The Deserter (10 page)

“He’ll just have to wait!” William snapped. “Old Jarred hasn’t even paid us for the wool from our sheep this spring.”

“You have sheep, too?”

“What do you think you’re eating there, lad,” William chortled. And as soon as Grace was said, Thomas tucked into his mutton with as much manners as he could muster. Mrs. Garrett noticed approvingly.

“Aye, sheep, two oxen, can’t clear land without oxen, chickens of course, as you can see from that basket of eggs.” William gestured to the simple sideboard.

“Now dear, you know we don’t eat like this every day. It’s a special Sunday, and we thought we’d make it a celebration.”

“So you’re in luck, lad!” William guffawed. “You picked the right day! Planned it too, I warrant!” “William!” Mrs. Garrett reprimanded.

“I am indeed, sir, in great good luck.” Better and better thought Thomas, drinking his milk. Cows, hens, sheep for wool and mutton, life won’t be half bad, once he got going. And then he heard it again: thunder!

“Eggs, that’s my job,” piped up little Eleanor. “Me an’ Cathy, we go to the barn every day.” “Catherine and I,” her mother corrected.

Catherine looked down and blushed. Thomas realized his blue eyes had been boring into her across the table. Sturdy, well built, she had a becoming bosom for one so young. And features far more attractively moulded than any serving maid back at the castle. “Ducks, too, as I hear outside,” he went on quickly.

“Yes, we all work hard here, young man; you can’t go nowhere in these parts bar t’hard work!” William frowned and looked up as another deepening rumble of thunder gathered out their window. The swaying trees bore witness to the wind kicking up.

What should I do, thought Thomas, make a run for the boat? No, they would not be putting out now. He stared at his food, his appetite deserting him. But he soldiered on, “Aye aye, sir. And believe me, we do work, even the French among us, we work all the day long and look to turning out a goodly barque before late autumn.” His mind being on the approaching storm, he had spoken without thinking. Oh-oh, now he’d identified himself as working on the crew building a barque for Mr. Robin. “What’ll ye do after the summer, lad?” This so precisely mirrored his concerns that he found himself taken aback. “Well... get back to Douglastown, I imagine, sir.”

“You wouldn’t like to come work for me this winter, would you? Logging? I’d see you got well fed. No money, mind, none of us pay in cash. All we do is feed you right and proper, and make sure you sleep warm. And of course a portion of the logs ye cut, if ye’re so inclined.”

“Winters are long, you know,” Mrs. Garrett chimed in.

“And very hard. But if you have relatives in Douglastown...” She said it as though she wasn’t convinced. Woman’s instinct, he thought.

“And even with all our work, young sir,” she went on, “three boys harvesting the turnips and potatoes for our cold cellar, two wonderful daughters helping me put up jams, salt pork, dried berries, and heaven knows what else, last winter we had a hard time of it.”

“Aye, we did that. Not a family here but didn’t feel the pinch. Shut that window, Catherine. Rain’ll be upon us before we know it.”

Catherine went across to the window, for the wind had indeed grown fierce. Thomas thought uneasily of the predicament he’d gotten himself into. But he tried to maintain his composure. “Rather cold, for August, sir, is it not? Or do you find it normal for the coast?”

“Every year, after one really warm day in July,” William chortled, “we say: Well, there goes the summer!”

Mrs. Garrett smiled. “Shouldn’t be surprised if it turns quite nippy this week.”

“And why else do we work from dawn to dark to get in the last of the hay?” William downed another forkful of mutton.

“Down in the Colonies, of course,” Mrs. Garrett went on, “no winter was ever as cold as these up here. Quite, quite unknown in the Old Country, too, as I expect you remember, Mr. Alford, though I myself have all but forgotten. And of course,” she went on, eating rather primly, “no one instructed us how to deal with these harsh conditions.”

“I’m sure not, ma’am.” But he wondered, why did no one think to ask the Micmac, who’ve lived here through thousands of winters?

Catherine came back from the window and threw him a strange look, inviting, yet distant. As she sat properly apart in her chair, Thomas heard the rain come, gusting hard against the sides of the house. He looked down. Here he was, in a strange village, with a host who had demanded to know if he were off a boat, no means of transport and now, nowhere to stay this night. And a storm in full blow.

Cold rain beat against the panes and pelted down on the cedar shingles. The east wind, true to its promise, had brought a savage summer storm to the Gaspé. Snug in their farm kitchen with their meal finished, the Garretts seemed to be genuinely enjoying the company of their new acquaintance. But something in the way William kept watching him made Thomas uncomfortable. What did he suspect?

Knowing he was in for an interrogation, Thomas took the offensive. “Sir, forgive my ignorance, but why are you United Empire Loyalists all in New Carlisle? Why not in Paspébiac?”

“No choice. They brought us here and told us any land to the east and west was all taken up by them damned French Acadians. Lieutenant-Governor Cox’s doing.” “You were given land?”

“Of course. And we deserved every last acre. And a bloody lot more, I’ll tell you that. We fought faithful all through that Revolutionary War. And then, poor Eleanor — both of us spent two year — eighty-three, weren’t it luv? — in bloody camps up along the Saint Lawrence, freezing to death waiting for King George to settle us.” “You were kept waiting? Everyone who came up from the Thirteen Colonies?”

“Only militia. Them bloody revolutionaries down there, scruffy lot, they put some of us in prison, tarred and feathered others, we damned well had to skedaddle. Leave everything behind!” William sighed, and stabbed another large morsel of mutton with his fork. “A lot of fine men and true, we got out fast, came up here. We wanted to stay under British rule, which of course we are up here, ever since Wolfe beat that Montcalm and his French lot of ruffians on the Plains of Abraham.” Thomas knew about the
Peace of Paris
in 1763 when France ceded the whole of Canada, all the way down to Louisiana.

Thunder sounded again, this time closer, but they kept on eating heartily. “To get a piece of land, you had to be in the militia — widows too, they were entitled, just like us. Promised each of us a hundred acres, plus fifty for every child.”

So that’s how New Carlisle had been settled. “Now you own your land?” Just where Thomas had hoped the conversation would lead. “Only those loyal to the King?” “Bloody right, every last one of us, loyal to King George and he forgot us, he did, high and mighty on his throne while we sat freezing in the snow, waiting for what was rightfully ours.”

“But now we’re here, Father!” Catherine spoke up.

“Bloody right. And a sorry piece of rock it is, too. I had a fine trade in England. Bloody hard farming here, clearing land, we’ve had a devil of a time—”

“Now dear, the soil is fine, it is so,” she turned to Thomas, “but such back breaking work. It never stops, you know. In England, William was an apprentice stocking weaver, and he had such great opportunities. It’s a very respected trade, don’t you know.”

“Aye, it is that,” her husband went on. “But I could see it coming — the unemployment. I thought, I’ll cross the ocean, fight for good King George in the New World, bound to be good prospects. In Nottingham, I’d end up all my life as a weaver — good trade mind, but well, adventure called... Young lad, you know, seventeen years old, so I joined the twenty-ninth regiment, and look what I’ve got to show for it now.”

“Well sir, you have a wonderful house.” Thomas was tempted to comment further on it, when Mrs. Garrett mirrored his thoughts.

“No chance of our getting a house this size with all this land if William had kept on with his stocking weaving!” “Right you are, but then, lass, we worked like hell for every last bit, didn’t we!”

“You decided not to fish as they do in Paspébiac?” Thomas asked.

“No choice. That Frenchman, he runs the whole show.”

“Now dear, I keep telling you Mr. Robin’s a Jerseyman, and a Protestant to boot.”

“I know, I know, but he’s got that fish trade wrapped up, a man just can’t compete! Not that I want to fish, mind, I’m not a seafaring man, got sick as a dog on the boat coming over. No, give me the dry land every time.”

“We do sell lumber, Mr. Alford,” Eleanor continued.

“You see, they need wood in the Old Country, and on the continent too, what with the blockade being over and all.”

“Aye, we sell a good amount, sawmill works night and day, I’ll tell you.”

“You have a sawmill?” Thomas’s eyes sparkled. Boards for his house! Already his mind had been working at the problem. He hadn’t seen any independent mills in Paspébiac. One sawed wood for the Robin’s company, but no other.

“Aye, on Bonaventure River. Bit upstream from Ezeriah Pritchard. Helped set it up. Nice fellow runs it. Willard Hall. Don’t spend my time there, he’s got good men.” “We own a share,” Eleanor mentioned, wiping the cleared table with a cloth.

“We ship boards over, they send us back salt, tea, china, all sorts of things we need — the comforts of home, you might say.” He gave a short bitter laugh, ignoring the wind now buffeting the house. “Well, you don’t find any bloody comforts here I can tell you. Things cost so bloody much, hard to make a go of it. I’ve written over and over again to that bloody man Forbes in Quebec City, no better than Cox I’d say, them ’at’s in the government—”

“Now dear, don’t get yourself in a sweat—” Mrs. Garrett glanced up as another gale struck the house, thrashing it with sheets of rain.

“No, you’re right. No good crying over spilt milk. But every time I see one of them stuffed shirts from the capital, I give them a piece of my mind. And I’m not alone in that, we all do hereabouts!”

Thomas had heard the Loyalists were a fractious lot and now he was beginning to understand. In fact, a good many of them had been so disgruntled that they departed the coast over the last ten years, only to have their lots snapped up by those who remained — at bargain prices. He began to feel more and more happy with his own state, having ended up at that magnificent brook. If he ever made it back... But meanwhile, better grab every bit of information. “How might one go about acquiring land if one were not lucky enough to be in the militia?”

William snorted sceptically. “Thinking of settling on your own, are ye, Laddie?”

Something in William’s tone prompted a surprisingly heartfelt flow from Thomas. “Sir, I confess, the land is to my liking. I long to live on it. I long to make it my own, to have a home I can bring a wife to, and with whom I can share every thing, to love and provide for her, and for her children, and for our children’s children.”

Thomas stopped short, embarrassed. The two women, mother and daughter, had grown suddenly quiet and were looking at him with decided interest, nay, even longing. Catherine had been rendered into a statue, hardly breathing. Why had he gone on like such an idiot? He glanced down at his plate. “I’m sorry, I talk too much.”

“Aye, talk is cheap,” said his host. “The proof is in the pudding.”

“Indeed so, sir. Forgive me. But I would dearly love to know how a man might acquire title—”

“To his land? I’ll tell you how: go live on it! One day you’ll bloody well find it all belongs to you. Plenty of land to be had up the coast towards Douglastown. No roads mind, just damn wilderness. No one there.” “Except the Indians, dear.”

“Bloody savages. Gave us a right run for our money, down in Nova Scotia when we threw those Acadians out of Louisbourg. Fought against us.”

“But they say they’re not a bad lot,” Eleanor confided.

“Aye, now that they’ve started trading with us summ’at.”

“Wouldn’t you like some more tea, Mr. Alford?”

“I would, Mrs. Garrett, but I should be getting back to the fishing boat.”

“Oh they’ll never put out in this,” Catherine cried, speaking out almost for the first time.

“Perhaps Mr. Alford had better stay the night,” Mrs. Garrett suggested nervously.

William looked up sharply, then shrugged as his wife gave him a meaningful look. William seemed to get the message. “O’ course, laddie, stay with us. Go back tomorrow. Much too dangerous out on the bay today! You stay here.”

***

Gusts buffeted the house as William and his guest surged out the door and set off through the downpour to his barn, several hundred yards away down a rutted and now very muddy lane. William wanted to check on his livestock and Thomas had begged to accompany him, offering to do whatever he could. Night was fast approaching.

When the sons had returned, they had been sent to their room by William, who caught a whiff of rum on their breath. Rain had interrupted their fishing back at one of the brooks, so they had gone to a friend’s and found a bottle. Eleanor was shocked, but tried not to notice as the lads, in their teens, were doing their best to appear sober and upright.

Ahead, Thomas saw a grey wooden building, one end of which had been built of squared timbers, notched at the ends, strong, weatherproof, stogged with straw and mud, with one small window. The other and far larger section, for hay Thomas presumed, was sided with wide boards spaced apart, whitewashed, and roofed with black tarred shingles.

To one side and decidedly drenched, a tethered ox looked up as they approached. Thomas saw another, smaller, standing stoically in the soaking rain in a rough corral made of cedar rails.

“Ho Red!” William called as he went up to the larger animal. “Getting a bit damp, are ye?” He untied it, and caught hold of the large iron ring in its nose to lead it into the stable, motioning for Thomas to fetch the other. Thomas slid open the rickety gate of boards and went into the enclosure. His ox, seeing the stable door opened and the other animal entering, trotted out of his corral and followed meekly in. Thomas shut the door as the animal went into its stall, while William tied the larger one to its manger with a loose rope through its nose.

“Lot safer and dryer in here, tonight,” William growled.

“Don’t look like it’ll let up afore dawn.” He shook the rain from his hat, and strode over to a bin that contained oats. “I lock ’em in here with a big padlock, y’know — like gold bricks they are, though most of the folk here are honest as the day is long.”

“Not everyone has a beast of burden, I suppose,” Thomas ventured.

“Not on your life! Got this one as a bull calf eight year ago from old Secord Beebe who went off to Wentworth County in Nova Scotia. Fed daily by the wife, by hand, for three weeks.”

“Not much hope of clearing land without oxen!”

“Oh well, some have tried. But this…” he slapped his hand on Red’s rump, and the ox swished his tail in response, “had to buy milk for it, cost a fortune, and then gruel, but it grew into a fine big ox, as you can see. Great worker.” Red lurched to one side as William pushed in beside him to pour the dipper of oats into the manger. “And the other?”

“Pinch? Aye. Another piece of luck.” William went over to give Pinch a container of oats too. “Six year ago, we had a mess of potatoes and a good amount of wheat, you know, ground at the gristmill—”

Thomas brightened at the mention of a place to ground wheat into flour.

William caught the look. “Oh aye, we’ve had a gristmill going on ten year.” Indeed a thriving community, Thomas thought to himself: a sawmill for boards and a gristmill — what else could one desire? It all looked more and more feasible.

“Well, the Tuttles, they were already packing it in, I think,” went on William. “Starving they were, so I gave them a barl of flour and a bag of potatoes, then another, worth a fortune that winter, but — though say’t as shouldn’t — saved their lives.” Thomas nodded. “I bet it did.”

“Very scarce that winter. But mind, I had a good piece of land on the hill back, drains well, gets the early sun. Kep’ it in wheat that summer. Don’t know why, but saved us all.”

“Just the sort of good management needed in these parts, I warrant.”

“Anyway, when the Tuttles left, they let us take Pinch for nought. I’ve not heard what happened to them back in the Old Country. Must ask Eleanor...”

“So I suppose,” Thomas went on, “that unless you’re lucky enough to have neighbours like you, one might have no possibility of oxen. Just too costly.”

“Aye, too much for you, laddie, you’d work for that Mr. Robin for ten years before you’d get one. Mind, if you came up here for a couple of winters, I might find a spare calf sometime, depending...”

Now that was an offer Thomas would remember. And his Sunday dinner — how long was it since he’d had a glass of milk like that? Once a week Robin’s gave their workers a boiled egg from the farm, their enterprise becoming more and more self-sufficient, but milk, no, none of that. And now that summer was upon them, fresh vegetables had appeared for dinner, but nothing like the feast at the Garretts’.

Right then and there, Thomas resolved that he’d have a house like William Garrett, that he would be a landowner too, a free farmer, with oxen and sheep and ducks and chickens, that he would drink the milk from his cows, eat the eggs from his chickens. He just could not wait to get started.

***

Thomas lay sleeping next to the dying fire. A sound made him open his eyes, and he became aware of a singular presence enfolding him. He looked up and by candlelight saw another face very close to his, closer in fact than any young lady had ever been.

“Sshh,” she murmured, finger to lips.

He rolled over. Catherine leaned into his ear, so close he felt the feather touch of her light hair as her cheek brushed his, sending tingles down his spine. “I heard my brothers talking. Laughing and joking, long into the night. One of them even went out into the rain. Apparently at the general store, there’s a notice about Navy deserters. They’ve decided you could be one of them. Of course, there’s a reward. They’re such pigs. It’s only because they’re drunk. They would never do such a thing otherwise.” “Do what?”