The Deserter (5 page)

Of course the Indians would only trade furs and items of embroidery that he’d seen the women making. What a stir those silver coins must have caused! When they had presented the shillings — and he had specified their worth — any assistant in the post would have alerted the trader at once. He kicked himself for being so stupid. He just could not afford many mistakes like this one. They’d be the death of him.

He knew that yesterday, the marines would have spent the morning searching for their deserter. Furious at losing him, they would certainly have offered the trader some reward for catching their quarry. Once the trader saw those shillings, he would have headed back upriver with dogs in quick pursuit. So that’s what caused the ruckus!

Thomas scolded himself angrily: better snap into this new mode of thinking here in the New World. To survive the rigours of this desolate spring, he must be constantly on the alert, especially for British Forces who wished nothing more than his gruesome death.

And here he was again, running for his life. He promised himself never to be so lax again.

The two reached the swampy shore and Thomas, who was freezing wet, could see behind, the distant mound of Port Daniel mountain. The
Bellerophon
must now be sailing off, either in pursuit of the privateer, or hopefully back to the English Channel to fight again. Ahead, the sun was dropping low over the horizon as Burn set off once more at a fast pace. Perhaps he knew they’d dry as they ran. These Indians were a hardy lot. And so would he himself become toughened, no doubt.

How different was this from the forests of County Durham. Big bushy spruce blocked their way, so they turned to dive through groves of lighter green cedar, which flourished on damp ground, among patches of melting snow. They headed up over dry, sunlit humps with green shoots pushing through dead brown grasses. Now that evening was approaching, one or two warblers from the south were setting up their meagre chorus. Thomas could hear male songbirds calling from the tops of trees. On and on they trotted, through spreads of young birch like the Russian taiga he had read about, and into grandstands of timber, lofty, mighty trunks with little undergrowth, making their trek easier.

Burn seemed to be looking for something. He trotted to the right, and then to the left for a hundred yards, finally plunging through heavy bushes into a blackened area caused by a past forest fire. He pointed ahead and Thomas saw a large tree partially felled by fire or lightning. Under the upended roots, a kind of shelter had been dug.

Burn let his heavy pack fall to the ground, and shimmied like a squirrel up the half-fallen tree. Twenty feet off the ground in its dead branches, he held himself motionless, a statue against the setting sun, listening and watching. He seemed so wise in the ways of the forest that Thomas felt safer. The sun sent bright pink streamers of cloud across the Gaspé sky. His sky, now.

He held his breath as Burn motioned for stillness.

Only the faint forest sounds were to be heard. No pur suit? But what about those other Indians, the ones with Fury, might they not come after them? Double jeopardy.

Burn climbed back down and shook his head, but still wary. Thomas could see worry in his dark eyes. Not safe yet.

Burn settled himself and motioned to his mouth. “Oh!” Thomas said, pleased. “We can eat?” Burn nodded.
“Mijipjewet.”
He made a chewing motion with his fingers.

In the fading light, he opened his bag made of cattails, and checked the contents, hastily stuffed in at their departure. Burn found bread and some dried salmon and laid it out on a blanket.

As Thomas was chewing, he pointed and said, “Fish.”

Burn nodded.
“Naméj.”

“Naméj?”
Thomas prompted again, and repeated, “Fish.”

Burn got the idea and pronounced, “Fish!”

Thomas nodded, pleased. He watched Burn take a small piece, then expand his arms to indicate a broad sweep:
“Naméj.”
Then he made like one fish swimming, and said,
“Blamu.”

Thomas thought a bit. Fish, yes,
Naméj
, he must mean all of the species, fish. Looking at the actual meat of the fish, which was salmon,
Blamu
must mean salmon. “Salmon? From the river?” he repeated and Burn copied him. “Salmon.”

Then Thomas pointed to the bread. “Bread.”

Burn responded with
“Bibnaqan.”

And so on they went on, sharing their language, while Thomas struggled to chew and swallow the unfamiliar food. Navy grub had been bad enough, but familiar. At the castle, he reflected, although they were given scraps, he had eaten well: his mother had seen to his favourite choices for breakfast, and even for his simple lunches and dinners. Again he realized he’d be surviving on quite another menu. And not one much to his liking, either.

Finally, Burn patted him on the shoulder, put his hands beside his head and tilted it to one side.
“Elsmasin
.
”

“Elsmasin
.
”
Tom repeated. “Get some sleep? Sleep...” Burn repeated, “Sleep.” But he still seemed concerned.

I wonder what I can do, thought Thomas. Just obey? Burn mimed, pointing to himself and made his fingers do a walk. He pointed back east to the Port Daniel river. He grabbed Thomas by the shoulder, looked into his eyes, and nodded gravely. A kind of farewell.

But wait, Thomas thought, I can’t let him go without explaining, as I did to Tongue, that I need someone to come, in time, and teach me the Micmac ways of hunting and how to survive. A tall order for his sign language, for sure. But he set about it, and after a bit, Burn signified he understood.

Then Thomas put out his hand. Burn looked down. Thomas took Burn’s hand, and shook it, and let go. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so very much, Burn. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Burn repeated. And then he turned and disappeared into the dusky wood.

Thomas had walked since sunup and still had not found the break in the high red cliffs signifying the brook he had seen from the
Bellerophon
. His Indian moccasins, being unfamiliar, provided little protection against sharp rocks and stumps, and were wet from squelching over swampy ground; his feet hurt and they ached from the cold. He kept on veering back and forth along the edge of the cliffs so as to keep out of sight of any shipping, but now he began to wonder if his brook sighting had been just an illusion. His container of water had long been finished, so he’d better find the brook soon. He felt depressed and worn out.

Then he heard something. He stopped and leaned against a trunk, listening. Yes, faint rushing water.

He hurried forward and came upon the edge of a valley, a few hundred yards across, which had cut that V-shape in the cliffs he’d seen. He started straight down, then stopped. Slithering down these steep sides would leave scars easily found by any landing party. Here at the brook’s mouth is where they’d come ashore.

He turned and headed inland, even though the sun was dropping. It had been a long day, being only weeks from the summer solstice. After all that strenuous walking, he needed to eat, and drink! And rest. But safety first.

The forest grew thicker, with more bushes, making it hardgoing. He threaded through thin trunks and between branches of spruce, which scratched his face. No great striding as he once did over the Pennine Fells in western Durham, for sure. But here he was a free man, able to take whatever direction he willed, follow whatever course his conscience suggested. But no time to sit and absorb all that — he just needed to find a place to walk down to that brook.

When he did feel it was safe to approach the valley once again, being a good way inland, he eased down, slipping on the wet leaves and grasses, hanging onto saplings, stepping over tangled branches. Then, he tripped.

Down he tumbled over and over, his pack flying. He brought up hard against a trunk and lay, breathing heavily. A final indignity. Clumsy oaf! he scolded himself, and lay still, panting. He tried to relax, and then sat up. First, check the pack. The saucepan! He’d tied it on behind.

Had it come off during the fall, or much earlier? Bought from the trading post, it could almost be his most precious acquisition: for cooking, carrying water from the brook, storing food, all sorts of uses. He had to find it.

He tried to remember when he had last checked. Taking a break early in the afternoon, he’d found everything shipshape. He had picked a grassy spot on a cliff, chewed on a piece of dried fish, looked out over the grey, sparkling waters of the bay, and then taken a short snooze. Refreshed, he’d checked his pack, adjusted the tumpline on his head, and set off again. Yes, definitely, that had been the last time. But retracing his footsteps that far back would be a terrible drain. Night was falling.

He’d do it tomorrow.

No, better check at least up the side hill. Setting his pack against a trunk, he started back up to trace his tumble. Twice in a couple of days he’d made a mess of things — first the mistake with the shillings and then this clumsy fall. When he reached the marks of his first fall, he stood dejectedly. The pan was nowhere in sight. Wait! Suppose it had tumbled down the hill too? He’d check under each bush, he decided, and then under that low spruce over there. He eased down. Yes, underneath he saw a gleam. The pan. He grabbed it and raised his eyes in prayer.

With his pack and the pan, he clambered down and cautiously approached the brook through the tangled alders growing in profusion along its banks. No trail along this side, although he felt sure Micmac families had passed occasionally, fishing and hunting. So any trail must run along the opposite side, where the flat land was more spread out.

He stopped at a clearing where the brook seemed fordable, about eight yards across. He stepped down into the rushing water and waded over slippery rocks with his heavy pack. Icy, no doubt. But fresh, very fresh, yes he could drink from that. On the other side, he dropped his pack and fell to his stomach. The ground was damp but he lay close, leaned over, lowered his face into the brook and drank thirstily.

He sat back, exhausted and chilled, his clothes wet from sweat. The sky he could see through the trees held few clouds. No rain tonight. He rolled over and opened his pack. He found another chunk of salmon that Burn had stuffed in during the hasty leave-taking. Although he found it tough, hardly edible, he forced himself to eat, allowing himself to take his time while he tried to absorb his new habitation. Here he was, across the sea, landed in what must be the most advantageous spot on earth for a healthy young man. He chewed slowly, swallowing what simple nourishment the Lord had provided, and thanked Him for his blessings so far. But he knew this was only the beginning.

***

A silvery fish flipped up wriggling into the air on the end of Thomas’s fishing line, which he’d made from his marline and a pole. He swung the trout, grabbed it firmly, put his thumb in the trout’s mouth, bent its head back, broke its neck and threw it on the ground next to the two others. Breakfast, he thought, pleased.

Yesterday, he had not cooked anything nor taken time to eat, apart from some dried meat, spending all his time finding a suitable site for the cabin he proposed to build. At the brook crossing of the previous night, he had made himself comfortable on a bed of moss and fallen almost immediately asleep, only to wake up stiff, tired and hungry, long after the sun had risen. He made his way down-stream towards the brook’s mouth on a trail made by small game, which the Micmac had oddly predicted to be lacking.

Once on the pebble beach, he breathed deeply. Not a ship in sight. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead. Two crabs made a dash for the water just beyond his toes.

Why not join them? He opened his pack and got out the soap that he’d saved from the orlop deck. Hot sun, cold air, and a nippy wind, but he waded out over a sandy bar and plunged in. The icy water shocked him again, blasting him with memories of the awful swim he had endured four days before. But this time he leapt up quickly, and soaped himself all over, including his lengthening hair and the beginnings of a beard. Then he dunked himself under to get the suds off, splashing a few times with shrieks of delight, and trotted up and down, swinging his arms. In an invigorating trice, he found himself dry. He pulled back on his hastily borrowed Indian garb. Much refreshed, he set about exploring a proper site for his cabin.

Upstream from its narrow opening in the cliffs, the little valley widened into a flattened area where the trees grew closer, the stately Balm of Gilead predominated: their large trunks might provide good foundations for any future cabin. After exploring the area all morning, he decided on a site upstream where the valley narrowed into steeper sides. He spread his gear well back from the brook, and took stock. Nothing he had ever done in his life, either in the castle or the Navy, had prepared him for what he was about to do — try to build a home in this wilderness.

On the damp ground still moistened by melting snow, he had noticed tiny ferns beginning to unreel their violinlike heads. I wonder if they are edible, he thought to himself, and on impulse, tried one. Bitter, but tasty. He waited to see if he got a stomachache, and when he didn’t, he gathered some to fry with his next trout breakfast.

Ready for a bite of lunch, he discovered that Burn had added a couple of cakes of bannock from the band’s store. He wondered at their generosity, but this would be all he had for a long time — unless he could shoot some game. Would he have to return to get help from the band? That might be dangerous. By now the trader would have received his marching orders from Jonas Wickett. But still, Thomas would have to learn archery, and the use of a spear and, most important, how to lay snares for small animals. Alone, he felt bereft of comfort.

How simple his life had been back home, before he joined the Navy. Although in his early teens, he had advanced rapidly in the employ of the good Earl. He remembered going out shooting as one of four beaters in the extensive household. The day had been cloudy, the grouse holding fast to the ground. This shoot was in honour of the Marquis of Athlone, who came annually to County Durham to enjoy the pleasures of the extensive grounds with their gardens, nooks, alcoves, and even lawns for games of mallets and hoops.

Thomas had motioned for the other beaters to spread out as they moved among the high grasses, beating the underbrush. He’d been on many shoots, and now had become temporary head beater due to the older man’s indisposition. In fact, he’d always been interested in firearms, and had taken to cleaning and oiling them for his master. In return, Thomas had been allowed to practise, and became a good marksman, though not, of course, ever allowed to participate in outings such as this.

Finding the grouse not rising, he motioned for the others to stop. Then he saw the Marquis detach himself from the shooting party who were paused for a
wee dram,
and head over towards him.

Was he now in for a penalty? The face seemed stern, but not menacing, although the blue eyes pierced him like a sabre. True, Thomas had noticed the Marquis on his annual shoots staring at him, and had shrunk back, wondering what this man must be about. Other beater boys had told of encounters with noble visitors, stories by no means pleasant. Because of his outstanding good looks, they would joke that Thomas should soon be subject to these vile manifestations. But Thomas was bold, tall, and strong as an ox, and delighted in taking on his fellow workers in various physical contests and challenges. No nobleman so far wanted to tangle with his manifest strength. But could the Marquis now be singling him out for one of those dreaded midnight adventures?

The Marquis began by asking what was happening next.

“My Lord, I suggested that the beaters—” The tall angular man shook off the explanation and manoeuvred Thomas aside. “I have heard that you might like to leave the employ of our noble Earl?”

Thomas was taken aback. “Leave, My Lord?” How on earth could this visitor know what Thomas really wanted, deep down inside? The only person being party to his secret desires was his worthy mother, assistant to the head cook. Thomas was well aware that the distinguished visitor seemed, over the years, to have singled him out with unusual interest, and often appeared to be discussing him with his mother.

Before he could adjust his thoughts, a pale hand reached out, an envelope in its elegant fingers. “Present this to the Captain Cooke of HMS
Bellerophon
, which as you know is one of the largest and finest man o’wars in His Majesty’s Fleet. It is due to pass through Portsmouth Harbour in about three weeks. The Captain is a family friend. He assured me he would give you a try. Midshipman, likely.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. Everything he had ever dreamed of lay in that envelope. But...

“I questioned his wife recently,” the Marquis went on.

“She said that Captain Cooke expected to be sent to the New World at some point in the future, though not until that dastardly Napoleon and his ruffians have been beaten.”

“The New World?” Thomas found himself at once excited and at the same time in shock. How had this nobleman known? Thomas loved being here close to his mother, in the employ of the Earl. But of late, he had become increasingly dissatisfied. Indentured to a life of servitude by virtue of being his mother’s child, he often wondered at this condition over which he had no control. A precocious lad, he would often question these issues of birth, of social practice, and the way in which he and his fellow beings were stratified. Rumblings of new colonies abroad, whose constitutions deemed every man equal, had sometimes been bruited about the castle. But so far no one, not even his mother, could give him satisfactory answers.

And now, he was being offered a new life of freedom.

But how had this come to be? He had often prayed, yes, sneaked into the castle chapel after work to kneel and ask his Maker for guidance, even voicing out loud these outrageous longings. Had someone been hidden there and heard them? Ridiculous.

“But you know,” the voice turned gentle, “life at sea is harsh. And once you have been accepted into His Majesty’s service, the penalty of desertion,” a pained look crossed the unlined but aging face, “is a thousand lashes.” He looked away. “Death, certain death.”

Thomas felt his cheeks burning. No matter what the penalty, he wanted more than anything to get away. First to a new life in His Majesty’s service. And eventually, to the New World across the sea. Standing silently behind the guests in the candlelit dining room as a junior footman, he had often heard that wondrous continent discussed. Once abroad, he would manage an escape, thousand lashes or not. His first year at table, Thomas had heard a youthful Captain, the son of a Lord Admiral, regale the dinner guests (duly reported below stairs) with tales of new worlds that were now being discovered and populated across the seas. From that moment, Thomas had set his sights on departure. But how...

“From all I hear,” the Marquis went on, “you are most enterprising. I trust — in fact, beg — that you take every possible precaution. I shall ask your noble Lord to give you leave to go. Then, you must lay your plans with a maximum of forethought and preparation.”

What was he saying? But this — this was more than he could ever have expected or dreamed. Something about it had the aura of an hallucination. Though considering the previous interest of the Marquis, not so completely unexpected.