The Survivor (18 page)

James knew tar from his sailing days and working on Robin’s barque. This meant an urgent trip to Paspébiac. So when the day came for John to leave, James paddled him up to New Carlisle and stopped at Paspébiac on the way back.

“I’ve come to buy a barrel of pitch,” James said, as he walked up to the counter of the Trading Post he’d first visited with the Micmac.

The trader remembered him from the time James had borrowed a leather hat as a disguise, when on the run from the British Marines, and had returned it promptly. “Got any tar?” James asked. “Pitch for roofs?”

The trader nodded. “Take time. Maybe tomorrow.”

Yes, thought James, you’ll fetch it at Robin’s and then sell it to me for double the price. Pity I can’t go myself — they only work in the truck system, he knew. “How much?”

“Half a barrel, one
livre
.”

A pound sterling, James told himself, double the ten shillings he had planned on. He sighed. “All right, thank you.”

He paused to join with the men who stood around the stove in sombre conversation.

“You not hear the news?” one said. “A man, he found dead on beach. Jump off cliff.”

“Someone dead? Who?”

“Young fella.
Il voulait être fermier.
He want become farmer, him. Live back in woods. He start to clear land. Now all finish, for sure.”

So this had been the topic of their bleak discussion. And indeed, for Paspébiac, big news. Curious that someone would have jumped over the cliffs. Not at all like a settler.
“Est-ce qu’il s’est suicidé?”

“Peut-être.
Me, I t’ink bad things happen.
Tout le monde pense la même chose,”
answered the man.

Bad things indeed, James reflected, and they all agreed. Then, his eye was caught by a curious sight. Huddled in the corner, lifeless, but twitching an ear: a calf? Three or four weeks old, he guessed. “What’s that?”

“She for sale. But no one buy, I think. Half-dead.” James went over to the little calf and knelt. The calf tried to lift its weak head to look at him. He reached out and scratched it behind the ear. What a shame. He looked closer. A bull calf.

Just what he needed! His mind whirled. Dying, obviously, so it couldn’t cost much. How did it get here? He rose and went to the counter. “Who is selling it?”

“Tu veut l’acheter?”

“I might buy it, depending on price.” Should get it for a shilling or two, he thought. But he’d like to know a good deal more. Had it been stolen?

“For sure. De owner, he come soon,” the trader told James.

James went back to the little calf. Thin, but nice red and white markings. Not well looked after. Who knows, he thought, could it be rescued? An ox for his farm — how long had he dreamed of that? But his money — he needed that for pitch.

Through the open door walked the scrawniest, meanest individual James had seen in a long time. Long scraggy hair, a slight but wiry frame, black beard, and clothing that had not been washed for ages. James looked down into his darting weaselly eyes.

“Tu veut achêter mon boeuf?”
the man asked.

“Peut-être.”
James went on in French: how much do you want?

“Cinque livres,
” the man replied.

“Five pounds? Go on! You must be joking.”

“No joke,” said the man. “Fine bull calf. Make ox one day for farmer.”

“Half-dead,” James replied in French, thinking fast. All he had in the world he had brought with him, thirty shillings. “I’ll give you ten shillings. Gonna die any minute.”

The weasel stared him up and down. “Never she die. Thirty.”

James waited, thinking, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll give you twenty but that’s all.”

“You got de money now?” asked the weasel. “You give me now, I give you calf. Then you go. Where you bring?”

“Oh, I have a canoe down at the wharf,” James replied without thinking. “I’ll carry him down.” Then he thought, why did he ask that? And why did he agree so quickly on the price? Something did not add up. The weasel held out his hand.

The men around had stopped talking and were watching; the innkeeper leaned forward on his counter.

“All right,” James responded. “I’ll be back in a minute.” And out he went.

He was not going to let the weasel see where he kept his money, which Catherine had sewn into his waistband. He leaned against the log wall and with the knife he still carried Micmac fashion round his neck, he slit a stitch and pulled the thread. The waistband opened and he took out the money. Was he being foolish? Spending their hard-earned money on a bull calf that might die at any minute. But something told James it might just be the chance he’d been counting on. Then and there, he grew determined to save the little bull’s life. Resolutely, he walked back into the store.

“Here.” He handed over the precious twenty shillings. The weasel’s eyes glowed. He grabbed the money, thrust it in his pocket, and ran out quickly. In the doorway he paused. “You go now your canoe?” he asked. “Later this afternoon. I have some business first.” Why did he let him know that, he asked himself. Well, he was not used to such shenanigans. The first thing, he decided, was to visit Monsieur Blanquart and beg some gruel for the calf before the long journey back to Shegouac. Afterwards, he would return for his roof pitch.

James walked over and picked the calf up, finding it heavier than he expected. Sixty pounds anyway. He hiked it up into his arms and out he went, down the wooded lane toward the shack of M. Blanquart. When he reached the door, he set the little fellow down, trying to make it stand, but it crumpled. “You like it closer to the earth, huh?” Starving, thought James, and knocked on the door.

No answer. He paused, and then in the custom of the time, opened the door. The room was much as he had seen it the year before: tiny models of ships on the worktable, a bunk, and over the open fire, a kettle, still steaming. So M. Blanquart could not be far away. James went through his meagre shelves and found some oats, roughly handmilled for porridge. That would do. He put some in a bowl with hot water from the kettle, and brought it to the calf. The little bull smelled it, but did nothing. “Come on, little calf, eat. It’s good for you.”

But eat it would not. Probably never drunk out of a bowl, James thought. Probably so far just suckled its mother, who now would be either dead or faraway. What could he do? He placed the bowl again under its nose. Nothing happened.

Monsieur Blanquart arrived at the edge of the clearing and stopped short, seeing a stranger. James turned his head and saw the old man run off. He rose quickly. “Monsieur Blanquart!
C’est moi!
”

M. Blanquart hurried forward and embraced him.
“J’avais peur,”
he told James, and went on to explain that there had been strange goings-on recently. A man had been found dead on the beach, and he, like many others, suspected foul play.

James explained about the calf, and M. Blanquart knelt. With practised fingers, his friend daubed gruel on the bull calf’s nose. The calf licked it off. Then he put his hand in the bowl and stuck two fingers up to resemble teats.

The calf inspected them, smelled them, and then dipped his little chin into it and began to suckle. James grinned broadly. “M. Blanquart, you have the touch!”

The old man nodded, and James sat back. Now maybe it would live. The calf had a broad red slash across its face, a pink nose surrounded by white. One ear was red, the other white. His ribs showed through. How long had he been like this? And where had he come from? Had there been dirty work at the crossroads? Why hadn’t he thrown more questions at the weasel? Well, he would have learned nothing. Perhaps it had been sick and left to die? More likely, it had belonged to the young farmer found dead on the beach.

James handed the now-empty bowl to M. Blanquart, who filled it again and brought it back. This time James himself tried putting his hand in the bowl with two fingers stuck up. The little calf seemed decidedly more perky as it dipped its nose in to suckle. “What am I going to call you?” he asked the little creature.

After two bowlfuls, James saw its eyes fluttering shut, and let it rest. Its head flopped on the ground, and it gave a low moan. “Hope it’s not dying...”

“Presque,”
M. Blanquart said, ‘almost,’ as he invited James into the shack for a cup of tea. The first subject, before he could speak about the daughter, was the death of the young man found on the beach. M. Blanquart agreed there might have been foul play. Possibly the young man had been pitched over the bank to make it look like an accident — to avoid the Sheriff and Justice of Peace from New Carlisle coming to investigate. With such evil abroad, James knew he’d better be doubly on guard.

Chapter Twenty-One

James hoisted the bull calf onto his shoulders, draped its four legs round his neck, said good-bye to Monsieur Blanquart, and set off back to his canoe.

He had every reason to be pleased. First of all, the news of Sorrel had been excellent. Apparently one of the Robin’s foreign visitors, of good breeding and fine manners, had taken a shine to her. They were now seeing each other in a modest sort of way. She had hoped to see James again, M. Blanquart admitted, but such were the ways here in the New World: people came and went, never sure they’d ever meet again.

Next he’d have to investigate the tar. He decided to put the calf in the canoe and tie its legs to prevent escape, and then go to ask M. Huard. But he’d have to be fast. Dusk was approaching, so no problem paddling back at night, for he knew the coastline.

Carrying the calf, he reached the brow of the hill and started down. A movement on the jetty caught his eye. A man stood up. Could that be the weasel? Another man was with him. They began to move off the jetty toward him. Danger?

He walked swiftly back over the brow, hurrying in spite of his burden. He glanced back to see them break into a run. Where now? No question of going back to M. Blanquart: the old man would be little help against two villains. Hide in the woods? He headed for buildings that backed onto the forest, moving quickly. They were after him, no doubt.

What about hiding in one of the houses he was passing? No time. The occupants might be away, and if he waited for them to answer his knock, the two would be upon him. No, best keep going.

He hurried along the trail between the houses next to the woods, hoping to keep out of sight. It joined a lovers’ detour along the cliff. Take that? No. Too easy to catch him, and over the bank he’d go. Probably what happened to the young farmer. Aha! A connection between the weaselly-looking man and the dead body! Had that young farmer bought this same calf? Was the calf a decoy?

James turned and plunged into the woods, going deeper, heading north. With the bull calf on his shoulders, he found it slow going. Fortunately, the overcast sky meant an early darkness. Harder to find him. And then, the calf let out a moan.

James hadn’t counted on that. What if it kept on moaning as he ran? They’d hear it for sure. Should he put down the calf and run on ahead? At least his arms would be free, and he could use his knife. But then, if the calf moaned after he left it, they’d take it back. He’d lose both his money and calf. But escape with his life.

He paused, the calf on his shoulders. He faintly heard running footsteps. He crouched down. Would the calf moan again? He held his breath. Two forms hurried past.

The calf had been silent. But might they not double back soon? He heaved his burden up and set off again, having learned how to move silently through woods, even in fading light. But the calf kept getting heavier.

Don’t risk a fight with two rogues more adept than you are at dirty fighting. Keep out of harm’s way. But his heart beat strongly, and not just from the running. This was one of those rare times he admitted that, yes, he was afraid.

He crossed the main path to the store, and decided he’d make better time on that. But a short distance ahead, this track met the far end of the cliffside Lovers’ Lane. His pursuers would double back, straight at him. He dove off into a screen of thick bushes. Just in time. Before going twenty feet, he heard them come running past again.

As they were passing, he heard:
“Ce maudit anglais,” t
hey were saying, “
je vais le tuer.”
Kill? Kill me?
“Oui oui,” t
he other replied, as they ran out of earshot.

He turned east toward Shegouac and hurried along parallel to the road. But the calf let out another pronounced moan. Gotta rest, James thought, and crouched to let the calf off his shoulders. Breathing heavily, he rested beside the animal to regain his strength. Like as not, they’d return with a tracking dog. Just his luck.

James hated fights. That young settler had probably put up a good fight, too. How would James disable them? No, forget fighting, just focus on keeping out of their way. He got up, scarcely rested, heaved the calf onto his shoulders, and forced himself on through the undergrowth. This wood, being handy to Paspébiac, had been well logged of its old growth, so the thickets and young growth made his going harder. At the same time, it made it harder for them to see him.