The Survivor (5 page)

He reached the dock, and moored his canoe. Beyond the sloping public lands, dotted with cattle and a few sheep like the commons of the Old Country, rose the village of New Carlisle. No church graced the cluster of homes, but these villagers had certainly found a way to make a fine living. Would they want to share it?

He climbed the dirt road and strode down one of the streets. The town was laid out on a grid, which had not caught his attention before on the short visit two years ago when he had come to post a letter to his mother and had thereby met the Garretts and spent the night. In Paspébiac, he knew the grid was based upon the seigneurial system, so the lots were narrower and stretched further back, whereas here the grid was square, perhaps because the English had settled here. He also noticed on the road back, two more houses being built. A good sign. People are more and more making a go of it, he thought with satisfaction, in spite of the grumblings and complainings the Loyalists were known for. A fractious lot, as his French co-workers had asserted.

He heard the sound of hammer against metal, and paused. A blacksmith! Perhaps he needed a helper? He turned northward up the dirt road toward the sound. He passed several smaller houses, simple squares with high, peaked roofs to shed the heavy snows, four windows in front, one on each side of the centre door and two on the second floor for bedrooms. Every house was whitewashed and had red ochre trim under black roofs with tarred shingles. Few had verandas, though further on he passed a couple with simple platforms across the front. On one, he saw an elderly lady rocking and knitting, and waved. She smiled and called out a greeting. “Fine weather.”

“The best,” he replied, and kept going. Good idea if he did apprentice to a blacksmith: he might learn something of the trade that might be almost a necessity at his brook, being so isolated. Why not, indeed, set up a small forge to make the nails he needed, hinges for doors, latches, any number of items so necessary for a new home? Yes, he’d love that; his pace quickened and soon he turned in at an unpainted structure in front of a neat house.

The interior, darkened by years of smoke, was illuminated by the glowing fire spitting sparks as a huge redhaired smith pumped vigorously at his homemade bellows.

The newly named James doffed his hat. “Good morning, sir.”

The smith grunted a reply.

“Fine shop you have here.”

Another grunt signified agreement.

James leaned against one of the four posts used for a horse being shod. “Tap-tap-tap, dong-dong,” sang the smith’s hammer as he beat a thin, flat iron into a rosetteshaped piece, expertly punching holes in the glowing metal with small
hardies,
devices made to fit precisely into the holes of the anvil.

The smith chucked the metal into a half-barrel of water, and the sizzling gave rise to bubbles and smoke. He straightened. “What can I de fer ye?” he asked in a strong Scots accent.

“Well sir,” James replied, “I wondered if you might need a bright young assistant?”

The smith eyed him. “I’m nae a money-bags, laddie, I’m a smith!”

“Oh no, sir. Of that I am well aware. But perhaps another body might increase your output, or avoid you turning down those many offers.” James Alford smiled.

The smith replied by hauling out a large red handkerchief and blowing a resounding toot. “I have in mind some able-bodied man, but until I get all these offers ye speak of, I cannae afford one.”

James wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Well, sir, that sounds like you might want an apprentice — someone who would work for nothing.”

“Does it now?” He grinned and with his heavy pincers selected another piece of iron to begin another rosette, probably for a doorpost. James had noticed such decoration in front of the better appointed houses. Tap-tap-tap, dong-dong, went the hammer once again. “I might indeed.”

“Well sir,” James allowed, “’tis an offer to be thought over, for sure. If you would be good enough to hold it open for a day or two.”

The smith’s ample mouth broke into a kind of grin. “Not too many laddies hereabouts fool enough to sweat for nothing.”

“But,” countered James, “I presume ‘nothing’ would include a good midday meal?”

The hammer paused in mid-action as the smith looked across at him. He placed the sheet on the anvil and neatly hammered off a portion, and thrust it into the glowing charcoal and pumped the bellows. “Aye, I might be able to offer that, if ye’re nae agin a big bowl of porridge with molasses, even a bit of milk from time to time.”

“Better and better,” James responded, and replaced his hat. “Well sir, my name is —” He stopped. “James,” he said. “James Alford.” Why not? Must get a start on this new identity, he realized, coming here now among British settlers. James paused in the doorway. “And you are, sir?” The smith snorted. “Everyone knows me, laddie. There’s only two of us, and I’m the better. Robbie MacGregor.”

“Why thank you, Mr. MacGregor. You’ll be hearing from me.”

“We’ll see to that,” said MacGregor. “We’ll surely see to that.” But then as James was going out, he called after him. “Och, listen, will ye, I’ve got a thing I’d pay for, if ye were of a mind...”

“Oh yes?”

“Charcoal. Most of it comes from the Old Country. Expensive. But the making, nothing to it. Ye could have a go at preparing me some. I’d pay ye fer that.”

“Not considered the best nor cleanest occupation,” James blurted out, not giving it a lot of thought, and partly to challenge the smith.

“No, but not the most difficult neither. Ye must only select suitable quantities of wood, build them into a beehive-like structure,” the smith waved his hot tongs, gesturing, “maybe the size of a small house, make sure it’s got some ventilation holes built in — the ends can be open or closed — and ye put over the top some sod or earth and ye start a little fire.” He grinned, revealing large and somewhat decayed teeth. “Ye make it burn for, like, a month. Ye gotta control it, mind, so’s it burns enough, but not too much, and doesn’t burn up. Ye’d enjoy that, maybe?”

“I’ll think about it, Mr. MacGregor. Thank you.” But as James passed down into the street, he said to himself: No sir! Not on your life! But otherwise, a start. Any possibility is better than none, he thought, as he started down a street toward the Garretts.

What next? He turned eastward toward another house with a shed in front that he remembered seeing on his previous visit. A simple sign outside proclaimed: John Gilchrist, cabinet-maker. He wondered if perhaps the cabinet-maker would be willing to part with a few pence a day for an energetic assistant.

James entered the yard where, in front of a shed, Mr. Gilchrist and his apprentice were making a long pine table. He’s got one helper, James thought to himself, I doubt he’ll need two. But no harm in trying.

So the conversation with the blacksmith was repeated once more, except this time to even less effect. One apprentice was all the cabinet-maker could handle or pay for. James gave his thanks and left.

Well, the moment had come to risk facing Will Garrett Sr. whose son Will had tried to turn him over to a JP in a drunken moment. But take time now, he thought, take in your surroundings. Should danger strike, better know the layout of the town.

A man passed him and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon to you, sir,” he called, to which James replied, “Fine day.”

“For sure, fine day ’tis.”

Must be upwards of sixty dwelling here, thought James, a goodly settlement. Now multiply that by the number of wives, children, and their grandparents. Well established too. He knew the majority had come in 1784, almost seven years after the Revolutionary War, though many had left after the first few harsh winters to return to the Old Country or to set up homes in a slightly more temperate clime down in Nova Scotia. But here, these hardy remnants had clearly found a living to their liking. Walking along, lost in thought, he was overtaken by a girl who passed hurriedly.

Although she was dressed in a nondescript blouse and a billowing skirt, something familiar about her form made him hurry to catch up. Who was she? Blonde hair pushed up inside a pretty cap — yes! “Catherine!”

She stopped and turned. He saw by her colouring that she was stricken with astonishment. “You came back!” How could he have forgotten that fraught night? He had been given shelter by her worthy parents, and offered padding next to the Garretts’ dying fire, on that one and only visit. Something had made him open his eyes, and he had become aware of a singular presence enfolding him as he lay. He looked up and by candlelight saw her face, very close to his, closer in fact than any young lady had ever been.

“Ssh,” Catherine had murmured, finger to lips.

She had leaned in close, 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. At the general store, there’s a notice about Navy deserters. They’ve decided you could be one of them.”

James had tried to absorb it all.

She leaned in, looking deeply into his eyes. “You have to go, I fear.”

Befuddled, James began to gather himself. But she hadn’t moved. Their two faces, poised, began to merge. He reached out and pulled her close. For one exquisite moment, their lips met. It seemed to him that her whole life went into this touch; for one delicious instant he felt his being joining with hers.

She broke away, flustered, and went to unbar the door. He gathered his coat and his pouch and hurried out.

Had it not been for Catherine’s quick thinking, he might now be under the grass in the New Carlisle cemetery. The memory of her late-night kiss set his cheek burning once again. He had said then that he would return, a promise he was now keeping.

“Oh yes,” he said, “did I not make a promise?”

“Two years is hardly keeping a promise.” James winced. “But Catherine, now that I remember, was it not you who made the promise?”

She blushed and dropped her eyes. “I... don’t remember.” She walked on and he quickly fell in beside her.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Coming to see you, of course. Why else would I venture into this den of iniquity?”

“What rubbish,” she joked, with a slight edge.

“Yes,” he murmured, “rubbish... of course.”

They walked on for a few moments, in silence. She was even prettier than two years ago, slimmer, having shed some of her baby fat. Surely, even a match for the lovely Sorrel. Lovely complexion, no doubt, and such a sturdy body.

“And what makes you so hasty?”

“I had brought two dozen eggs to sell,” she held out the empty basket, “and now I am hurrying home to help Mama with her supper.”

There was a pause as they hurried on.

“Pray won’t you join us,” she invited at last. “I’m sure my mother and father would be only too pleased to see you again.” But there was something in her tone that James could not quite fathom.

“By all means, thank you,” he replied brightly. “I have thought for a long time of your splendid family with great affection, and have anxiously awaited this return.”

“Not so anxiously as to return in good time,” she replied tartly.

Now how could he answer that? Something was amiss. What should he make of “in good time”? “I was hard at work constructing my meagre dwelling and trying to clear land for an eventual farm.”

“Good for you,” she countered, less than effusively. He wondered what would happen when her brothers gathered from their fields for the evening meal. “How are your brothers?” he asked, in a roundabout way of reminding her of their adolescent treachery.

“Working very hard now,” she replied. “You know, they were properly chastened by my father for their inexcusable lapse of manners when you were here.”

“Lapse of manners?” They nearly had me killed, he thought to himself. But he didn’t want to pursue that.

“Well, I am sure, all is forgotten now. They will welcome you as is right and proper. We are all of us duty bound to provide a welcome for any travelling settler.” The term “settler” pleased him. Yes indeed, he was truly a settler, though he hadn’t yet thought of himself as such. But still, she sounded distant. “Oh I see,” he said, “you think of me as just any old settler who must be accorded the welcome laid down by good manners?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and let that fall unanswered.

“And how is your little sister, Eleanor?”

“Oh, you won’t believe how she has grown!”

“I’m sure she has.” James turned to study her as they walked on. What a lovely, healthy illustration of a working wife and future mother.

“But truly,” she asked, “what does bring you to New Carlisle?”

“Work,” he said, “I must find work.” She gestured ahead. “That’s our house.”

“How could I forget it?” They went up the steps, crossed the veranda, and entered another unknown.

Chapter Six

Eleanor Garrett, a tall, rather thin-faced woman with penetrating black eyes and dark greying hair in a bun, was putting a meal on the table, serving from iron cauldrons hung over the open fireplace. Catherine set about helping her with little Eleanor, about ten, sparkling eyes, happy as a kitten, putting big slices of bread into a basket — woven, James was quick to notice, by the Micmac. He could hardly take his eyes from the steaming mound of potatoes, carrots, and turnips that was to be their meal. How hungry he was!