by Paul Almond
But in all, a pretty understanding father: over the past month, working in the woods together cutting their winter’s firewood, the old man had never once brought up this coming departure. Jim was grateful for that. They worked together as a team as always, but he had noticed the old man slowing down. Jim doubted he’d see his father spending many more winters in the woods, much as he said he loved the clearing and cutting.
Forsaking the farm for the big city had caused considerable grief, not only for his father but also his mother, and of course his grandmother, the sharp-tongued Eleanor, who made very certain to voice her disappointment. Strong old lady, he thought, and then realized that the next time he came back, if ever, she’d likely be gone.
Early that cold dawn a week ago, they had gathered at the door to say goodbye. The night before, his grandmother had kissed him and given him a small pouch of shillings to fend off any unforeseen obstacles: hunger, lack of lodging, or the means to return, if he failed in the big city.
His mother had kissed him and hugged him as tightly as he had ever been hugged in all his life. The old man with his walrus moustache shook his hand, grief written all over his features, but never a word of admonishment. They both wished him well, but as they turned and shut the door against the cold, Jim felt a lump rising in his throat. Was he such a fool? A hundred perils lay ahead that indeed might claim his life before he even got to Montreal.
Jim carried his pack by means of a tumpline, a strap round the forehead that his father had demonstrated. Wearing new Micmac snowshoes, he had long ago learned the special gait needed to manoeuvre this awkward footwear, but still, the endless walking had taken its toll. This morning he had passed a few houses before the snow started; what if the others lay too far ahead, what if they were several hours away? He’d better find shelter quickly, or tomorrow’s dawn would see his youthful body stiff in a snowdrift.
To divert himself, he conjured up his last night cleaning the stable. Ethel, his pretty, brown-haired friend, had burst in the stable door. Closing it and leaning back, she announced, “I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Jim put the manure shovel aside. “Well, well, this is a surprise!” He went directly to her and they stood, looking at each other, no hug or kiss but the air between them pregnant with anticipation. Now that she had come, did that mean she was prepared for something more than just a kiss?
“Weren’t you planning,” she eyed him, “on coming to see me, to tell me goodbye?”
“I guess... maybe I was afraid of your giving me a right old tongue lashing.” After all, they’d had a lot of fun in the last few months, when they’d gotten time. He certainly liked her and felt badly about leaving. But then, as he’d reflected, something about her and their relationship had held him back from any real commitment.
She lowered her eyes. “So that’s why I haven’t seen yez the past month, like I used to.”
“I reckon so.”
She opened her heavy coat suggestively and Jim looked down at her tiny form. Again he was gripped by that familiar urge to grab her, hug her, just kiss her to death. But the last time he had tried, a month ago, she had pushed him away, almost angrily. “You think now you’re going, you can have your way with me?” Her eyes flashed angrily.
“No Ethel, no. I just want to hold you, so badly.”
“You’ll hold me as long as you want, once we’re married. And I guess that’s not to be, now.”
Jim felt sure he saw that her large brown eyes held a similar yearning. Yes, but anger, too, mixed in with the desire. “Ah now Ethel, don’t say it’ll never happen. It’s just... well, I don’t know what lies ahead o’ me. I don’t know what the big city’ll be like. Who’s to say I won’t like it?”
“Why go then?”
Jim had to think for a moment. “I guess Ol’ Poppa saw a lot of the world when he was on the high seas. Us young folk are not getting anywheres at all. I guess I figured, why not see something, afore I settle down.”
“We got lots here. If you’re not satisfied, then good riddance!”
He reached out to take her again, seeing that she did seem hurt.
She slapped his hand away. “Let’s have none of that now, Jim. If we go any further, I know you fellas, you get all riled up. And I’m not ready for nothing like ’at. Not till I get married. And that’s final. Ask other girls. They’ll say the same.”
From what he’d heard, Jim knew that was mostly true, but on the other hand, not entirely: one or two would open their charms in the comfort of a hay mow. But although he knew who they were, he’d been mostly too shy to ask them for walks along the hot country road in summer, as the obligatory prelude to an evening’s lust.
The showdown did not end well, though she finally had placed her face up to his, scrunched her eyes shut, and offered those delicate lips. He pressed down on them, but again, something held him back.
She pulled away hurriedly, buttoning up her coat and tugging open the door. “I’ll be here waiting.” Blowing him a kiss, she was gone into the night.
Funnily enough, as the door shut, some resolution from deep inside came surging up again. No matter how long she claimed she’d wait, he just knew she was not the girl for him. Was it because, living as she did back on the Second, she would just love to be the mistress of this, the largest farm in Shegouac? Well, that question would forever remain unanswered. Jim finished the stable and returned to the house to prepare for his long journey ahead.
And now, late this morning when blowing snow had made his trek so hazardous, he’d seen the rough track veer inland through the woods. Would it come back out to the bay again? He had decided to head down onto the flat ice and follow the shoreline. Once there, however, the wind had whipped into swirls along the cliffs and hurled itself down to smother him, biting at his cheeks with fangs of freezing sleet. Now, after four more hours, his strength was failing, his knees weak, his neck in agony from the tumpline. Damp snow kept his snowshoes clogged so that every few hundred feet he had to sit, remove them, and bang them together. Worries tormented him. Had he ever felt so tired? And where might the next house be found?
Out here on the bay, he couldn’t even see what habitation lay up on the banks. So once again he struck in toward the shore and, at the first dip in the low cliffs, clambered up onto a bare strip between forest and cliff. Summoning strength, he pushed on. Yes, tree trunks sheared, branches lopped off, here was a travelled path. Surely to God that led to some habitation? But dusk had begun to obscure everything. Getting dangerous? For sure. Would he ever find his way in the utter dark descending with this cloud cover and heavy snow?
What else could he do but push on? When night closed in, his father had warned him never to stop, never give in to that urge to relax, to take a breather in a snowbank and rest. It would feel so good and comforting — such a temptation — but that sleep from which no traveller awakens was sure to put a big grin on the old fellow with the scythe — “Son, don’t stop, don’t rest, whatever you do!” Ol’ Poppa had said.
But was the warning accurate? Or was his father just a worrier? He tried to think of when his father had been wrong before. Not often, if ever. Better heed his advice and keep going. But in this murky dark, he found he was straying, tripping over buried stumps, falling and rising, more tired at each step. What humiliation, he told himself, to be found, frozen stiff, so close to home.
His mind wandered and he slowed his tramping, but did not entirely falter. The big city lay ahead, with all its excitement, its thrills, the possibility of money, lots of it, wealth even, oh yes, keep on going, keep going for sure. And finally ahead, was that a small light? No, his imagination. But keep going. Keep trudging. Another fall. Would he get up? No, maybe not. He just lay there, but then his father’s face loomed large, eyes blazing, urging, urging him up, and up he got. A few more steps, and yes, it had been a light! In a gust of clarity, he saw even the outline of a building, yes, a stone building, was it? Ahead, through the flurries, a large, stone house.
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nbsp; Would it be empty? Would the settler be friendly? Was there a barn he could seek shelter in? He couldn’t see one. He drove himself forward, his breath coming in gasps; his neck ached, his legs deadened from lifting snowshoes heavy with snow. He reached his hands behind and hefted up his sack of belongings, and leaning forward, gave a last lunge.
He reached the door and banged hard.
It opened and a sturdy face, about forty years old, swam into his vision. “Come in, come in.” The settler, Robert Busteed, a heavyset man in clean breeches, a well-tended jacket over a clean shirt, and fine slippers, motioned him in.
Out of the icy elements, Jim flopped on a bench and let fall his sack. Mr. Busteed helped him out of his heavy coat, his snowy leggings and moccasins, and brought them to the open fire. Jim just sat, head bowed, panting. How tired he was. But now, safe.
* * *
The next morning, he woke much refreshed. He vaguely remembered that two young women had helped him upstairs to a bedroom and brought him a bowl of soup. With that, he’d apparently fallen fast asleep.
He got up to look out the window. How lucky he had been: the blizzard was still bleaching out any view. With the resilience of youth, he had survived. Then he saw himself in the mirror: he needed a shave, no doubt. Three days’ growth — he looked terrible. Finding a jug of fairly hot water outside his bedroom door, he set about giving himself a good wash, and then, a delightful shave.
At breakfast, the master of the house, Robert Busteed, introduced his two sisters, Helen and Elizabeth, in their thirties, well attired and vibrant. Helen, the eldest, had the definite look of a spinster whom life, or rather, adventure, had passed by. Her younger sister, Elizabeth, had the robust appearance of a worker, smouldering with energy, though not in any sense beautiful. Handsome rather. “Where are you heading?” she asked. “Up the Kempt Road?”
Jim nodded. “I’m hoping to get to Montreal, ma’am.”
Robert frowned. “Not too many pass this time of year. And usually in a group. You sure it’s wise to go on alone?”
“Well sir, Ol’ Poppa told me they built this here new road a few years back.”
“I remember, I was a child,” Elizabeth said. “The army did it.”
“Yes, Major Wolfe,” his host continued. “They wanted a military road that wasn’t too close to the American border like the one from Edmunston, so they picked the Matapedia Valley. But you know, I’d hardly call it a road,” Robert said. “Even now. Most of the way you couldn’t follow it without an Indian to guide you. Especially in this weather.”
“No, Robert, some of the trees have been blazed,” his sister Helen said. “Mr. Doucet told us when he came through a month ago, remember? Though it’s growed up, not well kept, I heard.”
But Jim read concern in their faces. Well, as his father used to say, a challenge is good for a fella. He changed the subject. “Mighty fine house you have here.”
“Grandfather built it in 1801. The family has lived in it ever since. You have a farm down the Coast?”
“Yes sir, in Shegouac, all wood though, my father built it after he landed. Before that, he was a Midshipman in His Majesty’s Navy.”
Robert and the sisters seemed impressed. “You’re the first person from down that way to come by in a long time. Of course, that mail fellow, he comes twice in winter, usually with an Indian guide. And frequently in the summer, but only from up Carleton way.”
“Well, sir, ’twas my father first settled at Shegouac Brook,” Jim quoted immodestly. “We got us lots of cleared land; my aunt Mariah lives next door, and next comes my uncle John, now long dead. Across the brook, we got a pile o’ neighbours. In fact, most of the farms are pretty settled between there and Paspébiac. Big patch of forest in Hopetown with no one, but Poppa says that’ll soon fill in the next ten or twenty years.” He changed the subject. “Now how far d’ye think it is up to the banks of the great Saint Lawrence?”
“Hundred miles, give or take. Then you’ve got a long way, probably double that, to Quebec. First part is pretty desolate, I’ve heard. But getting toward Quebec you might pick up some sleigh rides. That paddle steamer’s not working this late in the fall.”
“Then how far from Quebec to Montreal?”
Jim saw the girls hide smiles. Was he so ignorant to be setting off on such a trip? “Another two hundred miles or so.”
The figures chilled Jim. Oh Lord, had he bitten off too much?
“Well, in any case, you’ll have to spend the day here,” Elizabeth, the younger sister, pronounced firmly. “We can’t let you go out in this blizzard.”
She was right, stay he must. And he had noticed her watching him oddly through the breakfast. What did that mean? Was there a hint of attraction? Perhaps even some amorous adventure? Or was that too much to hope for? Well, as their guest, he’d have to wait and see.
Chapter Three
Jim napped again in the morning and woke feeling better after his two good meals. By afternoon he was ready to take off again; the weather had cleared. But the distance to the next stopping place was a good day’s walk up the Kempt Road, so Robert pressed him to stay.
He had time to oil the moccasins his father had given him, his heavy boots being inappropriate for the snowshoes made by the Micmac tribe in Port Daniel, whom his father somehow knew. Made of ash that looped around the front, ending in long straight points behind, they cradled a webbing of babiche, strips of dried moose hide. Somebody knocking?
Jim frowned and then decided to go down. Robert and Elizabeth were out in the barn, some hundred yards away, and Helen had gone off for the day. He opened the door.
“How do you do. Daniel Busteed.” The man put out his hand, and Jim was struck by his likeness to Robert. “I was just calling in to see if my sister Helen wanted a ride into Restigouche. I have to pick up medicine at the hospital for a sick woman back in the woods.” Unlike his brother Robert, Daniel seemed slight, almost ascetic, with the air of a scholar, and a slight British accent.
“Helen’s off at a quilting bee,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Alford, from Shegouac.” He hesitated. “But if there’s room in the sleigh, I’d like to see the hospital. I heard tell there was one up at the head of bay.”
Daniel seemed taken aback by his eagerness, but perhaps out of good manners replied, “Come right along.” He waited while Jim put on his heavy boots and clothes, and out they went.
“Not often I get to ride behind a horse!” Jim confessed, as he swung into the sleigh after Dan.
“Not too many down your way?” Daniel sounded a bit supercilious as he slapped the horse with leather reins. They set off at a good pace through the bracing air that had now turned colder.
Jim was glad of his heavy tuque. He noticed that Daniel wore a fur hat in the manner of a Londoner. “Robert told me you studied in London to be a doctor.”
“I did. But it all got rather too much. Amputations, cutting off arms and legs, not for me, I’m afraid. I came back.”
“Weren’t you afraid of your friends making fun of you, I mean, coming back after a big adventure like that? You obviously thought you’d be staying.”
Daniel cast him a surly glance. “Not at all. I worked at Saint Thomas’s Hospital for a time, but I didn’t like it so I came back. Where is the failure in that?”
Aha! Good, an escape hatch, thought Jim, if his own trip to Montreal ended badly. He’d been worrying what to do. Now having upset his host, he kept quiet and just gave in to enjoying the journey.
Such a lovely thing to race over the ice in a sleigh hauled by a horse, bells ringing on its hames. Daniel headed up into the narrows to find safe ice for crossing. The dark spruce were fluffed up like roosters with coxcombs of snow, their branches piled with great perching tufts. Soon the horse headed out across the smooth ice of the bay, and Jim called to mind the grinding, bumpy, muddy miles over roots in their oxcart with his mother, trekking each autumn to the gristmill in Paspébiac for their wheat to be ground. Now, with Manderson’s mill in the Hol
low, no need for that boring trip. He remembered that one year they had decided to grind on their own with a mortar and pestle. He used to help his mother; in fact, all the children took turns. That was even more tedious. He made a mental note: the sooner they bought a horse at his farm, the better. But was he not going away? Put the farm out of your mind, he told himself.
“I guess they got a lot of them hospitals in London, then?” Jim asked. “Lots o’ people too, I would imagine.”
Daniel glanced sideways, scorn written in his eyes. “St. Thomas’s built a new operating room up in what they called the Herb Garrett. Mainly for amputations. I watched a couple. That was it.” As they reached the other shore, the horse shied at something in the woods and both men grabbed their seats. “I picked up all I could. Pretty interesting: medicine. Lots of developments recently.”
“My father, he saw lots of blood and gore. Fought against Napoleon on the high seas, over in Europe. But he don’t talk about it much.”
Again, he seemed to have said the wrong thing. Daniel pursed his lips, and then went on, “Since that time, they’ve made quite a few discoveries. Ether’s coming in; you can put a patient to sleep while you saw off his leg. Big help. I just read about it in the New England Journal of Medicine, a magazine just for doctors.”
Jim was suitably impressed. “So you still keep up with the latest?”
“Of course,” snapped Daniel. “The journal began almost forty years ago, and I get The Lancet too; it started around that time. You can even get a full degree in medicine, if you’ve a mind, at King’s College. That’s been going since the thirties.”
“None of them doctors down on the Coast, that’s for sure.”
“Pretty small potatoes hereabouts.” Daniel lapsed into silence, then broke it with a hint of excitement. “You know, nowadays they can vaccinate children against disease? Stops the pox. Been doing it in England for some time. I read that it just became compulsory for babies there. Vaccination, it’s going to arrive over here some day.”
