by Julie Lawson
By then the sun was high and I was worried that I might be late for Dinner. So I retraced my steps and got back to the Fort just as the Dinner bell was ringing. Rushed upstairs, and was washing my hands when Mrs. Staines marched in and crushed my spirit. Little girl? I am 13!
I will put her in my Novel and make her suffer.
Still Later
Time: Somewhere between Dinner and Supper
Dormitory: Hot and airless
Jenna: Confined to Misery and Gloom
Visitors: None
Actual Activities: Exercises in Reading and Mathematics, writing in my Journal
Imagined Activities: Taking Mrs. Staines out on a canoeing expedition and tipping the canoe (and not saving her)
Future Activities: Learning to paddle a canoe (a dugout canoe, like the ones the Songhees have)
Natural History Lesson: clams squirt water, etc. Also saw several herons and some odd little scuttling creatures — do not know their name, but they hide under rocks and have eyes on stalks and look like spiders.
Still Later
After writing, reading, thinking and moaning for hours I wanted to do something active. So I decided to look for another Spy Hole.
I got down on the floor and examined every board, every crack, every knot, starting at my end of the dormitory, and before I was halfway across — at the foot of Annie’s bed and under a rag rug — I found one. My own secret Spy Hole!
It’s a large knot, difficult to remove, and it looks down on one of the rooms off the Common Room. Whose room is it? There’s a cot, a table, some shelves, but no personal belongings, so at the moment it must be no one’s. A Clerk or some other officer will move in one day (I hope) but for now my find is a disappointment. Unless it is used for a secret rendezvous! I will keep an eye on it just in case.
Almost time for the evening chorus of bell and dogs. I will check the knot to make sure I’ve replaced it securely, and then I will have some of Nokum’s pemmican. It is no punishment for me to go without Supper.
Still Later
Time: After Supper
Dormitory: Pleasantly cool
Jenna: Bored and disappointed. Nothing and no one to spy on.
Oh — what I forgot to mention:
There were a lot of Songhees on the slopes and meadows on the opposite side of Beacon Hill from where the path came out. A celebration? A picnic? A working bee? A war party? They were busily engaged in some sort of activity, and it must have been enjoyable, for I could hear laughter. (So not a war party.) If I hadn’t been so hot I would have gone in their direction and spied on them.
Even Later
Time: Bedtime
Dormitory: Noisy
Visitors: Lucy, Eliza, etc.
Everyone wanted to know about my Adventure, even Sarah and Maggie, and Lucy brought me some bread and treacle. It was kind of her to think of me, and I was tempted to tell her about my secret Spy Hole. But I didn’t. She told me the scuttling spidery creatures were a type of crab.
Sunday, August 4th
My first Sunday at Fort Victoria.
The bell clanged for Church Service sometime after Breakfast and we trooped over to the dining hall — pupils, servants, officers, wives, children, everyone attached to the Fort.
Mr. Douglas was there with his family, and Governor Blanshard, and Lucy pointed out a few of the others — Mr. Finlayson (the Chief Trader) and his family, Mr. Durham (his assistant), Dr. Benson, Mr. Yates (a carpenter) and Mrs. Yates. All the Kanakas and servants were there, except for the canadiens, who attend mass with Father Lempfrit.
The air was hot and close, and Rev. S’s sermon was boring. My eyelids felt heavier and heavier and it was such a struggle to keep them open I gave up trying. They closed of their own accord and dragged my head forward. Fortunately Rev. Staines did not notice.
Alec was not so lucky. He must have been hearing a tune in his head, for he started to mark time on the wooden bench. It wasn’t long before Rev. Staines interrupted his sermon and shouted, “You, MacGregor! Stop that devil’s racket at once!”
“It’s not me, Sir,” says Alec. “It’s my fingers.”
“Insolent Boy!” Rev. Staines roars, and sentences him to a caning after the Service. No mercy, not even on Sunday.
And no more nodding off! We all sat up to attention, even the grown-ups.
The best part of the Service was standing up to sing the hymns.
I longed to spend the afternoon outside but, alas, we had to stay indoors and learn short prayers called Collects. There is one for each day of the church year, but fortunately we do not learn them all at once. There was another Service in the evening.
I thank Heaven that Sundays come but once a week, but even that is too often.
Later
I wrote a letter to Aunt Grace and Uncle Rory, telling them a bit about my journey across the strait, the School, the Fort, etc. Mostly to let them know that I arrived safely. I can hear Uncle Rory’s laugh when he reads that I managed to squeeze him and Aunt inside my cassette to join the rest of my family, and thanked them again for the embroidered handkerchief and beaded necklace.
Monday, August 5th
Rev. S’s face turns the colour of puce when he is angry and the veins in his neck and on his forehead swell and throb like giant worms about to crawl out. During his Latin lesson this morning I kept my eyes on his face to see if anything interesting might happen, like a vein spouting open, but it didn’t.
Eughh! Latin. Do, das, dat, damus, datis, dant. Forms of the verb to give. I give, you give, he/she/it gives, we give, you give and they give. I do not give a damus for Latin. Or that Parson Puce is a Classical Scholar. Or that he studied at Cambridge or some such uppity place in England. But I would give a very great deal if P.P. would stop reminding us that he is a Classical Scholar who graduated from Cambridge, etc. etc. Das, dat, damus!
We are also learning French. I expected to love French lessons since I already speak the language, but alas, I speak the wrong kind. We all do, according to Mrs. Staines. She speaks French fluently, and often switches from English to French within the same sentence, hoping to catch us off guard (my theory). She has been here a year — does she still not know that French is the working language of the Forts and that everyone speaks it?
Ah, but her French is Parisian French — the “proper French” — and the one we must learn. According to Madame Staines, our Canadian French is harsh to the ear and difficult to understand.
Well I expect her ear will get used to it, for I doubt that we will be speaking Parisian except in class. Except for Horace, who already speaks proper French, and the girls who like putting on airs. They can go to Paris for all I care.
Lucy tells me that the Rev. and Mrs. Staines were teaching in France before they came here, and Parson Puce was not even a parson. He took “holy orders” so he could receive a higher salary with the HBCo.
Oh, and Mrs. Staines scolded me for muttering to myself when I was doing my work. “Muttering?” I said, for I had not been aware of it.
“An irritating habit,” she says. “That and the humming.”
“Humming?”
Yes, that too was irritating.
So I apologized and promised I would try not to hum or mutter in class. It must be a habit, something I no longer notice. Did Aunt Grace ever mention it? I cannot remember.
Later
I gave the letter I wrote yesterday to Mr. Douglas, who assured me it will be put in the communications packet for Fort Colvile and go out at the soonest opportunity.
Tuesday, August 6th
We had an earful from Rev. Staines this morning. Someone stole vegetables from his garden last night and did we know anything about it? No, we did not. Other than that, School was much the same.
At Dinner, Mrs. Staines is teaching us the Art of Conversation. None of us have had trouble talking, but now there are rules. Mrs. Staines introduces a topic, and we take turns speaking. It is part of the girls’ Deportment Curriculum (Latin wor
d of the day), but she believes the boys could benefit as well.
Today’s topic was Where we are from.
I said I was from Fort Edmonton, the most important Fort west of York Factory, because that is where all the furs of the Prairie are stored, and all the York boats for the brigades are built, and all the pack horses are bred. I added that Fort Edmonton has a reputation of being the most dangerous and troublesome post on the Prairie because of all the fighting that goes on between the Cree and the Blackfoot.
At that point Sarah interrupted (politely) and said, “I thought you were from Fort Colvile, like Eliza and James.”
I explained that Fort Colvile didn’t count because I had spent only one winter there.
Then it was Lucy’s turn. She said (politely) that I must be mistaken. The place she and Alec were from, Fort Rupert, was the most dangerous because two English seamen were massacred by Indians last year, and that was the reason her father had sent her and Alec to Fort Victoria.
It was not Davy’s turn to speak but he jumped in (rudely) and said he had seen a massacre. We were all ears but Mrs. Staines would not let him go on. Her list of appropriate topics does not include massacres.
Davy was making it up anyway.
The Tale of the Murdered Seamen — a perfect title for my Novel! Or Massacre in the Wilds of Fort Rupert.
After Supper, Alec told us the story of how three seamen had deserted their ship to go after the gold in California, and one man had drowned and the other two had been shot in the heart, supposedly by Indians. Both had been stripped naked (we did not need to know that particular detail) and one had been placed upright in a hollow tree. The other man was left on the ground.
It was hardly a massacre, but in my Novel I could make it so, and I could change the setting to Fort Victoria and Rev. Staines could be one of the unfortunate Victims and
Mrs. Staines has just come in and given us salt to place around the wicks of our candles, saying it will make the tallow last longer. In her next breath she said it was time to blow out the candles. Fiddle!
Wednesday, August 7th
Last night I was telling Lucy more about Fort Edmonton, since she had asked, and I ended by saying that it was a more interesting place than Fort Victoria.
“What a pity you can’t go back there,” she says.
I told her I could if I wanted to.
“How? You have no family there. You’re an orphan.”
“My grandmother is there, and my second family,” I said, and told her about Suzanne and Maman Thérèse and Papa Jacques.
“They don’t count,” says Lucy.
“What do you mean?” I said, challenging her.
She shrugged and went off.
Lucy is a puzzle. Kind one minute, hurtful the next — and for no good reason. I don’t know if I trust her enough to be friends.
Maggie’s blue sash has gone missing.
Thursday, August 8th
The weather is so fine, Rev. Staines has promised to take us on an outing on Saturday, provided no one misbehaves or neglects their schoolwork. He has not said where the outing will be or how we will get there.
I wish it could be on a sailing ship to the Sandwich Islands. Our watchman, a Kanaka, told me it is a beautiful tropical place far to the south, with palm trees and an ocean as warm as a bath. It sounded like paradise! When I asked why he had traded that for Fort Victoria he said it was to make money and to see something of the world.
Of course our outing will not be to the Sandwich Islands. Besides, who would want to go all that way with Rev. Staines? Not I!
All the same, I am excited about a School Outing and will strive to be as good as all the gold in California.
Friday, August 9th
I hate Parson Puce. He might have told us at the beginning that his outing is only for the boys. The other girls are not bothered but I am exceedingly angry. If Suzanne were here, we would stage a rebellion.
Saturday, August 10th
After Breakfast I asked Mrs. Staines for permission to go for a walk — since the boys were about to leave on their outing. I promised I would be back before Dinner and would not go beyond Beacon Hill, and to my amazement, she said yes. (It might have been because she was distracted — two of the boys were arguing and Rev. Staines was nowhere in sight — so Mrs. Staines may not have paid much attention to what I was saying, only wanted me gone so she could attend to the boys before they came to blows.)
I wandered out to where Rev. Staines has his garden, just outside the stockade. I stopped for a minute and talked to the workers from the Company’s gardens, though Mrs. Staines would have disapproved. Speaking to them and hearing their French reminds me of Suzanne’s papa and the other canadiens at Fort Edmonton, and it is a pleasant change from speaking English. I asked one, a Mr. Minie, about some odd-looking cattle I had seen on the farm and learned that they are long-horned cattle from Spain. He told me about a Captain Grant who had come here as a settler and shot one of the cattle, mistaking it for a buffalo! (He has obviously never been on the Prairie).
Another worker asked if I had been to Beacon Hill. When I told him I had, and was going there again, he told me to “mind the Songhees,” for they were digging up the meadow. “Been at it a week,” he said.
He looked inclined to say more, but I thanked him and hurried off, excited about seeing the Songhees at their digging. A spy mission! And even more exciting — as I was approaching the meadow I discovered a Secret Lookout!
It is near an oak grove behind Beacon Hill, in a sprawling cedar with low branches spread out in a circle around the trunk. The branches are so thick I could scarcely see the trunk, not until I’d crawled in underneath. And what did I discover when I reached the trunk? A ladder of branches begging to be climbed! I fancied them saying, “We’ve been waiting for you, Jenna!”
So up I went! From one branch to another, pausing now and then to listen to the birds and the squirrels and the rustle of wind, climbing higher and higher until I reached a comfortable perch. I sat astride, leaned against the trunk and fancied I was floating in a sky of leafy green.
I had a lovely view through gaps in the branches, and what did I see? A large party of Songhees, women and children, armed with woven sacks and pointed sticks. They were singing, chatting and laughing as if
Fiddle! There goes the bell for Dinner.
Later
So to continue with the Songhees.
It seemed to me that they were on a picnic, but instead of laying out a cloth and hamper, they were indeed digging. Whenever they came upon the dead leaves and stalks of a particular plant, they stuck in their stick to form a hole, then reached in and pulled out what looked like a small brownish onion, but in the shape of a pear — a root of some sort, which they put into their sacks. They worked in an organized way, being careful not to miss a spot. Why, it was not that different from the farm workers digging potatoes!
Other groups around Beacon Hill and beyond were engaged in the same activity and, from the little mat shelters set up here and there, I reckoned they were camping out on the meadow until the job was done. They must have been at it for a while, for I could see dozens of bulging sacks.
One of the older women reminded me of Nokum, tho’ I could not see her clearly. It was the way she moved, as if her joints were aching. And at that moment I had the oddest sensation that Nokum was right there beside me. I heard her voice and saw her face — I swear I felt her hand on my shoulder! A shiver passed through me and left me happy and sad, and I feel the same now — sad because she is so far away but happy because she feels so close. Climbing down the tree was more difficult than climbing up, and my legs were shaking by the time I reached the ground. Even so, I am determined to visit my Lookout whenever I can. I will be like the beacon on top of the hill! Or maybe not, since no one will be able to see me, and what good is a beacon if it cannot be seen?
Perhaps there is another kind of beacon, one you carry inside so you do not lose your way. Nokum is my beacon. I
see her face in my mind and it lightens my heart. It reminds me of who I am and where I am from.
Goodness, I’m thinking too much again. It was never so in Fort Edmonton — I was too busy doing to be thinking, and with Suzanne and Nokum to talk to and even Aunt Grace
I had better stop. I can hear Aunt Grace scolding me for another Misdemeanor, Self-Pity. And “there’ll be none o’ that, lass!”
I find it curious, the way people at Fort Victoria refer to the meadows as “the prairie.” I will keep calling them meadows though, because “prairie” means something different to me, and I do not want my entries to be confusing.
It is almost time for our next lesson in Deportment.
Saturday Evening
How does a lady stand? How does she sit? How does she move? Smoothly, elegantly, gracefully, etc. (If Suzanne were here I would have whispered, “Carefully, if she’s in a tree.”) All of which are supposed to make us “good material” for a suitable marriage.
“What makes a suitable marriage?” I said.
“A suitable husband,” said Mrs. Staines, and everyone laughed.
My face grew hot — not only with embarrassment but also with anger. How dare they mock me! I had asked the question in all seriousness, for no one had given thought to my marriage — not me, not Father (as far as I know) and not Aunt Grace (for her own prospects were more important). I suppose a suitable husband for me would be an Englishman of the officer class, but beyond “white” and “officer,” what makes a man suitable? Mrs. Staines is married to Parson Puce (white, English and officer class), but I think her idea of a suitable husband is far different from what mine would be. (Perhaps a dashing canadien like Jean-Pierre or Suzanne’s brother Emile, or François.)
In any case, the Deportment lesson itself was amusing. We practised walking, sitting, etc. under the watchful eye of Mrs. Staines, trying not to giggle as she swished around in her billowy skirts, her hair tightly crinkled in ringlets. She waltzes about as if she were the Queen of England.