Scots go to church on Christmas Day and have our festivities on New Year’s Eve when we celebrate Hogmanay; but we’ll be celebrating Christmas as well this year because Mrs. Livingstone is going to invite us to her house for a grand Christmas dinner.
Father had a terrible time persuading Grannie to go. She’s very set in the old ways and dead against making any kind of celebration out of Christmas itself.
“A papist custom,” she snorted when the invitation came. “You’ll not find me taking part in it.”
Nevertheless he persevered. Father is just as stubborn in his own way as she is in hers.
“It’s a new country with new ways, Mother,” he said, and would not let up on her, but even so I was amazed that he managed to convince her.
Could Grannie possibly be mellowing?
One thing Grannie will never give up is her determination to go into the New Year without a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. She and Mother are cleaning every corner of the house and it is worth a body’s life to get in their way.
December 25th, 1783
What a day! I am sitting here in my bed just full of the smells and tastes and memories of it. There was sadness, too, though.
Mrs. Livingstone gave us the most wonderful Christmas dinner. They have been here for almost three years and are so well settled in they even have a small flock of chickens and a few geese. Mrs. Livingstone had fattened one of the geese up especially and roasted it for the Christmas dinner — I can’t begin to describe how delicious it tasted. When Mr. Livingstone opened the door to greet us, the smell of that goose absolutely overwhelmed me. I just stood in the doorway and sniffed until Grannie gave me a push and said, “What ails you, child? Get in before you let all the warmth out.”
Mrs. Livingstone had even managed to save raisins to make a plum pudding. It was a feast!
Their house is a little bigger than our cabin but still, it was packed with all of us. The Livingstones have two young boys as well, and a baby. The two boys took Jamie in hand the minute we were inside, and were soon playing a game of knuckle bones with him. The baby was fast asleep in a cradle beside the hearth and never cried once the whole time we were there. She is a sweet, rosy-cheeked little thing. It made my heart ache to look at her, it just brought back so many thoughts of baby Margaret. I can’t imagine how Mother must have felt. I didn’t even dare to look at her. I think Mrs. Livingstone knew, however, as she gave Mother a very warm hug.
Mrs. Livingstone calls the baby her “first little born Canadian.” That made me stop and think. What are we now? We’re certainly not American any more, and we’re not really Scottish any more either. I suppose we’re Canadians too. How very odd.
After the dinner Janet and her sister, Betsy, showed me the quilt they were piecing together. I recognized the squares that came from baby Margaret’s blanket. It was a pretty, soft yellow colour. I remember Mother dyed it that colour with goldenrod blossoms.
Mrs. Livingstone came over to us just then and reached out a hand to touch one of the squares.
“So soft,” she said. “And so pretty. I am grateful to your Mother, Mary, for letting me have that blanket. Small enough return have I made for it.”
And I realized then that she knew whose blanket it had been.
December 27th, 1783
Now we are getting ready for our own celebration. Mrs. Livingstone gave Grannie some honey so that Grannie can make the special oatcakes sweetened with honey that she bakes for us every New Year’s Eve. We will take as many as we can over to the Livingstones’ to reciprocate for the fine Christmas dinner they gave us. It is not much, but it is the best we can do.
Hannah has been over and we have been helping Grannie. At least, we thought we were helping. Grannie thought otherwise, and after she rapped my knuckles sharply with her spoon, just because I dipped a finger into the honey pot, she banished us out of the house.
I can hardly wait for New Year’s Eve. There are quite a few Scottish families here, so Hannah and I and the other Scottish children will be going singing at the doors of every house, just as we used to do in Albany.
But I wonder if a first-foot will knock on our door at midnight? Who will it be, here in this strange place?
January 1784
January 1st, 1784
Get up, gude wife, and dinna sweer,
An’ deal yer bread to them that’s here,
For the time’ll come whan ye’ll be dead
And then ye’ll need neither ale nor bread.
That’s what we sang when we went door to door, and my how we sang! And we reaped such rewards! I had oatcakes and bannock and plum cakes enough to share with the whole family.
The first-foot did come! Just exactly at midnight, by the old clock that Father managed to bring with us, there was a knock on the door. There stood Uncle Allan Ross, holding a loaf of bread and a pail full of burning coals to add to our fire. Warmth and comfort for the whole year to come, the first-foot brings. I wonder if that will hold true for us? Luckily Uncle Allan Ross does not have red hair. Grannie firmly believes that it would bring very bad luck upon a house if the first-foot were a redhead. Father scoffs at her, but she will not be convinced otherwise.
I looked around, suddenly realizing that Father was not here. I supposed he was returning the favour and acting as first-foot for the Ross family. (Hannah told me this morning that he had.)
So we begin a new year in a new land. And I have a dreadful head cold and a very sore throat. And a cough. So does Hannah.
January 3rd, 1784
Grannie has been filling me full of her remedies. She has been dosing me with a syrup made of spikenard, which is as sharp and bitter as its name, and I have drunk enough catnip and spearmint tea to sink a ship. The remedies must be working, though, as I am getting better.
Hannah is not, however, although her mother has the same medicines.
January 5th, 1784
Hannah is very ill. I am frightened for her. When I visited her today she was flushed and feverish and hardly even knew I was there. Her breath is raspy and I can see the effort it costs her to breathe. She can talk hardly at all and coughs without ceasing. I sat with her all afternoon and tried to get her to drink the teas Aunt Norah had made for her, but she could not get them down. Then she spit up the little she did manage to swallow.
January 6th, 1784
Hannah might die! No one has said so, but I can see it in their faces. Father has allowed me to stay home from school so that I may sit with her and feed her.
January 7th, 1784
Our preacher, Mr. Murchison, came over to sit with Hannah and Aunt Norah today. They are certain she is going. I cannot bear to think of it!
January 9th, 1784
Hannah moans and tosses in her bed. She does not recognize me when I speak to her. I put cloths soaked in cool water on her forehead, but she is so feverish and hot that they dry up within minutes. Aunt Norah is beside herself with worry.
January 10th, 1784
Mother does not want me nursing Hannah. I think she worries that I might take the fever next. I will not stop, though.
January 11th, 1784
Mr. Murchison prayed today for Hannah at Sunday services.
January 12th, 1784
Hannah is no better, but neither is she any worse.
January 14th, 1784
The fever seems to be lessening.
January 18th, 1784
We begin to have a little hope. I prayed extra hard for Hannah today.
January 20th, 1784
Hannah awoke this morning pale and weak, but clear-eyed. The fever has gone!
I am happier than I can say, but so exhausted I cannot write more.
January 26th, 1784
I am back to school now, but Hannah is not. She is still weak and Aunt Norah insists on her resting up until she gets her strength back. Truly, it is just as well that she doesn’t try to go to school, as the weather has been very cold and stormy — one blizzard after another, it seems. T
he schoolhouse is drafty, too. Mr Mitchell keeps the fire going full blast in the stove in the middle of the room, but even so my fingers get so icy that I can hardly write, and my feet are wet and freezing cold all the day long.
It is so strange to be there without Hannah. Her empty desk beside mine looks so forlorn. I do hope she will be able to come back soon.
January 30th, 1784
I have just returned from visiting Hannah. She is much recovered, and we spent a cheerful hour just talking. She is propped up in a bed beside the hearth, well tucked in. Molly is even being nice to her and not the slightest bit bossy. The two boys were so rambunctious, though, that Aunt Norah turned them out of doors to find wood for kindling.
Aunt Norah says Hannah is too weak to go back to school before spring, but who knows what we will be doing by spring? It seems that Mother is not the only one who hopes to return home. Others are talking that way as well. Father will hear none of it, however, nor will most of the men. The officers of the Regiment maintain that it would be impossible, and I am very afraid that they are right.
Sir John Johnson is buying up land from the Mississauga Indians for us to settle on, but there is a lot of concern about heading upriver to such wild lands. Governor Haldimand said that the British Government has promised the Loyalists enough supplies and provisions to get us established. We are due no less as a reward for our loyalty and to recompense us for our losses, the Governor said, but Father and the other men want to see proof that he can fulfill his promises, so the Governor has written to England for that assurance.
Mother leaves the room whenever Father talks of these plans.
February 1784
February 1st, 1784
Another month begun. My life has settled down into such a routine — sometimes I even forget that I haven’t lived here forever. Maybe not quite, but I am finding it more and more difficult to remember what home was like.
Home. What a sad word. I don’t suppose I shall ever have a home again.
February 3rd, 1784
Hannah is almost back to her old self again, but she is very thin and tires easily. Grannie sends soups and broths over to her with me every time I visit.
The weather is truly horrid. It was sleety and rainy all last night, and this morning the snow was covered with a layer of ice. Jamie and the Ross boys are out sliding down the piled-up mounds. I can hear them shrieking with glee and Laddie is barking his head off.
Oh dear. I hear more shrieking, and it is decidedly not gleeful …
Later
I suppose it was to be expected. I ran out to see what was the matter, and there was Jamie, lying on the ground, white and senseless, with Laddie nosing him worriedly. He had tried to slide off the roof of a shed and fell. What a scare!
When Mother saw him lying there she just started to cry and shake and couldn’t do a thing. I think she thought she’d lost another child. It was up to Father to pick him up and bring him into the warmth of our cabin. He soon recovered and is sitting beside me here by the fire now, where I can keep an eye on him. Laddie is curled up as close to him as he can get, and the smell of hot wet dog is pretty strong. Jamie has an enormous bump on his head and Grannie has made a vinegar-and-smartweed poultice to put on it. For once he seems chastened.
Father was quite cross with him, which wasn’t like Father at all. I think we are all chafing at being so shut in during this horrible weather. Grannie is missing her spinning wheel. Normally we would spend the winter knitting the wool that Grannie spun. I used to complain about always having so much work to do; now I find it hard not to have something to occupy my time. We do have a drop spindle, the one I learned to spin on, but we have no wool to spin even on it.
I think also that Father was out of sorts because he has a toothache. Even Grannie’s remedies do not seem to help it.
February 7th, 1784
What a dreadful day! Mother and Father had the most awful argument — and they never argue! It all started at breakfast time when Father said he was going to attend a meeting to do with planning how we will be moved west up the St. Lawrence to our new settlements in the spring. Mother’s hands started trembling. I was standing right beside her, waiting to receive a bowl of porridge from her to put on the table, and I could see her fingers suddenly clench the bowl. Just as suddenly, it slipped out of her grasp and fell to the floor. She made no move at all to wipe up the spilled porridge. Instead she just stared at Father.
“Surely, Robert, you are not really planning on taking us all upriver into the wilderness?”
“What else can we do?” Father asked her. He was rubbing at his cheek and his face looked tired and drawn with pain. That tooth is bothering him more and more and he has been very out of sorts.
“We can go home, that is what we can do,” Mother answered. “Back where we belong.”
“Where we belong?” Father burst out. I have never seen him so angry. “Why must you insist on believing we still belong back in Albany? Was it not enough, Fiona,” he roared, “that I was publicly humiliated? Made to ride backwards on a mule through town for all to see and jeer at? Was that not enough? Do you want to see me tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail — possibly even hanged? We do not belong there any more, and that is what will surely happen if we return! I’ve heard the stories of those who have tried. Besides, what do you think we would have to return to?”
Jamie and I were shocked into silence. Even Grannie was speechless. This was not the Father we knew.
“Our house and lands are gone,” he went on. “Do you think they would be given back to us? We have nothing left in that new United States of America, Fiona. Nothing.”
“But surely, Robert,” Mother began, “by now —”
“By now there is someone settled in our house and working our land and glad to be rid of us,” Father said.
His voice was not Father’s at all. It was so bitter! The words seemed to catch in his throat and he stopped for a moment. Then he gave himself a huge shake and went on.
“Canada is our country now,” he said finally, “We belong here. There’s opportunity for us and we must make the best of it. We can never go back.”
Mother stared at him for one long moment, then she let out a cry and ran into their room.
I could not stand it. I ran after her. She was stretched out on her bed, sobbing. I knelt beside her and reached out to her, trying to comfort her. She just shook my hand off.
“Go away, Mary,” she said, her voice all muffled and shaking. “Just go away.”
So I did.
She has not come out of her room all day.
February 9th, 1784
Mother and Father are being very cold to each other. I do not know what to do. I have never before seen them act this way. Grannie is worried too and it is making her very cross.
She has just made a hot fomentation for Father, though, as his tooth is still paining him.
February 10th, 1784
Poor Father. He is lying down in his room now and I just heard a faint moan. In spite of all Grannie’s hot fomentations, his tooth just got worse and worse. Finally, he had to have it pulled today and I have never seen a person go through such pain.
One of the men in the settlement here, Joss Walker, has a turnkey and some experience as a tooth puller. He came over late this afternoon. He brought with him a jug of whiskey and set it on the table. Mother looked at it and set her lips.
“Robert does not take whiskey,” she said.
Grannie took her arm. “Leave it be, Fiona,” she said. “He will need it.”
“Mary, Jamie, outside with you then,” Mother ordered.
“But Mother,” I argued, “there’s a fair blizzard blowing out there.” Truth to tell, I was afraid to leave. I did not know what was going to happen and I feared for Father.
“Then up to the loft,” Mother said. “And be quick about it.”
Jamie and I scurried up the ladder, but then lay quiet as mice and watched what went on below.
Father lifted up the jug and took a mighty swig of it. Then he coughed and sputtered and made a terrible face. Nevertheless, he took another drink, and then another. Again that grimace … and then yet another swig of the whiskey. He stumbled as he put the jug back down, and Mr. Walker reached out a hand to steady him and help him sit down. No one in the room spoke a word. I was overcome with dread.
“Don’t watch, Jamie,” I said. He was even more frightened than I, and crept off to huddle on his bed tick.
I saw Father grasp the rungs of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. Then Mr. Walker took out his pocketknife and began to pry at the tooth with it. I heard Father grunt with pain and my stomach took a lurch. Then Mr. Walker inserted the hook of the turnkey and began to pull. I saw Father’s forehead break out in great drops of sweat and he could not help but groan. Mother let out a cry and Grannie put her arms around her.
It seemed to take forever. Mr. Walker pulled and pulled and my poor father hung onto the chair and tried so hard not to howl with pain. Finally there was one last tremendous tug and one last cry from deep down in Father’s throat, and Mr. Walker held up the bloody tooth.
With Nothing But Our Courage Page 7
