Authors: Gary Collins
“Who discover? My people 'ere long before dat time. White
man come without ask. Take many hunting lands. Net rivers and
ponds, too. Salmon ver' plenty before. White man put dem in
barrels. Make dem stink wit' salt. Not many salmon like before
dis time.” Mattie spoke without looking at his companion.
Worcester saw the sudden change in the man and felt his quiet
anger. He would never again underestimate his intelligence or his
sensitivity. He apologized for his remark. The Indian was fiercely
proud of his ancestry. Mattie was back to his amiable self again,
and when Worcester told him about John Cabot giving the pearls
to the king of England, Mattie posed one of his rare questions.
“How come, English man, no one ever see king of dis lan'?”
Worcester stared into the curious face of a man who really
expected him to give a suitable answer and realized he had no
answer that Mattie would understand. For the first time in his life,
Worcester realized who really owned the lands they had fought
over. He had no explanation to give.
Mattie threw a picked-clean sound from one of the cod over
the side and watched a lone gull circle for the white bone. The
Indian was still thinking about kings. He spoke again in his usual
direct manner.
“We have ver' many kings. We call dem chiefs. No Europe
mans ever respec' our chiefs. Ver' first Mi'kmaq dey meet in
Acadie is king. 'Is woman wit' 'im, too. She be queen if she
white. Still no respec'.” Mattie looked directly into Worcester's
eyes as he made his thoughtful statements.
Worcester had no way of knowing it, but Mattie Mitchell was
right. In 1597, on Cape Breton Island, Itary was the first recorded
Mi'kmaq to meet with the Europeans. They recorded him as
“king” and his womanâwhom they did not nameâas queen.
But above and below the historical entry, they were both referred
to as “mere savages.”
They talked more then, as men will. And for both men it was
a time of learning. Mattie told Worcester stories handed down for
generations by the Saywedikiksâthe ancientsâof the Mi'kmaq
people: of restless young Mi'kmaq men who had made their way
across Acadie to the big western bay of great tides that the white
men call Fundy; of how they had crossed this bay and followed
the coastline south and entered the mouths of many mighty
rivers; of one river called Missacipee far to the southwest that
flowed out of an endless land, a river that was so long they found
no end to it, even after two moons of searching. While the men
talked, the soft summer wind came up out of the gulf and bore
them gently to the north side of Bay of Islands.
There came a lull in their talk, and when Worcester figured
Mattie's mind was again in the present, he changed the subject
completely and asked, “Is it possible to find blue mussels and/
or lobster around these shores, Mattie? It is a delicacy I dearly
love.”
“Ver' many mussels ever'where. We get pot full easy at low
tide. Best time full moon. Full moon, full mussel shell. We use
cod guts fer lobster bait. We hook dem ver' easy.”
Although Worcester relished the idea of a pot filled with the
tasty delicacies, his mind was on another type of shellfish. He
decided to be as direct as his guide and speak his mind. “What
about freshwater mussels or clams, Mattie? Have you seen any of
them in the rivers hereabouts?”
Mattie replied without hesitation “Ver' many black mussels
in many rivers. Brooks, too. Dey no good fer grub. Dey stink
ver' bad when cookin'. Why you eat dem ones? Only muskrat
eat dem ones.”
Worcester chuckled at the face Mattie made when talking
about the mussels but quickly reassured him that he didn't want
them for food. He wanted them for the pearls that they may
contain. Again Mattie answered right away.
“Ver' many small pearls. Some big ones. Most grey ones.
Some white ones.”
The wind faded away as early summer breezes sometimes
do and the sails slacked and slumped a bit when the strength
went out of them. Worcester walked aft over the spotless deck
and started to tighten the sheets in an effort to take up the slack.
Mattie joined him and released the big wheel from its fetters to
steer the
Danny Boy
toward the closing land.
For two more days the American and what he now considered
his Indian friend sailed and explored part of the western coast of
Newfoundland in the trim little schooner. And in all of that time
Worcester pumped the bilge only once. Frank had said it right.
The salt sea waters had plimmed the schooner and she didn't leak.
They ate their fill of cod and mussels and lobster pulled from
the blue gulf waters by day, and slept like babes in the cradle of
bunks in the
Danny Boy
by night. The wind from the Gulf of
St. Lawrence stayed in their favour until late one evening, when
Mattie steered the schooner into the black shadows of a high,
sheltered cove.
“We leave scunner dis place, maybe. We use canoe after. Find
ver' many black mussels. Big pearls, too, maybe.”
They paddled ashore in Mattie's canoe as they had been
doing for the past several nights, but for Worcester this night
was different. Mattie's idea to leave the schooner unattended
for several days was obviously the right one, but Worcester was
reluctant to leave his boat. The tiny cove Mattie had chosen
would keep the schooner safe from any wind, but it wasn't that.
Worcester feared having his schooner, or at least the property
he would have to leave aboard, stolen. He voiced his concern to
Mattie.
“Ever'one know you wit' me. Ever'one know Frank's
Danny
B'y
. No man steal from me.” Mattie seemed unconcerned and
went about starting their evening campfire.
Worcester was secretly unconvinced about a wandering
stranger's honesty. He had a good sum of American money in
his duffle bag, all of the money in small bills. For some reason
that he couldn't explain, he didn't tell Mattie about the money.
He decided he wouldn't leave the money behind but would take
it with him.
Their evening meal consisted of freshly caught cod, which
they cooked in a pot with less than an inch of salt water. In less
than twenty minutes, Mattie dumped the boiled contents onto a
flat rock. Along with the last of Millie's bread, both men ate until
they were full.
Mattie added small pieces of grey-white driftwood to the
dying fire. The shadowed schooner swung and creaked on her
hook. The campfire brightened the cove, and for a brief time its
yellow light shone across the night water and reached partway up
the port side of the moored vessel.
Worcester poked tobacco into the bowl of his briar, tamped
it tight with a broad thumb, pulled a thin, hot brand from the
fire, and lit his pipe. When the tobacco started to glow, he settled
back. A blue stream of smoke issued from his unshaven jaws and
escaped out of his long nose. He spoke with the pipe clenched
between his strong white teeth.
“She surely is a fine vessel, you know. Frank did not âgyp'
me, that's for sure. I know Frank's attachment to the boat was
quite different from my own, but I have already come to love
the
Danny Boy
. And I believe you have enjoyed our little sailing
excursion as well, Mattie.”
Mattie was looking at the schooner, too. He seemed to be
considering something. Worcester waited. When Mattie spoke,
his voice was soft and blended with the night sounds.
“My grandfather 'ave boat like
Danny B'y
, too. King of
France give him scunner. King give king gif'.”
Worcester was astonished at this revelation and prompted
Mattie to tell him more of his history. After his usual careful
thinking, Mattie continued.
His people had always lived here, he said. They were hunter-gatherers. The ancients called this island Taqamkuk and came
across the “south water” from Acadie. The white man came
across the great ocean to the east and, because they had not seen
this land before, called it a “new” land. The Mi'kmaq passed
their history down through the ages orally, but because their
words were not on paper, the white man called them liars. Here
Mattie was quick to point out the many treaties the Europeans
had signed on their yellow papers.
They had taken great nations of land that wasn't theirs to take,
in some cases doing so without consulting the native people,
whom they considered had given them the land.
“White man lie wit' tongue. Lie wit' quill,” said Mattie.
The very first chief of Taqamkuk was Mattie's great-grandfather, Michel Agathe. He was a Saqamaw, a very great
and important chief who came from a long line of chieftains. He
was respected by his people all along the south and west coasts
of the island. His name was spoken the French way, Michel.
The English, who hated everything French, and who couldn't
pronounce it right anyway, changed Mattie's surname from
Michel to Mitchell.
“French king give my grandfadder sloop as gif'. Just like
Danny B'y
, maybe?” Mattie continued.
Mattie's grandfather was called Captain Jock and also King
Mitchell, depending on who you talked to at the time. Worcester
answered Mattie's question quickly, wanting to hear more about
the man's fascinating past.
“A sloop is a boat with one mast instead of two, Mattie.”
Mattie acknowledged the answer with a look at the
Danny
Boy
. The schooner had just turned broadside with the leaving
tide. The tips of her two masts scratched the sky.
The king from faraway France had bestowed upon Mattie's
ancestor a great gift. It was a rare thing for anyone to give an
Indian anything, though Mattie figured the French ruler wanted
to trade it for the locations of the best coastal fishing grounds
and all the hidden reefs. In his new boat, King Jock was now
called Captain Jock, a title more prestigious around the coast of
nineteenth-century Newfoundland.
The French learned from Captain Jock not only where to
find cod, their best market product, but many other new world
commodities. The Mi'kmaq captain showed them white beaches
in secluded coves where capelin came in late spring. He knew
the rivers with the biggest runs of salmon in summer. He knew
every brook where shiny smelt could be caught in the spring and
the autumn.
The clever Frenchmen gained much more than that from the
proud captain. At their “king's” command, native trappers passed
the best of furs into French hands at the end of every winter season.
The French learned the secrets of the countless forbidding bays
and coves that defined this part of the coast. They gained infinite
knowledge of the mysterious forested land, all in exchange for
one wooden sloop.
His father, Mattie said, was a blooded Mi'kmaq named Jean
Michael, whom the English called Jack or John Mitchell. At
one time he lived in Conne River, a place were Mi'kmaq people
found sanctuary from both French and English conquerors. It
was situated at the end of a long bay that reached far inland. From
Conne River, those who knew the way could follow meandering
waterways into the vast interior of Newfoundland. Its entrance
from the open sea was a puzzle of islands and deep canyons
and dead-end arms that served as a deterrent to any would-be
invaders.
Among the Mi'kmaq people John Mitchell was also known as
King Mitchell. Like his father, he was a well-respected chieftain.
His mother was the daughter of an Abenaki Indian who called
the Abenaki “The Dawn People.” Her father was John Stevens,
who led the first of the Mi'kmaq to Halls Bay, where Mattie had
been born.
Mattie's voice took on a measure of pride as he spoke of his
ancestry. Worcester felt as though Mattie was pleased to talk to
a white man who was listening. Mattie brought up his language
again, as if he were sorry he couldn't speak English very well
and that maybe Worcester wasn't understanding all that he was
saying.
“When I speak only some of deir English words dey call me
stupid man. When I speak my own words dey call me stupid
man.”
Worcester sensed he would hear no more about Mattie
Mitchell's history on this night. “Mattie, I have studied in many
places. I am considered to be a very educated man. I can speak no
other language but my own. Yet you, who have had no schooling,
and without being taught, can speak fluently not only your own
wonderful language, but also English, which is considered to be
the most difficult of all languages to learn. I can understand you
very well. You have nothing to be ashamed of and a great deal to
be proud of.”
Worcester stood to stretch his cramped legs. He suddenly
thought of one of the long-winded professors who had taught
him. The man could have used some of Mattie Mitchell's direct
way of speaking. If he had, Worcester thought, he could have
stayed awake during his boring lectures. The American smiled at
the thought and looked around the still cove. His gaze took in the
firelight reflected across the black water.
“You know, Mattie,” he said sincerely, “if your skin were
white, you would be considered as royalty.”
And Mattie Mitchell, who was the direct descendant of a
legendary line of kings, walked away from the firelight to gather
more driftwood. When he entered the shadows, he smiled at the
thought.