by Paul Almond
“Oh yes?” Jim wasn’t really up on the subject. “Abolitionists?”
“None here yet? They are tryin’ to abolish slavery south of the border. We’ve even found safe places for them up here.”
“No, no one’s been down, hereabouts.”
“Well, they’ll come. Methodist preachers, mostly. Wanting money for escaping slaves. Montreal is so advanced, I guess. You know, the Victoria Bridge is almost finished.”
“That bridge across the St. Lawrence? I worked on that, you know.”
“Did you now? Twenty-five spans, all iron, stretching almost two miles across. They say it’s one of the wonders of the world. How they ever did it! No one dreamed it would get finished. Queen Victoria’s coming to open it, next year.”
“Well, that’ll be pretty much of a celebration.”
“Amazing how the world is changing. You can now take a steamer, and more or less count on being across the Atlantic in two weeks! Just imagine! My father knows a man who went over on business and came back the next month, no problem at all.” She rattled on, “Yes, and you know, when the bridge opens, you’ll be able to go by train from Montreal right through to Boston. They predict in twelve hours. How it’s all changing! That’s why I love the city. You never know what’s going to happen next.”
“Things are changing here, too. We bought my mother one of those iron stoves. When I was little, she always cooked on an open fire.”
“Really. Stoves are new here?”
Jim nodded. “Two kids burned to death when I was young. Clothes caught on fire.” Angel gasped. “Well, that’s all we had. These new iron rigs are so much easier, Momma says.”
He felt her hand slide round his waist. “All in the last twenty years. Montreal’s got probably a hundred thousand people now,” Angel went on. “Father can remember when there were fields all around Monkland, you know, the residence of the Governor General, and he’s nowhere near as old as your father.”
“Yes, I guess Poppa’s seen a lot of changes. Never even heard of a screw-driven ship. But you know, he fought in the Navy against Napoleon.”
“Did he? He must have been very brave.” She snuggled closer.
The night was nothing if not romantic. “It’s something I’ve always wanted, a sleigh. And of course, even better, a pretty girl beside me...”
He was surprised when in answer, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Before she slipped back into her warm corner she lifted her face expectantly. Of course, he turned and their lips met.
My! What an exciting sensation. So long in coming. Her tongue began to move over his lips, then she retired under her “buffalo” once again.
How easy that had been! Why was it so hard with all the others? Could it be that she liked him? “Is that part of being a muffin?” he asked, rather gauchely.
“Oh no. I like you. You’re much smarter than the other fellows I’ve met around here. You’re someone I can have fun with.”
“But not marry?” His heart beat faster.
“No, I told you, I have a career.” She moved away slightly.
They reached the crest of Port Daniel mountain. Jim had hardly noticed. As they broke over the top, they could both see before them the lovely curve of Port Daniel bay. Glorious in the moonlight: little white houses huddled in drifts with their pristine snow curled comfortably around, a dim light or two showing, the distant tinkle of sleigh bells as other horses whipped along below. Behind the town lay the great, flat pancake of Port Daniel lagoon, half a mile across, iced over, with a dark ripple of moonlight where the river flowed out from the black forest.
He pulled Lively to a stop. They were silent for a time, and then Angel said, “I suppose if I were a different person, I would love nothing more than to spend my life here.” Was she changing her mind? “Though I suppose you get used to it.”
“I guess you do,” was all Jim could say. But could anyone ever get used to it?
He began to hunger for another kiss. He slapped the reins and off went Lively, careening down the hill at top speed. They both shrieked with delight — such an exciting ride. They hit the curve, and slowed down as Lively galloped past the small settlement: small houses, a blacksmith, and a general store at the foot of the dark hill opposite.
Jim pulled Lively to a walk.
“What’s up ahead?” Angel asked.
“Gascons. The badlands first. No house for miles. Folks don’t go, especially at night.”
“Oh goody! Let’s try.” Angel looked up at Jim.
Jim frowned. Would it be wise? Would he be blamed if something happened? She cut short his thinking by reaching up and, holding his cheek close with her little mittened hand, kissed him firmly.
“All right, we’ll give it a try.”
Lively climbed into the dark pine and spruce forest. The track was still visible, no doubt, but not nearly as travelled as between Port Daniel and Shegouac. The horse began snorting, nostrils flaring. Not enjoying this, Jim saw.
And then, another magical happening, Angel kissed him on the mouth, and with her hands behind his head, clung to him as though she could never get enough.
He wrapped both his arms around her, leaving the horse to trot on its own. They both began to breathe more quickly, as though they had been running. He could almost feel her heart beating through their heavy clothes, and her cold lips, now getting warm for sure, pressing against his.
They went on for some minutes until Jim could stand no more. “It’s wonderful, it’s just so wonderful. But don’t you see, it’s driving me crazy.”
“I know what to do,” she whispered. With that, they disappeared under the buffalo.
What an amazing sensation — quite new for him. When at last they emerged, he opened his eyes, the stars were still above, sparkling in the harsh blue moonlight. A light wind moved out of the dark spruce woods across the rutted road.
He saw an indentation ahead, and turned Lively round.
Lively set off at an usually brisk pace, knowing he was en route to his warm stable once again. They loved the speed. And the glorious moonlight. They talked little, planning nothing, but happy at this unexpected encounter.
But with it all, the whole experience left Jim rather dissatisfied. These were the goings on of a big city, and not for him, no sir. But perhaps she might even stay another year or more? “You are going back to Montreal, Angel?”
“Yes Jim dearest, in June. But I will never forget our sleigh ride together.”
A sure bet, neither would he.
Chapter Twenty-Two: 1859
Jim was not afraid of a fight. Oh no. But that last time they’d had a big scrap with the French down in Port Daniel, Little Arnold’s big brother had busted his wrist, and it never healed well, so he had to do all his work with one hand. Now if you’re a farmer, you could not risk that sort of thing. But he knew what happened when fellas got to drinking.
And to make matters worse, he’d heard rumblings last time he’d gone down to Port Daniel to have Lively shod. Dan Legallais had apparently got a French girl in trouble, and his family had refused to let him marry her, because she was Catholic. And so in spite of the girl’s pleas and his own protestations, they did not marry. The Frenchies were all up in arms now, blaming the whole of Shegouac. Well, if they wanted a dust up, he’d be in the thick of it.
“Whoa.” At the Smiths, he pulled Lively to a halt, pleased to see Henry waiting. “Jump in.” He was bigger and stronger than anyone in Shegouac.
“She’s gonna be some meetin’!” Henry vaulted in. “Bet the whole country will be there. You ever seen a black fella, Jim?”
Lively took off, trotting merrily for Port Daniel. Nephews and nieces from the Byers and Youngs were hanging on behind in Jim’s new express wagon, a buggy seat with a space behind for hauling things. “Yep, saw a couple in Montreal. One black as charcoal.” A Methodist minister, an Abolitionist, was bringing a former slave, a black fellow. The whole country was on its way to see what he looked like.
> “Bound to be a pile of French fellas there,” Henry ventured. “Hope there’s not too much liquor.”
The sun was sinking behind a low bank of clouds as they made good time through Shegouac. On the way they passed couples and families walking and Jim stopped to give them lifts until the express wagon bulged. Lively enjoyed a good pull, but Jim knew he found it hard going. They climbed Port Daniel mountain and, once over, arrived at the Port Daniel schoolhouse. Other horses were already tied up, with more coming. They dismounted and Henry tied the horse to the hitching rail as Jim stood to survey the scene. Yes sir, kegs of beer on the backs of carts, and flagons of rum were being passed around. A real celebration.
Jim spotted Margie Skene. When she caught sight of him, she turned away. Ever since that night in the sleigh with Angel, Jim had found her acting odd. He stared at her: she had filled out for sure. Well, he thought, if only she’d been born a bit earlier...
Jim decided to head into the crowded school to find Sam Nelson. Most of the seats were already taken, so he had to stand at the back, but there was Sam.
They greeted each other and chatted while they waited for the meeting to begin. In came Reverend Lyster, who had trained under the Reverend Mr. Milne and now was in charge of Port Daniel and with him was another gentleman in clerical garb, probably the Methodist. Following, the crowd gaped as they saw an imposing black man. He caused gasps and excited giggles from the assembling gathering as the three took their places in front.
Soon Reverend Lyster introduced his Methodist friend with a few words about the abolition of slavery. And now, here, they would all learn first-hand how on the Coast they could help this worthy cause.
Then the Methodist, Mr. Watkins, gave a short preamble, and went on, “Families down South, they actually own other humans! You don’t pay a slave his wages, you just buy him. And if he escapes, like sheep over a fence — instead of acting like the Good Shepherd and bringing them back into the fold, you know what they do? They hang ’em!”
This caused a ripple of shock and disgust among the listeners.
“Oh yes, and listen to this, if you have women as slaves, you can do whatever you like with them.”
This caused even more of a horrified reaction, and voices rose. Jim clenched his fists as his ire rose, when Sam, who had his head cocked to one side, said, “Something’s going on outside. Come on!”
Jim was loath to leave, but followed. In the semi-darkness of dusk, Jim saw a brawl in progress. A few girls, safely out of harm’s way, watched with wide eyes. Should he run in to alert Mr. Lyster? But then he spotted Henry Smith on the ground with four French fellows on him, pounding away. He tore down the steps and launched into the fray.
He hauled the smallest one off first and knocked him backwards. He grabbed off the next, threw him aside and fell on the third, slugging it out. The French fellow, short and built like a bull, gave Jim a mighty wallop that sent him flying, but when the man went to pounce on him, Henry had gotten up and came to the rescue.
Real mayhem. Both sides were piling on each other with full vigour. Freed from the heavy Frenchman, Jim grabbed another who was pounding a Shegouacer on the grass. He hauled him off and smacked him good, knocking him flat, but another jumped him from behind. As he spun round, another crashed into him and he fell. Struggling to get up, he got knocked down again. Two English fellas from Port Daniel rescued him, only to be attacked themselves by four others.
What a brawl! Though his jaw ached and his eyes stung from the blood, Jim was almost enjoying himself. In he went again, swinging wildly, landing a good few punches here and there, helping comrades, ducking blows, tackling others, being hauled off and getting himself pounded in this wild free-for-all! Shouts of “Câlisse” and “Tabarnac,” and “You bastard” raged back and forth over the grounds until at last the doors opened and the big, black ex-slave, Longuen by name, boomed out, “Brothers, brothers, stop all this!”
He grabbed the rope and hammered at the school bell hanging by the door so that it jangled loud and true. “Stop right now! Listen to me. Listen, aren’t y’all brothers? Men your age down South are chained by their necks, starving, harnessed like horses to haul wagons, and here you are, free men — acting like fools!”
With the jangling of the bell and the funny accent of the black man, each side shook off the other and lay about in pain or exhaustion. “Listen to me, I still got relatives rattling their chains in Southern prison houses, and here you are, acting like chillun. Shame on you!”
“Damn right,” a few English yelled, amid cries of “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” from the French. Mr. Lyster translated his message into French.
“C’est pas nous,” one big thundering French tough yelled. “They start! They act bad to our girls. They no good!”
There was a chorus of agreement and disagreement, but at least, no more fighting. The meeting was brought to order.
“Brothers, brothers,” Longuen boomed, “apologize right now for any insults to the ladies. Both sides!” This was met with silence, and odd looks. “Come on now, make your apologies. Be friends. I’ll tell y’all stories ye’ll never forget, but only if you calm down.”
Others came out of the hall to stand on the stairs or lean against walls. The fighters began to unwind like obedient schoolchildren. Stories? Well, that made one sit up and listen. Nothing like a good story, everyone knew.
“When Sister Moon comes up, we’ll all do our share of singing. Songs from the South. But for now, just listen.”
Oh good, a singsong. Jim shook his head to clear it, tried to rise, but just fell over again. Damnation, he’d sure taken the bad end of that brawl. But then he saw, wending towards him... Margie Skene! What was she doing?
She knelt by him with a cup of water she had gotten from the school pump. She got out her handkerchief. “Jim, what have you done to yourself?”
He shrugged. “They musta knocked me about a bit. Lotsa fun, though.” His face felt as if it had been kicked by a dozen Livelys. In Margie’s big brown eyes, he saw concern mingled with determination. She began to smooth away the blood and to wash clean the cuts. “Jim, you mustn’t do that sort of thing,” she whispered in a motherly way. “You could get yourself hurt.”
Those eyes, he hadn’t looked closely into them before, so wide, brown, full of tenderness. Freckles on her nose, too, very pretty. And what a womanly touch in someone so young, as she cleaned up his blood.
She too seemed to be studying him. She put a cold folded hankie on his temple where a bruise was beginning to flower.
Meanwhile, Longuen was speaking in rich, deep tones, the voice of a true orator. Margie turned and sat beside Jim, so they could listen. No more fighting tonight, that seemed obvious. The man held them spellbound, with harrowing tales of what went on in those Southern states, and of the blood-curdling escapes that his compatriots had made, finding their way finally to Canada West.
“We don’t know how lucky we are on the Coast, Margie.”
“That’s for sure, Jim,” she said simply.
He had a great urge to turn and kiss her, but restrained himself. This was not the time nor the place, in front of everyone gathered in the moonlight in front of the old Port Daniel schoolhouse. But one thing for sure: Margie might be young, but she was someone worth waiting for. Oh yes, but would she wait for him?
Right now, he only squeezed her hand, and mumbled, “Thank you, Margie.”
After a time, she broke the silence. “When I seen ya with that schoolteacher o’ yourn, I swore to meself I’d never speak to you again. You’ll never guess what that did to me, Jim Alford. For me, that was the finish.”
“So, how come you’re nice now?”
She shook her head. “No idea. When I seen you beaten around like that, I just went right to that pump and got me some water.” She shrugged. “If a fella needs looking after, I guess I figured, that’s my job.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Autumn 1859
The service opened with the ancient reassuring
summons: Dearly beloved Brethren, the scripture moveth us in sundry places... The one-room school was packed: quite a turnout for this first visit of Quebec’s Bishop Mountain to Shegouac.
Nothing like joining this community in worship for a sense of stability and even, yes, permanence. If only, old James thought, he could just give himself up to the collective feelings, but doubt and disillusionment on whether God existed still plagued him. He missed Jim, too, for sure. Maybe once he took a wife he’d start coming again, but would that ever happen?
His mind inevitably went back to their dinner earlier. The Reverend Mr. Milne had brought the Bishop to the Alford house for their midday meal. “Such insidious new ideas,” Mr. Milne had mentioned, “sweeping England! Questioning the very existence of God!” He went on to say that hundreds, if not thousands, of Anglicans might be lost to the church.
Heavens, thought James, others beginning to doubt, too? How could that be? “Survival of the fittest?” Mr. Milne went on. “How so? I haven’t read him myself. But he’ll have us descending from monkeys next.”
“Oh, he has.” The bishop’s words came back to James all too clearly.
“Dreadful business,” Rev. Milne had said. “So you think it’s affecting our believers?”
“Well, of course, not over here, but in the Old Country there’s been a big hue and cry.”
“Some even leaving the church?”
“Afraid so. I don’t myself see the fuss. That Darwin fellow is a scientist, it seems. But you know, Lyell, the fellow who found those buried dinosaurs, he refuted the Genesis idea of creation some time ago. Though I’m not so sure the Old Testament is meant to be taken as literal, or really scientific, theory.”
James could see the good sense in the survival of the fittest idea. Any farmer knew how to breed from the strongest animal. But if that meant that God did not exist, where else could he turn? Scientists claiming that Genesis was wrong! But how? And when? What did it all mean?
