Where the River Takes Me

by Julie Lawson

  Well that warmed me up, for I was paddling my imaginary canoe to mark the time — which kept getting faster — and so we paddled back and forth across the room from the meal side to the school side until Mrs. Staines came in and told us to stop.

  I had also put on knitted stockings and flannel undergarments because of the cold, but what a mistake! It was not long before I began to perspire, and by the time I was able to change my clothing, I was exceedingly itchy and uncomfortable. The cold here is not like the cold in Fort Edmonton — a lesson I must learn before winter. Unless we have a proper winter here with snow and below-freezing temperatures. Even Fort Colvile had a proper winter.

  Sunday, October 20th

  Lucy was crying last night. I asked what was wrong, and she told me she missed her mother and wanted to go home and see her before she died.

  “Is your mother ill?” I whispered.

  “No,” she says, still sobbing, “but your grandmother died before you could see her again and it made me think of my mother …”

  Before long we were both crying — Lucy for her mother and me for mine, and for Father and Nokum — and when we were worn out with tears we hugged each other and went back to sleep.

  I never thought that Lucy might be missing her mother the way I miss my family. I never gave a thought to how anybody else might be feeling, I only thought of how they were making me feel. Aunt Grace was right, Self-Absorption is a serious Misdemeanor. I must try to overcome it.

  Monday, October 21st

  Another splendid day without Latin. Thomas asked if Rev. Staines was ill — a little too hopefully — but Mrs. Staines assured us that he is in good health.

  Thomas groaned with disappointment. Actually, the reason for the parson’s absence hardly matters, as long as he remains absent. I like to think he has been captured and enslaved. Lucy swears he stowed away on the Norman Morison — until we reminded her that he was with us when the ship sailed off a mari usque et cetera.

  Wednesday, October 23rd

  We now know the reason for Rev. S’s absence. He has bought land in Metchosin (a few miles west of here, beyond Esquimalt) and he is going to establish a farm. A pig farm!

  Mrs. Staines told us we can expect more absences in the future. Hurray! We could not help but cheer out loud.

  Friday, October 25th

  More fun in the dormitory, for now Lucy and I not only play the part of Mrs. Staines, la grande dame, but also that of Parson Puce, fermier de cochons. Then we started making up Latin-sounding words for pig. Our best one is porcus stinkiforus gruntus.

  Raising pigs is the last thing we would have expected of Rev. S, tho’ as Lucy pointed out, there is a certain resemblance.

  Sunday, October 27th

  We have had few quiet nights since the arrival of Mr. Cavendish. The officers gather in the Common Room and smoke and talk until all hours — sometimes quietly but more often not.

  Last night they were particularly boisterous and, as I could not sleep, I decided to get up and go to the privy, thinking the cold air and exercise might make me tired. On my way back I saw a ghostly apparition in the corridor — thin, gaunt, clothed in night attire, completely white, with long hair tied in an untidy braid, and bearing a lighted candle. I flattened myself against the wall in the hopes that it would not notice me, and when it glided by I almost cried out in shock, not from fear but from astonishment, for it was Mrs. Staines!

  A moment later I heard her pounding on the door of the Common Room. “Stop your racket!” she shouted. “Don’t you know there are young scholars trying to sleep?”

  The officers quieted down after her outburst and we were able to sleep.

  Wednesday, October 30th

  It has been weeks since anything has gone missing, but now Annie’s locket is gone. It’s a pretty one, made of silver, and she is heartbroken. We looked through the dormitory, etc. but to no avail.

  November 1850

  Tuesday, November 5th

  Today is Guy Fawkes’ Day and Mr. Cavendish wanted to have a bonfire in the yard and burn the effigy of the notorious traitor. While we were rummaging for old clothes and straw to “make” Guy Fawkes, Lucy taught me a verse. We never celebrated Guy Fawkes’ Day at Fort Edmonton, not that I can remember, but as it happened it was raining too hard for a bonfire. Sarah said we could save our effigy and use it as a scarecrow in the garden.

  Here is Lucy’s verse:

  Remember, remember the fifth of November,

  Gunpowder, treason, and plot.

  I know of no reason why gunpowder treason

  Should ever be forgot.

  Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes

  I forget the rest.

  Thursday, November 21st

  Since the beginning of November the days have been endlessly dreary and so much the same I stopped writing in my Journal — until now, and only for something to do. I have no Adventures to record, no Spying to report, no Visitors to describe, no new items gone missing and no missing items found.

  Each day brings a monotony of rain or the threat of rain. Dark grey skies. A heaviness in the clouds that presses down on our little world, making everyone gloomy and short-tempered. Even Mr. Cavendish looks gloomy.

  What makes it even more unbearable is the fact that, according to those who are used to the west coast, this weather is normal and will likely go on until March!

  The Fort is knee-deep in mud and the boys have taken to sliding down the embankment, using a board as a sled.

  Everything is a monotony. School, meals, Sundays — the only thing different is that Mrs. Staines is more demanding with regard to our cleanliness, now that there is an abundance of water with which to wash and bathe.

  Rev. Staines is here more often because of the rain. But when he is not, I amuse myself by picturing him slopping about in the mud with his pigs. Does he practise his sermons on the poor creatures? Or speak to them in Latin? No, I think he only grunts.

  Saturday, November 23rd

  A few of us were jumping on Sarah’s bed for something to do — much to the delight of the younger girls — when Mrs. Staines burst in without warning. “What is the meaning of this?” she shouted. “You are worse than savages” … “You are setting a bad example” … “You are a disgrace,” etc., and added that since we were behaving like savages we could sleep on the bare floor — whereupon she swept the blankets and mattress off Sarah’s bed, then Maggie’s, then Eliza’s, and was about to start on Lucy’s when Lucy cried, “No! You mustn’t!” and reached out to stop her.

  The rest of us gaped, we were so taken aback, but that was nothing compared to what followed. Mrs. Staines demanded to know who Lucy thought she was, to tell her what she could or could not do — the very idea! She tore off Lucy’s bedding and what did she discover, hidden between the folds of a blanket? My handkerchief (but not the camas bulb), Annie’s silver locket and Sarah’s embroidered handkerchief.

  Lucy was promptly hauled away with a number of questions flying after her, and all at the same time.

  Where’s my blue sash?

  Do we still have to sleep on the floor?

  What happened to Radish’s carving?

  Was it really you, Lucy?

  How could you?

  And where’s my beaded necklace? (Maggie never mentioned she was missing a necklace. Maybe she didn’t notice at first, since she has so many.)

  Then we discussed why Lucy would have done such a thing.

  Sarah said it was because Lucy wanted to have a few pretty things, having none of her own. That made me realize — tho’ I am but speculating — it was not the camas Lucy was after, but the handkerchief. She must have wondered why I would have kept a bulb, but thought no more about it until Alec became ill and she remembered my story about the poison. She might have thrown out the bulb then, so as not to be caught with it, or maybe she threw it out from the start. It was not very pretty.

  We reckoned that Mrs. Staines would have forgotten about us sleeping on the floor, so we pretended
we’d heard her say yes to Sarah’s question and remade the beds. Except for mine, since it was never unmade in the first place, being the one that comes after Lucy’s.

  Sunday, November 24th

  Lucy’s punishment was harsh. A caning, a week of Confinement (except for Sunday Service, School and meals), and a written apology to each person from whom she stole something.

  And it was not because she wanted pretty things. It was Davy’s idea, she told us, but Alec was involved too. They would get her to pilfer an item, hide it for a while and give it to them, whereupon they would trade it with the Indians. They suffered the same punishment as Lucy (but an extra-hard caning), and were ordered to retrieve the stolen items and return them to their owners.

  We wanted to know why they hadn’t used the items under Lucy’s mattress. Was she keeping them for herself? Weren’t they good enough? Had they been rejected?

  No, it turned out that she took whatever she could whenever she had the chance, and gave the boys something when they needed it. “Because sometimes they used stuff of their own,” she said, adding, “They traded the blue sash and the beaded necklace,” as if Maggie would be pleased that her things might be considered valuable. “And Radish’s carving.”

  So the sash I’d seen in the Songhees village was Maggie’s.

  I asked Lucy why she did what the boys told her to do, knowing it was wrong. She said it was a dare at first — she could not turn down a dare — and after that she couldn’t refuse or else the boys would tell.

  A few moments later she changed her story, saying it was Alec who’d gotten her involved, no one else, and she’d done it because Alec could be mean when she didn’t do as he told her.

  I’m not sure which version is the true one, but now that I think back to that day at the beach, the minute Alec told her to leave, she was ready to go. Maybe she is a little afraid of him. But no, it’s more likely she doesn’t want him to be mad at her, since he is the only family she has here.

  She is exceedingly loyal to her brother, even if it means hurting her friends. It must make it difficult for her at times, choosing between the two.

  Monday, November 25th

  A month from today is Christmas. Nothing much happened last year at Fort Colvile, except for the flag being raised and having a special Dinner. It was the same at Fort Edmonton and I expect it will be the same here.

  My favourite Christmas was in 1847, the year Mr. Kane, the artist, was in Fort Edmonton on his way back from the West. There was fresh snow on the ground, everyone was dressed up, delicious smells were steaming out of every chimney — and Father was still alive. Who could have known it would turn out to be his last Christmas.

  I remember that the officers and guests were having their Dinner at 2:00, after everyone else had eaten, and Suzanne and I snuck inside the dining hall and peeked through the doorway to spy — whereupon our jaws dropped to the floor!

  The hall was huge and magnificent, especially now that I compare it to Fort Victoria’s. No one believed me when I told them that the ceiling was decorated with gilt scrolls, so fancy that visitors gasped in awe the first time they went inside. Even Mr. Cavendish must have been agog! But on that Christmas Day, the magnificence of the hall was nothing compared to the feast!

  Suzanne and I could only gape. Boiled buffalo hump, roast wild goose, white fish browned in buffalo marrow, buffalo tongue, beavers’ tails, piles of potatoes and turnips and bread, and a dish we could not recognize but which Father later described as a boiled buffalo calf removed from its mother before birth. Everyone at the table had a job to do — serving, carving or dishing out — Father at the roast goose, someone else at the buffalo hump, Mr. Kane serving up helpings of moose nose, my favourite treat — it was a wonder I did not rush in and tear the plate away!

  At one point Father looked over, caught my eye and frowned — whereupon Suzanne and I decided to leave. A good thing, for we might have fainted from hunger if we had stayed longer, even tho’ we had already had our own Dinner. It was special too, with some of the same fare given to the officers, but nowhere near the abundance or variety.

  Later that afternoon I visited Nokum. She had prepared the dried moose nose for the officers, and had tucked some inside her pouch especially for me.

  Dear Nokum! I miss her and Father with an ache that is wider than the prairie. I miss the taste of moose nose and buffalo marrow and buffalo ribs roasted in the fire. I miss the big sky and the brilliance of the stars, the ice on the river and freshly fallen snow.

  The dormitory is quiet tonight. Most of the girls are asleep. It is almost time to blow out the candles, but first I am going to eat some of my pemmican. I need the taste of home — did I just write home? I still think of Fort Edmonton that way, even though I have been away a long time, and cannot go back.

  Tuesday, November 26th

  A coastal ship arrived from Fort Vancouver with a packet of mail, and I got a letter from Aunt Grace. Mr. Cavendish gave it to me at Supper. He also had letters for James and Eliza. He smiled and made pleasant remarks and told us the rain should not go on much longer, for the spirit thermometer in his office is showing lower temperatures, and perhaps there will be snow and wouldn’t that be a happy change, etc.

  Aunt Grace wrote the letter on October 30th. A party had stopped in Fort Colvile a few days earlier, with mail from the Saskatchewan District, and there was a letter to her from Mr. Rowand. He had asked her to inform me of Nokum’s death, thinking I was still in Fort Colvile. Aunt says she was saddened by the news, knowing how deeply I loved my grandmother, and she wished she were able to comfort me. (I wish the same, for hearing of Nokum’s death a second time is making me cry.)

  Aunt was ill through October, but I am not to worry or neglect my studies, for she is improving steadily. She ends the letter by saying how much she and Uncle Rory miss me, especially my “rambunctious spirit and lively chatter.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that. It must be exceedingly dull in Fort Colvile for Aunt Grace to miss my spirit and chatter — but she would not have said it if it were not true. It could be that she feels towards me the way I feel towards her — I miss her more than I could have imagined. The next time I write I will tell her so.

  She received the letter I wrote in August, and says she and Uncle were pleased that I added their little gifts to my cassette. (Thank Heaven I have my handkerchief back, as I’d hate to tell her it was stolen.) She says it brought back memories of our journey through the Rockies and how, in spite of the hardships, we were able to laugh. (Who could help it, with Uncle Rory?)

  Wednesday, November 27th

  Mr. Cavendish was right about the change in weather. The water in our buckets froze overnight.

  Thursday, November 28th

  The mud bogs in the yard have frozen solid thanks to the cold weather, and we no longer have to slop through mud to go to the privy. But the wagon ruts are treacherous, like miniature hills and valleys, and hard as rock.

  December 1850

  Tuesday, December 3rd

  We got up to find six inches of snow, and Mr. C’s spirit thermometer stands at 14 degrees Fahr. It feels like a prairie winter!

  Mr. Cavendish checks the thermometer each and every day and records the temperature in the Post Journal. Today he wrote Severe cold.

  The sun is shining and our spirits have been rising, with talk of sledding down Beacon Hill or the embankment, and sleigh rides — the others have told me there is a sleigh in the Fort — and we are going to build snowmen, for the snow here is a wet heavy snow that packs and holds it shape. It does not flutter off like goose down.

  Later

  The snow hurts when it is packed into a ball and thrown at you. I will practise throwing snowballs and get even with the boys tomorrow.

  Friday, December 6th

  Mild weather, melted snow, the yard a mess of slush.

  No chance of a sleigh ride.

  Dr. Benson has been transferred to Fort Vancouver and a new doctor has come to t
ake his place. He arrived by canoe from Fort Rupert. His name is Dr. Helmcken and he looks very nice. Handsome, too! I would make him a Hero if I had not already chosen Mr. Cavendish.

  Saturday, December 7th

  What a time we had last night! The officers in the Common Room were making such a ruckus we could not bear it. When Sarah suggested we pour water upon them, everyone agreed, and I was elected to do it. (They have accepted me now as someone who is not afraid of misbehaving or paying the consequences — I suppose since I am accustomed to doing both.)

  I protested at first (tho’ weakly, for I was as sleepy and vexed as anyone) by saying, “But Mr. Cavendish is below. What if the water falls on his head?”

  Lucy said we would wait until he was out of range, which would not take long, the way the men were clowning about.

  Clowning is the word, for they were hopping about like horses and yelling, “Hurrah for the cavalry!”

  We had a good laugh. Grown men and officers playing horses — they were worse than the boys! But enough was enough and down went the water on top of their heads.

  The water ended the stomping but not the racket, for they switched to singing instead.

  I suppose we must have slept a little.

  Sunday, December 8th

  Mr. Cavendish complimented us on our singing this a.m. and praised Mrs. Staines for training such an accomplished choir. She blushed! (We all did.)

  When we lead the singing we have to face the congregation and, though I try not to gaze at Mr. Cavendish, my eyes manage to stray in his direction. If he meets my gaze, he smiles. I think it improves my singing.

  The other girls talk about how he smiles at them, but I do not mind. I have no interest in him as a husband, only as the Hero in my Novel.

  Since Mr. Cavendish’s arrival I have looked forward to Sundays, and sometimes wish they would come more often.