The Survivor (24 page)

Don’t think about that, he sternly commanded. Focus on what must be done now. That’s always been your motto: deal with the present, and let the future fall where it may. But how to deal with a snowstorm in July?

***

Smash! Crash! Over and over again, James slammed the precious wooden bucket against the rocks. It flew into pieces. He grabbed up one of the staves and smashed it hard, beating and beating. Beside him, Broad turned his head, thrust his ears forward, stared with large brown eyes. James kept cursing and beating until he could beat no more. Then he turned and sat on a log, his head in his hands. He wished he were twelve years old again so that he could cry out loud. But tears would not come. The darned buckets had come loose so many times on the walk up the hill. He had tried various ways to fasten them to Broad’s back so that they would not spill. He’d thought he had finally beaten the problem. And for a week it had worked. But now, one had slipped and spilled all the brook water. He’d have to go back down. So many things. So much going wrong. More than a man could stand.

Look. There, beside the trail, the snow still lay where it had fallen two days ago, not even melting. And here it was August! Snow in June and July had been bad enough. But now, something was truly amiss — the year with no summer.

Young Broad stood obedient and silent, facing up the hill. Overwhelmed with hopelessness, James despaired of finding enough food for the little bull this winter. Never mind Broad, how would they survive themselves? Had he brought two children into the world only to suffer a lingering starvation?

Day after day this summer, he and Catherine had arisen and had been forced to dress warmly to do a day’s work. Time after time, they had tried to nourish a few small plants. And time after time, with the temperature so low, most plants had withered — even the stoutest would produce little corn; few potatoes of decent size lurked in the rich soil. Would the trout in the brook be fat and sleek this autumn, as in other years? Of course not. Even the small game, on which he relied for trapping, would diminish as their habitat was unable to replenish itself. The sun daily declined to show its face, hiding behind a cloak of continuous cloud.And what a curious colour in the sky: dark red sunsets and, all day long, a murky grey-brown pall hanging over the landscape.

The talk, up and down the Coast, was how to face this winter. What could James feed the chickens? They’d all have to be eaten eventually. Devastation everywhere.

Nor was the news from Quebec City good. This snow had struck the capital in all its fury, smothering buildings, outlying gardens, and fields as well. The government would surely have too many problems of its own to bear in mind this distant Coast. Schooners had reported in Paspébiac that city markets carried far less produce than normal. Last week, James had trudged up the now familiar path to Nouvelle and spent the afternoon discussing matters with John Ross. He was even more worried, with eleven mouths to feed. Everyone agreed this had never happened before.

James happened to turn his head and see, on the brow of the hill, the figure of Catherine. She started down the trail.

“I’m sorry,” James said simply. He waved his hand at the smashed bucket.

“I understand, my dearest. I understand very well.” She nodded to herself. “You know, James, these last three or four weeks, I have been speaking to you roughly, as no wife should. But ’twas only the frustration talking.”

James sighed. “And I thought, myself, I could be strong for both of us.” He shook his head. “I’ve lost the will to go on.” He let his head slump into his hands.

Catherine reached out and touched him. “It will pass, James. It will pass.” He felt her bend and kiss him on the head.

“It’s all very well to say that, but when there’s nothing to eat, how shall we go on?”

“I have no answer. But I do believe that we must.”

James gestured at the dirty, decaying drifts still lying in hollows around. “Snow. In August. Am I seeing things?”

The happiness bird, his companion at the cabin, called from a nearby tree. Yes, in the past it had seemed like a promise, but now James wasn’t so sure. But with Catherine’s motherly comfort, James found himself feeling a bit better. He surveyed the remains of the bucket he had carefully crafted over two days, now a victim of his tantrum.

“I’d better hold myself in check, or I’ll be spending all my time making new implements!” An odd smile grew on his lips and he reached over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “You are the best. If any man can look after you this winter, it will be me. That cloud of despair, which clung to me all that spring before we met? I did survive it. And look what came next — you, the one treasure of my life. Where the next will be found, I know not, but find it we shall.”

“The treasure, my dear James, is in your own heart. You will discover strengths that you never even knew existed. And that strength will carry me, and our two children, and dear Broad,” she slapped at the ox and he swished his tail, “and all of us will survive.”

“By the grace of God, Catherine, yes, survive we must.”

***

James heaved hard, dug his feet into the pebbled beach, and pushed out the rowboat. The Allens were leaving, bent on their own survival. Samuel had gathered his family, given James and Catherine some of the stores they had gathered through the summer, not very much, but welcome indeed.

Samuel had hurt his leg rescuing a distressed boat last winter, and now had two ulcers, one above and one below the knee. Some midwife in New Carlisle might help, or perhaps the doctor would return for one last visit. Catherine had come down to the beach with the children to see the Allens off.

“As you know, I’m expecting my mother,” called James.

“I’ll keep my eye on any schooner that arrives from the Old Country,” replied Samuel as the boat drew out of earshot.

“We’re sorry to see you go,” James called, echoed by Catherine.

“We’ll be back in spring, no fear.” Samuel dug in his oars. His three children were seated in the stern, with Widow Rafter in the prow facing the bay. They turned and waved. The two families had shared many a good time over the summer, even in the midst of their general despair. With a tot of rum and a draft of good friendship, they had seen their way to merriment in the midst of gloom, and it was with sinking heart that James watched them move off over the waves. All their hoped-for neighbours had dispersed: the Smiths, David Senior and Junior, were going back to their original farm; Isaac Mann too — everyone seemed to think that survival in New Carlisle might be a better option than Shegouac, so aptly named by the Micmac: Nothing There.

The family made their way up the hill, as though it were the Mount of Desolation. So little to eat, so little harvested, and nothing to help them understand how to survive that cruel winter rapidly approaching.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bundled up against the cold, James had spent a weary morning out with his shovel looking for roots, and searching among the bare trees for cattails. Not as tasty as cow-lily roots, these roots could be cooked like potatoes and would provide some nourishment. Catherine dried them under hot ashes and ground them into a kind of flour for cattail bread or soups. He’d taken note of a couple of new red oak trees. The ones closer to home had all been picked over for their acorns, which Catherine duly roasted, ground, and made into a kind of acorn bread.

Worn out, James was walking up the trail from the Hollow carrying his sack of cow-lily roots when Catherine greeted him. She held a battered and folded paper, sealed with wax. “This might be important. One of my father’s friends brought it by boat while you were off this morning.”

James fingered the heavy parchment, turning it over and over. Must be his mother; though the writing was different. He and Catherine had both been waiting for her. Not a day had gone by when they hadn’t questioned why no word had arrived. Of course, the journey might be difficult, and they presumed she may have stopped in Quebec, or Halifax, both places requiring an overland excursion.

Summoning all his strength, he hurried up into the house, and sat down to break the seal. Catherine watched as he unfolded the outside paper, which contained the precious letter from his mother inside. And he started to read.

My dearest son,

I cannot believe what has been happening on board. But I am determined to tell you everything, until I can write no more. First let me tell
—

James stopped, put the letter down, and gazed into space.
Until I can write no more.
What could that mean? He had better involve Catherine. “Let me read you the first paragraph.”

James read the words slowly, ending with
until I can write no more.
He looked across at Catherine and she dropped her eyes.

“Go on, James,” she said gently.

First, let me tell you how overjoyed I was to get your letters. They filled me with such hope. I read them to some of the staff at Raby Castle, who ended up being very helpful with my preparations to leave. As you may know, this trip has been long in the planning. And but for my present unfortunate predicament (which I shall explain below) it has turned out to be everything, and more, that I could ever have hoped for.

James paused, and glanced over at Catherine. She did not meet his eyes, but sat motionless, like a statue. Did she know what was coming?

James went on reading.

You will be pleased to know that I came into an inheritance which permitted me to buy suitable clothes for the voyage and a good ticket on the schooner.

You would not believe what fine clothes and the rattle of coins in one’s purse can do for a woman of my age. I have never before experienced such attention. When I arrived in Liverpool for my departure, I stayed at good accommodations, and even treated myself to a hairdresser. I find it alarming, even so, to see how appearances count. Not so, I gather, in your part of the world. You must tell your dear wife how lucky she is to avoid such prejudice.

I did spend two days seeing around Liverpool, sparing no expense. Such a lovely time! You will see how this inheritance, my dearest son, has been very well spent, considering the state I find myself in now. Although I worried you might have needed it, I believe you are in good enough circumstances to be happy with how my last days were spent.

James paused again. This time Catherine reached across and put her hand on his. He dropped his eyes, hoping for the best, but fearing what lay in the pages beneath.

First, let me say that only now do I fully understand what you must have gone through in the British Navy. How do those sailors, poor things, manage to climb such horribly high masts, furling and unfurling the topmost sails so very high in the air? When I boarded my ship, full of hope, it looked quite large, but now in the midst of these enormous waves, I feel I am in one of the cork boats you used to launch on Belham stream near the Castle, when you were eight years old.

Thank the Lord I am not among the lower classes, where the poor dears huddle in the bowels of the ship, vomiting. So terrible for them, and it makes me careful not to list my own limited sorrows here. Not a day goes by but another body is wrapped in canvas and committed to the deep and the arms of our dear Lord Jesus.

When I came on board, I was that evening introduced in the mess, as it is apparently called, to a fine gentleman who also hails from the North Country. A widower, he was coming to see his son, just as I was coming to see you. His son has also done well, too, opening a branch of his father’s trade in Montreal. This ship is ending its voyage in Montreal, where he would have disembarked.

James paused, then went on,

In the few short days before we dropped anchor in the Canary Islands, we got to know each other quite well. I felt the contact would be useful for you in the New World, for he was a man of substance, and I’m sure his son must be also.

“Was?” James again looked over at Catherine.

We talked of many things, and spent time on the deck in the blowing wind, for at first the ship sailed under clear blue skies. Our course was directed toward the Caribbean Sea, which I discovered lies to the south of those new United States. Although they did break away from the King, that war between us is over and so we were due to call first at Boston, then proceed to Quebec, where I intended to disembark. I am told it is close enough to the Gaspé Coast.

Tenerife in the Canaries was extraordinary. I don’t think I have ever felt in Northumberland such warm weather. Glorious days we spent, just the two of us, John Westberry and I, such a gallant gentleman, he took me everywhere. I felt young and attractive again. No don’t laugh at that, for it would not be too much to admit that these last two weeks, I was very, very happy.

Dear James, our last day in Tenerife, my John complained of a headache, and the next day ran a high fever. And this is where I must admit that the dreaded typhus raging on the Continent has seized many of our crew and passengers.