on the Continent has seized many of our crew and passengers.

  James put down the letter, fearing to read on. Catherine squeezed his hand and nudged him. He continued.

  It has now taken off the one who has given me such happiness. John Westberry was consigned to the deep yesterday. And, my dearest son, I hesitate to tell you, but I must. It has now taken firm hold of your unworthy mother.

  James could read no more. He put down the letter, and bowed his head. Catherine rose, went to sit and put a strong comforting arm around him, holding him tightly. They stayed that way for a while, but then James, wanting the whole truth, picked up the letter and continued.

  Dear James, do you remember that nobleman who took such an interest in you? You were not privy as I was to the fact that he held no great regard for our master, the Earl, but kept coming for those grouse shoots only to see you. After you left, his visits became fewer, and soon stopped altogether. Well you might ask, why was this?

  First, I have to tell you that he too has gone into the arms of His Maker — felled by some stroke which turned him at first into an invalid. When he passed on a year ago, he sent me an envelope in which I found the significant sum which permitted all this. He had fallen on hard times and part of his estate went for sale, which caused him a good deal of grief. His present wife had little idea of finance, and went through everything he owned. He never spoke ill of her, but led me to believe that she was not the woman for him. And you know how things are over here. He had to make the best of it. I am afraid her spendthrift ways were the finish of him.

  This is now the third day since my fever began and it has been getting worse. This has been written in fits and starts, between headaches and chills, and aching bones. But if I do nothing else, I must finish.

  I had been intending when I arrived to take all the time in the world to explain the circumstances of your birth. You have been such a good son, never asking about that. Letters are such a dreadful means of communicating anything but the most superficial of news. But I must continue.

  You see, my first service was in the employ of this Marquis who came to visit you. It was plain even then that his wife was truly a monster. Their marriage had been arranged by their families. He saw that I alone understood this, and for four wonderful years, he would come alone from London to his estate where I worked and we were able to share a good deal. In the end, I produced for him a son and heir. But an heir that could not, given the circumstances, inherit what was rightly his. And so it was felt for all our sakes, I should take you with me to another position, one that he kindly acquired for me as Under-Cook at Raby Castle.

  And that, my dear Thomas — no I must call you James now — that is the circumstances of your birth. I only wish I could have told you all this in person. But I’m afraid… The next day. I fear I shall not live to see the end of the morrow. I am promised a fine burial, as accorded one in my assumed position. I have also taken what little I did manage to save and given it to the Captain, who assures me, under oath, that this precious letter with its contents will be safely delivered in your hands.

  I shall not speak of my physical woes. Know only that these last few months — believing that once again I would be with you and your precious wife, and having lived for a short time like a real lady — have been among the happiest in my life. Except for the years I was often in the arms of your father.

  I send my love to your beautiful wife, and to your offspring.

  I wish it had been otherw —

  A scrawl of the pen across the paper ended the missive. James clenched his eyes shut and screwed his hands into a fist. After a moment, tears fell on the wooden planks of the table. Catherine’s arms around him only made the pain worse. At last, he turned his head into her shoulder and she held him as she would a baby.

  After a time he took the letter, sat up stiffly, and read it once again right through, with his heart like a stone that continued to sink through untold depths.

  And then he took the papers, having first ascertained that none of the sterling notes referred to by his mother were enclosed. Well, you could hardly blame the folks through whose many hands this must have passed, in times like these. Nothing he could do now. He crossed to the fire, knelt, and consigned the letter to the flames that licked and flickered over the now dying embers.

  Then he rose. He turned to Catherine, who wiped away her own tears. “We shall speak of this no more.”

  “No more,” she promised. “No one need know of your unfortunate circumstances. Any more than they need know of John’s parentage.”

  And so, James tried to ready himself for trying times, finding money and food for the long and lonely winter ahead.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Could it get any worse? James wondered. Here he was, lying by the fire, an invalid. How m
any times had he gone over his actions in helping Amos Hall? Why had he tried to be a hero and lift that barrel of flour off his cart all by himself? Had he been trying to show off? Or just trying to get the job done quickly? He’d been so grateful to old Amos for having offered him a few days’ work so that he could buy food. At any rate, he’d felt his back snap, and down he went. They even had to bring him home by sleigh over the bay ice.

  He sat up and turned his back to the fire, hoping the muscles and fibres might absorb the heat, relaxing them. He had taken to doing this the last few days, and found it helped. Catherine had suggested alternating that with snow from outside packed into a canvas pouch, which he lay on. Heat and cold. His back might even be getting better. He would soon be able to walk up and down stairs, although when he tried to begin his winter chores, Catherine prevented him.

  So for the moment, he sat, inactive, a burden to Catherine, who had all the care of their two children, as well as Broad and the chickens. Thank heaven his mother was not here to feed as well; he was even grateful she had gone on to other realms above, her lifelong work at the castle finished. No more drudgery, no more anxiety about her son in far-off lands. Her letter with its description of those last happy days with a new suitor and sufficient funds to enjoy Liverpool and get a decent passage on the ship, helped assuage his grief. Though he still wondered at the curious workings of the Lord who was bringing this suffering upon him now.

  Catherine had become adept at snowshoeing, fetching supplies from their lower cabin, and foraging among the snowy woods for bark to make soups, digging out roots, anything to supplement their meagre supplies. They still had a few potatoes, some of John Ross’s present of crushed oats for morning porridge, but the grain was gone. Flour was much too expensive, over four shillings a barrel. Catherine had even raided the store of mildewed oats they intended for Broad. Would their bull end up being eaten too? Any hope of James clearing his land, of becoming a real farmer, was fast disappearing. He even found himself dwelling on the fate of the Bellerophon. Imagine, his once proud ship, home for many victorious years, now sunk to the level of a prison hulk! Depression’s black cloud descended again.