The Deserter (3 page)

Thomas Manning stared at the Indians in the maple wood. The moment he feared most had come — capture by savages. Their jackets reached down to their knees, a curiously European cut. Under them, he could see shirting, mostly soft leather like chamois, and all wore leather leggings fixed below the knee by a garter, and held up by strips attached to their broad belts. Knives hung in pouches round their necks. Three carried bows and arrows. No point in him trying to get his firearm out and load it with the powder and shot from his waterproof sack. He lifted his hand in greeting. No answering wave.

Thomas thought fast. No weapons were raised, but the four looked menacing, no doubt. So what next? He’d learned, when in difficult situations with the crew, always contrive a smile. He nodded pleasantly and walked forward, putting on a brave face. “Hello...” No reaction.

He kept moving. Stay calm, he told himself firmly, look friendly, hope for the best. Ten feet away, he paused and smiled.

Perhaps he ought to divert them with presents? He lifted his bag to open it. One of the natives barked a command and another came quickly forward to grab it. Without that, he was finished — but what could he do? He handed it over.

The Indian with long black hair cut square across the forehead pulled out a strip of leather. Another grabbed his wrists and tied them behind his back. An impulse to strike out seized Thomas, but he quashed it. Don’t provoke them now.

Once the hands were tied, they gathered about solemnly, looking Thomas up and down. They spoke little.

His brain churned with alternatives. Run? No hope of that. Reason with them? Obviously, they spoke no English. What about the landing party from the ship? They might be within earshot, though he doubted it, and anyway, if he were rescued, it would only be for another, though just as cruel, death.

The natives reached a consensus. They placed their prisoner firmly in between, two ahead and two following, and motioning, headed swiftly off through the forest.

Thomas noted how effortlessly they travelled, placing each foot down deliberately but with speed, avoiding thickets, ducking under dead trees. Soon they came upon a trail and broke into a trot. With arms tied behind and no way of balancing, he found it hard going. But he did his best; at least this speed was taking him away from that other certain punishment. But was he not heading into another, possibly worse?

No words were spoken. He wracked his brain for ideas that might save him. Would they skin him alive? Roast him? Torture him? Bizarre thoughts from shipboard romances, sailors’ tales he wished he’d never heard, jostled his sanity. Stop, he told himself sternly, who trusted sailors’ yarns? All right, what books had he read? Unusual though it was for a serving lad to study, he had always been an eager student. Back at the castle, he had made a point of getting on the good side of the noble childrens’ tutor, doing small favours. As a result, the tutor had helped him learn to read. In fact, together, they had delved into the history of the New World, firing Thomas’s imagination even more. But the tutor had steered away from Iroquois and their unusually cruel tortures. All signs pointed to him being led to his execution, but Thomas tried to make believe that, in their village, the Chief might be willing to listen. He would explain his circumstances. In fact, why not offer to barter his belongings? Barter? They had them already. So then, lend his services? But to do what? Well, a young man, healthy like himself, perhaps he could live among them, help them trap or whatever on earth they did; he was able-bodied. But could he get them to see that? To see that his body could be of use? Or would they rather
eat
it? Ridiculous to speculate.

Panting hard after three or four exhausting miles, Thomas felt himself ready to give up and beg for rest — a cardinal sin he knew. But he heard the barking of dogs ahead. Was he approaching their village?

Then he saw through the trees a grouping of strange structures randomly scattered around. Each wigwam, for that is what Thomas figured them to be, was covered in birchbark sheets laid like shingles over poles, starting from the bottom and overlapping as they worked upwards. The bark had been stitched together with spruce roots and the doorways all seemed to face east. Slender poles on the outside held the birchbark down, with the top left open for smoke to escape. On some he saw a separate collar to cover the open top in bad weather. Some coverings had been painted with figures of birds and animals. He noticed hides in preparation everywhere: skins of what he took to be squirrel stretched on Y-shaped twigs, other pelts drying on larger frames. Among the wigwams, he saw smaller structures with straight sides from which smoke issued, perhaps smoking meat. One of his four captors had run on ahead, and now an assortment of villagers was gathering to watch the arrival of this tall, thin, white man with brown tousled hair, beardless, in his borrowed trousers and North Country jacket. Were they hostile? He searched the faces, but found them hard to read. Curiosity, rather than hostility, seemed to dominate. Two or three dogs, small and half starved, ran up to sniff at him but then retreated hastily. Many of the women and surely the children seemed never to have seen a white man. But the Iroquois spent their lives fighting the white man. Perhaps these were not Iroquois? No, think hard, yes, from somewhere he came up with the name Micmac; yes, the officers had mentioned them while patrolling this coast. They had been apparently the first to meet Jacques Cartier in this very bay in 1534. One of the Basque crewman told him that Basques spoke of Micmacs who had fished here for centuries, but the other officers had just laughed.

At the sight of Thomas, two smaller children burst into tears and were hushed by concerned mothers. Another little boy grabbed a small bow and arrow and began gesturing arrogantly. Women pointed, seeming to discuss his clothing and his every feature. Two began laughing. Modestly dressed, all wore long skirts, dark blue, or brown, with geometric designs, and soft leather shirts tucked inside their skirts. Some had short vests; many wore tall, strange hats that curved up and forward to a point, embroidered with ribbons and glass beads.

At one side of the central wigwam, two large logs had been felled and placed opposite each other to form a kind of meeting place. From it arose a tall, sturdy man set off from the others by his clothing: a jacket obviously bartered from Europeans, and leggings of finest leather held up by a wide belt, from which hung various pouches. His handsome face was fixed by a great broad nose, and his well-defined features suggested courage and wisdom. The Chief.

The four men who had captured him hurried across to tell him the circumstances of their capture, while others, whom Thomas took to be tribal Elders, joined the Chief in deep discussion. Thomas stood apart, guarded by a young man and another youth who eyed him curiously. One little girl came forward cautiously, and on impulse, Thomas made a funny face.

She squealed, whirled, and raced back to her mother, hiding behind the cloth skirt. The mother turned to the woman next to her and they both hid smiles behind their hands.

One brave little boy, who had pretended to attack with a child’s bow and arrow, tried the same trick and this time Thomas made an even uglier face. He too screamed and raced off. Others joined in the game, much to the amusement of the women. Thomas kept it up, if nothing else but to take his mind from the horrors he might face. Well, they’d have a real treat when that show began. They liked amusement, he decided. But he did wish that someone else would be the butt of their barbarous devices.

The Chief held up his hand and called out a rebuke to the children, who then hurried back to their watchful families. He turned and spoke a few short sentences. The women gathered their children and retired to wig-wams, while Thomas found himself led to a prominent tree. Another youth brought a length of stripping, and Thomas was securely tied.

Was a process of torture about to start? He had an impulse to lash out, to die fighting, but here he was, held by two strong youths in the centre of their encampment. What good would it do? They bound him to the tree by his elbows, which Thomas found painful, adding a strip around his waist, another round his ankles. The rising sun was warming the air and the scent of cedar now began to soothe his nostrils.

The Chief walked across to his two logs, and began what seemed a formal meeting with the Elders. Time to panic? Well, time to pray. And pray hard he did.

Thomas was jerked from his reverie by a strange native grabbing his hair and yanking it back to bare his neck. He found himself staring into a demented face with the man’s knife poised at his throat. Done for, he thought. A short stubby native came quickly up, calling out in Micmac. He spoke strange words at his fierce friend and then took his place in front of Thomas. Loudly and firmly, he asked, “You, trading post?”

English! A flash of hope. “No.” Thomas shook his head.

“You live trading post!” the translator repeated loudly.

“No, not live.”

“How long live trading post?”

“Not live trading post. No! Not live there.”

“Yes. You live trading post!” The angry bark prompted Thomas to keep quiet. No point in arguing, they wouldn’t listen.

After a pause, the translator frowned. And spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “Not trading post?”

“Ship,” Thomas enunciated. “Navy. British Navy.” He paused. “I am from ship.”

The translator frowned,then made his hands into a prow and undulated them.

“Yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. “Yes, ship. I am a seaman. Midshipman. Almost an officer.”

Behind the translator, the fierce Indian grabbed his knife tighter, staring into the captive’s eyes, but the translator restrained him, muttering in Micmac. The Chief called out and the translator turned and walked back to the gathering on the tree-trunk benches. After a look of hatred, the angry Indian followed.

Thomas watched as the translator explained what had been said. The Elders fell to discussing this with their Chief.

Thomas found his body begin to wilt. Exhausted and chilled, he willed himself to keep awake, and alert. Watch them, he told himself, stay focussed. Think. Plan. Not often did one’s whole existence lie in the hands of so few supposedly uneducated brutes. Though probably not much worse than those gossiping dolts he had attended as an occasional footman in the castle dining room. He’d been noticing that on the logs, each Elder got his chance to speak. The words came methodically, slowly, sometimes halting. Sometimes a long silence followed to allow reflection. Clearly they were giving each speaker their whole attention. And in an orderly fashion. All at once, some of the Elders rose from their logs and approached their captive, followed by the others. Oh-oh, Thomas thought, this is it.

They stood around while the Chief directed some questions at his translator. The translator came close and eyed Thomas keenly. “British ship?” he said.

“Yes,” Thomas replied, “British.”

“Fight with French?”

“No,” said Thomas, “not here. Fight with French in Europe. England and France still at war. With Napoleon.”

The translator nodded, seeming to understand, and then turned and explained that to the others. He turned back. “Napoleon win?”

“No sir,” Thomas replied smartly. “Well, yes, he’s already conquered the half of Europe. But not winning, no. Goes on forever, this bloody war.”

The translator passed this on to the others and Thomas watched while a good deal of discussion went back and forth, as some seemed to grasp the concept, others not. The translator turned for further amplification.

Thomas shook his head, wearily. “Now we’ve got Austria against him, and looks like Russia and Sweden and some German states are with us British, too.” Thomas warmed to the subject: after all, wasn’t that what most of the officers talked about on board? “But the bastard went and captured Moscow, then they finally beat him back last winter, and now he’s in Paris, just got there before our ship came over. Seems like he’s set to go off again, he just never gives up.” Thomas realized he was getting too carried away, as he saw the translator’s eyes glaze over. To save face, he was probably having to make things up, so Thomas stopped short, letting go one final remark, “Wellington, our General in Spain, he’s certainly knocking him about…”

After more discussion, the translator turned to him and pointed the finger at him. Oh-oh, thought Thomas, what now?

“You,” the translator barked, “you here? Why?”

“My ship? The Admiralty sent us here to protect our shipping from priva teers.”

The translator turned. No one seemed to grasp that concept. He turned back to Thomas. “Privateer? Navy?”

Thomas shook his head and spoke slowly. “Privateer means ship. Merchants in a company that sells things, they put guns on their ships. Special ‘articles of war.’” Thomas stopped himself: don’t get too complicated; they’ll be angry again. “When they catch a local ship, they keep all the cargo, everything. But they do not hurt the sailors. The send the crew back. Very bad for our merchants, like James Robin in Paspébiac. We British do not like American privateers.”

“Your ship?” The translator gestured with his hands.

“Big how.”

“Man o’war.” Damn, thought Thomas, that will get me nowhere. “Biggest ship on sea. Very strong. Many big cannons. Seventy-four, in fact.”

The translator nodded and passed it on. The others seemed to understand.

“Privateers very afraid of my ship,” Thomas repeated, pleased. “My ship can beat every other ship. Best ship in Navy, I say.” Thomas smiled. He would almost be enjoying himself, if his life were not somehow hanging in the balance. “But now she sails back to Europe, to fight Napoleon again. He is trying to blockade England. We are going to stop him.”

The translator let all that go by. “This country,” the translator said, “you say this country, English?”

“Yes, of course. The British general Wolfe, he beat French Montcalm outside Quebec, on the Plains of Abraham, fifty years ago. Then the Treaty of Paris, 1763, France gave Canada to the British.” Damn, there I go again. “France gave Britain all this country.” He gestured with his head, his arms being still tied securely behind him, causing him to be conscious of the pain once again.

By now, some of the women had come out of their wig-wams and, with the younger men, stood at a respectful distance, watching and listening. He watched the Elders discussing his view of events, as there seemed to be some disagree ment among them.

“French live here,” the translator barked. Then he spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “How?”

“Good old King George III,” Thomas replied, searching for simple words, “he said he’d permit the French to live just the way they want. Keep religion. Keep customs, keep habits, he gave the French all freedom to live just as they wish.”

This seemed to shed a good deal of light, and they fell to discussing it among themselves. One of the older men, who stood leaning on a staff, asked a question of the translator, who turned to Thomas. “This general in Spain, good general?”

Thomas nodded. “Wellington? Very good general.” “Now, English fight French here?” another Elder asked, to be translated by the short stocky Indian.

Thomas shook his head again “No. No French war here, only fighting now in Upper Canada. Faraway. President Madison, he declared war on Britain,” Thomas added, then kicked himself again, because what would they know of the fourth American President? “We were interfering with their shipping, so Americans start war again with British. But here, in Chaleur Bay, all fine, I think.” Keep it simple, he told himself, and easy to understand. That is the only way he might get off, if indeed he were eventually to escape with his life.

They all stood around, discussing what they had heard, and Thomas began to realize that their quest, that this trial, might not be so much the discovery of his guilt or innocence, but rather a hunger for more knowledge. Smarter than one thought: these Indians probably had not been treated with courtesy by the traders so as to allow for much exchange of information. And perhaps, he went on to think, they had heard some of this from the French in Paspébiac, when they went there to trade, and now they were seeking an opposing viewpoint from a British citizen. Most of this would very much concern them, even though they had little contact with civilization. Might the Micmac find themselves in action once more? They had harassed the British in Nova Scotia after they took Louisbourg, the last French garrison on Cape Breton Island, not five days’ sail from Chaleur Bay. But he remembered the word in his Navy that the natives were nowadays more or less at peace, accepting the status quo.

Now what bearing might this all have on his release, or his imprisonment, or torture, or eventual death?

He studied their attitudes as they stood talking, and for the life of him, he could not discern the hostility that characterized the savages in his overheard yarns of brutal torture. On the other hand, he reasoned, better be vigilant. No use trying to divine what is in the mind of a creature so alien as one of these warriors.

They turned and headed back to their conference logs, continuing to speak to one another without the formality of a meeting. It was almost as if they had enjoyed this session that gave them, Thomas presumed, food for discussion around their fires this evening.

He felt himself sag against the bindings. So tired, so very tired. His head dropped forward. After all, he had not slept last night. And the previous two days spent chasing the privateer through a rising, buffeting spring storm had taken all his efforts. Then his chilling swim through icy waters, the bushwhacking, freezing river — it had all been very hard on him, physically and psychologically.

A set of new sounds brought him back to consciousness. The men were heading for their wigwams, from which smoke issued. Time to eat? He repressed the fierce hunger that took hold of him. Would they bring him something? Of course not, why feed a dying man? So they were not going to save him, after all. His heart sagged along with his body, and his eyelids flickered shut. But his mind raced. Maybe they’d take him to civilization for a ransom? But would the Navy pay? No, because all they’d do was flog him to death. Cheaper to let him die here.

Why not ask the band to conscript him? After all, he was strong and healthy. After the harsh winter, most of them seemed so lean, just skin and bones. He’d talk to the translator, whom he sensed to be a man of intelligence. Later, he’d find a way to escape. On the other hand, even now they might be discussing the manner of his death.

Then he looked down and caught sight of the canvas bag at his feet. Some hidden honour had not allowed anyone to touch it. So might there be hope for him, too? Three Indian children, playing games with miniature bows and arrows, kept their eyes on him. Two women made their way down a path toward the river with vessels for water. They studied him as they passed, and then discussed him in low tones. Crows and jays traded taunts in the trees above, until a merciful darkness came down into his brain.

Soon afterwards, he awakened to hear the men still on their tree trunks in earnest discussion. The angry native was haranguing them, and pointing at him. Oh-oh, more trouble. He watched out of the corner of his eye, but the man seemed at the end of his torturous oration, and soon sat down. After an appropriate pause, another Elder took his place. Would this one put forward an opposing view? Again, impossible to tell. Before long, it appeared as though a decision had been reached, and the meeting broke up.

Curious how his life hung on such a whim. Almost better to know, he reflected: the uncertainty had been terrible. He only hoped that if an end were coming, it would be fast. Not like those Jesuit priests, tortured for days on end, or other settlers who had been scalped and gutted and then tied in the sun to die in horrible pain. Having said many prayers, he felt ready for whatever might come.