Trapper Boy
Authors: Hugh R. MacDonald
Trapper Boy
by Hugh R. MacDonald
Cape Breton University Press
Sydney, Nova Scotia, Canada
To my wife, Joanne,
and to the memory of our beloved son, Keith.
Copyright © 2012 Hugh R. MacDonald
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places and events depicted are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Cape Breton University Press recognizes fair dealing exceptions under Access Copyright. Responsibility for the opinions, research and the permissions obtained for this publication rests with the author.
Cape Breton University Press recognizes the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, Block Grant program, and the Province of Nova Scotia, through the Department of Communities, Culture and Heritage, for our publishing program. We are pleased to work in partnership with these bodies to develop and promote our cultural resources.
Cover art: Patsy MacAulay MacKinnon © 2012
Cover layout: Gail Jones, Sydney, NS
Author photo: Michael G. MacDonald
Mining sketches: Michael G. MacDonald
Layout: Mike Hunter, Port Hawkesbury and Sydney, NS
eBook development:
WildElement.ca
First printed in Canada
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
MacDonald, Hugh R., 1956-
Trapper boy : a novel / Hugh R. MacDonald.
ISBN 978-1-897009-73-4 (Print)
ISBN 978-1-897009-93-2 (ePub)
ISBN 978-1-897009-94-9 (Kindle)
I. Title.
PS8625.D637T73 2012------C813'.6-----C2012-903186-0
Cape Breton University Press
P.O. Box 5300
Sydney, Nova Scotia B1P 6L2
Canada
Trapper Boy
by Hugh R. MacDonald
Illustrations by Michael G. MacDonald
Cape Breton University Press
Sydney, Nova Scotia, Canada
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
J
ohn Wallace Donaldson awoke, looked at the calendar and jumped from his bed. It was June 28, 1926. It was grading day, and JW was in the running for some of the prizes.
Mostly everyone called him JW. He was proud that he was named for his two grandfathers, John on his mother's side and Wallace on his father's, but only his mother and some other grown-ups called him by his full name.
JW had studied hard and knew he was close to the top of the class in both English and French. There were cash awards, but if he won any of those, he had already promised the money to his mother â the silver dollar would go a long way toward necessities. The English prize was the one he coveted: a set of books, consisting of some of the classics. He had already borrowed some of them from the small town library, but to own the books and to be able to read them whenever he wanted was something beyond belief.
His father had told him many times to get his nose out of the books, but JW knew his father was secretly proud that he was doing so well in school. His mother had told him.
The water in the bucket was cool. JW poured some into the small wash basin and splashed it on his face, chasing away the night's cobwebs. He hadn't slept well, his mind racing with the hope of winning the books. Pirates and knights and thoughts of far-off places had kept him awake, following him to his dreams where he had saved a beautiful princess and fought pirates for their gold.
The kitchen stove was crackling from the kindling used to start the fire. Before long, coal would be added to create a base. It was the end of June, and the stove no longer had to be banked overnight. A new fire was started each morning, unless a few embers remained from the previous night that could be coaxed back to life. JW listened to his mother lifting the lid on the stove, adding coal from the scuttle.
“John Wallace,” his mother called. “Run out and get a few eggs for your father, dear. I expect him along any minute. Try to squeeze a few drops from the goat, if you want some milk for the porridge.” Eggs were saved for his father's meal, but JW didn't really like eggs that much anyway. The porridge suited him fine.
“Alright, Ma,” he said, picking up the milking dish from the table. The goat didn't always want to part with her milk, but he usually managed to get enough to cover their needs. He spotted his father a quarter of a mile down the road and raised his arm to wave, then watched as his father's arm rose to return the greeting.
The small group of chickens moved aside as JW reached under the first one. An indignant squawk pierced the morning quiet. Rummaging through several nests, he picked up the morning bounty, four eggs, and took them to his mother.
“Da's on his way,” he said, placing the eggs in the centre of the table, ensuring they couldn't roll off and splatter on the floor. He hurried outside to get the milk.
JW wanted to be at the table when his father sat down. Pirates and knights from the books were exciting, but it was his father who had instilled a love of stories in him as a small child. JW had turned thirteen a month earlier. He still loved to listen as his father recounted his work in the coal mine, telling of finding fossils of long-dead animals and plant life, and of cave-ins that caused the men to seek cover from falling debris. He loved the stories, but had no intention of ever working in the mines.
“How'd it go in the pit last night, Da?” JW asked, his spoon coming automatically to his mouth as he stared at his father. Some days, JW saw the wrinkles in his father's face, and today he noticed the creases seemed deep. He never wanted to believe his dad was getting old or tired, but today he didn't talk much, as if the effort would tax the last of his strength. JW knew something was bothering his father, but he also knew it wasn't his place to ask what it was. His father would tell him in due time.
“I'll tell you what. How 'bout I tell you tomorrow? I'm all talked out, and it's all I can do to have a cuppa tea,” his father said.
“Sure, Da. I gotta get to school anyway. Today's the last day and I want to get there early,” JW said, his mind once again filled with the prospect of winning the books. “Thanks for the porridge, Ma,” he said, as he rose from the table. He rushed upstairs, hearing his father speak in a low voice to his mother.
The satchel that he used to carry his books had been a gift from his grandfather, as was the house they lived in. He pulled the satchel from the top of his bookshelf and filled it with the books that had to be returned now that the end of the school year had arrived. His teacher, Mrs. Johnson, had agreed to give him some books that were not suitable for distribution the following year. Some of the kids took better care of the books than others did, and there were books that just wore out from use. JW had a complete set of his school books from primary to grade seven, and he hoped he'd be able to get a set of this year's grade-eight books as well. He had every one of his scribblers piled neatly on the shelves, from the primary primers to his notes from this year.
JW could barely remember his grandfather, who had died when JW was five, but he remembered the day his grandfather gave him the satchel.
“This you can use for your books, lad. It's made out of fine leather and should last a lifetime. There's lots of pockets in it too, where you can hide your secrets. I made it special for you. Something you can remember me by. You're a fine lad,” his grandfather had said, as he'd rubbed JW's head and patted his back.
JW hadn't known his grandfather had been ill and near death when he'd presented him with the satchel. He only knew that he and his parents had gone to live with him after Grandma Donaldson had gone to heaven.
Grandpa Donaldson had been a blacksmith, shoeing horses and making leather products as well as tools for the miners, including the shovel and pick that JW's father used. Several saddles and bridles remained in the barn. They were old and the leather was cracked in places, but his father left them hanging on the rafters, spiders encasing them in silky webs. Their horse, Lightning, had never been broken to a saddle and was instead used for plowing a patch of earth to plant vegetables each year and hauling wood for winter. He was accustomed to a harness and bridle only.
JW took the stairs two at a time for he knew it was getting late. The clock chimed, signalling it was eight o'clock. He'd have to hurry now to be early for class. School was something he loved, though he thoroughly enjoyed the summers off as well. Sure, he had to tend the garden, but he had lots of time to fish and lie under a tree and read books about England and Scotland and France, as well as Africa and Arabia. Not having to write book reports about them was also nice. He shouted a goodbye to his parents as he rushed out the front door. It was strange to still see them sitting at the table, their heads bowed low, almost as if in prayer, their voices hushed. Adults had a lot to worry about, and he was in no hurry to become one.
He put the long leather strap of the satchel over his shoulder and started off at a slow jog, the satchel tapping lightly against his side, matching the rhythm of his pace. He slowed as he drew near to his friend Beth Jessome's house. Beth was also in the running for the English prize. JW really liked her, but he hoped he'd win. He knew that if she won she would lend him the books, but it wouldn't be the same as owning them. He had already cleared a place for them on his bookshelf.
He saw her looking out the window, waiting for him. He flushed a little as he recalled some of the kids at school saying they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Sure, he liked her, but they weren't dating. Last year they had kissed, but only once. He wondered if that
did
mean they might be boyfriend and girlfriend. He pushed the thought aside as she came out to meet him.
“Are you excited that it's grading day?” Beth asked.
“I sure am. Who do you think's gonna win the English prize?”
“I don't know, but it might be one of us,” Beth answered. “Still, it could be three or four others. I hope it's me or you.”
“Yeah,” JW said, his mind not wanting to comprehend that perhaps someone else could win and he'd never get to read the books. “Yeah, me or you.”
“What are you going to do with all your time off?” Beth asked.
“Remember the old fort Mickey and I built in grade six?”
“Yes,” Beth said, nodding her head.
“Well, I plan to fix it up and sleep in it some nights. It's right up by the swimming hole, not far from where I like to fish. Ma doesn't mind, as long as I get my chores done first.”
Beth told him of the things she had planned for the summer, and they agreed that maybe they would meet at the fort for some swimming and picnics.
“How is Mickey doing?” Beth asked.
“I don't know,” he answered. “He doesn't come around much anymore. The last time I went to his house, his mother told me he was sleeping and that he doesn't have time to play. She didn't tell me not to come back, but that's the impression I got. She said he needs his sleep. I guess his work at the mines is tough. I haven't been back to his house since, but I miss him.”
“I heard he's no longer working on the surface, that he's gone down into the mine,” Beth said.
JW stopped walking and stared at her. “When did this happen?” he asked.
“About a month ago. His mother told Ma that he's getting along well but that he finds the time long. He's working as a trapper boy,” Beth said.
“He can't like that too much. He doesn't like the dark.” JW didn't bother adding that he found the dark unnerving also. His own plans of sleeping in the fort would only be on moonlit nights, and then only if his dog, Gulliver, would stay the night.
JW knew there were different jobs in the mine. He knew that a trapper boy opened and closed a trap door, but he had no idea what the conditions were like. He planned to become an explorer, or a captain of a ship, and travel to exotic places. But first he was looking forward to college. Mrs. Johnson had explained to him that with an education he could do anything he wanted.