The Survivor (13 page)

James was inordinately proud of his new wife as they took their walk down to the pier. The late October weather had turned cold, giving rise to a much earlier blaze of glory that covered the Gaspé coast every autumn. These last days working in Will Garrett’s fields, James had marvelled, as he did every year since coming to the New World, at the lime greens and reds, dark greens, lemon yellows, bright and dark, of the many trees surrounding William Garrett’s farm. The trees seemed to reflect his spirit, which soared like the colours of the landscape. A time of festivity, of rejoicing, a conflagration of yearning and satisfaction. So how would he break the news to her of his impending journey?

“You know, I have been Catherine Garrett for nineteen years...”

“Well, you will be Catherine Alford for nineteen plus nineteen plus another nineteen,” he said. “And I shall love you for twice as long as that.”

They walked a little further and stopped to survey the open common fields with their cattle and sheep. “So what is it you wanted to discuss with me, my dearest?” Catherine asked, reaching for his hand.

How shall I bring it up, he wondered again. “Catherine, I want to make a short trip by canoe down the coast to make sure everything is fine before you come. I will be gone only two days.”

“A wife’s duty is to be by her husband. I cannot let you go alone.”

Exactly the answer he had anticipated. Did that mean he would have to tell her the whole truth? One day after their wedding? “No, my love. Absolutely not. I intend to go alone. Any storm may surprise me, and I would rather take as much of our supplies as possible down to our cabin in advance. I need the room in the canoe.”

“But I can learn to paddle, James. I have to start soon, as you yourself acknowledged.”

“We’ll have lots of time for that,” James replied. He saw Catherine look sideways at him. “I think you’re hiding something.”

Would he have rather had a less discerning wife? One with less intuition? Someone less intelligent perhaps? No siree! He loved her for that very perception. “You are just wonderful, Catherine!”

She said nothing, but withdrew her hand from his. “It will only be for two days,” James said. “I’ll be back on the evening of the second day, no matter what.”

“No matter if there is that storm you predict?”

“Well then, I shall come one day later. I have every reason to preserve my life, now that it seems so promising.”

“I can’t believe we’re disagreeing this soon after our wedding,” Catherine said with a hint of anger.

“No argument at all,” retorted James. “A husband has an obligation to prepare his house for his bride, and nothing you say will dissuade me. You think I have another wench hidden in the woods?”

“You have something hidden in the woods,” she said. “Of that I am sure.”

They kept walking toward the jetty without speaking. They reached it and stood out upon the floating boards, listening to the waters lap around them. The sky was half covered in lush clouds, different shades of a gentle blue-grey. To the right, white flecks and buffets crossed at different levels, some high, some low, exemplifying the immense variety of a Gaspé sky — wrought by a Master to whom James felt very close.

James wanted so much to resolve this amicably, but he could see no other way: the truth must not come now, it must wait till later. How much later, he did not know. “I shall leave tomorrow morning, Catherine, and let’s not find ourselves divided over so small a trifle as two days.” He looked across at her.

She did not return his look, but instead, sat on the piling. Then she stooped and reached her white arm down into the blue waters of the bay and dabbled her fingers in the wavelets.

What a lovely sight! I shall be so glad, he decided, when this whole difficult past is out in the open. The time will come, soon enough, when I’m forced to reveal everything.

They stood there on the jetty, looking out at two schooners and a barque moored close to the lee of land, rocking at anchor, and several fishing boats. All seemed calm, with the glorious Gaspé cloud patterns high above, but unnoticed now by the young couple struggling with their mounting difficulties.

Chapter Fifteen

The sun was setting behind James as he drove the canoe through the waves toward Port Daniel. This morning, he had brought most of the supplies for the long autumn ahead and first beached the canoe at his brook. Making several trips to the cabin on the run, he wasted not a second, hastily arranging the wedding presents, the flour, sugar, molasses, and other foodstuffs they had been given. They had even received tea, a costly gift, more valuable than the rum for a time of celebration. Then he had raced back to the canoe, jumped in, and pushed off eastward toward his Micmac tribe.

After his walk with Catherine yesterday, festivities had continued at the Garretts’, for relatives had come from Gaspé to join them. Catherine seemed to have forgotten her earlier irritation — or was it anger? That night, lying with her by the fire, he had made a few gentle overtures, but she had rolled on her side to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Catherine,” he had whispered, “I’m so sorry. I had no intention of upsetting you. But this stubbornness of mine, ’tis a trait for which I have often been chastised. I must try to rid myself of it. You will have to help me, for I have long been known for... um... well, willful obstinacy.”

She studied him, looking deep into his eyes, illuminated as she was by a faint glow from the dying embers. The candles had been blown out for they were costly to buy and arduous to make, and whale oil for the two lamps the Garretts owned had risen in price. “I want you to know, James, that I trust you. And I know that whatever secret it is —”

“Secret, my love? What are you —?”

“Ssh!” She put her fingers on his lips. “Do not incriminate yourself with a lie,” she said, “just listen. I know you’re hiding something. And I know, equally well, my dear James, that you will tell me all in good time. I trust in the Lord. And He tells me that you will do what is required. So I shall remain a dutiful and faithful wife, until that time.”

***

James rounded Port Daniel point which was a good hard afternoon’s paddle from Shigawake brook. He headed into the very estuary where his ship, the
Bellerophon
, had moored two years before during a storm. The experience washed over him once again: the angry waves bashing the ship’s hull, his dangerous swim, arriving safely by the grace of God, and then making his way up the river until the Micmac had captured him.

Paddling toward Port Daniel, he remembered his first view of Little Birch, kneeling beside him as he recovered in her warm wigwam; her almond eyes, dark and piercing, her smooth skin, her silky, black hair; and then the two of them with fascination and love watching the Northern Lights that long cold winter he had spent with her family in the interior plateau. Then — how well he saw it! — that moment when, in Micmac tradition, he had proposed to her by tossing the smooth pebble from the river’s bed into her lap. She had picked it up and with long slim fingers pressed it to her lips, signifying she would accept him as her husband for life. He could not stop the tears rising and at long last allowed himself to cry. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, he bawled like the baby he was going to see, his only son, John. He had never cried for John and for the death in childbirth of his wife Little Birch. The grief then had floored him for days, if not weeks, when he had lain in her family’s wigwam, refusing all food and succour. He now realized that even when he had revived, thanks to the ministrations of their shaman, the
Buowin,
he had not cried even then. About time now to give in to the tears so long repressed, out here alone in his fine canoe. And so he floated on the wide estuary, broken and lost.

The day was chill, damp, the cold came in billows which sped double layered clouds over his head. The canoe swayed in a gentle rocking that soothed him.

After a time, he picked up the paddle and as tears kept running down his face, he stroked the canoe toward the narrow opening of the river.

He allowed himself a glance at the trading post, whose men had tried to track and capture him for the Navy. He saw two figures on the wood stoop of the distant post, watching. One, he felt sure, would be the trader. At this distance, they might make sense of his Micmac jacket, but his hair had been shortened, his face clean shaven, so he wasn’t sure how he’d be regarded. Then, his anger rose. His knife hung, in the fashion of the Micmac, round his neck; he’d not hesitate to use it should those men come after him.

He switched his attention to the narrow, rushing river mouth. Navigate that first, worry about any attack later. The canoe, empty save for a few presents he had brought, rode too high for this turbulence. So he nosed up the centre, driving with all his might. The canoe bobbed and twisted as he mounted the churning waters. Don’t let up! Panting, he stroked harder and further until he reached the placid lagoon behind the Port Daniel sandbank.

Had the two men come after him? They were obscured now by the trees. No sign of pursuit. Good. Had they taken him for just another Micmac? Still apprehensive, his swift strokes drove him over the calm surface toward clumps of pine, birch, and spruce hugging the entrance to the upper river.

Would the band welcome him? Was his son happy? Had he grown? A newborn when James had left in June, he’d be five months old. Be wary, be on guard for Fury, the villainous Micmac who had wanted him killed. Try to behave just like one of the band.

Yes, he did feel like one of the band, no doubt — closer to them than to the settlers in New Carlisle. And he let his strokes lengthen, assume an easier rhythm, as he headed up toward the Micmac mooring.

***

Leaving the canoe behind, he trotted up the trail, watching for the trip-line that warned the band someone approached. It had caught him once before and sent him flat. He saw it ahead and leaped over. Surprise them, he thought.

And surprise them he did. He reached the scattering of birchbark wigwams under the trees that he remembered so well. Three or four children recognized him and ran over, calling excitedly to their parents, surrounding him. Rejoicing, he picked some up and laughed as he made his way toward the wigwam of Full Moon, his former mother-in-law.

Having heard the commotion, she emerged from her birchbark dwelling. When she saw him, she brightened and called inside. A younger woman appeared in the low opening, took one look, and dove back. He embraced Full Moon warmly, forgetting that this was not in their tradition, apologizing as she shrank a little. The other woman, only a teenager, emerged and held out the baby, now almost six months old. His young son, John.

He took up John, strapped as he was to a
keenakun,
the Micmac cradle board, and held him high. Then he crushed him to himself as though this were life itself. John began to scream. “I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry. Here.” James handed his son back to the young woman. “She is our
nùjiakunùsa.
She has saved his life,” Full Moon told him in Micmac.

James was puzzled at the word. Did it mean, a wetnurse? He wondered where Tongue could be, the band’s translator.

He had not long to wait. The burly Indian soon arrived, with several others gathering round. He greeted James warmly and led him to the Chief’s wigwam for the ritual welcome.

Once inside, James was surprised at how comfortable it all felt. Little was said: the encounter had none of the excited chatter that would mark any European reunion. He solemnly handed the Chief, who emanated warmth, his present of tobacco. Then James stuffed the ceremonial pipe, placed a glowing brand against its bowl, and inhaled. Tongue, who had entered to translate, could not avoid reminding James of the first time he had smoked in here: how he had coughed and sputtered. All three broke out laughing again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll probably do it again.” James drew in a mouthful of smoke as the Chief and Tongue watched expectantly. He blew it out without coughing, pleased with himself. They nodded assent.

After the ritual welcome in which Tongue acted as a mediator, James and the Chief exchanged news. James expressed his gratitude again for the present of the superb canoe. Pausing for Tongue to translate, he told how easy the trip had been for him now between New Carlisle and Shegouac, where he intended to live. For the moment, James thought it better not to mention his marriage to Catherine.

Afterwards, James went across in the deepening dusk to Full Moon’s wigwam where her brother, One Arm, and her son, Brightstar, were sitting around the fire. As the wet-nurse was preparing an evening meal, James was introduced to her young husband, scarcely out of his teens himself.

With Tongue there, they could exchange news and stories of the baby, his doings, how he had even now started to crawl. The first thing James did was to give a nickname to the young woman who had been acting as a wet-nurse to John.

“I shall call you Sunrise,” he said in Micmac, “because you have given my son a new day.” Brightstar, the twelveyear-old brother of Little Birch, clapped his hands in delight. The others giggled, and Sunrise did seem pleased. How young she looked, even though all the Native women appeared younger than their years. She was short and stocky, but with ample breasts for milk and a sunny smile. She seemed to enjoy her position with her new family, especially now that the long-awaited father of the child had returned.