The Survivor (25 page)

James put down the letter, fearing to read on. Catherine squeezed his hand and nudged him. He continued.

It has now taken off the one who has given me such happiness. John Westberry was consigned to the deep yesterday. And, my dearest son, I hesitate to tell you, but I must. It has now taken firm hold of your unworthy mother.

James could read no more. He put down the letter, and bowed his head. Catherine rose, went to sit and put a strong comforting arm around him, holding him tightly. They stayed that way for a while, but then James, wanting the whole truth, picked up the letter and continued.

Dear James, do you remember that nobleman who took such an interest in you? You were not privy as I was to the fact that he held no great regard for our master, the Earl, but kept coming for those grouse shoots only to see you. After you left, his visits became fewer, and soon stopped altogether. Well you might ask, why was this?

First, I have to tell you that he too has gone into the arms of His Maker — felled by some stroke which turned him at first into an invalid. When he passed on a year ago, he sent me an envelope in which I found the significant sum which permitted all this. He had fallen on hard times and part of his estate went for sale, which caused him a good deal of grief. His present wife had little idea of finance, and went through everything he owned. He never spoke ill of her, but led me to believe that she was not the woman for him. And you know how things are over here. He had to make the best of it. I am afraid her spendthrift ways were the finish of him.

This is now the third day since my fever began and it has been getting worse. This has been written in fits and starts, between headaches and chills, and aching bones. But if I do nothing else, I must finish.

I had been intending when I arrived to take all the time in the world to explain the circumstances of your birth. You have been such a good son, never asking about that. Letters are such a dreadful means of communicating anything but the most superficial of news. But I must continue.

You see, my first service was in the employ of this Marquis who came to visit you. It was plain even then that his wife was truly a monster. Their marriage had been arranged by their families. He saw that I alone understood this, and for four wonderful years, he would come alone from London to his estate where I worked and we were able to share a good deal. In the end, I produced for him a son and heir. But an heir that could not, given the circumstances, inherit what was rightly his. And so it was felt for all our sakes, I should take you with me to another position, one that he kindly acquired for me as Under-Cook at Raby Castle.

And that, my dear Thomas — no I must call you James now — that is the circumstances of your birth. I only wish I could have told you all this in person. But I’m afraid…
The next day
. I fear I shall not live to see the end of the morrow. I am promised a fine burial, as accorded one in my assumed position. I have also taken what little I did manage to save and given it to the Captain, who assures me, under oath, that this precious letter with its contents will be safely delivered in your hands.

I shall not speak of my physical woes. Know only that these last few months — believing that once again I would be with you and your precious wife, and having lived for a short time like a real lady — have been among the happiest in my life. Except for the years I was often in the arms of your father.

I send my love to your beautiful wife, and to your offspring.

I wish it had been otherw
—

A scrawl of the pen across the paper ended the missive. James clenched his eyes shut and screwed his hands into a fist. After a moment, tears fell on the wooden planks of the table. Catherine’s arms around him only made the pain worse. At last, he turned his head into her shoulder and she held him as she would a baby.

After a time he took the letter, sat up stiffly, and read it once again right through, with his heart like a stone that continued to sink through untold depths.

And then he took the papers, having first ascertained that none of the sterling notes referred to by his mother were enclosed. Well, you could hardly blame the folks through whose many hands this must have passed, in times like these. Nothing he could do now. He crossed to the fire, knelt, and consigned the letter to the flames that licked and flickered over the now dying embers.

Then he rose. He turned to Catherine, who wiped away her own tears. “We shall speak of this no more.”

“No more,” she promised. “No one need know of your unfortunate circumstances. Any more than they need know of John’s parentage.”

And so, James tried to ready himself for trying times, finding money and food for the long and lonely winter ahead.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Could it get any worse? James wondered. Here he was, lying by the fire, an invalid. How many times had he gone over his actions in helping Amos Hall? Why had he tried to be a hero and lift that barrel of flour off his cart all by himself? Had he been trying to show off? Or just trying to get the job done quickly? He’d been so grateful to old Amos for having offered him a few days’ work so that he could buy food. At any rate, he’d felt his back snap, and down he went. They even had to bring him home by sleigh over the bay ice.

He sat up and turned his back to the fire, hoping the muscles and fibres might absorb the heat, relaxing them. He had taken to doing this the last few days, and found it helped. Catherine had suggested alternating that with snow from outside packed into a canvas pouch, which he lay on. Heat and cold. His back might even be getting better. He would soon be able to walk up and down stairs, although when he tried to begin his winter chores, Catherine prevented him.

So for the moment, he sat, inactive, a burden to Catherine, who had all the care of their two children, as well as Broad and the chickens. Thank heaven his mother was not here to feed as well; he was even grateful she had gone on to other realms above, her lifelong work at the castle finished. No more drudgery, no more anxiety about her son in far-off lands. Her letter with its description of those last happy days with a new suitor and sufficient funds to enjoy Liverpool and get a decent passage on the ship, helped assuage his grief. Though he still wondered at the curious workings of the Lord who was bringing this suffering upon him now.

Catherine had become adept at snowshoeing, fetching supplies from their lower cabin, and foraging among the snowy woods for bark to make soups, digging out roots, anything to supplement their meagre supplies. They still had a few potatoes, some of John Ross’s present of crushed oats for morning porridge, but the grain was gone. Flour was much too expensive, over four shillings a barrel. Catherine had even raided the store of mildewed oats they intended for Broad. Would their bull end up being eaten too? Any hope of James clearing his land, of becoming a real farmer, was fast disappearing. He even found himself dwelling on the fate of the
Bellerophon
. Imagine, his once proud ship, home for many victorious years, now sunk to the level of a prison hulk! Depression’s black cloud descended again.

Starvation faced them. Before his back went out, he had managed to procure a few supplies in New Carlisle but they would be gone soon too. What would February bring? And March? And April? His beautiful farm, his dreams, his land, all abandoned, in ruins. Just waiting for some other hardy settler to come and seize it. But no settler, no matter how hardy, was escaping this peril. The whole Coast, in fact the country itself, was in peril. The year of no summer. 1816.

He remembered when he had gone off to hunt moose last winter, how Catherine had been more worried than usual. What if he were hurt, how would she keep the land? What were the laws of succession? Would she have a home? “James, we must get our land deeded somehow. I’m worried about it.”

“But you’re a beautiful woman — if anything happened to me, you’d have suitors galore. No fear for the future. You’ll be besieged.”

“James, stop that talk. I want you; I want no other.” She closed her eyes and a tear fell to the table.

James reached out to hold her hand tightly. “Catherine, I told you my dream, my vision: we will live to a ripe old age. I saw both of us. I am sure it was from the Lord Above — vouchsafing to us, if we continue in His ways, a fine future with all our children. Now let’s have no more black thoughts.”

But black thoughts he most certainly was having, as he gave himself up to despair.

Later that afternoon, Catherine blew in out of the snow, her pale cheeks rosy with frost, her eyes flashing, her voice pitched high from the cold. “We have a visitor! Grey horse and sleigh. They’re trying to make it up the hill from the brook. Must have come over the ice. Could be that friend of yours from Nouvelle.”

She threw off her coat, looking peaked, but lovely as ever, James thought, and then returned to the door to usher in — sure enough — John Ross, and with him his son.

“Come in, come in!” James managed to rise to his feet. “Well, I didn’t know you were one of the lucky ones with a horse!”

John Ross entered, a big tall man, accustomed to winter obviously, with a huge bearskin coat. “Got him as a colt, in trade. Yessir, real useful. This here’s my eldest bye, John.” About twenty, the lad was not as tall as his father but with the same long, thin face, short black eyebrows and mouth in a straight line. His hair was close cropped under the cap, which he took off on entering. “Came down over the ice?” James asked.

John nodded. “Never seen so much this early,” John said. “Lots of fellas come past me on the ice. Not often I seen that.”

“More and more of us,” James agreed, sitting to lessen the pain. “I couldn’t believe the number of settlers in East Nouvelle. So the road from Paspébiac to the river is better.”

“This side of the river now, too. The McCraes, old Farquhar specially, they’ve been settled there a good while. And his son Duncan.”

“Well, the march of progress,” responded James. “If the weather ever turned back to its bountiful self, more’d be coming, too.” He resolved, later this spring, God willing, to run a real clear line delineating his property. With Catherine’s carping the last little while, he’d become as wary as she of someone coming after their land. “Any talk of a land commission yet, John?”

“Been some. But nawthin’ this winter, us all so close to starvation. No point in getting land if you’re going to die on it.”

“And you, what about you, John?” Catherine asked gently.

“Terble hard, ma’am, with a big family. Crops never grew.” He and his son accepted the cups of watery soup offered by Catherine.

James sipped in silence, shifting uneasily to lessen his pain. “So what brings you here, to our homestead, John?” John sipped his soup. “Well, there’s talk of a pile of people gathered up in Carlisle at the courthouse...”

“Oh yes?”

“Ship from Quebec docked last week. Some fellas got a pile of money unloading it. Stored it all in the courthouse.”

“Stored what?”

“Flour, they say. Barrels of flour.”

James’s eyes widened. “A new supply of flour? From where?”

“Must be Quebec,” young John said.

“Talk is,” John Ross went on, “we only got to go and make a petition.”

James had heard that through the autumn, settlers on the Coast had been complaining, even agitating, about the inactivity from the government. Could this now be producing results?

John Ross shrugged. “I reckon we better go and if there’s enough to go round, we’ll be sure t’get some.” He glanced up at Catherine, who had been standing still, almost frozen, at this exciting news. “So I came to get yez. Got the sleigh outside. We’ll get us some barrels of flour, and I’ll bring yez back down.”

Catherine gave James the hug of his life as he rose unsteadily. He too felt his despair evaporating. They’d make it through, yes, with flour and potatoes, they would make it through.

***

With the supplies they had petitioned for and gotten, they had weathered that endless winter. And now, two years later, James was focussed on keeping his land. Last summer he had run a really good line, along the cliffs for five acres, and then run straight back for about a mile. It covered about two hundred acres.

Now he was building a better roadway up from the Hollow for the sleighs and carts that seemed to be coming more frequently. Catherine was clearing stones off the track and lining them along the sides. Little John had a small bucket and was helping fill in the ruts while Mariah was pottering happily, stooping from time to time to pick up bugs she would put in her mouth. Oh well, thought James, she’ll likely eat a peck of those before she dies.

From above, he heard a loud bawl from Broad. He glanced up, but paid no further attention. Until an answering bawl came from another ox.

James straightened. So did Catherine. They looked at each other. Broad began a full bawling welcome. James frowned, dropped his shovel, and walked over to investigate. He rounded the house, and what should he see break through the woods to the west but an oxcart loaded with a family.