by Paul Almond
She smiled and dropped a little curtsey in his direction. As well she might: I didn’t find her looking quite that fine.
“Lots of time, lots of time,” Thomas said.
“Not lots of time,” my father answered. “Long drive ahead of us. I doubt we’ll even make it to New Richmond in this heavy blizzard. Not a lot of markers between here and Cross Point, neither. But Lively will find his way.”
I was not so sure. But much as I dreaded the trip to come, I was worried even more about what might happen when I made the announcement of my newly chosen path.
Chapter Two
The day broke with a smile over the Gulf of St. Lawrence. I came right up on deck as dawn was lifting and a low sun was rising over the eastern waters, the wind crisp and cold. There ahead of me, in answer to all my anticipation, lay Sheldrake, on the shores of the Labrador and the extreme western end of St. Clement’s mission, or perhaps beyond its limits, for all I knew. I had received a curious message in Quebec City that the local clergyman, Reverend Charles Eugene Bishop, would meet me here, although I knew our mission boat was anchored down by Natashquan — he used it to visit all the outports. I was not sure how Mr. Bishop intended us to get to our mission boat, but I presumed he had it all worked out. We’d then head for Mutton Bay, our headquarters.
I fingered my starched white collar, put on especially for the reception committee on the dock even though I was just a deacon, having been ordained such on August thirtieth in Holy Trinity Cathedral before leaving. My heart was full of anticipation and my head churned with thoughts. I rejoiced that the Lord had brought me to such an enormous task and hoped that He would not have done so had He not known me capable. But as a mere mortal, oh yes, I did have my own doubts. Mr. Bishop had himself been admitted into the full priesthood only this summer and therefore was nominally priest-in-charge. But with a diocese this large, I presumed that we would be sharing duties, myself taking some minor portion of the wide-ranging area.
As I looked more closely, I was surprised to see nothing of the barren grey granite Bishop Dunn had described. Here was a well-forested shore so far as I could see from this distance. Had he made it all up to prepare me for the worst? Well, I would soon know a good deal more. Down I went for breakfast.
The meal on the schooner was ample and I breakfasted well, partaking of more than I should, perhaps, but then again, I knew not what the day would bring. Sailing before a bright wind we had passed one or two moored schooners and on the dock, which I could soon see plainly, men were unloading a couple of fishing boats, codfish of course, though the season was coming to an end. But certainly, no delegation had gathered to greet my arrival. Doubtless they’d be seeking shelter from the wind in the small building at the shore end of the dock.
Our schooner soon dropped anchor and I and another passenger were helped into a dory lowered to take us ashore. I had arranged with the captain to have my main trunk dropped off at Natashquan where our mission boat was moored, so that I could travel these many miles lightly, not knowing whether we would be walking, or going, as I suspected, in a horse and buggy. So in my grip I carried a few clothes, my Bible, and my copy of Pilgrim’s Progress to sustain me through these first exciting days of my new posting.
Two sturdy sailors rowed us ashore and helped us up onto the dock or — as it is called here — the stagehead, that portion of a wharf stretching out over the water from the shed, itself called a stage. I pulled up my suitcase and turned to make the acquaintance of my parishioners.
Not one had appeared.
Gracious! Had I made a mistake? Should I quickly go back to the schooner and sail on to Magpie River? No, the captain had told me he was making straight for Natashquan where his next passengers and freight would be put ashore; he’d not be too pleased to make a detour, especially as I had paid my ticket only to Sheldrake. Well, this was just the sort of situation that I should get used to: unforeseen circumstances. And deal with it I must.
The fishermen, mostly French-speaking, were nonetheless accommodating. No sign of any clergyman here certainly, though several had heard of Mr. Bishop. While I was deciding on the best course of action, one fisherman told me in broken English that when he had left Magpie River, a clergyman had been seen going from house to house. I presumed therefore that Magpie was where I should have met Mr. Bishop. I inquired about a horse and buggy, but the men laughed: no horses hereabouts, that’s for sure. Skiffs, dories, rowboats, and in the winter, komatiks, that curious wooden sled pulled by teams of huskies, that was how one got around on this far northern shore of the St. Lawrence River. So shank’s mare, just plain ol’ walking, it had to be. With a thong that I managed to acquire, thanks to my clerical collar, I lifted my suitcase on my back and carried it by means of this improvised tumpline round my forehead, as my father had demonstrated from his own early pioneer days. I set off walking as vigorously as possible, for Magpie was a good twenty-five miles distant.
How far all this was from my little Shigawake. Back at the Old Homestead, my announcement that I would become a clergyman had been met with consternation, incredulity, and also, I’m pleased to say, much delight. Old Poppa, who had spent many evenings in our youth reading us the Bible, admitted the church to be a worthy calling. One day, I might even be going back there as clergyman. Would I actually enjoy that? I had seen how various factions there approved or disapproved of things the clergy did or didn’t do over the years. Of course, as long as I can remember, Mother took me to church with Molly, and later Mac, while Poppa stayed outside with the other men to gossip and exchange manly talk. The church itself had only just been built five years before I was born, largely due, Poppa told us, to him getting a few neighbours together, for it had been my grandfather’s dying wish. I do remember when I was four or five they erected the steeple. And then, before building the church, my grandfather with his youngest son, my father, had organized getting our school constructed in the Skenes’s lower field — the one that I went to. Against some opposition, apparently, which I now find hard to believe. In fact, when Poppa was young, he himself, with our team of oxen, hauled the timbers for those foundations.
I hiked without a stop all morning, but made myself sit and take a short break at lunchtime. I was doubly pleased at having eaten my large breakfast, for though I had felt pangs of hunger, I was able to vanquish them. Of course, Pilgrim’s Progress came into play, for there I was, the protagonist, Christian, striding down the road of life, along a well-worn trail through fairly heavy woods — much the kind of forest I was accustomed to in the Gaspé, though here the spruce were shorter, and on the whole the birch and alder had not attained any great size. Not a lot of maple either, which grew in profusion in the Gaspé. I only passed one traveller, moving slowly with his wife, who did indeed confirm that this was the way to Magpie. I looked up as I heard over my head the familiar calling of a skein of Canada geese, flying south. And lo, before the afternoon was half over, I beheld a man coming toward me who must be none other than the good Reverend Mr. Eugene Bishop.
In no time at all, we were chatting like old friends. Gene was tall, quite thin, clean shaven, with sadly prominent ears and large, almost effeminate lips. But a dear man, with a good sense of fun. For some reason, which we both dismissed as quickly as the subject was brought up, we had each been mistaken in our destination: Sheldrake, I found out, was not even a part of St. Clement’s Parish. So we had each, in our own fashion, set out to rectify the mistake. And thus had met on the path to Magpie.
“Now in a few hundred yards, I know of a turning I would like us to take,” Gene said. “A fine family have set up home here, and we should call in on them for they receive a clergy visit rarely, I’m afraid.”
I readily agreed, and in due course we found ourselves knocking on the door of the Foremans. It was little more than a log cabin, built recently of modest proportions, but quite sufficient until the owner acquired more substance.
What a look of delight on the young man’s face! He could not have be
en more than twenty, at the most. “The Good Lord has sent you, Mr. Gene! Welcome, welcome.”
“Thank you, Ralph,” Gene said, and in we went. From the table arose a young and exceedingly pregnant lady, obviously his wife, whom he introduced as Esther.
Gene presented me as the new deacon assigned to our parish and I shook Ralph’s hand, and Esther’s. She only seemed about seventeen, with lovely brown eyes, now lit by a warm smile. “We’ve been hoping you’d come, Mr. Gene, because I’m not well enough to travel to Natashquan —”
“And never sure when you’d be here,” Ralph interjected.
“Well, Mrs. Foreman,” I said, “this is a delight for me. I’ve just been assigned to this lovely —”
Ralph held up his hand. “Oh, she’s not ‘Mrs.’ yet. That’s what we want you gentlemen to do now.”
Well! I confess I was struck dumb. Here this young couple had been living in sin for Lord knows how long, and had not been joined in Holy Matrimony! What on earth would Gene do? They seemed so happy to see us that the stern admonishments on the tip of my tongue about their vile deed might not be so appropriate. I was in an agony of indecision.
“Well well well,” Gene said, “I expect we can arrange that this very afternoon, if that would please you?”
“Oh, it pleases us the very best,” Ralph applied. “Now Esther, you get these fellas a cup of tea and something to eat and I’ll run to our neighbours, only half a mile away, and there’s another couple beyond — I’ll invite them all. We’ll have a real wedding party!” He seemed indeed happy, and once I thought about Gene’s selection of words, the wind was quite taken from my sails. There would always be time to condemn this practice, but again, with no clergyman anywhere near for months at a time, perhaps the Church’s view on the matter should be revisited. And how indeed could one publish the banns in this forsaken place? So here I was, my first day in my parish, about to marry a couple who had lived in sin for months, and with our apparent blessing? I did have some adapting to do, I could see that.
That night, I don’t know where they all came from, but a good dozen or more villagers were dancing around the cozy room to the tune of a fiddle that some old fellow had produced. Rum flowed like water and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, so that this time, I even imbibed some myself. Why not? As their new deacon, I had no idea, really, how to behave, although I knew I must retain my sense of decorum. Rev. Mr. Bishop had taken a couple of tots with evident pleasure and was now dancing with an older woman who was having the time of her life. Next to the fiddler, an even older man was beating his feet and a third was working a pair of spoons on his knee like a professional. Well, I thought, what an enjoyable opening to a new career!
Just then, across the room one of three girls detached herself and approached me. Plain rather than pretty, heavily built but with sparkling eyes and an obvious sense of fun, she said boldly, “Come along, Mr. John, no good you standing alone in the corner with all us girls wanting to dance.” She reached out her arms.
I had been to dances, of course, on the Gaspé, but not after I’d taken Holy Orders. No book on the priesthood instructed me what to do next. Well, I thought, follow the leader, Mr. Bishop. I joined in and she proved full of fun, easily following the calls of the fiddler as we threaded our lively way around in a circle.
The reel ended with us all sweating and the door thrown open to let in fresh air. Several couples streamed outside, myself towed by the firm grip of my dancing partner, whose name was Susannah. Our host, Ralph, came out with a flagon of rum and filled the mugs retrieved from the table outside. I availed myself of a large jug of water first, to quench my thirst. I wasn’t going to quench it with the demon rum.
After a healthy slug, Susannah grabbed me by the hand and tugged me down the trail. I dug in my heels. “Susannah, are you not up for dancing the next reel?”
“Of course we’ll dance, Mr. John. But I got something to show you first.”
I was not sure I wanted to see what she had to show me.
“You’re one of the finest-looking fellas we’ve had here for a long time,” she said. “Most of our men is just jackasses, far as I can see. And they look like that, too.”
“Susannah! You should speak more charitably of your neighbours.” She was clearly the local rule breaker — a deacon’s garb would keep most girls on their decorum but obviously it had not impressed her.
“Oh, I give as much charity as I can to any neighbour that asks. But I know one person is not gonna speak up, and that’s you, Mr. John! So I’s gotta take whatever I can get.”
Temptation was rearing its ugly head. In the flash that followed, I felt covered with indecision. I had as a young man known several young ladies rather more intimately than any gentleman of the cloth should — but again, well before my ordination as deacon. So I was acquainted with the ways of the flesh, and moreover not one bit averse to their pleasures. However, I now had to pay attention to the Commandments as laid down in the Holy Book. These canons had become firmly lodged in my consciousness.
So I shook my head. “Sorry, Susannah, I’ve got to go back in.”
She turned, came up, threw her big arms around me and planted a big, warm kiss on my lips before I could object or rebel.
She stood back and looked. “Can’t you do any better’n that?”
I rapidly collected myself. “I can, but as your deacon, I’m not sure that the present circumstances would permit such goings on,” I said sternly. Then to soften it, I went on, “I confess I’m sorely tempted, Susannah, but let’s just go back in, and enjoy our dancing.”
As we did so, I reflected that, surprisingly, I had been rather adept at deflecting this burst of temptation. Yes, so far, I appeared to be weathering whatever circumstances threw at me. And thus found myself even looking forward to the next challenge.
Chapter Three
On Gene and I walked from Magpie to Mingan, a shorter distance than from Sheldrake. There we picked up a packet boat to Natashquan, where we found our little mission boat, the skiff Evangeline, still being repaired by the able Owen Cheveller (actually Chevalier), our skipper from St. Paul’s River. We were delayed for a week, putting us into October, but we spent the time making the acquaintance of our parishioners there, teaching local children, and generally keeping busy to ward off the irritation we both felt at being so delayed.
I found Owen a gruff but learned individual who knew not only all the capes and bays and inlets along the shore, but taught school occasionally in Aylmer Sound as well. The boat was comfortable in its way, two sturdy masts and a tiny cabin, with enough room between two narrow bunks for a wood stove and table. Practical rather than aesthetically pleasing, the Evangeline had been named, Owen told me, after the Acadian legend. This mystified me: Longfellow’s poem, a great hit some fifty years ago, had nothing whatever to do with the Labrador. Anyway, the boat seemed sufficient for running around the parish in the autumn before freeze-up, and again in summer once the ice had broken.
So off we went to sail the length of St. Clement’s mission, four hundred and fifty miles to Blanc Sablon, and perhaps beyond to L’Anse au Loup, Wolf Cove in English. As we sailed, Gene roughed out the duties expected of us, which I was surprised to learn included writing letters for many who couldn’t read or write. But mostly we talked theology and compared notes about our studies and backgrounds. A fine companion, Gene sat gossiping with Owen and me around our campfires on the shore. For suppers we ate the odd fish Owen caught, or a chance sea duck or plump murre if he’d been lucky enough to shoot one.
One of the things Gene and I talked about was how each of us had gotten our “call.” Coming from Montreal, he’d had a very different upbringing, not nearly as lucky as mine, for I was taught very early on the value of hard work. Even my sisters knew it: they also did men’s work when they got time off from doing the dishes, washing clothes, and helping Momma with manifold other chores.
I remember I was lying in bed where I roomed in Old Lodge with fo
ur other undergraduates. We had spent the previous day in lectures, of course, and in watching the Bishop’s team practise football, a sport which I would soon join with vigour. The Old Testament lecture disturbed me: what a wicked lot they were! All those massacres, wars, slavery, King David taking his officer’s wife and then sending him to his death — it made for dreadful reading. In fact, I discussed it all with my roommate, Victor, who was hoping to become an English teacher. Schools were in dire need of teachers, he told me: if I took that up, I’d be almost guaranteed getting a school of my choice. So I began to think that I might like to do that.
Another of my roommates, Harris, an excellent football player, had decided to go into history, perhaps getting an advance degree and becoming a professor. I hadn’t learned enough about history in our Academy in New Carlisle; in fact, I hated the whole school thing — being away from home and coming back only on weekends. How I would look forward then to taking over the barn work from Mac and Poppa! Of course, we never worked on Sundays, save to milk cows, feed pigs and chickens, and do those mandatory tasks that keeping animals required. Mind you, being away in Carlisle school had been good — how else would I have survived Bishop’s so handily? So history was an option, too. I was definitely focussing on a future occupation.
That night, when we turned off the lights, I found I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept churning: how was the harvesting going and those wonderful threshing parties, and those jolly “fulling” parties around vats of wool after shearing. How much I missed all that! Did I really want to go live in some big city? Lennoxville, the local village, was about as big as I could take. The city of Sherbrooke, three or four miles away, I did visit and what I saw I didn’t much like. I even made a short trip to Montreal on the train, and found it much too overwhelming.