The Deserter (4 page)

The meeting of the Micmac Elders having taken place, their Chief arose and gestured. The encampment fell silent. He called out to the two who had tied him up and were now working at repairing a canoe. Then he turned and retired to his wigwam.

The two young men came forward. Thomas tensed.

They proceeded to untie him. From their demeanour, he could guess nothing. He stood, submissive, while they released him. Then feeling so horribly cramped, he stretched his arms overhead and twisted his body around. How stiff he felt! Stiff, cold, and hungry.

He was tempted to grab a knife from one teenager beside him as the other knelt to unbind his feet. But no chance. The young man stood up and they both led him to the Chief’s tent. They stood back and indicated he should enter.

Thomas paused, looked at them both, and they repeated their gesture. What lay inside? Taking a deep breath, he dropped to all fours and made his way in.

His eyes slowly widened and he made out the form of the Chief sitting on the right of his fire. Behind him, he felt another enter. He turned to see the stubby shape of the translator come to sit at one side.

Thomas was ushered to the back of the wigwam. He noticed on the left side, a woman’s cooking tools, provisions of wood and food, and her bags and blankets. Smoke rose into an opening where the poles joined. He waited.

Then he realized he’d better forget being a prisoner — he should behave as a guest. With manners. The Chief was dignified enough; why not he himself? He turned to the translator. “My bag?” He gestured as to its size and the manner of carrying it.

The translator spoke to the Chief, who nodded, and out he went. He soon returned with the bag, and the Chief watched impassively as Thomas worked at undoing the sodden canvas. He rummaged inside with one hand, but stopped as he noticed the Chief stiffen.

He wanted to dump it all out, to show it contained nothing dangerous. Then more slowly, smiling at the Chief, he took his time, feeling out his waterproof pouches. One he knew held tobacco. How carefully he had oiled and reoiled with linseed oil its several cloths to make a good waterproof covering. An arduous process, but now that stood him in good stead.

Finally he found and drew out his stash of navy tobacco. As the Chief watched, he peeled off its coverings and handed it over.

The Chief looked at the sticky black mess, shaped like a large sausage. He smelled it. Then he held it up and examined it again. Thomas motioned for the Chief to hand it back, and gestured for a knife. The Chief frowned, looked at the translator, who shrugged and handed his knife to Thomas.

Thomas carefully shaved some flakes, and then rolled them in his hand as he’d seen the officers do on the man o’war. He handed that to the Chief.

Thomas watched him put a little in his mouth, tasting it.

Then he stuffed a portion solemnly into the stone bowl of the pipe, which had been set on the ground before them. Packing the bowl with his forefinger, he drew a brand from the fire with cedar tongs and lit the pipe. From the stem hung an arrangement of beads and feathers. The Chief inhaled and breathed out a cloud of smoke. Were his eyes glowing? Had Thomas somehow hit on the appropriate gesture? He handed over the pipe. But Thomas didn’t smoke: what should he do? Better not refuse. He took the pipe, undecided. Then he drew in a small puff. He held the smoke in his mouth and blew it out. The Chief looked stern. “Not smoke?” asked the translator.

Thomas took another puff, and then made himself inhale.

He coughed furiously.

The Chief began to laugh, and so did the translator. The more Thomas coughed, the more they laughed. Finally clearing his throat, Thomas was able to stop his coughing and began to laugh too, wiping away his tears. Well, he thought, at least they’re not going to skin me alive.

***

He awakened to morning sounds of the New World: songbirds, crows squawking, dogs barking, children playing. He lay on comfortable skins covering a moss underlay. Disoriented, he tried to remember where he was. Oh yes, the laughter and the exchange of views with the Chief, after which he’d been brought to this wigwam.

The translator had said “cousin,” pointing at the Chief.

So for the moment he was safe; and knowing that, though starving, he had fallen quickly asleep.

He rolled over and saw a woman studying him with dark eyes, black hair parted in the middle and held back in braids. She was seated, legs bent to one side, lit by her fire, glowing in its circle of round stones smoothed by the river. He became conscious of his enormous hunger.

They looked at each other. Then she reached over and picked up a wooden bowl. Holding it, she gestured. Her large, round eyes set in a moonlike face appeared to glisten; youthful, in spite of her worn features.

“Food? Yes please, oh yes!” He nodded as vigorously as he could in this sleep-glazed state. But then he remembered his precious bag, towed behind him in the swim. Where was it now? Had they stolen it? No, he saw it at one side of his sleeping blanket.

He watched as she scooped out a porridge-like substance and spooned it into a smaller holder of birchbark. Then she held it out to him.

“Thank you very much!” This startled her. She frowned. “Thank you,” he repeated slowly. Then again: “Thank you...”

But she did not respond. She took a wooden spoon, dipped it into the bowl, and held it out for him. Like her child, he opened his mouth. No point in tasting it; she wasn’t going to poison him. But he couldn’t stop himself from first rolling it on his tongue. Hmm, rather like porridge, he decided, but made from corn.

She gave him another spoonful which he ate gratefully.

How hungry he was! He sat up and gestured — I’ll feed myself. She put the dish down next to him and handed him the spoon.

He began to eat, resisting the impulse to gobble it all down at once. Between mouthfuls, he began to look around. Hanging from the first rung of lashed saplings, he saw various cooking implements, and pouches with personal items. A small hand loom stood at one side, behind some rolled up blankets. Two unstrung bows and quivers of arrows hung high under the birchbark covering. Her husband’s, obviously.

Just then the flap opened and an older man came through. He spoke simply but tersely to the woman. Thomas noticed his left arm hanging useless at his side.

The woman rose and followed him out.

So now, he was alone. But only for a flash. The flap opened again, and a girl crawled in. His eyes widened. Was she the woman’s daughter? The sheerest long black hair framed her perfectly formed features, a nose oddly European in size, delicate, between piercing black eyes, about eighteen, hard to tell with Indians. So far he had not heard about the beauty of these people. Thinking back to yesterday, most of them were fairly attractive, certainly not ugly brutes by any means.

He stopped eating as they sized each other up. Who would have thought such a tempting creature lived in this wilderness?

She came around and sat sideways to observe him more closely. He picked up the dish and tried to finish eating without looking at her too obviously. She continued to study him. She didn’t think of him as a young man, he figured, but rather as a curiosity. Eye contact such as this could never be imagined with any young lady in England — much less a shy Indian.

She remained seated with her legs at one side, watching him carefully. With difficulty he tore his eyes from her captivating face and nodded into the dish, which was almost empty. “Good.” He smiled. Then he repeated clearly, “Good.”

This time, she responded. “Good?”

He nodded, and then finished the porridge. All the while she watched him seriously. All at once she said,
“Gdúlg.”
She nodded and pointed. “Good.”

Thomas glowed. The Micmac word for good?
“Gdúlg,”
he repeated, in a mangled fashion.

Smart, he thought, pretty and smart. Would the others be as intelligent? He’d have them talking English in no time. And they’d make him into a Micmac expert. Maybe even earn a living as a translator? Flights of fancy again. In no time, he had finished the dish and, with his forefinger, wiped the last bit off. He licked his finger clean to get the very last taste and saw her, at last, give the suggestion of a smile.

Without prompting, she took the birchbark dish back, and reaching behind her, filled it a second time, and handed it back.

This time he seemed to catch in that dim light a hint of recognition, as though she might be seeing him for what he was: an attractive young sailor, lonely too, in fact quite frightened, who at the same time wanted so much to become a real participant in this strange and intimidating New World.

He smiled at her again.
“Gdúlg.”
“Good,” she replied. “Good.”

“Yes, yes, very good...” What next? He pointed to himself.

“Thomas.”

She looked puzzled. “Thomas,” he repeated. “Thomas?”

He nodded. Then he pointed to her, and spread his hands in the questioning gesture he’d seen the translator use the night before.

She frowned, and paused. Then she replied, “Magwés.”

“Magwés?” he repeated.

She nodded, seeming pleased with the exchange, though she betrayed little.

The flap opened and the translator poked in his head. He motioned for the young man to come out. Thomas hastily finished his porridge and handed the dish back to her politely. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very, very much.”

She nodded, watching his every move.

He grabbed his canvas bag and crawled over to the entrance. Was he at last safe? Or was some final judgement to be pronounced? He hated to leave the comparative safety of this home, this cozy wigwam. Imagine, a rough birchbark enclosure being now thought of as cozy! He rejected the thought and with a last searching glance at her, which told him that she might even sympathize with his anxiety, he crawled though the opening into sunlight. A delegation of village women and children stood around, watching. The Chief had been talking to two older men, and he now approached Thomas. Thomas tried to read their faces. Inscrutable as ever.

The Chief spoke in Micmac to the translator, as Thomas stood meekly.

The translator turned to Thomas. “Trading-post man.

Maw winjit. Metúqamigsit!
Very bad.” “Oh?” said Tom, “a bad man, is he?”

The translator nodded. “English. Bad English.
Mauvais comme un carcajou.
”

That didn’t sound like Micmac. He frowned. Spanish? French? But he gathered that the translator was trying to explain the events of the previous evening.

“Bad like wolverine,” the translator said. He pointed to the fierce Indian who stood at one side with a woman Thomas took to be his wife. “They have son, Little Otter. Last year trading-post man send son away on sea. Far away.”

“Sent his son away? Kidnapped him? To England?”

“Chief say, we keep you. We give you back when Little Otter come back.” Heavens! Thomas thought, I could be a prisoner for years. “Chief say, send your finger to trading post. Cut and send.”

Oh no! Which finger would they cut off? Oh God, he prayed, let it be the little one.

The translator went on: “But you no from trading post. You from ship.”

“Yes,” said Thomas. “Ship.”

“Finger no good.”

Inwardly, Thomas heaved a big sigh. “No sir. No good sending my finger! Trading-post man would not care one bit.” Then he wondered how could he help this poor man get his son back. As a Midshipman on the run, or a lowly second footman from a distant castle, he would wield no influence, none whatsoever. He put the thought out of his mind and gestured to the angry man. “I am sorry, very sorry.”

This was translated, and then they all lapsed into silence.

Thomas noticed that Magwés had come out of her wig-wam. He could not help but cast sidelong glances at her, as she stood watching. She too was studying him, although this time with a different look, which seemed to betoken friendship. When she caught his look, she shrunk back, with what could be interpreted as an attractive shyness.

“Now...” The translator turned to him, “before night, you go.” Thomas brightened. They were letting him go. Then he frowned: and what should he do now, alone in this giant forest, with nothing to eat? Then the translator went on, “We help. But you go,” and he lifted an arm and pointed.

“Of course, of course I will go. But... why?” The translator showed no emotion. Then Thomas saw him glance at the angry Indian who stood nearby, four others now gathered about him.

Trouble? Thomas wondered. How far could he get if they set out after him on their own, planning some sort of revenge? Was it actually a trap? He glanced over at Magwés, who was studying the proceedings. She looked worried. Was he about to take the bait and thus be lured off to some grisly end?

He looked at his feet, and nodded. “Yes. I will go away before tonight. And thank you very much for your help. Now, here he was, once more on his own, on the run, in this untamed strip of the Gaspé Coast.

Observing the band during the morning and at their simple midday meal, Thomas began to wonder how they managed to survive in this harsh wilderness — overflowing with the “milk and honey” of the Bible, perhaps — but the question was, how to make it all work? All so very alien to him, their way of life, disorderly, even dirty, accord ing to the standards of cleanliness imposed at the castle. No wonder sailors and other whites saw these natives as messy brutes, not worth tuppence. But here he was, facing a wilderness they had adapted to and even conquered for millennia. Slowly over the morning, it came to him that he’d better get rid of any prejudice fast, and learn all he could. After all, he’d be quite alone for the foreseeable future. And they might end up being his only contacts.

Living off the land, the tribe had few of the items that Thomas took for granted, like good steel knives. Working on hides, for example, most of them he knew used sharp ened shoulder blades of moose, or scrapers made from the lower legs of a moose or caribou. Throughout the camp, he’d seen scattered remnants of European goods they had traded for: old kettles, a cauldron, some knives, indeed a tinderbox or two, hardly anything new or really serviceable. Why not start by offering them some modest presents? He would definitely need to be taught by someone the rudiments of survival here. Everything seemed so alien, and unfamiliar, compared to the oak forests of Northumberland Even as a young footman, he had no need to survive apart from the castle. All meals, albeit simple and rarely abundant, had been taken in the cellar kitchens. His mother, the undercook, saw to it he always had enough, though just enough. So what had he been thinking, diving off that ship? The urge to escape, to avoid the forthcoming, and inevitable, punishment emanating from Jonas Wickett, had been so strong, he had not properly looked ahead, apart from knowing the one reason he had joined the Navy was to get here, to this promising New World.

And now here he was, what should he do? How would he actually survive alone? He just had no idea. He had with him a couple of lead shots, thinking he’d buy more, of course, from settlers who all made their own out of lead. But was his powder dry? And if the firearm did work, how much nourishment would he get after the first shots at an animal — skinny enough in spring, he could see now. Wait! Why not ask the band to go trading for him? That way he could avoid all contact with the trading-post owner and his dogs.

He discussed this with the translator, who told him that four tribe members intended to make one of their spring trips downriver to the trading post. They might easily do it today, if the Chief gave permission. Relieved that they were being so helpful, Thomas handed over some money, and thought quickly: a big saucepan, a frying pan, a bigger axe and saw if possible, a hammer and nails, and so on. Powder and shot for his firearm. He also needed blankets, but the translator suggested he get them here from the tribe. The Chief said he could wait until late this afternoon when they’d be back.

So now, he decided, he’d learn something of hunting with a bow and arrow; his pistol might be useful if they got some shot for him, but hopeless in any emergency, the loading being so unwieldy. He confessed this new learning goal to the translator, whom he nicknamed Tongue, much to the latter’s merriment. Thomas decided to give them all nicknames, not being able to remember the complex series of sounds that signified their Micmac names. He and Tongue traded names, “Thomas” or “Domas,” being easily remembered by Tongue, who told the others.

So Tongue arranged for the young Indian who had tied him up last night to teach him archery. Several gathered to watch the demonstration. His teacher looked as if he had been burned as a child: on the right side of his face near his ear, he carried a heavy scar, so Thomas nick-named him “Burn.” Slight of build with wild, black locks of untamed hair and bright inquisitive eyes, Thomas saw in him a gentle quality, almost out of place with his intense and wiry strength.

Burn set up a target, a chunk of wood on a stump, and showed Thomas how to hold the bow, made from ash, and how to place the butt of the arrow against the bowstring between thumb and forefinger, while his middle finger helped draw back the bowstring. The others gathered round, suspecting this might prove quite entertaining.

Burn let loose a couple of arrows himself, and then handed the bow to Thomas. Thomas found the arrow amazingly light. He did his best at holding it and drawing back the bow as he was being taught. But the arrow wobbled through the air and flopped into the underbrush below the target.

The others burst out laughing. Thomas made a face and went to retrieve the arrow.

The villagers were a happy lot, he decided: they laughed at almost anything. The children in particular enjoyed seeing him make faces, something their elders never did. He soon became accustomed to their obvious enjoyment when he tried even the simplest Micmac tasks. He was a prime curiosity, no doubt, with his brown hair lightened blond by the Atlantic sun, his bright blue eyes, his slim frame taller than any man here and, unlike them, the stubble of a beard already showing.

Magwés came out of her wigwam when his lessons began. He saw her watching as Burn showed him again how to handle the weapon. His second try was not much better than the first. Their obvious merriment at his awkwardness and the smothered smiles of Magwésbegan to irritate him, especially when he saw Burn imitating his hapless actions. All good-natured fun he knew, but he did not appreciate the humour.

That morning, before the four natives had left for the trading post, Thomas had decided to confide his future plans to the translator. The fierce native with the kidnapped son, whom he had nicknamed in his own mind “Fury,” had gone off early hunting, and danger from that quarter had diminished, if only for a time. His overall plan had always been to make for an opening in the cliffs to the west, which he had seen from the ship. Tongue confirmed a brook ran there, not used by any band for it was too small for salmon, which spawned up most of these rivers and provided their main spring staple.

All at once one of the trading Indians came tearing into the clearing and dove into the wigwam of the Chief. One little boy started crying and ran to his mother’s skirts; others stopped playing with their hidebound balls stuffed with moose hair, and shifted nervously. The little lad, “Toughie” Thomas called him, the one who had gestured with bow and arrow, ran down to the path from the river, let out a crude war-cry and waved his spear before diving into the safety of his mother’s wigwam. Three women gathered up their leatherwork and hurried off. The Chief slid quickly out of his wigwam and called out. Three Elders gathered quickly round him as he gestured, pointing to Thomas.

Thomas watched carefully. He wished the translator had returned from the trading mission. The Chief called Burn over and spoke firmly.

Burn came over to Thomas. Agitated, he pointed toward the seashore. How might he transmit the news? Something was up at the trading post, Thomas gathered, but what?

At the first sign of commotion, Magwés came out of her wigwam, then dove back in to reappear with his canvas bag. She waited as Burn mimed running on the spot, and pointed Thomas westward. Oh yes, he was supposed to hurry away. Good idea, surely.

Did that mean the trader and his posse were coming? No time to lose. Magwés hurried across with his bag. Two others broke into the clearing with their bags of trade. Quickly they emptied the containers onto a blanket and sorted through them, while the others gathered around.

Burn barked a command at another youth, about Thomas’s size, who came over and began to disrobe, even though the afternoon was quite chill. Burn motioned for Thomas to do the same, indicating they must switch. Thomas was about to object — he had no desire to change into somebody’s smelly clothes and give up the linens and cottons that now formed his new identity. But he could see the band was in an uproar, and he’d better rely on their judgement. Keep his boots — but no, Burn firmly pointed to them, and off they came, no matter how sturdy and useful they were, nor how many doubts Thomas had about the ratty moccasins offered in exchange. Waste no time, he told himself, get out of that shirt and fisherman’s trousers and pull on the Micmac’s leather leggings.

He grabbed the Indian’s chamois shirt, pulled it on over his head, and then added the leather jacket. He finally, and regretfully, sat down to tug on the moccasins made from tanned moose or beaver skin, surprised at how light and yet sturdy they were. Burn helped him tie the leggings up to his wide navy belt, all in great haste. The youth, wearing Thomas’s navy boots and dressed in his clothes, headed for the trail back to the river, dragging Thomas’s jacket along the ground.

Ah, laying a false scent! So that’s why they needed a change of clothing, and especially shoes, to fool any dogs or trackers coming after him.

Meanwhile Burn rushed Thomas over to the trading cache spread out. They grabbed up the nearest pack emptied by the traders and stuffed his canvas bag into it, together with other items Thomas had ordered.

Now the dogs began to bark furiously: the pursuers must be getting close.

Women moved anxiously about, calling their frightened children. Thomas noticed several families gather bundles and hurriedly set off up the river trail. From Magwés’ wigwam, he saw the man with a withered arm come quickly out and give a pack to some lad whom Thomas took to be Magwés’ younger brother. Her mother then crawled out with several pouches and the three of them set off. Thomas couldn’t take his eyes from Magwés who stayed behind watching unhappily. He sensed in her being a wisdom that exceeded his own, especially in these unfamiliar surroundings. Then Burn called out abruptly and gestured. Magwés set off obediently with her family, giving Thomas a last look at the edge of the clearing.

“Magwés!” Thomas hurried over to her. “Thank you very much,” he said gravely. She looked up into this eyes, nodded, and then with a long look of concern, tore herself away and was gone.

Burn grabbed the heavy sack from Thomas and, motioning, set off at a brisk trot. Thomas followed, carrying his axe, saw, and a pouch. But almost at once, Burn stopped, bent over, pointed to Thomas’s feet and their footsteps. Try to keep them where he trod, Thomas understood. That way it would look like only one of them had gone that way.

Before plunging into the underbrush, Thomas glanced back. The Chief had gathered three Elders and two younger ones as a kind of welcoming party. Thomas waved a “thank you” but the others hardly responded, focussed on the approaching posse.

Burn ran with ease in spite of the heavy sack. Thomas marvelled at his grace. After a few hundred yards, Thomas tried to piece it all together. What had happened? But he had to concentrate more on keeping up with Burn, leaping fallen logs, following as best he could in Burn’s footsteps.

The trail turned northward into the interior. Burn stopped. By now Thomas, panting hard, had to acknowledge what great shape Burn was in, though he looked half starved. Burn held up his hand for silence, and listened intently. Thomas tried to stifle his breathing, even his heart from beating too loudly. After a moment, Burn grabbed at Thomas and ran off even faster.

At first they climbed a series of hills back from the coastal cliffs but parallel to them, heading westward. Every so often, Burn would stop to listen. Each time, Thomas strained to hear anything, and yes, he thought he heard — the barking of dogs, was it? But faint. Then they would hurry on at the same unrelenting pace. At one point, after they had been going for what seemed like ages, Burn stopped short so that Thomas almost collided with him. Burn listened, then oddly enough, he turned completely round and led Thomas back down their trail.

Earlier they had passed a swampy lake. When they reached it, Burn stopped and handed the heavy sack to Thomas, who hefted it and again marvelled at the endurance of his young Indian friend. Burn leapt up on a branch and swung himself off the trail. He landed several feet away, obviously to avoid leaving scent for the dogs, and motioned for Thomas to throw him the sack. Thomas did and then leapt up to catch the branches and, hand over hand, manoeuvred to where Burn had jumped. Together they leapt over several clumps of swamp grass, and then Burn stepped out into the water. Thomas followed Burn who steadily and carefully walked around the marsh, sensing the depth. At one point he turned out toward the middle, soon wading up to his waist and then his chest. Thomas hurrying forward, tugged at him. “Why out here so deep?” They were both now thoroughly wet and the spring afternoon was definitely chilling down. Burn pointed, made sucking noises, mimed being pulled under. Quicksand, thought Thomas, good. Let’s hope it wipes out any pursuit.

Wading through these icy waters, Thomas wondered what had really happened. Hadn’t his shillings been accepted? Of course, because they came back with the goods. Had the owner of the trading post cheated them? But he had explained to the Indians what the shillings were worth, certainly legal tender, coins of the realm, even here.

And his list had been filled. But perhaps there had been an altercation — had the trader tried to short-change them, to start a fight? He knew the Micmacs did notlike the trader.

He tugged at Burn’s sleeve as they waded towards the opposite shore, gesturing to ask: what happened back there at the trading post?

Burn pressed his thumb and finger together in the universal gesture for money, for a coin. Then he pointed at Thomas, and continued on.

The three shillings! That must be it. The Kings’s shillings.

They were new. The Indians had offered them for trade, which now Thomas realized, would have been a first!