A Christmas to Remember

by Carol Matas

  Now I’d best try to sleep. Uncle wants to attend Rev. Staines’s Service tomorrow, so we’re off to Fort Victoria first thing in the morning. I’m not keen on the Service, but most eager to see Lucy, Sarah and other friends from school, even Radish.

  Sunday, December 26

  I’m writing this entry on paper that Radish tore out of his journal. (I should say, Edward, for he no longer wants to be called by his nickname.) Imagine, Radish keeping a journal! That’s as surprising as the snow.

  Yes, SNOW!

  It started this morning during Rev. Staines’s Service, and by mid-afternoon there was a good two feet. So here I am, stranded at Fort Victoria, and having a grand time with my former classmates.

  Uncle and I left early this morning, as soon as he’d hitched Dickens to the wagon. It took a while to reach the Fort — we kept meeting people on the road and stopping to chat! — but we arrived on time for the Service. It wasn’t too tedious though, since I could look out the window and watch the falling snow.

  By noon it was falling so thick and heavy we could not even see the bastions! Uncle was anxious to get home to Aunt Grace, for she was feeling tired this morning after yesterday’s exertions — as was Annie — but the snow was so deep, the wagon wheels kept getting stuck. Eventually he decided to ride Dickens and leave me at the Fort, promising to return for me when the road was passable. Then we’d load up with provisions and go home in the wagon. I told him not to rush back on my account, for I was content to stay with my friends.

  Once he’d ridden off, I spent the rest of the day larking about in the snow and gossiping in the dormitory. Lucy and Sarah are as excited as I am about the Langfords’ soirée on New Year’s Eve, not only because the Langfords host such wonderful parties, but because they always invite the officers and mid-shipmen from whatever ship happens to be in port. (Right now it’s HMS Thetis, which I saw sailing into Esquimalt Harbour). We made speculations as to whose future husband might be at the soirée, and Lucy says, “It won’t be Jenna’s — she’s as particular as her Aunt Grace in choosing a husband.” I reminded her I was only fifteen, tho’ that is hardly too young for marriage, but the truth is, she’s right!

  At one point the subject turned to Radish. (I am too used to that name, so will not change to Edward.) Lucy told me he writes stories in his journal, and said I should ask to read them. “He’s sure to let you,” she says. “Adoring you the way he does.”

  I scoffed at that — Radish is only nine — but she and Sarah assured me it was true, and we were soon laughing at his expense. The way he’d tag along with me when the boys were picking on him, how his stories always had a heroine named Jenna, how he’d once given Mrs. Staines the most preposterous excuse for his tardiness, using words that were straight from a story I had written.

  Did he think of me as his big sister or as his mother, we wondered. Did he fancy me as his future wife? And more of the same nonsense.

  We changed to another topic after a while, realizing that we were being unkind. Radish was lonely, he missed his family and wanted a friend — feelings that all of us can well understand.

  Now more things are coming to mind, especially from my first year at Staines’s School. There was the time I made him the hero in my brush-with-death story, and used his full name, Edward Radisson Lewis. How he beamed when I read it to him! Was that adoration? I just thought he liked the story. As for keeping a journal, in the two years I’ve known him he has hated Writing, Spelling, Grammar — everything. But Lucy was right, he was thrilled to show me his journal. He’s writing stories instead of recording daily events, though — otherwise, he says, every page would be I hate school. Maybe so, I told him, but school must be doing him some good, for his progress was remarkable.

  He read me a story he’d written about a chief trader who beat his children so badly that one night the youngest decided to run away. He escaped by canoe but a storm came up and swamped the canoe, etc. etc. It was a thrilling adventure story and I told him so.

  “I learned from you,” he said, reminding me of the stories I’d written (and told). “It’s no fun here now that you’re gone.”

  “From the sounds of your story, you’ve taken my place,” I said.

  His face lit up with delight.

  Must end and get ready for bed. No spares in the dormitory so I’m sharing with Lucy. We can whisper all night!

  Monday, December 27

  Before Breakfast

  What a night! The dormitory beds are scarcely big enough for one person, let alone two, and Lucy — she kicked, elbowed, tossed and turned, rolled over and back, hogged the blanket, snored — I could have throttled her!

  I don’t expect Uncle to come today. Tho’ the snow has stopped falling, it’s still too deep for the wagon, and the situation could be even worse out our way.

  After Breakfast

  The Fort is in a frenzy! Cecilia Douglas is marrying Dr. Helmcken this morning but she’s at home across the Bay and he is here! The wedding has to take place before noon (because that’s the law) and the carriage that’s meant to fetch her keeps getting stuck in the snow!

  Later

  It is five minutes past noon and the wedding has taken place on time — thanks to the clever canadien who abandoned the useless carriage and fashioned a sleigh from a dry-goods box. He cut off the top and one side, put in a seat and covered it with red cloth. Then he made a shaft and runners from a couple of willows, set the box upon the runners, harnessed the horse and off they went to fetch the bride.

  Goodness, it was a close call! Eleven … half-eleven … At a quarter to twelve, Lucy and I were peeking into the hall and saw a man trying to put back the hands of the clock! (But Mrs. Staines caught him.)

  With ten minutes to spare we heard the jingle of sleigh bells and, lo and behold, the bride and her bridesmaids arrived. They rushed into the hall and the ceremony took place — I swear Rev. Staines has never spoken so quickly — and Dr. Helmcken put the ring on Cecilia’s finger as the clock was striking twelve.

  What a glorious clamour! Everyone in the yard shouted hurrahs as the party left to celebrate at Governor Douglas’s house, the cannon roared from the bastions, the bell rang, the men fired muskets into the air and every dog for miles around howled as insanely as usual.

  Early Afternoon

  The excitement of the past 24 hours has got me as stirred-up as a plum pudding. So now that I’ve had Dinner, I’m going to walk home. I may still meet Uncle on the road — perhaps he’s devised a sleigh! Anyway, I do not relish another sleepless night. So, a few goodbyes and I’m away. I have a good three hours before it gets dark.

  Tuesday, December 28

  Mid-afternoon

  I’m back to my own journal and my “Stranded at the Fort” entries have been pasted in. Now, to continue.

  I arrived home only this morning, as the journey turned out to be more eventful than I’d expected. Aunt and Uncle were none too pleased that I hadn’t waited for him at the Fort, and even less pleased that I’d taken the path. “What were you thinking?” Uncle said. “What if I had gone to fetch you and hadn’t seen you on the road, then found out that you’d left the Fort?”

  After apologizing, and admitting that I’d acted impulsively, I gave an account of my journey. I explained that by the time I’d crossed the Gorge, I was tired of sinking into the snow (there were few tracks to step into) and was thinking the path would be quicker. Since the trees alongside the path were so thick, I reckoned their branches would have collected most of the snow before it could reach the ground. And I had considered Uncle and how worried he might have been, but since the road was impassable as far as wagons were concerned (not a single sign of a wheel), I thought it unlikely that he would have gone to Victoria, especially not so late in the day, and I figured he would not have wanted to make the trip again, only to return without the wagon and provisions.

  A short time after leaving the road, I sensed that I was being followed. The back of my neck felt prickly, my heartbea
t quickened. I heard sighs and moans, muffled thumps, rustlings in the branches tho’ there was no wind. I kept turning around, even called out a few times — but saw nothing.

  I told myself it was only a deer or a bird. But what if I was being stalked by a panther? Or by a murderer? For I’d remembered that the men who’d murdered the HBCo shepherd in November were still at large.

  As the shadows grew longer I became even more fearful. I had lost my way, I was still being followed, and my attempts to hasten only caused me to stumble and fall, expecting at any second to be pounced upon. Time and again that feeling of terror drove me on.

  By the time darkness fell I was probably delirious, for when I saw lights in the distance, I imagined they were a host of angels coming to guide me home. I was singing their praises when a figure —

  Oh, here’s Annie wanting attention. Will continue later.

  Later

  The “angel” was Mr. Langford! What with all my stumbling, etc., I’d taken a wrong turn and ended up very nearly at his doorstep. He’d stepped outside on hearing the sounds of someone in distress (I thought I’d been singing!), found me lying in the snow and carried me inside. Mrs. Langford and the girls gave me some dry clothes to change into and warmed me up with tea and beef broth.

  The food revived me enough to tell them that I was on my way home, but they wouldn’t hear of my leaving.

  It was going on eleven, I was more than half asleep and Mrs. Langford insisted I stay the night. “No point disturbing your aunt and uncle at this late hour,” she said. “Especially since they’re not expecting you.”

  After breakfast this morning, Mr. Langford lent me a horse to ride home and Mary and Emma accompanied me. I’d had a good sleep and was in a jolly mood, chatting with them about this and that, but mostly about their New Year’s Eve soirée. We were making so merry, I did not even think of my mysterious stalker or whether he was still following me. In fact, being somewhat tired and fretful at the time, I’m beginning to think I imagined the whole thing.

  Wednesday, December 29

  Quelle surprise! I took Annie to the barn to give Dickens a carrot and what do we discover? Radish! Wrapped up in a horse blanket, sound asleep in the hay — but with his nose twitching like a rabbit’s because of the straw. I almost laughed out loud.

  Well, Annie takes in the scene and, no doubt thinking it’s a larger version of our crèche, squeals, “Baby Jesus!”

  “Shhh, don’t wake him,” I whispered, for I did not want Aunt to know about Radish until I figured out what to do. “It’s a secret.”

  “Shhh.” She grinned, delighted to share a secret, and we tiptoed away.

  Back inside, she tugged Aunt’s hand and started chattering about Baby Jesus sleeping in our hay. Some secret! But Aunt, thinking Annie wanted to hear the Christmas story, took her to the crèche and obliged — leaving me free to gather up some food, blankets, etc., before returning to the barn.

  “Radish!” I said, shaking him awake. “What are you doing here?”

  It took him a moment to come to his senses. Then, recognizing me, he blubbered, “I followed you!”

  “That was you?”

  I suppose I spoke crossly, but I refused to be swayed by his tears. “Do you know how much you scared me? I thought you were a murderer!” And I demanded an explanation.

  Well it turns out that the story he read from his journal was true — his father beat him, he ran away, etc. And any day now, his father is arriving in Fort Victoria to take him home to Fort Simpson, where he will once again be subjected to “the stinging fury” of his father’s belt. So when he saw me leaving the Fort he followed me, spent last night in the Langfords’ stable and ended up here.

  I pointed out that his father couldn’t be that cruel, since he’d sent him to school to get an education, but Radish said school was his mother’s doing. She’d sent him when his father was away, to protect him.

  By then my anger had given way to sympathy. I told him he was brave to have run away, but he could not hide forever or stay in the barn. Aunt and Uncle had to be told and the people at the Fort — they’d be worried, and would be out looking for him. He sniffled some more, but admitted I was right.

  I told Aunt and Uncle, and Uncle has gone to the barn to bring Radish in before he freezes. And now I’ve come to realize that I played a part in his running away. The “stinging fury” of his father’s belt was a description I’d used in a story, about a boy who runs away from a horrible school to escape “the wrathful stinging fury of the Master’s belt.” I wrote it for Radish — he was wretchedly unhappy at the time — and he liked the story so much he practised the words until he could read it perfectly.

  Later

  Radish looked a sight when he came inside, his eyes ringed with dark shadows and red from crying, bits of straw sticking out of his hair and ears and clothing. He was shaking from cold and exhaustion. Aunt got him into a bath and gave him a bowl of hot broth. I’d no sooner set up a bed for him, than he was in it and asleep.

  Uncle’s on his way to Fort Victoria with news of the runaway, and to ask if Radish might stay with us until Hogmanay.

  December 30

  Almost Midnight

  Moments ago we were awakened by a knock at the door. “Who goes there?” says Uncle, and I hear a man reply, “Charles Lewis.”

  Radish’s father! I grabbed my robe and rushed downstairs, calling out to Uncle to send him away, saying he was a wicked man and would bring Radish to harm. But too late — he was already indoors and shaking Uncle’s hand! And when he turned to me, offering a pleasant smile and apologizing for the lateness of the hour, I saw not the face of a brute, but of a kind and gentle man.

  Meanwhile, Radish had heard the voice. “Papa!” he cries and hurls himself into his father’s arms.

  “Stinging fury” of the belt? I was dumbfounded! And so annoyed at having been taken in, I came up to my room without saying good night.

  December 31

  Radish and Mr. Lewis stayed overnight and have just left for Fort Victoria. They will return to Fort Simpson on the coastal ship in a few days time.

  And Radish (“wee Eddy” to his father) is as happy as a clam at high tide. I confronted him after breakfast, telling him how embarrassed I’d been, trying to keep Uncle from opening the door. “I did it to protect you!” I said. “To save you from a beating!”

  “But none of that was true,” he says blithely. (Not a hint of embarrassment on his part.) “I made him into a Villain so he’d be more interesting. Like you do, when you’re making up stories.”

  “But if he was coming to take you home, why did you run away from school?”

  “Because he hadn’t come and I was afraid he’d forgotten. You know how much I hate school, so I did like you said. Remember, when you wrote the story about a boy called Edward running away? I thought it was a secret message! I thought you were telling me to run away, but you were hiding it in a story so no one would know. I was proud of myself when I figured it out, Jenna. I only did like you said!”

  Well, dumbfounded again. From now on, I’d better be more careful with my storytelling.

  11:30 p.m.

  What a wonderful soirée! Everything was perfect, except that I left behind the lace shawl Aunt lent me to wear. How could I be so careless? The excitement, the gaiety, the rush to be home by midnight, I suppose — well, there is no excuse. I must fetch it first thing tomorrow, before Aunt knows it is missing — provided she does not ask for it tonight.

  Tho’ I hated to leave the Langfords’, I am glad to be here, for Hogmanay celebrations are in full fling downstairs and I am eager to join in, as soon as I finish this entry.

  I knew everyone at the soirée except for the midshipmen and officers from the Thetis. What a lively, gallant lot! Lucy and I flirted shamelessly (as did the other young women, especially those nearing twenty) but we did not take to any one in particular.

  The music was splendid, with Mrs. Langford playing her piano, two fiddle player
s and a middie joining in on his harmonica. We danced numerous reels and waltzes and later on played Blind Man’s Buff. The game was more difficult than usual, for with the constant arrival of new guests, it was near impossible to tell who was who! The person I nabbed during my turn as It was a middie — I could tell by the buttons on his jacket — but I could not guess his name. I finally admitted defeat and pulled off the blindfold. “James Farraday,” he says, and a more dashing young man I had not seen all evening. But by then it was 10:30 and time for me to leave.

  “May I have at least one dance?” he pleaded, but I declined. I would not miss Hogmanay for the sake of a dance!

  January 1, 1853

  5:30 a.m.

  Our first-footer arrived as we were singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and who should it be but James Farraday! He has dark hair (a good omen) and did not come empty-handed (another good omen). But instead of bringing shortbread, whisky or coal, he brought Aunt’s shawl! (Lucy noticed that I’d left it behind, and James kindly offered to return it.)

  Well, in he comes and introductions are made. Uncle offered him a dram, and we all joined hands for another round of “Auld Lang Syne.” Then Mr. MacLeod picked up his fiddle for more dancing. The candles on our Christmas tree flickered and shone, the tin stars gleamed and the merrymaking continued until the “last-footer” went home. I was hoping it would be James Farraday, but alas, it was not. He left as our clock was striking one — a good three hours before our festivities came to an end — for he had promised the Langfords that he would return.

  Now everyone has gone, Aunt and Uncle are asleep and the house is quiet. Almost quiet, for after all the shaking, I swear I hear the boards sighing with relief. As for me, I am filled to overflowing with the joy of these Daft Days and the promise of a splendid New Year.