The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor

by Sally Armstrong

  She sets off with no firm idea of her direction, but it is unlikely to have been an accident that she finds herself on the path that leads up in the direction of the Indian camp. And in the woods just off that path, she hears the voices of women: Marie and another woman are stooped over gathering leaves from a bush. They look up at her approach and Charlotte’s heart lifts at the sight of Marie’s broad smile.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Marie. What are you doing?”

  Marie shows her a wide basket with a number of smaller baskets inside.

  “Upsoolemanokseel,” she said.

  Charlotte holds the tiny red berries in her hand. They look like chokecherries to her.

  “What do you do with these?”

  “Tea,” said Marie. “Very good tea, but you may eat them also.”

  “Without cooking them?”

  “Yes. A little.”

  She nibbles a berry. It is bitter almost beyond description.

  “I think I would prefer the tea.”

  Marie laughs. “This is Anne,” she says.

  The other woman is taller than Marie and although she wears clothes much like Marie’s, her features are not that of an Indian. Her French is fluent, better than Charlotte’s, with a curious country accent.

  “There are still les Acadiens among us,” Marie explains as they put berries in their baskets. “Both her parents are French.”

  The three walk together to the edge of a clearing where a grove of white birch stands in the watery sunlight. Marie takes a cloth from her basket and carefully unwraps it to reveal an iron-bladed knife. She begins to cut pieces that look like mushrooms, the shape of half-plates, off the white bark from the living tree. Elsewhere on its trunk, Charlotte can see the evidence of earlier cutting.

  “Is this, too, for tea?”

  “No.” Marie cuts with determination, stretching up to harvest fresh pieces from higher on the trunk. “This we boil and mix the juice with bear grease and rub it on sores. It’s good medicine for sores.”

  “And see here,” says Anne. She opens the sack she carries and shows a half-peck of soft brown cylinders the size of a man’s finger.

  “Cattails,” says Charlotte.

  “These are for the throat when it is sore.”

  “A cold.”

  “Yes. But you boil them for a long time to make a drink. Wioche says some hunters must carry just a piece in the mouth to keep off devils and cold.”

  “Wioche?” She recognizes the name.

  “Wioche has learned the medicines of the elders,” Marie says. She packs some leaves to cover the basket of berries. “He knows much about these things, more than any man now among us.”

  “Some of us think he knows too much,” Anne says, and both women laugh.

  “Oh,” Marie exclaims and snatches up fistfuls of leaves from a plant in the clearing, pronouncing a word that Charlotte could not hope to repeat. “These we burn and put the ash in corn. Very good.”

  “Really?” Charlotte marvels. “Ashes in corn? We don’t do that in Sussex either.”

  Marie turns to Anne and speaks in their own language. Then to Charlotte.

  “Later, we’ll go on the high rocks and collect the—what, Anne?—the blueberry leaves.”

  “Ah,” Charlotte smiles. “For tea. I know.”

  “Oh yes,” says Anne. “Tea for the old ones, whose old bones ache. There is good in those leaves.”

  “Is there? Good in tea?” Charlotte laughed. “Though, if I’m honest, I will confess to liking China tea, which is what my family drinks in England.”

  “Here we make good tea from roots of the spruce and sarsaparilla and pine needles and juniper needles too.”

  “Goodness! So many teas?”

  “Oh yes.” Anne smiles, pleased to pass on her knowledge. “There are leaves for the hearts of the old people too.”

  “And you can chew the gum of the spruce tree,” Marie adds.

  Anne makes a face. “Yes, but it’s better for patching the canoes.”

  They laugh together.

  THEY HAD COME to the lagoon and the two women begin to cross the path of logs without looking back. Charlotte follows.

  In the camp, Marie takes Charlotte’s hand gently in hers and leads her away from Anne, who is speaking with an older woman.

  “Look! Come!” she says.

  They pass through the cluster of cone-shaped tents—wigwams—to a group of small shantylike constructions at the edge of the woods. Children play outside two of these. Fires burn near the entrances. One shanty is closed, quiet.

  “They have been the houses of les Acadiens who hid among us,” Marie says, her voice soft, conspiratorial. “Now some have found new homes.”

  Charlotte regards the little structure in front of her, which seems almost to have sprung up from the floor of the forest. It is built of logs stacked up one atop the other and tied together with spindly tree roots. Birch bark covers the outside. The roof is thatched with boughs.

  Marie makes a soft noise, and Charlotte turns to follow her gaze. A tall—very tall—Indian man is walking toward them.

  “Wioche,” Marie whispers, but Charlotte knows that already.

  He approaches unsmiling and speaks to Marie in the Indian language. She answers and opens her basket, takes out several leaves on twigs and he examines them, pronouncing judgment with grave authority. Marie asks a question and he answers, nodding in the affirmative. Marie smiles, turns to Charlotte.

  “Charlotte,” she says.

  Wioche bows.

  “Wioche,” Marie says.

  The three of them stand a little awkwardly.

  “Marie shows you the plants,” he says—in English.

  “I’m most struck by her knowledge,” Charlotte replies.

  “Food and medicine are the first matters,” he says.

  “Certainly, such matters are indispensable,” says Charlotte.

  They stand again unspeaking.

  “It is good to see you among us,” says Wioche.

  He bows again, turns and walks away. Marie looks at Charlotte.

  “He’s unaccustomed to speaking with English women,” she says.

  “No matter,” says Charlotte. “I rarely have the opportunity to speak to Indian men. So we are even.”

  Marie suggests they go inside the cabin. It’s one windowless room, sunlight filtering through the holes in the roof. The earthen floor is smooth. Sealskin lines the walls. A neglected chimney that looks as though it might collapse at any moment stands nonetheless, evidence of long-extinguished fires at its base. There is a cot, built on four tree stumps that someone has covered with furs. She suspects that someone is Marie.

  AT THE TABLE that evening, Will MacCulloch busies himself with his meat as Primm turns to Charlotte on the matter of her walk.

  “And apart from this danger of animals, which cannot be discounted, especially for one such as yourself, who must go unprotected with a musket or even a pistol, there is the matter of the Indians. I must warn you that these relations are most delicate and that minor incidents may have lasting consequences for all of us.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Mr. Primm, and shall bear your words in mind at all times.”

  Primm looks at the others.

  “I ask more of you, madam, than that you should bear my words in mind. I ask you not to venture up the hill to the Indian camp.”

  “I understand. How far may I go in that direction?”

  Will catches her eye, winks and looks quickly back at this meal.

  Primm shoots another glance around the table in a silent demand for support.

  “I do not say that you shall go thus and thus far in any direction, madam. I am concerned only for your safety and the safety of the outpost as a whole. That safety, as you know, has been entrusted to me.”

  “I shall do everything in my power, Mr. Primm, to help you uphold your obligations, which I see are burdensome.”

  “They are not burdensome, Miss Taylor, bu
t merely to be properly discharged.”

  “I feel you do very well.”

  Primm pinches his lips shut.

  “Thank you,” he finally says.

  Will dares then to glance at Charlotte, she smiles at him.

  “How is your arm, Will?” she asks.

  “ ’Tis far better, madam, than ’twas. I shall soon be myself.”

  AFTER THE MEAL, Primm takes Will aside in Walker’s own study.

  “MacCulloch,” he says, his voice low. “I am most concerned that this woman may cause us some problem.”

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “She is of an undisciplined constitution and this is known to Commodore Walker, who has charged me with the responsibility of assuring that she is safe and more particularly that she boards the Hanley as planned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It would not do for this to miscarry, MacCulloch.”

  “Certainly not, sir. A grave miscarriage.”

  “For that reason, I am charging you in turn with the special duty of surveying Miss Taylor at all times when she is beyond these walls, and reporting her whereabouts to me.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “You have strayed before, MacCulloch, and the commodore’s eye is on you.”

  “I ken it well, sir.”

  “Here is a place where you may especially regain his favour,”

  “Indeed, sir, and I shall endeavour to do so.”

  “See now that the firewood is brought in, MacCulloch.”

  “I will, sir.”

  IT IS EVIDENT THAT, if she is not to be aboard the Hanley and bound for Bristol, she will have to make the move to the Salmon encampment. There is no doubt that it will take a clandestine effort to see that done. She cannot simply haul her trunk up the hill, even if she were able to do so. Indeed, it must not be seen to be missing. She would require some measure of assistance and some of deception. She thinks of Will, but that would be unconscionable.

  THE NEXT MORNING, when the men are out of the house, Charlotte opens her trunk and removes its contents. She carefully folds these into large squares of cloth that she cut from rolls in the storeroom and ties each bundle with twine.

  Throughout that day, as the opportunity presents itself, she carries these out of the house and deposits them in the woods not far from the climbing path.

  As the afternoon darkens and the men are gathering for their evening meal, a party of Salmon fishermen approaches the shore and several come up to the house, laughing and talking noisily. Jack Primm goes out to meet them and returns with two large salmon strung on a line.

  “Excellent fish,” he says. “Wonderful size. See these are cleaned, Mr. MacCulloch.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Charlotte lies in her bed in the commodore’s house and reads a chapter from the life of Moll Flanders. Then she drops the book on her rounding belly and drifts into sleep.

  Will MacCulloch is keeping watch. He sees the ship, goes straight to Charlotte’s chamber and knocks.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hey, you wi the reid heid!”

  “Will!”

  “Och, madam. It’s not me that wants you. It’s Mr. Primm. The ship has come!”

  She throws the door open.

  “Are you certain, Will?”

  “It’s a big ship, madam, and must be the Hanley.”

  “Help me, Will.”

  “I shall, madam. What will you do?”

  “I must run to the Indian camp.”

  “What do you need then?”

  “To run, Will.”

  “Ye don’t need me to run, madam.”

  “That’s so, Will. That’s so.”

  She snatches at the fur coat the commodore had given her and her few clothes.

  “Who will see me, Will?”

  “No one for the moment. But place your pillows under the covers, so you appear to be here or they shall skin me for helping ye.”

  “Shall you be punished for my deeds?”

  “Not at all, madam. Hasten, now!”

  “Here. Quick! Is the fire alight?”

  “I know not. Quickly!”

  She goes to the grate and drops the letter to her father on the coals.

  “Madam, the grate is cold and your paper will be found! I shall burn it for you! Hurry now! I can see Primm’s wee boat in the bay!”

  She runs to the back door and opens it.

  “Will!”

  “Madam?”

  “What a fine man you are!” she whispers.

  “An’ ye shall be a proper Englishwoman if ye don’t get away now.”

  She dashes from the house and up the path toward the encampment. She passes the place where she had hidden her possessions—they were no longer there. Her path is chosen now so she forges ahead, crosses the lagoon on the log path, enters the clearing and stops in her tracks. The fire burns low and the People of the Salmon are gathered together in the centre. They turn their heads as one and look at her. On the ground beside the fire where they have gathered are her possessions, still in their bundles. She sees Marie and realizes her eyes are filled with tears. She could do nothing but walk forward.

  PRIMM COMES THROUGH the door with the two sailors. Will is stoking the fire.

  “MacCulloch! Fetch the lady!”

  “Yes, sir. Is the ship here?”

  “It is and no time to be lost! They will come with their boat to bring our letters and be gone straight!”

  In a moment, Will is back with the news. The men run to the bedchamber and there was the shape of a woman, but no woman.

  “You’ve let her escape, MacCulloch!”

  “No, sir. She did na gae oot from here, sir.”

  “She did—while you napped in front of the fire, no doubt. By God, MacCulloch, you shall rue the day you knew Jack Primm!”

  He looks around him in the greatest agitation.

  “Now, every man! Search the grounds, for she cannot have gone far but is in likelihood crouching in the woods. MacCulloch, join the search! I’ll deal with you later!”

  THE OLD MAN regards her with sad eyes.

  “Charlotte Taylor. Greetings. I am Francis Julian, chief of my people.”

  He seems taller now than when he had stood beside George Walker on the trading day but displays no air of importance. Not knowing what better to do, Charlotte curtsies deeply.

  “You are here by invitation of Marie Landry, wife of André Landry. This is no fault of yours. Nor of hers. But we know you to be in the care of George Walker, who is a friend of the Salmon People. And we know it is George Walker’s wish that you return to your father aboard the ship that is now anchored in the bay. So we may not welcome you into our camp, but must wish you a good voyage.”

  Her knees tremble, but she is determined to show no weakness.

  “Chief Julian,” she says, “I have no welcome in the house of my father and ask you to give me refuge here.”

  Julian shifts his weight uneasily.

  “Charlotte Taylor, I cannot know the matters of your family. But you are in the care of George Walker and he would see you safely returned to your home. This wish we must honour. Go with the Great Spirit.”

  “Chief Francis Julian.”

  All eyes turn to Wioche, who walks forward and stands in front of the chief.

  “Speak, Wioche,” the chief says.

  “We know that you have led us well in these years. If the Salmon haven’t suffered in these struggles between the French and the English in our land, it’s because of those things you have done and said. Is this so?”

  With this question he turns to the People and the men around him nod.

  “But we must not be too eager, Francis Julian, to please the English. This woman, as Marie Landry tells us, is with child and seeks to live among us. Does she not flee her English father as our little brothers les Acadiens fled the English? Did we not give them shelter here, though their own French people had deserted them? Why would we deny it to a woman alone? This is n
ot the tradition of the Salmon. We deny it, Francis Julian, because you as a man of honour must deny it, though your heart says otherwise. Is this so?”

  Again he looks at those around him and all feel compelled to nod.

  “Therefore, Francis Julian, here is my request. If you will walk out of our camp for an afternoon hunt of the deer, and if this woman Charlotte Taylor should come to seek shelter when you are gone, I, Wioche, as the son of Amoq’t, will grant her welcome. I have made no promise to the Englishman. On your return, you as a man of honour will not revoke the welcome I have given.”

  There is everywhere a murmur of consent.

  “Wioche, son of Amoq’t, I hear you. You speak well, as did your father and you are as subtle as he. But this subtlety is best applied to the messages you carry to the people in other camps. You cannot revoke my promise or supplant my place as chief. The father commands the daughter, and in his place, the father’s friend brings her home.”

  “Ah, if I may interrupt ye, chief, an’ meaning no offence whatsoever.”

  Silence. Eyes turn. A fair-haired boy in the well-worn suit of a sailor, one arm in a sling, walks slowly from the edge of the group, where he had stood unseen.

  “Ah, chief, I’m William MacCulloch and in the service of George Walker and His Majesty’s merchant marine. Nou, chief, I wish, if I might, to say a word on behalf of the English and a few others, if you’ll let me do so.”

  He looks around, but no one speaks.

  “Nou I may leuk an Englishmaun to ye, chief, but I’m not. I’m a Scot and so too is George Walker. I wanna tell ye what ye seem not to ken—that this woman Charlotte Taylor is in actual fact Charlotte Willisams, married and nou a widow. And, chief, in the customs of her country, a married woman is no longer at the disposal of her faither but is a free body, as free as ye, chief. That’s not all I hae to say. The other is on account of Commodore George Walker, who is a fine man, a Scot and as guid a captain as any of us will ever ken. But he is a maun, chief, an’ I’m here to tell ye—and don’t ask me how I ken this, chief, ’cause I will never tell ye—I’m here to tell ye that the captain—auld as he is—wanted this bonnie wife for himself, but she told him nay. She seeks a younger maun for a husband and a faither to her bairn. The captain is a maun of honour, chief, and would do no wrong on account o’ the devil. But ye might understand that he did not seek to see this woman ivery day in this place he calls his hame. Much better she should be in England, with a faither who does not own her and does not want her. Do ye stairt tae see the thrust of me argument here, chief? I hope ye do.”