by Paul Almond
He hoped this canoe trip might free him from his loneliness but no, his isolation remained. He had loved Magwés with all his heart, and it seemed so very cruel that she had been taken from him by the birth of his only son, now looked after by the tribe.
Above, reaching out like some mournful ghost, a floating cloud with dark undersides had taken over the pale sky. The weather here in the Gaspé was so changeable. An east wind meant rain. But right now, the wind had let up briefly. The stillness might indeed presage a storm. He paddled faster. The shoulder wrenched in his fall during the fire still troubled. His ankle throbbed too, though kneeling in this position helped avoid some of the pain. But as the rough weather approached, his natural confidence began to evaporate.
He loved the feel of the paddle, its white, polished birch handle fitting nicely into his palm. The blade was shaped like a willow leaf, pointed, unlike the settlers’ rounded paddles. He tried to breathe deeply as he drove on, to summon up his ever-present good humour. His canoe had been a godsend. What a surprise he had felt when that Native delegation arrived at his brook! Wending down the cliffside, he’d seen the Chief among them.
Nothing had been said during the appropriate welcoming ceremony back at his cabin, the smoking of the pipe, the exchange of news, while his curiosity had built. Finally, the Chief revealed they had come to present him with a special gift: this fine canoe and paddle. The humped-back design featured an elevated gunwale (raised sides that curved upward in the middle, and also at each end) to provide stability in rough water, as well as being navigable in both shallow streams and the ocean. Several of the tribe’s best craftsmen had fashioned it to demonstrate their appreciation for Thomas having risked his life to save that of their Chief. That fateful day he had gone, as a deserter, back to his man o’war, the Bellerophon, anchored off Paspébiac. With the invalided Chief in his canoe, he had paddled toward certain punishment, the one thousand lashes ending in death. But he put the memory aside.
On the cliffs, the cormorants wheeled and squawked their raucous objections to his passing, while ungainly squabs flopped about on the beach where they had landed after a first flight. Great gulls, some with black backs, others lighter grey with predators’ faces, all circled to voice their strenuous objections to this intrusion. He nodded to himself. Still and all, fine companions; nothing wrong with these birds. Just like you, I don’t like being interrupted; I too want to be left alone. Not many of us passing — which meant, he realized, no rescue should he get into trouble. One or two rowboats might pass each month, settlers going east to Pabos, a good long journey. Otherwise nothing but the odd Micmac paddler, and these never disturbed the birds. After all, the Micmac had been here for centuries.
He gazed again at the brazen red cliffs, secure in their severe majesty. He wondered how long they had looked out across this immutable bay. How long had they stared at Micmac canoes, passing them down through the ages? What must they think of our tall square-rigged ships now plying the waters? What must they think of the cannonades loosed by privateers at those merchant ships they were about to plunder? Though not much of that now, with the 1812–14 war between the British and Americans coming to a close. What have we wrought, wondered Thomas, with the march of our so-called civilization? Were they any happier before we came, these great, red guardian cliffs of the vast forests behind?
If only we had left them alone to stare out over the vacant waters, self-sufficient, with only their Micmac inhabitants who neither ravished each other nor the land itself, leaving the great trees to flourish upward untouched. The Micmac took from among the forest sentinels only what they needed for their own survival. Nor did they trap and kill beaver for hats in London and the great capitals of Europe. They left the wildlife bounty to interact and accumulate. They left the moose and caribou to battle for survival with the wolf packs, where the fittest could benefit from the testing, and go on to reproduce braver and more supple offspring.
We need the rain, he decided, forcefully bringing his mind back to the present: let the tempest come, I’ll get to Paspébiac. But that was just bravado. Gaspé storms were unpredictable in their ferocity, unmanageable in their scope.
To take his mind from the mounting wind and the increasingly rough seas, he looked ahead. Why, he asked himself, had he waited so long to make this trip? Because he knew there would be so little chance of success?
Perhaps his old caulking master would be hard at work on another barque. But he had turned down their offer of work last winter in the woods: M’sieur Huard, the company steward, would surely hold this against him. A tough negotiator, he paid so little, hardly enough to barter for needed supplies. And Thomas had to get food, and tools.
Smack! A wave struck the canoe and splashed over him. He glanced back. The waters of the bay, usually so blue, had turned an ominous black under the gathering clouds; white caps stood out vividly. He wondered how much further he had to go. More than an hour certainly. The wind, in its Gaspésian and wayward way, had begun to shift. Head out into the bay, he told himself, the waves were striking the canoe broadside. He paddled into them, focussing on seamanship. Better get a move on. That squall was building.
Sudden spray drenched him and nearly swamped the canoe. He turned in, heading for the shore. No, too rocky. But no time to dawdle. He bent low and stepped up his paddling, keeping the rhythmic motion learned from his native friends. Then, an errant wave almost flooded him.
He put down the paddle and grabbed the wooden bucket to bail fast. But another wave struck, all but capsizing him. Don’t bail; just drive forward. If only that cockamamy wind would not swing back.
But swing it did. For some reason, it seemed now to be coming off shore, swooping down over the cliffs and pushing him further out to sea. He paddled furiously, determined not to let the sea become his master.
When the wind let up, he shipped his paddle and tried again. After two quick bails, his canoe turned sideways again. He grabbed the paddle and with adrenaline pumping, stroked for dear life. First the fire, and now this — too much in just a few days. But then, he had spent weeks when nothing had happened, when he had just chopped and limbed trunks, piled brush with flies buzzing and ever-present loneliness keeping him company. Approaching disasters made one focus. And focus he did.
He tried bailing, and then grabbed his paddle. This became a rhythm: paddle paddle paddle, scoop scoop. But the sea, a worthy opponent, kept building waves; the wind swivelled and poured it on. Thomas against the elements, and the sea was gaining the upper hand.
Splash by splash, wave by wave, more seawater filled the canoe. If only he had a better bailer. His biggest saucepan, made of iron, would have been too heavy. Deal with what you have, he remonstrated, keeping the rhythm. But as he neared the shore, the gale struck in full force, and the rain bucketed down. Now the canoe would really sink.
He bailed furiously. The rain plastered his long hair, soaked his peasant jacket and ran between his shoulders and down his chest. He could not see the shore. His shoulders ached. His bent knees hurt. His hands froze, making any grip on the paddle hard. A blanket of fatigue covered him. Ridiculous! So close to Paspébiac — but even closer to Davy Jones’s locker.
Waterlogged, the canoe would not respond and developed its own will. It bucked, rollicked, and dove, going its own foolhardy way. He tried hard to right it. Don’t you fight me, he commanded; we’re in this together. If you sink, I sink.
For a moment, it seemed to succumb to the waves. He bailed hard, scooping frantically. Load lightened, his worthy craft stayed afloat. He dropped the bailer, grabbed the paddle and with new energy, drove forward toward the beach.
Beach? Rocks only, he now saw. He’d smash the canoe on them for sure. Try and get round the point. No use; the sea drove him in. So he swivelled, tried heading out, only to be almost capsized by a huge breaker. Could he leap out? Too far from the shore.
Head in anyway. But those sharp rocks risked his precious canoe. No more trips to Paspébiac. No trips anywher
e. But what could he do?
The rain stung his eyes, making it even harder to see. And see he must, if he were to navigate between the great red boulders that had tumbled from towering cliffs. Back-paddle fast, he told himself. Wipe your eyes. Try to see through the driving rain. Look for any opening that might admit your canoe. Meanwhile, he swivelled from side to side, righting the canoe, straining into the rain, praying the canoe would not fill up.
Then he saw an opening. With a last thrust, he drove the canoe forward. It leapt through the waves, rode a breaker fast forward into jagged rocks.
Get out and grab the canoe! A huge wave lifted him, held him poised to dash onto pointed crags. He swung the front, he lurched left, finally leapt out, good! Only waist deep. Flung by waves he grabbed the canoe, hauled it with him, fell under, surfaced, coughing and sputtering, grabbed again and yes, felt sand under his feet, pushed the canoe ahead. That opening, yes! Wedge it there, clamber out. Craggy rocks scraped his shins. He yelled in pain, slipping and sliding, and heaved himself up onto the rocks, yes, he’d made it.
He tried with freezing hands to grapple the canoe up, haul it close, his hands hurt, his legs ached, but at last, he somehow got the canoe up too, and fell panting on the flat red rock. Would the storm last all night? How long could he survive in this icy rain?
Chapter Three
Freezing and shivering, Thomas curled under the tiny canoe at the base of the towering cliffs, wondering how he’d survive.
In the cold wind, he was reminded of the hapless Alexander Selkirk, whose story of a marooned seaman everyone on the Bellerophonknew, though not many had read the book. Back in England at Raby Castle, the noble children’s tutor had lent ThomasRobinson Crusoe. Now cowering like a wet muskrat, paralyzed by icy spray and blasting rain, Thomas felt that, unlike Selkirk, he might not last the night.
Why had he left years ago to join the Navy? And his caring mother? She must be still working at the castle as undercook, her once lovely body worn down by years of unending toil. How he missed her! She remained in his mind, a spectre to comfort him. He resolved yet again to fulfill this obligation to write often, as soon as he got through the storm safely and had found a job. Somehow, the thoughts of Raby Castle, of his straw bed over the stable with the other lads, his regulated duties there, helped his brain to relax and, with all its chilled shaking, his body gave itself up to the fatigue that tugged him off into another world.
Two winters ago, when he had fallen through the ice, only the age-old wisdom and practices of his Micmac family had saved his life. And handed him an important lesson: when you start to freeze, keep alert, keep moving at all costs. He made a determined effort to uncoil his numb body and roll out from under his canoe. He got up into the blasting wind and began to move his arms, beat his frozen body, lift his knees.
What an endless night! So why not plan for the morrow?
First, go to the Paspébiac general store he had visited two years ago with his Micmac friends. But how to make himself presentable? No, his first steps should be the Robin’s Company and Monsieur Huard.
Charles Robin had come from the Jersey Isles sixty years earlier, even before the fall of Quebec, and established a profitable cod-fishing enterprise. Through good management and hard work, the indomitable old fellow more or less controlled Paspébiac. He shipped cod by the schooner-load to Africa, Portugal, Europe, and finally England. Most families in Paspébiac were serfs of the Robin’s Company, trading their summer’s labour for the supplies sold in Robin’s stores — a system known as the “truck” system. Thomas had worked for Monsieur Huard, the operations manager, and had even met James Robin, the nephew who now supervised everything, though important decisions were still referred back to Jersey Island where the Robin family originated.
So that must be his first effort, though he held out no great hopes. How he longed for the dawn; the night seemed endless as he pondered his bleak future, his spirit bound by chains of fatigue and despair.
Before dawn, the rain let up. The tide had dropped. Move your joints, he ordered, fight that numbness, lift down the canoe, get it onto the beach. So he muscled his canoe down onto the sandy area that had appeared in the night. He clambered back up to fetch his sopping belongings down into the upright canoe. Wading into the icy waves, he leapt into the stern and paddled hard. Paspébiac lay ahead.
***
An early glow from the east spread upwards, flushing away night and its horrors. The weather began to behave, promising a day of lustre. The light wind started to dry his clothes. Above, bodies of clouds relaxed in their blue watery heaven, stretched out like lazy swimmers on their backs, floating on homemade rafts, light and deft and airy. As he paddled on, the sun came up and beamed millions of sparkles of shimmering silver, a teeming carpet spreading across the dense, almost matted flecks of bay, westward toward a dull blue-grey and finally a misty blue at a southern horizon obscured by a morning mist. The rays seeped into his chilled body and flung wavelets of sparkles at his eyes. The surface looked as solid as pewter, as if you could walk across it.
He shipped his paddle and leaned forward to undo his belongings. One by one he wrung them out and stretched them on the thwarts of the boat for the playful sun to make up for the weather’s horrible tricks of the previous night. He coaxed the canoe along with leisurely strokes to dry the clothes and warm his soul.
Around the distant point, he saw the Paspébiac sandbank on which sat the buildings of Charles Robin, wooden warehouses, two, three, and even four stories high. He scanned the waters for any sign of a British warship. Had His Majesty’s Navy been so efficient as to spread the word of his reprieve? He still had to be cautious.
No Navy ships. The war between Britain and the United States ending meant fewer privateers in the bay, and hence fewer ships of the line coming across to protect these shipping lanes. After a time he paddled out around the sandbank, checking carefully before heading in for the dock. No point in hiding his canoe at the Micmac landing place, he headed straight for the heart of the Robin’s operation on the banc, the large triangular sandbank, where he’d go to confront Monsieur Huard. As he neared the floating dock, he remembered rowing out with his sick Chief to beg the surgeon of the Bellerophonto perform the operation that eventually saved the Chief’s life. Since Thomas had deserted two years previously, his nemesis Jonas Wickett had been replaced. After Thomas had been captured by the marines and placed in the man o’war’s brig, with no hope of escape from the thousand lashes, he had heard the heavy door clank open.
The Captain had entered alone, with word of the successful operation on the Chief. He went on to reveal that the Marquis, whom Thomas knew from his many visits to Raby Castle, had himself sent the Captain a very fine reward for having let his “ward” “escape” to the New World. Thomas had been taken aback by the largesse, with no idea why the nobleman had been concerned.
The Captain had interrupted his thoughts by saying, “So now I suggest you move rather quickly.”
“Move, sir? Quickly?” Escape? He’s letting me escape? Thomas could hardly believe his luck.
The Captain had leaned forward. “Go ashore a free man. But please, do take care to keep out of sight of His Majesty’s Royal Marines!” He shook the hand of his former Midshipman, now still in shock. “I am sure you will continue to lead a full and righteous life here in the New World. Good luck and God speed.”
A reprieve? But one thing Thomas knew for sure, he had to stay out of sight of the Navy for the time being. He pulled in, tied up his canoe, and set off across the bancto the administration office. Two years before, he had trodden the same path, a fugitive from British justice, a deserter. Now, though he no longer had that stigma, he found his nervousness mounting. He so badly needed work. He strode across the same stoop and entered.
Seated at his desk, M. Huard lifted his head. “Bonjour, young Thomas!”
“Bonjour Monsieur Huard.” Thomas bowed and removed his hat, pleased to be remembered. “Est-ce que tout va bien avec
la grande compagnie de Robin?”
“Pas mal, pas mal, merci. And you, you’re fine? Qu’estce que tu fais ces jours-ci?”
“Me? Oh, er, I have just escaped a big forest fire.”
“Ah oui, ah oui, j’ai entendu, behind the Canton de Hope.”
“No sir,” Thomas began, then stopped — he didn’t want to give away the actual location of his building site, so he played along. “I mean yes, yes, behind Hope. But it didn’t last long.”
M. Huard agreed. “Oui. Mais ça prends du monde. Much trouble. Many workers I send. I stop all work here two days. All the men, they thank the Lord for the rain. They can achieve nothing without His help.” He turned back to his books.
“Fires, they do seem beyond our control,” Thomas agreed.
M. Huard was clearly busy, and Thomas was unsure how best to bring up the subject of his employ. “So,” M. Huard asked finally, “what you come for? Work?”
“Yes sir.” Thomas twisted his hat in his hand.
“Uh! Malhereusement, we have no place. We do not start the new ship before the next month. No caulking. Maybe in two months, we do some. Maybe come back then.”
“But that’s... August, the summer will be gone,” Thomas blurted out.
“Ah oui. Mais c’est comme ça.”
It’s like that for sure, Thomas could see. He looked down. No work... He lifted his eyes. “But Monsieur Huard, I can learn another trade. You know I work hard.” M. Huard shook his head. “The boss, he say, dat’s it. We have enough.”
“Oh.” Thomas nodded, but his heart sank. “Thank you, M. Huard. Thank you very much.” He sighed for a moment before turning. He noticed a pained look flick across the supervisor’s face before he returned to his books on the pine table.
