A Season for Miracles

by Jean Little

Mr. Miller, Tilly’s betrothed, is not nearly as old as she says, though she is right that his hair is thinning and his hands do sweat profusely. I think it is because he is terrified of Tilly. She is quite beautiful and quite outspoken.

  Joe and I spent yesterday wandering about town asking after Talbot. Joe wouldn’t let me go into the taverns to ask the miners if they knew Talbot, which I found funny, given that I used to work in one in Richfield (though I suppose that doesn’t quite count, since I was dressed as a boy). I did find it difficult to wait outside while Joe enquired within, but then I’ve always been too impatient.

  No news of Talbot. My mind is now in a burning turmoil!

  Tuesday, December 1, 1863

  I have a plan.

  Thursday, December 3, 1863

  I am writing this by candlelight in the bush, so it is not my best penmanship. It took a day of talking and arguing to convince Joe to follow my plan, which was for us to travel to the Cariboo to find Talbot. I feel bad taking advantage of Joe’s good nature. Henry would never have allowed us to travel all the way to the Cariboo in winter. He’d say it’s far too dangerous to be trying to make our way to Barkerville. But I survived swamps and mountains and floods and hunger last year. In the end, I promised Joe we would turn back if it becomes too dangerous.

  Tilly is with us also. She heard Joe and me whispering together, and knowing my worry about Talbot, guessed at my plan to go to the Cariboo to find him. She arrived in my room this evening with two sets of her father’s clothes. At first I told her she couldn’t come with us, but she said, “It is my last chance to have an adventure before I am married.” I will admit I am glad of her company. We left a note for her father with one of the maids, with instructions that it not be given to him before noon tomorrow.

  Tilly had great fun dressing up in her father’s clothes and told me to call her Matt — never, ever Matilda. She hates her name. She already calls me Harry, so that shouldn’t be a problem.

  I had thought to go as a girl, but realized that pants will give us greater freedom of movement than long skirts trailing in snow, and the coats are bulky enough to hide our figures.

  We slipped out late this evening after the house was quiet. As it is too late in the year for the steamers to run up the Fraser River, Joe hired two canoes and four Indians to take us to Langley. The first night we went only a little way from New Westminster, as we feared hitting rocks in the river in the dark. We are now camped along the shore. Joe has given us a good fire, and piled pine boughs for our beds. There is only a dusting of snow here and the river is clear of ice.

  Friday, December 4, 1863

  Langley

  We are in Langley. It is early afternoon and raining. I am happy it is not snow. Two of our guides do not wish to go any farther, so Joe has gone to a lodge across the river to hire two others. While we wait, Tilly is practising swaggering about in her men’s clothes. She even spat once, which brought on a fit of giggles for the two of us. What if her betrothed saw her now!

  Later

  Joe has returned. As dark comes so early, we will overnight here in a boarding house.

  Monday, December 7, 1863

  Fort Yale

  Three full days of travel by canoe have us at Fort Yale this evening. We are staying at the Hudson’s Bay Company House, with a friend of Henry and Joe’s. We are glad for the warm fire. Joe had made the canoe comfortable with hay and blankets, but the rain changed to cold and snow, and even Tilly’s high spirits are dampened.

  The river was very low, so the guides had to do a great deal of poling, which was time consuming. Yesterday at Fort Hope we overnighted on the floor of a tavern. The town was full of miners. Joe told them the story I’d cooked up that Tilly and I were brothers trying to get to Barkerville, where our eldest brother was missing.

  None of them had news of Talbot, though. Joe is teaching Tilly all the miners’ sayings, such as “You bet your gumboots” and “your bottom dollar.”

  Wednesday, December 9, 1863

  Boston Bar

  Snow storming all day. Tired and exhausted. We secured passage yesterday in a trader’s four-horse sleigh that was travelling to Boston Bar with freight. Well-wrapped in buffalo robes and blankets, we thought we would make good time along the Cariboo Wagon Road, but the snow wasn’t very deep and we had to get in and out of the sleigh to ease the horses’ load on the bare patches. Even despite this, one of the horses went lame!

  We spent the night at the house of a farmer. Tilly and I helped the woman of the house with the dinner preparations, forgetting we were supposed to be boys. She seemed quite surprised until we told her we were quite used to getting dinner, as our mother was dead. The woman stared at Tilly all the evening long, making Tilly most uncomfortable. We did not talk other than to answer “yes” or “no.” We will not stay in individual homes after this, as it gives people too much opportunity to discover that we are girls.

  Finally made Boston Bar early this evening after another dreadful day of travel.

  Thursday, December 10, 1863

  We left at five in the morning in the dark and cold. The trader had agreed to Joe’s request (and ten extra dollars!) to take us on to Lytton, and northwards to the ferry, which is as far as he will go. We reached the ferry late in the afternoon. The snow is deeper here, so the sleigh ran much better. Tilly is much impressed with the mountains, though less impressed with the narrow road cut into the sides of these mountains.

  The ferry owner told us that there is snow, mud and mire ahead of us. He strongly advised us to turn back. Joe is worried, but I told him we should at least see the conditions for ourselves, as people tend to exaggerate.

  Friday, December 11, 1863

  We got such a shock this morning. As we were sitting down to a breakfast of beans and pancakes in our wayhouse, a loud voice said, “Matilda.” Tilly’s mouth dropped open and she turned quite pink. It was Mr. Miller! Many heads turned to watch with interest as he hauled Joe out of his chair and drew back an arm to hit him, but Tilly grabbed Mr. Miller and told him to stop. She pushed him into a room and slammed the door. Joe was very upset, but I told him to sit and eat his pancakes, as there was little sense in them going to waste, and I knew Tilly would smooth everything over.

  Twenty minutes later, Tilly and Mr. Miller returned. Both looked quite pleased with themselves. Tilly sat down to her breakfast and said, “Mr. Miller will be accompanying us to the Cariboo.” Mr. Miller hmphed and hawed a great deal, but finally sat with us. “And, Harry, I want to ask that you stand with me as my witness at our wedding, which will take place immediately upon our return to New Westminster.”

  I don’t think Mr. Miller is all that old, now that I have seen him very close up. It is just that he has the misfortune of his hair thinning early.

  Sunday, December 13, 1863

  47-Mile House

  We are at 47-Mile House. (Some people call it Clinton.) We travelled partway in a waggonnette, until the snow became too deep, then by horse and mule — Tilly and myself riding the mules! Never have I been so jolted about. Tilly whispered to me in our room, later, that her “arse” was sore. We giggled a long time over that.

  A funny thing happened on the way. It was snowing fast and suddenly Tilly’s mule shied and pranced about, and out of the curtain of white came a camel! Tilly’s mouth fell open and I felt quite glad, because I knew she never believed me when I told her that I had been up on a camel’s back when I came to the Cariboo. Mr. Miller was as surprised as Tilly. Joe told him that the camels had been brought to the Cariboo to be used as pack animals, but were not suited for the job. Where this one came from, I don’t know, but it wandered away shortly after. The mules settled down after it left — they hate the smell of camels.

  We are having a day of rest in Clinton, as the hotel is a good size and comfortable. Mr. Miller is feeling a bit seedy. A cold in his head. I asked Tilly if she was happy to be marrying him. She shrugged and said, “I must marry someone and it is all arranged.” I pointed out to
her that he came all this way after her. (It is my secret belief that Tilly has some affection for Mr. Miller.)

  She thought about that for a moment, then turned the conversation to me by asking, “And what about you coming after Talbot? Do you care for him?” I made an excuse to leave the room as I didn’t have an answer. I can tell you, dear diary, that I do care for Talbot, but whether as more than a friend, I am not sure.

  Monday, December 14, 1863

  I am most impatient to leave. Mr. Miller is still under the weather. I told Tilly to dose him with brandy. The longer we stay here, the worse the weather will be farther along. I am not sure I want him to come with us, as he is a bit of a dandy and I doubt he will cope well in the bush.

  Evening

  I am so glad we didn’t leave. Perhaps patience is a virtue after all, as late this morning we had news of Talbot. Two miners arrived on their way to winter in New Westminster. They had left Williams Creek two weeks previous and spent some time in Barkerville before arriving here. (Drinking the town dry by the looks and smell of them, Tilly said.) They reported that early in November they had spoken to a young man named Talbot who was waiting for supplies to fix a water wheel. He told the miners that he would leave as soon as the supplies arrived, as he planned to spend Christmas with friends in Victoria! That’s me! Or rather, Henry, Joe and me! But where is he? Mr. Miller wants to head back. He says that perhaps we passed each other en route and Talbot is already in New Westminster. But my gut (an unladylike word, I know, but Joe and I believe what our “gut” tells us) says Talbot is still on Williams Creek, so we’re continuing. The sky was clear and the air cold, but we made good time and got to Lac la Hache. The scenery here is beautiful, evergreens darkening the lower slopes of the mountains, and the lake shimmering blue. My fingers itch to sketch it!

  Mr. Miller knew of a Mr. Bates who had a ranch here. We were forced to stay the night, as there were not any inns or wayhouses nearby. Tilly constantly reminds Mr. Miller to call her Matt and me Harry. He called me Miss Palmer, but sneezed while doing so — I don’t believe Mr. Bates heard him. Tilly and I retired early so we didn’t have to talk.

  Tuesday, December 15, 1863

  Up before dawn. A bright, cold day. Mr. Bates will take us to Soda Creek to “try his new sleigh,” he said.

  Tuesday late

  We only had one moment of concern this entire day, when one of the horses shied at the cry of a wild animal and the reins got all askew. We greatly admired Mr. Bates’s new sleigh. He was so delighted with our praise, he decided to take us on to Quesnel Mouth tomorrow. There are many miners here, drinking and gambling. Mr. Miller, Mr. Bates and Joe have joined a game. I worry that Joe will lose everything.

  Wednesday, December 16, 1863

  150-Mile House

  Tilly is hurt! I should never have let her come. It was snowing fast when we left Soda Creek at first light. We had passed 150-Mile House, when suddenly one of the horses floundered in a snowdrift and the sleigh plunged down a bank. Joe, Mr. Miller and I were flung clear, but Tilly and Mr. Bates went over the fifteen-foot drop. Thank goodness the thick snow cushioned their fall. Tilly’s right ankle is twisted and her arm is sore from being tangled in the reins. Mr. Bates had a gash in his head, but otherwise appeared fine.

  Mr. Miller showed some spunk and plunged down the hill with no thought for his own safety to rescue Tilly. She was quite impressed. The horses appear none the worse for the fall, but Tilly can go no farther.

  Mr. Miller wanted us all to return to Soda Creek, saying Joe and I could not go on alone. But as you know, dear diary, I am very stubborn. Joe and I returned to 150-Mile House and managed to get two sickly mules that were left to winter there by miners. Fifteen dollars each, enough to buy 150 pounds of bacon! Presently we are camped by the trail, cold and hungry.

  Friday, December 18, 1863

  Quesnel Mouth

  We arrived at Quesnel Mouth late yesterday. We had a frightening trip in a dugout canoe crossing the river to get here. Many times I thought we’d be swamped.

  New stores have been built since the last time Joe and I stayed. Went farther north to a roadhouse owned by one of the overlanders who came with us last year. From here we’ll go on foot to Cottonwood. No one here has seen or heard of Talbot. I’m not sure what to think.

  Saturday, December 19, 1863, late

  We slept late and then were delayed, as I insisted on questioning more people for news of Talbot. Mr. Miller had put the doubt in my mind that even now Talbot might be in Victoria (despite what my gut says).

  Slow progress on foot — I had forgotten the weight of a pack on one’s back! My shoulders are rubbed raw. Joe and I traded our boots for comfortable miners’ gumboots that had been cast away at the side of the trail. The ones I found were too large and I stuffed them with cloth; Joe found a pair that fit him well. It took us a long time to wade through snowdrifts and in some places knee-deep mud. We made little progress and are camped in the bush, not wanting to venture farther in the dark. Dead horses and mules line the trail, starved from lack of food. Thank goodness for the cold weather, or the stink of them …

  Later still!

  I must continue, though I do so with one eye on my book and one on the strange man across the fire from me. We heard crashing in the woods and suddenly a man staggered to our fire. Joe grabbed his revolver!

  The man’s clothes were in tatters, his hat just a rim and his shirt shredded. There were no pants below his knees. His eyes were wild. He asked if he could share our fire. We asked him what had happened, and he said that he’d been set upon by thieves who left him nothing. We didn’t feel right turning him away, but I saw Joe lie down with his revolver by his head.

  Monday, December 21, 1863, noon

  Past Cottonwood

  We made little progress yesterday. We both were exhausted from keeping an eye on the strange man, though we must have slept at some point, as he was gone come morning.

  My legs cramped because they are unused to the hard walking. My feet are blistered. Dreadful night. Slept on the floor in a wayside house just outside of Cottonwood. Only one blanket apiece and wind howling through the cracks in the walls and floor.

  Monday evening

  Richfield

  We are in the French Hotel in Richfield. I’m a girl again — or rather, people here remember me as a girl. In the bar there are three women in male attire playing cards! They are even smoking cigars. Joe said I wasn’t to mix with them.

  No news of Talbot. Snow flies thick and fast. I want to go to Williams Creek tomorrow, but Joe has been told it would be foolhardy and we would never make it. I can’t be this close, dear diary, and not at least try to get to the gold claim. I think of Talbot out there alone in the dark and cold.

  Tuesday, December 22, 1863

  Snowing still. Even I can see the danger of travelling. Tomorrow I will go no matter what the weather. I won’t tell Joe, as I’d feel bad if he was hurt or killed. I’ll go to bed like normal tonight, then leave at first light before anyone is up.

  Wednesday, December 23, 1863

  Snowed in. I despair of ever finding Talbot.

  Thursday, December 24, 1863, night

  Barkerville

  I found Talbot! He is quite ill with a broken leg, boils and a fever, but Dr. Black says he should mend soon.

  I will now record how it came about that we discovered him. I got up early yesterday, as planned, and nearly tripped over Joe, who was sleeping outside my door — guarding me, he said, but I think he knows me too well. The snow had stopped and though the sky was steel grey with the promise of more to come, we walked to Barkerville. There we had a hot drink, then continued to Williams Creek. A light snow drifted down, but more troublesome was a dense fog that formed. Joe had been that way many times, though, and we stayed close to the creek to guide our way. We came across a few men wintering on their claims, and warmed up in the cabin of one. None had seen Talbot.

  My heart beat fiercely as we approached the claim,
my imagination running wild with all sorts of horrors. The cabin door was closed, a drift of snow in front of it to the roof. Joe cleared it away and inside we found Talbot! I nearly cried to see him so thin and sick and trembling, and in fact, turned to the task of building the fire so he wouldn’t see my tears. He was out of his mind and thought Joe and I weren’t real, until I took his cold hand and pressed it hard so he’d know it really was us, flesh and bone.

  Joe made a sleigh and we strapped Talbot to it and pulled him to Barkerville, where Dr. Black took him in. I saw Talbot for a few minutes this evening and he is washed and clean and sleepy. He told me he waited until mid-November for the water-wheel engine to come, and then slipped on an icy patch while fixing it, and fell and broke his leg. He managed to drag in some wood for heat, and tried to set his leg himself, but it wouldn’t heal and he got weaker and weaker and the past week had neither heat nor food. He told me he thought he was “done for.”

  We will stay here in Barkerville until Talbot is better. Once again, I am at the mercy of Mrs. McManus, where I will stay until we can travel. A packer is planning to make his way to New Westminster later this week, so agreed to take a letter to Tilly. I asked her to send one on to Victoria for me. I imagine I will be missed at school, and surprisingly, for all the wandering that my feet insist upon, I’ll miss it. For now though, I am very happy. Talbot kept his promise that we’d be together for Christmas, though I thought it would be in Victoria, not Barkerville!

  But it does not matter where we are; it is Christmas Eve, and Talbot is safe. It truly is a night to rejoice.

  Susanna Merritt and her family have had a difficult year as the fighting between British and American troops intensified — fighting that has involved Susanna’s father and her brother Hamilton. The work of running the farm has fallen to Susanna, her sister Maria and her mother. Caroline, her married sister, is staying with them while her husband is away with the troops. Susanna, as is her habit, writes in her journal as if she is talking to her future great-granddaughter, Constance.