The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor

by Sally Armstrong

  Charlotte is behind him when he pushes open the door to a room packed with men. When they realize the Widow Blake is among them, there’s an uncomfortable silence. Then a few of them nod toward her and mutter condolences before looking to Murdoch to bring the meeting to order. Charlotte looks for Janet in the room and finds her sitting on a bench near the window. She makes her way over to sink down beside her where she won’t be the pitied object of everyone’s attention.

  “There’s a land grab going on up and down the banks of the Miramichi,” Murdoch begins. “The land licences granted by the governor in Halifax are now subject to approval by Governor Carleton in Frederick Town.”

  “We’re being done out of the land by the uppity Loyalists,” says a grumpy Alexander Henderson.

  “Mr. Delesdernier can help us,” Murdoch says and gestures to the agent to address the crowd. “Let’s hear him out and decide what we must do.”

  Delesdernier is stout and small, with round cheeks reddened by hard travel in freezing temperatures and a dark frock coat that has seen much patching. In order to better see them all as he speaks, he steps up on a wooden box.

  “I have written a letter to Governor Carleton on your behalf,” he says. “It explains that all of you in this room are the only principal and old settlers on the Miramichi River who had licences for their land from the government in Halifax.”

  Nods and shouts of “Too true!” greet him.

  “I want to read to you the letter I have composed on your behalf,” he says, drawing a folded sheet from his inside pocket:

  “‘In 1777, Captain Boyle of HMS Hunter properly qualified us as owners of the lots we occupied. Each of us had been nominated to take up one half-mile of front and to keep and hold the same until further orders from the government. Now we petition the governor to enter each of our names in the land register of New Brunswick.’”

  They need little discussion to approve this wording, and after Delesdernier places ink, quill and the letter on the table, they line up to sign it. Charlotte is last, but not least, scrawling Widow Blake after the men’s signatures.

  Delesdernier promises to deliver the governor’s decision to register their lots as soon as it is made.

  Charlotte stays on for supper after the men leave to visit a while with Janet. The moonlight is making long shadows of the spruce trees as she makes her way back to Blake Brook. With every step she takes, her resentment and suspicion grows: it seems to her that even to John Murdoch her presence at the meeting was an afterthought. Can she trust Delesdernier or any other man to present her claim, even if she’s masquerading in the name of her dead husband. The Widow Blake indeed.

  When she pushes the door open she finds Jimmy sound asleep with the children. The way they loop around him reminds her suddenly of how the kittens curled into Tommy as he lay in the cattle stalls on the ship. She stokes the fire, adds another log and sits watching the flames awhile. She has to fight for her land for the sake of these children, who are her reason and her comfort. Each one brings her a different gift. Elizabeth is calm and gentle. She mothers the younger children with the sense of compassion she seems to have been born with. John Junior is something else. Like his sister Mary Ann, whose nickname, Polly, has now stuck, he’s in constant motion, cleverly teasing his way into and out of trouble. She’s convinced that the two of them open their eyes every morning with an adventure already in mind, often designed to bedevil her. Robert, only three, is a quiet, even studious child, who spends hours mesmerized by the fire, by the devilish activity of John and Polly, by the little chores his mother sets him. He seems happiest when he’s snuggled on Charlotte’s lap. “We will manage,” she says out loud, as though to confirm her wavering belief.

  AT MID-MORNING, the call of the whippoorwill drifts into the cabin. For weeks Charlotte has not allowed herself to wonder if word of her plight has reached the Indian camp, or whether Wioche has heard of Blake’s death. When she opens the door, she steadies herself against disappointment. But it really is Wioche standing at the edge of the brook, so covered by a huge furry cloak she might have mistaken him for a bear had it not been for the whistle. She’s rarely seen him to speak to him since she married John Blake, but he has never been far from her thoughts. The one benefit to being the Widow Blake is she is now free to invite him into her house. He is the one who hesitates for a moment, but shedding his cloak on the doorstep he finally follows her inside.

  The children are at the table working at an arithmetic lesson Charlotte has set them. John Junior leaps up in alarm at the sight of an Indian in his father’s house, and Charlotte hastens to introduce them. She knows that when it comes to Indians, he is his father’s son.

  “John, this is Wioche, whose people were so kind to me when I first came to the Baie. Remember the stories I’ve told you of the Indian camp?”

  “Yes, Mum,” John Junior says, and though he still doesn’t look too happy, he can’t help taking a careful inventory of the man, from the leggings he wears to the tunic belted at the waist with a broad sash embroidered with porcupine quills to the long, narrow blade strapped to his thigh.

  Wioche, meanwhile, is smiling at Elizabeth, who hesitantly smiles back.

  “Mijooajeech,” he greets her.

  “That’s the word for baby,” Charlotte explains. “Wioche first met you when you were only a few hours old, Elizabeth. He is the man who made the bunting bag from rabbit fur, the one I wrapped all of you in as babies.” She looks sternly at her children, who one by one come up to greet their visitor properly, even John Junior. As she and Wioche seat themselves by the fire, all cluster around her chair to stare shyly at him.

  He tells her that when the camp at the Baie moved—first just to Caron Point across the channel from Alston Point—he began to spend more time travelling the Mi’kmaq district, staying mostly at Taboosimgeg up the coast. He has been by her cabin from time to time and hears news of Charlotte’s family from the women she visits in the camp on the river. He doesn’t have to explain to her why he hasn’t stopped—Wioche was keenly aware of her husband’s views on Indians. After the battle on the Lafayette, Charlotte tried very hard to change Blake’s mind, but the best they could do was declare a truce on the subject. Blake never trusted the People.

  Yet here Wioche sits, attempting to comfort Blake’s children with tales of the Great Spirit and the place where their father watches over them. He does a better job of it than she has ever done, Charlotte thinks ruefully, remembering the immense distances the People travel to bury their dead in sacred places. She hopes none of the children will mention John Blake’s temporary burial spot, and changes the subject quickly, asking for news of her friends from the Baie.

  As she prepares their lunch, Wioche tells her that many people have died in an outbreak of measles. Marie’s mother was one of them. Marie and André have settled in Miscou and have added two more children to their family. The Acadians are beginning to prosper again, he says, though their lives are not easy. The new English settlers treat them as though they don’t belong here.

  “Some of the old ones do too,” Charlotte replies.

  Soon the children get used to the visitor, and hours pass easily. Charlotte and Wioche talk of the new province, the struggles with the weather, the Loyalists, the migration route of the animals that has changed as more land is settled, the diminished prospects and problems of his people, who seem to be slowly giving up the fight against the settlers and the rum, accepting the inevitable, some would say, though Charlotte still admires the pride and self-sufficiency and ease with which the People once prospered here.

  The afternoon slips by. Suppertime is approaching when she sends her children out to fetch the night’s supply of wood, and finally shares her deepest worry with this man, her oldest and most trusted friend in this place. That she should talk to him of owning land that once belonged to all might be strange, but she needs to say it aloud to someone she knows has her interests at heart. “If we are to stay on here, Wioche, I must secu
re the deed. I don’t think it is good enough to have the licence of land given to us by Nova Scotia. We are under a new province’s governance now, and I won’t feel safe until the deed is transferred. Women’s rights to the land are fragile. I don’t know of any woman settler who has secured a claim on her own. But I am John Blake’s widow, and surely that must count for something. It was my labour as much as his that cleared this plot: he was often away weeks at a time.”

  He considers her words, then says bluntly, “You must take your licence to the new governor. I’ve heard he’s in Frederick Town now.”

  She’s flabbergasted. “Go to Frederick Town? I wouldn’t know how to find it. And if I did set off, the winter would stop me before I ever got off the river.”

  Wioche looks at her steadily, as if testing her resolve. “I will show you the way. There and back—it will take us ten days by snowshoe.”

  Since she arrived at Blake Brook, Charlotte hasn’t been farther afield than Napan Bay in one direction, where the Murdochs live and the Indian camp is situated, and the forks in the other. Jimmy can take care of the children, she decides. She knows the rest of the settlers will talk—a white woman setting out alone with an Indian guide—but let them. If I come back with the deeds in my hand, they’ll not use my name unkindly, she thinks.

  By the time Wioche leaves in the waning light of the day, they have agreed that at dawn they will set out for Frederick Town. She will bring what provisions she can carry comfortably on her back. He will provide the snowshoes—Indian snowshoes are narrow and about as long as the distance from her waist to her feet and have mooseskin cording that makes it easier to drag the foot through the top snow rather than lifting it. “Better for long journey,” Wioche says. I hope so, she thinks to herself while waving goodbye. Then she looks at her children again and wonders what she is doing: If something happens to her, their situation will be dire. No, she won’t think about that. She must secure the deed.

  She goes to the table, picks up her quill, opens the ink jar and begins the letter she has been thinking to write since she got up from her chair by the fire after John Blake died. She hesitates over the sheet, but only for a moment. Then her hand moves steadily.

  8th March, 1785

  Dearest Papa and Mama,

  I send you greetings from the Miramichi River in New Brunswick where I live in a settler’s cabin with my four children. You’ll know some of my situation by now as I believe one Will MacCulloch carried a letter to you written by Commodore George Walker.

  I am a widow, my circumstances somewhat uncertain. For that reason and because I long for news of you, I am sending this memorial. I am inquiring about the inheritance of five hundred pounds from Grandmother, kept in trust for me at your bank. Since the money is rightfully mine, I desire—in fact, need—you to forward the inheritance to me.

  You can send a reply to me at Charlotte Blake, in care of Simeon Perkins, Liverpool, Nova Scotia. Trusted people will carry your reply to me.

  I pray you think kindly of me and will consider your four grandchildren.

  Your loving daughter,

  Charlotte

  She folds the letter and tucks it into the vest she will wear to Frederick Town.

  AT SUPPERTIME, she breaks the news of the journey. This will be the first time she has been separated from any of them since they were born, and as she explains why she has to leave them for a few days, Robert climbs right into her lap.

  “This is our home, the only home three of you have ever known,” she says. “Your father would want me to do everything I can to secure our place here. We can’t expect others to look out for our interests. It’s up to me to take care of us now. You’ll be all right with Jimmy while I’m gone, and if something bad happens”—her voice quakes a little—“you will run straight to the Murdochs.” It’s been quiet on the river these winter months. Surely they’ll be safe.

  After the children are asleep, she herself can’t settle down to a proper rest, though she drifts and dozes for a few hours in the chair by the fire. Then she rouses herself to pack dried fish and berries, bannock, some sugar and tea into the pack she’ll tie to her back, along with a couple of vessels in which to melt water for tea along the way. She layers clothing to conserve heat, finds John’s beaver pelt hat to wear over her plaited hair and straps on her mooseskin boots. She’s ready when a sliver of sun comes through the trees over the river, bringing Wioche sliding along on the ice with two pairs of snowshoes strung across his back. He pulls a toboggan laden with supplies.

  She leans over the sleepy pile of children in the big bed to give last-minute instructions and admonishments. She makes sure to kiss each one of them and even Jimmy goodbye. “Be good,” she says as she shuts the door.

  Glancing toward John Blake’s snowy tomb, she fervently hopes there won’t be a thaw while she’s away. At the river edge, she looks back to see her little family huddled together outside the cabin in their nightshirts, waving, their breaths pluming above their heads. Then she slips over the bank onto the byway of ice.

  The early-morning sun ascends at their backs, casting a bronze glow on the river as they slide in unison along a trail that’s been broken on the frozen waterway. They make good time to the forks and follow the left bank onto the southwest Miramichi. When Wioche suggests they stop to rest, she reckons by the sun overhead that it’s been five hours since they left the cabin. She unwraps a piece of fish and a chunk of bannock while Wioche cuts pieces of ice to melt for tea. They sit on the bank of the river, grateful for the food, the sun and each other’s company. After a short half-hour, they set off again.

  They’ve put some miles behind them when the frost in the late-afternoon air starts to penetrate her clothes. Her legs are stiffening now as much from the cold as the exercise. They push ahead until the sun falls behind the trees, leaving them with only enough light to find a place to camp and gather boughs for shelter and the wood they need. Charlotte gets the fire started while Wioche deftly makes the lean-to in a semicircle around it. She melts ice, makes tea and cooks fish and bannock for dinner. After they’ve eaten, they sit warming themselves by the flames, wrapped in their furs, and Wioche tells her another tale of Gluskap, this one about a porcupine and a sparrow lost in the forest. Between the porcupine’s defensive quills and the sparrow’s ability to fly and Gluskap’s intervention in the form of a talking oak tree, the pair find their way out of their predicament.

  She’s enchanted with these fables, which animate shells and give language to birds and invariably have nymphlike spirits conveying magic and mirth. After he wends his way to the moral of the story, in which the sparrow and the porcupine find out that both creatures are necessary parts of creation, they prepare the fire for the long night ahead, piling it high with wood, moving their pallets of boughs closer to its edge and wrapping themselves in the extra furs and skins from the toboggan. She tucks her face inside the furry blanket and falls fast asleep before they even say goodnight.

  It’s still dark when she wakens. She’s unbearably cold, and a heap of embers barely burns in the firepit. She thinks she may freeze to death if she can’t get it blazing again. Bracing herself for the blast of even colder air as she crawls out of her fur nest, she moves as quietly as she can to the woodpile, but still wakes Wioche. He’s on his feet in an instant. He teases her about being too soft for the weather, but helps her to build the fire up, shooing her under her blanket while he works. As soon as it’s blazing, he crawls back under the wraps and seems to fall to sleep immediately. Still cold, Charlotte allows herself to edge nearer to him, and soon her toes and fingers warm up again and her eyes close.

  For four more days, they slide along the river, bushwhack through the forest and sleep under the stars. By day and by night the threads of their two lives are woven into an unfinished tapestry of ragged edges and tangled patterns.

  It’s late morning on the fifth day when they see the chimneys of Frederick Town in the distance. Hauling the toboggan behind them, they slip and
slide their way into the centre of the bustling town. Houses, some of them two storeys, some made of stone, line streets that seem to Charlotte to be absolutely teeming with people and horse-drawn carts. She finds herself coming to a dead stop in the road, staring around her like a person who has never seen a horse let alone the city of London; she kicks herself because in her obsession with making her claim, she hadn’t thought about what she could barter here, or carry back for the children.

  Wioche has remained a couple of steps behind her as they walked into town, but now he discreetly gets her attention.

  “There is no place in town where we both can stay the night, Charlotte. Go to the governor and make your claim. If you get the deed, we can camp again in the woods tonight and be on our way back to your children.”

  It doesn’t take long for them to find the governor’s residence, an impressive building of imperial presence and vast fenced grounds with sentries at the gate. Wioche fades into the background as she asks one of the sentries whether the governor is in Frederick Town. When he nods, she tells him she has business to conduct and he motions her inside the grounds, pointing to the broads steps that lead to a front door flanked by columns. As she walks toward the entrance, she somewhat wryly realizes that this is the first truly imposing structure she’s seen since she left England. On the doorstep, Charlotte sheds her bearskin and tidies her hair, hoping there is still a modicum of English politesse left in her comportment to aid her in her purpose. She doesn’t know whether she should knock or just barge in. She tries the door, which swings open easily onto a large foyer.

  A nervous-looking functionary is immediately upon her, asking her the nature of her business in this house.

  “I’m seeking an audience with the governor,” she tells him, putting a maximum of her old haughtiness into her tone.