The Deserter (7 page)

Thomas nodded and thanked him profusely for this additional disguise. He watched the others spread out their items on the counters, and start the long negotiations. He wished he could stay around to help but they knew what they were doing. His views of these Indians, coming from the Navy, were radically changing. Here he was among primitive savages, supposedly not worth twopence, and Tongue could speak three languages. He said that to Tongue, who shook his head, and held up four fingers. “Also Abenaki.” He pressed his two forefingers together. “Bit same-same Abenaki Micmac.”

Thomas stepped outside and strolled nonchalantly around the clapboarded side of the store. It stood on a bluff from which trees had been cleared, giving him a clear view down at the vast triangular sandbank, or
barachois
,with its houses and warehouses, its fish factory, and some workers’ dormitory dwellings. A barque rose above the sand, a simple shipbuilding operation worked on by craftsmen. Try there first, he thought.

White codfish lay drying in long rows on flakes (as they were called) of interlaced spruce boughs with greenery stripped off. Fisherman’s wives and children were already at work turning the cod bodies inside upwards now that the sun had risen. Every evening, they were turned back, skins upmost, to keep the night dew from wetting the delicate drying of the white meat. Cod, the main trade of the Gaspé, was controlled by Robin, somewhat as the Hudson’s Bay Company controlled furs in the Far North. Robin’s codfish were reputed to be of the highest quality, and Robin’s ships carried cargoes of them to South America as well as Europe and further on to Africa. But fishing was not to Thomas’s liking. Nor did he want to sail off on another ship, though that might be safest. He was not sure what he really wanted to work at, but this was a thriving settlement with lots of possibilities.

So the office opened at seven. How droll! He hadn’t thought of time in the few weeks he’d been here, apart from sunrise, sunset, and mealtimes when he’d felt hungry. Before that, for a long six years, bells had told the beginnings and endings of each watch, when to sleep and when to eat. And before that, with the strictly regulated work schedule of the castle, everyone had their specific appointed tasks and the days of the week in which to do them. What a change!

Leaning against the wall, he stuffed his long fair hair up under the new leather hat, waterproofed by tar on top. He still wore his Indian jacket and leggings gathered at the waist, an odd assortment but possibly a convenient disguise. An irregular sight, this young man, taller than anyone around and his sun-bleached hair and beard most unlike the French and Spanish peasants passing.

How best to approach the main office? Then he saw sailors from the frigate disembarking from a longboat at the jetty, and heading for a warehouse to stock up on provisions. Danger for sure. Closer by, he noticed lumber-jacks with saws and axes heading back up the road from their bunkhouses to work in the woods.

Should he avoid the road and scramble directly down the bank, taking advantage of the bushes? Or wait for the next group of men to go down the cartroad and fall in with them? Three fishermen came along past the store with nets looped over their shoulders. Go now, his impulse commanded. Trotting after them, he caught up and then slouched along just behind them as a team of horses with a load of flour passed on its way up the rutted dirt road.

So they did have horses! He’d seen opposite the store a team of oxen at work clearing land. How far would he get homesteading without either? One man alone could never clear his land, he knew that. He had to find work this summer no matter what, to allow him to make enough to buy a draft animal.

His confidence was shattered by the sight of three redcoated marines coming out of a Robin’s warehouse under the watchful eye of a Lieutenant. They were heading straight up the incline ahead of him. He panicked. As they came up the dirt road, they’d see him for sure.

Striding down the dirt road to the Paspébiac
barachois
with the troop of marines marching toward him, Thomas saw that he had no time to turn and run. As they got closer, he kept his eyes before his feet and as they passed, rubbed his cheek on that side so as to hide his face. But did he catch, out of the corner of his eye, the Lieutenant watching this strange Indian slouching along with the fishermen. Keep up with the others, he told himself, head for their fishing craft, forget the Robin’s office. Just follow them closely, look carefree, now move ahead, quick, use the men to block the Lieutenant’s view.

Once they reached the flat land, Thomas couldn’t resist a glance back. The fishermen themselves had also noticed something was up. On the hill, the Lieutenant paused, and turned to survey the
barachois.
Was he studying this little group? Thomas continued toward their fishing boat, but when they passed one large warehouse, he bolted deftly behind and then paused to take a pee, natural, guaranteed to throw off their attention. He couldn’t resist another glance up the hill and was vastly relieved to see the redcoats disappear over the brow of the hill. But they’d soon be back.

Stepping out briskly, Thomas headed down a side pathway that led directly to the administrative office.

He slouched along, trying to adopt the gait of a fisherman, and certainly not the straight-backed posture of a Midshipman of the British fleet. Or indeed, a footman at his nobleman’s table.

After what seemed an age, feeling all eyes were upon him, he reached the head office. On the veranda a couple of men lounged, smoking, chatting in French. He shuffled over the platform and knocked on the door.
“Entrez.”

Thomas strode in. The Superintendent looked up, surprised.
“Mais je suis occupé!”

“Excuse me, honoured sir, I am English, I do not understand.”

“Busy, very busy!”

“Sire, forgive me, but I have come seeking work.”

“What kind of work?” the Superintendent barked.

“I’m young, I’m healthy, I can... work on building your ship?”

“You have a trade?”

“No, no trade. Only eagerness, strength, youth — I am very willing.”

“D’où venez-vous?”

“New Carlisle,” he lied.

“Ah oui, un des Royalistes.”

New Carlisle, the Loyalist settlement, mainly English, was several miles west up the bay. These “United Empire Loyalists” had left their homes in the Thirteen Colonies some thirty plus years before. They were said to be an industrious lot, clearing land at a great rate, having brought draft animals from their homes to the south.

“Yes sir, a Loyalist,” Thomas lied. “At your service.” He bowed.

“
C’est quoi, ces vêtements?
Why your clothes?” the Super asked.

“On my way here,” Thomas improvised, “I was rescued by a fine group of Micmac who found me freezing in a blizzard. I hadn’t expected the winter to be so long!” he went on, extemporizing to make it sound better. “When I left them, I had no money to buy better, and so kept these. I find them practical.”

“Plus pratique?”
The Super looked him up and down, clearly not believing the tale. But Thomas sensed that the presence of a young man so able, with British training, had intrigued the man. “
Il faut attendre le chef
. M’sieur Robin, he come soon.” He turned when a loud knocking announced the one danger Thomas had been dreading. The marines? He turned pale.

The Super noticed.
“Depêche toi!”
He hurried to open a door behind him and motioned Thomas through. After the storeroom door closed, Thomas crouched behind a case, listening.

“Compliments of my Captain,” Thomas heard the Lieutenant snap. “We have been looking for any deserters who might be seeking work with you.”

“Oui Monsieur, je le sais bien. Chaque fois que vous venez,
every time you come, you look. You think every sailor, he want desert.
Mais pas vrai.
Us, we know nothing.”

The Lieutenant eyed him. “Very well. My men here will verify that, if you don’t mind.” Thomas squeezed his eyes shut.

“Non, monsieur!
You cannot look into door without permission from my
chef!
He will be here in the afternoon. If you please, you come back at that time.” Thomas opened his eyes.

“You know, of course, good sir,” the Lieutenant spat out, “you are under the rule of our sovereign, King George.”

“Oui, m’sieur, tout le monde le sait!
Why not you come back, see M’sieur Robin,” which he pronounced with a heavy French accent. Mr. Robin, Thomas knew, was from the Isle of Jersey where there were Huguenots, and thus English Protestants.
“C’est à lui qu’il faut addressez vos plaintes.
He will ’ear your complaint.”

“We believe any deserter who comes here would look for a job from you.”

“You have seen this office, m’sieur. No deserter.”

“No, but... if one does turn up, please report him to us.”

“Ah oui, monsieur,”
the Superintendent replied. “
C’est mieux peut-être de le chercher parmis les patriotes à New Carlisle.
All English up there, the deserter, he go first that way, I think.”

“Loyalists know well their allegiance to His Majesty. But I have been instructed by our captain to make an official visit to Mister Robin to make sure he too knows that his fealty lies with the British crown.”

“I assure you, m’sieur,” the Super replied, “of his great faithfulness. He is English, and his partners, they all come from London.”

Just then the door opened, and James Robin stamped in. “What’s all this, M. Huard?”
“Ce gendarme est venu
—
”

Thomas could imagine Robin’s expression by his firm: “Have you a problem, good sir?”

“No sir, no problem now. But there will be if your company tries to shield any deserters from His Majesty’s Navy.”

“And why would you suspect such a thing?” Mr. Robin asked loudly.

“There are rumours of one being seen hereabouts,” the Lieutenant said, “in the garb of an Indian.”

Thomas could hear James Robin chuckle. “Should one of your sailors choose to live like a savage, my good sir, I hardly think it any concern of His Majesty. Don’t your men have better things to do than search the Indian bands hereabouts for one poor deserter? I bid you, sir, good day.”

“Good day, Mr. Robin.” Thomas heard the almost contemptuous tone. “You know our vessel has come at your request, to patrol the bay for privateers that might prey upon your ships, carrying on, as they do, commerce between this tiny settlement and His Majesty’s great dominions beyond the seas. By tomorrow evening we shall have effected our transfer of supplies and shall take our leave.” “I am greatly indebted to you,” Mr. Robin replied. “And in the circumstances, your Captain might care to share this evening’s humble repast with me and Mrs. Robin in our abode upon the hill? And now, if you would do me the favour of leaving me to do my work...”

“Yes sir,” snapped the Lieutenant. “And I shall convey your invitation to my Captain.”

With that Thomas heard the Lieutenant spin on his heel, and march out with his men. In the silence, Thomas could hear his heart thundering in his chest. Why on earth would they go to such lengths, take on such risks, to save him, these French?

“C’est une bande de sans-génie,”
Mr. Robin spat to his Super as the door shut behind them. He spoke French as well, Thomas heard.

“Desfous, sûrement.”

“If we find this deserter, we must treat him with the greatest respect.” He heard steps and his door handle turned.
“Si vous le permettez, je vais vous donner une petite surprise.”
“Go ahead.”

The door opened, and Thomas rose unsteadily from behind his case.
“Le voilà!”

“Well, well, what have we here?” said James Robin.

“A humble servant of His Majesty, Your Honour.” With impeccable manners, Thomas bowed. “I am eternally in your debt.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Robin. “Anything I can do to hinder those wretched marines. They bother us every time they visit. Can’t get an honest day’s work done — verifying this and checking that. Enough to make anyone wish we were back in the good old days of French rule when, as they say,
laissez-faire
ruled the day.”

Thomas followed them into the office proper and stood at attention. This man, his saviour, was the nephew of the great Charles Robin who had founded the company in 1767, nine years before the Revolutionary War. James was not overly tall but had a fine bearing, not portly like his uncle but with sideburns, well-cared-for skin and clear brown eyes, alert to every detail. He was known to be a good and fair leader, though he took all his instructions from Jersey and the family trust.

“Well now, my good man, you look strong, and eager. Have you the British efficiency ingrained?”

“Oh yes sir, I was a Mid—” he stopped, then changed tack. “My former employer in Britain taught me all the arts of shooting grouse, and the manners of a footman in a grand estate.”

Mr. Robin laughed. “A lot of use that will be here!” M. Huard also chuckled discreetly.

“Well sir, I shall do whatever you see fit.”

“You will?”

“But... if I may state a preference, I’d like to assist your shipbuilding operations. If I may place my poor background into your confidence, I can tell you I was once in His Majesty’s service.” Thomas saw the recognition flicker in Mr. Robin’s eyes. “As a means of discipline but also as a benefit for my character, I was forced to spend a week preparing oakum for caulking. My most disagreeable task.”

At this the two men laughed. “So the last thing you want to do is caulking?”

“On the contrary, sir, the first! I promised myself that I would see this knowledge put to good use.”

“Precisely the stage we have reached with my nice new vessel. M. Huard, keep this man out of sight for a couple of days, and then once properly attired, please see that he is assigned as an apprentice to our master caulker. I’ll talk to James Day. He’s in charge. I’m sure he’ll agree.” Thomas could not believe his good fortune, and his face must have shown it. James Robin grinned and clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, my good lad. Pioneer life has many ups and many downs. You’ve made a good choice. I only hope the Good Lord will tend to your safety from now on. This New World has many opportunities, but it contains a great many more hazards. Few are the men who can tough it out.”