The Survivor (3 page)

He tried bailing, and then grabbed his paddle. This became a rhythm: paddle paddle paddle, scoop scoop. But the sea, a worthy opponent, kept building waves; the wind swivelled and poured it on. Thomas against the elements, and the sea was gaining the upper hand.

Splash by splash, wave by wave, more seawater filled the canoe. If only he had a better bailer. His biggest saucepan, made of iron, would have been too heavy. Deal with what you have, he remonstrated, keeping the rhythm. But as he neared the shore, the gale struck in full force, and the rain bucketed down. Now the canoe would really sink.

He bailed furiously. The rain plastered his long hair, soaked his peasant jacket and ran between his shoulders and down his chest. He could not see the shore. His shoulders ached. His bent knees hurt. His hands froze, making any grip on the paddle hard. A blanket of fatigue covered him. Ridiculous! So close to Paspébiac — but even closer to Davy Jones’s locker.

Waterlogged, the canoe would not respond and developed its own will. It bucked, rollicked, and dove, going its own foolhardy way. He tried hard to right it. Don’t you fight me, he commanded; we’re in this together. If you sink, I sink.

For a moment, it seemed to succumb to the waves. He bailed hard, scooping frantically. Load lightened, his worthy craft stayed afloat. He dropped the bailer, grabbed the paddle and with new energy, drove forward toward the beach.

Beach? Rocks only, he now saw. He’d smash the canoe on them for sure. Try and get round the point. No use; the sea drove him in. So he swivelled, tried heading out, only to be almost capsized by a huge breaker. Could he leap out? Too far from the shore.

Head in anyway. But those sharp rocks risked his precious canoe. No more trips to Paspébiac. No trips anywhere. But what could he do?

The rain stung his eyes, making it even harder to see. And see he must, if he were to navigate between the great red boulders that had tumbled from towering cliffs. Back-paddle fast, he told himself. Wipe your eyes. Try to see through the driving rain. Look for any opening that might admit your canoe. Meanwhile, he swivelled from side to side, righting the canoe, straining into the rain, praying the canoe would not fill up.

Then he saw an opening. With a last thrust, he drove the canoe forward. It leapt through the waves, rode a breaker fast forward into jagged rocks.

Get out and grab the canoe! A huge wave lifted him, held him poised to dash onto pointed crags. He swung the front, he lurched left, finally leapt out, good! Only waist deep. Flung by waves he grabbed the canoe, hauled it with him, fell under, surfaced, coughing and sputtering, grabbed again and yes, felt sand under his feet, pushed the canoe ahead. That opening, yes! Wedge it there, clamber out. Craggy rocks scraped his shins. He yelled in pain, slipping and sliding, and heaved himself up onto the rocks, yes, he’d made it.

He tried with freezing hands to grapple the canoe up, haul it close, his hands hurt, his legs ached, but at last, he somehow got the canoe up too, and fell panting on the flat red rock. Would the storm last all night? How long could he survive in this icy rain?

Chapter Three

Freezing and shivering, Thomas curled under the tiny canoe at the base of the towering cliffs, wondering how he’d survive.

In the cold wind, he was reminded of the hapless Alexander Selkirk, whose story of a marooned seaman everyone on the
Bellerophon
knew, though not many had read the book. Back in England at Raby Castle, the noble children’s tutor had lent Thomas
Robinson Crusoe.
Now cowering like a wet muskrat, paralyzed by icy spray and blasting rain, Thomas felt that, unlike Selkirk, he might not last the night.

Why had he left years ago to join the Navy? And his caring mother? She must be still working at the castle as undercook, her once lovely body worn down by years of unending toil. How he missed her! She remained in his mind, a spectre to comfort him. He resolved yet again to fulfill this obligation to write often, as soon as he got through the storm safely and had found a job. Somehow, the thoughts of Raby Castle, of his straw bed over the stable with the other lads, his regulated duties there, helped his brain to relax and, with all its chilled shaking, his body gave itself up to the fatigue that tugged him off into another world.

Two winters ago, when he had fallen through the ice, only the age-old wisdom and practices of his Micmac family had saved his life. And handed him an important lesson: when you start to freeze, keep alert, keep moving at all costs. He made a determined effort to uncoil his numb body and roll out from under his canoe. He got up into the blasting wind and began to move his arms, beat his frozen body, lift his knees.

What an endless night! So why not plan for the morrow?

First, go to the Paspébiac general store he had visited two years ago with his Micmac friends. But how to make himself presentable? No, his first steps should be the Robin’s Company and Monsieur Huard.

Charles Robin had come from the Jersey Isles sixty years earlier, even before the fall of Quebec, and established a profitable cod-fishing enterprise. Through good management and hard work, the indomitable old fellow more or less controlled Paspébiac. He shipped cod by the schooner-load to Africa, Portugal, Europe, and finally England. Most families in Paspébiac were serfs of the Robin’s Company, trading their summer’s labour for the supplies sold in Robin’s stores — a system known as the “truck” system. Thomas had worked for Monsieur Huard, the operations manager, and had even met James Robin, the nephew who now supervised everything, though important decisions were still referred back to Jersey Island where the Robin family originated.

So that must be his first effort, though he held out no great hopes. How he longed for the dawn; the night seemed endless as he pondered his bleak future, his spirit bound by chains of fatigue and despair.

Before dawn, the rain let up. The tide had dropped. Move your joints, he ordered, fight that numbness, lift down the canoe, get it onto the beach. So he muscled his canoe down onto the sandy area that had appeared in the night. He clambered back up to fetch his sopping belongings down into the upright canoe. Wading into the icy waves, he leapt into the stern and paddled hard. Paspébiac lay ahead.

***

An early glow from the east spread upwards, flushing away night and its horrors. The weather began to behave, promising a day of lustre. The light wind started to dry his clothes. Above, bodies of clouds relaxed in their blue watery heaven, stretched out like lazy swimmers on their backs, floating on homemade rafts, light and deft and airy. As he paddled on, the sun came up and beamed millions of sparkles of shimmering silver, a teeming carpet spreading across the dense, almost matted flecks of bay, westward toward a dull blue-grey and finally a misty blue at a southern horizon obscured by a morning mist. The rays seeped into his chilled body and flung wavelets of sparkles at his eyes. The surface looked as solid as pewter, as if you could walk across it.

He shipped his paddle and leaned forward to undo his belongings. One by one he wrung them out and stretched them on the thwarts of the boat for the playful sun to make up for the weather’s horrible tricks of the previous night. He coaxed the canoe along with leisurely strokes to dry the clothes and warm his soul.

Around the distant point, he saw the Paspébiac sandbank on which sat the buildings of Charles Robin, wooden warehouses, two, three, and even four stories high. He scanned the waters for any sign of a British warship. Had His Majesty’s Navy been so efficient as to spread the word of his reprieve? He still had to be cautious.

No Navy ships. The war between Britain and the United States ending meant fewer privateers in the bay, and hence fewer ships of the line coming across to protect these shipping lanes. After a time he paddled out around the sandbank, checking carefully before heading in for the dock. No point in hiding his canoe at the Micmac landing place, he headed straight for the heart of the Robin’s operation on the
banc
, the large triangular sandbank, where he’d go to confront Monsieur Huard. As he neared the floating dock, he remembered rowing out with his sick Chief to beg the surgeon of the
Bellerophon
to perform the operation that eventually saved the Chief’s life. Since Thomas had deserted two years previously, his nemesis Jonas Wickett had been replaced. After Thomas had been captured by the marines and placed in the man o’war’s brig, with no hope of escape from the thousand lashes, he had heard the heavy door clank open.

The Captain had entered alone, with word of the successful operation on the Chief. He went on to reveal that the Marquis, whom Thomas knew from his many visits to Raby Castle, had himself sent the Captain a very fine reward for having let his “ward” “escape” to the New World. Thomas had been taken aback by the largesse, with no idea why the nobleman had been concerned.

The Captain had interrupted his thoughts by saying, “So now I suggest you move rather quickly.”

“Move, sir? Quickly?” Escape? He’s letting me escape? Thomas could hardly believe his luck.

The Captain had leaned forward. “Go ashore a free man. But please, do take care to keep out of sight of His Majesty’s Royal Marines!” He shook the hand of his former Midshipman, now still in shock. “I am sure you will continue to lead a full and righteous life here in the New World. Good luck and God speed.”

A reprieve? But one thing Thomas knew for sure, he had to stay out of sight of the Navy for the time being. He pulled in, tied up his canoe, and set off across the
banc
to the administration office. Two years before, he had trodden the same path, a fugitive from British justice, a deserter. Now, though he no longer had that stigma, he found his nervousness mounting. He so badly needed work. He strode across the same stoop and entered.

Seated at his desk, M. Huard lifted his head. “
Bonjour,
young Thomas!”

“Bonjour Monsieur Huard.”
Thomas bowed and removed his hat, pleased to be remembered.
“Est-ce que tout va bien avec la grande compagnie de Robin?”

“
Pas mal, pas mal, merci.
And you, you’re fine?
Qu’estce que tu fais ces jours-ci?
”

“Me? Oh, er, I have just escaped a big forest fire.”

“Ah oui, ah oui, j’ai entendu,
behind the
Canton de
Hope.”

“No sir,” Thomas began, then stopped — he didn’t want to give away the actual location of his building site, so he played along. “I mean yes, yes, behind Hope. But it didn’t last long.”

M. Huard agreed.
“Oui. Mais ça prends du monde.
Much trouble. Many workers I send. I stop all work here two days. All the men, they thank the Lord for the rain. They can achieve nothing without His help.” He turned back to his books.

“Fires, they do seem beyond our control,” Thomas agreed.

M. Huard was clearly busy, and Thomas was unsure how best to bring up the subject of his employ. “So,” M. Huard asked finally, “what you come for? Work?”

“Yes sir.” Thomas twisted his hat in his hand.

“Uh!
Malhereusement,
we have no place. We do not start the new ship before the next month. No caulking. Maybe in two months, we do some. Maybe come back then.”

“But that’s... August, the summer will be gone,” Thomas blurted out.

“Ah oui. Mais c’est comme ça
.
”

It’s like that for sure, Thomas could see. He looked down. No work... He lifted his eyes. “But Monsieur Huard, I can learn another trade. You know I work hard.” M. Huard shook his head. “The boss, he say, dat’s it. We have enough.”

“Oh.” Thomas nodded, but his heart sank. “Thank you, M. Huard. Thank you very much.” He sighed for a moment before turning. He noticed a pained look flick across the supervisor’s face before he returned to his books on the pine table.

Heading back to his canoe, Thomas found any optimism, any sense of good cheer, deserting him. What now? No food, no supplies, no tools. Another long paddle back to the lonely cabin? Those familiar black flies of despair returned in full force with this disastrous news.

Chapter Four

Thomas Manning sat on a bollard on the dock, and folded his arms. Time for a think. No job, no hope, and nowhere to go; things did look dark.

He couldn’t leave his canoe here all day, now could he? He looked around. Gleaming white codfish lay under the Gaspé sun in long rows drying on their “flakes,” or elevated flats of interlaced twigs. The fishermen’s wives had turned them early this morning, once the rain had stopped and the dew dried. Across the sandbank, French workmen strode purposefully from building to building, carting bags of flour in wheelbarrows or leading oxcarts down the dirt road from the village proper. Everyone demonstrated a clear sense of purpose. Unlikely they’d steal his canoe, although it stood out as being unique. The French locals (including men from the British possessions of Guernsey and Jersey) were friendly to the Indians. The Micmac had helped defend the French and their settlements on Cape Breton Island, and then harassed the British after the French Acadians had departed south for Louisiana, the other French possession at the time, which the United States had purchased from Napoleon in 1803. So no, he felt the canoe would be safe.