The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  That was the moment when I decided to take pen and paper in hand and write this journal. Observing the crowd of unhappy humanity so sorely distressed without minister or priest to assuage their pain, I saw the truth. Against the vagaries of Fate and suffering in this life, we have only our hopes and dreams to bolster us. It is they which keep us from drowning in the black mire of despair. It is they which fortify us with the assurety that we are God’s children blessed with the gift of immortal souls. Thus I shall record here, for my own good and that of posterity, all the hopes and dreams that I shall so encounter on this journey of my life.

  June 23, 1841. It is but two days since I last wrote in these pages. I have ventured below into steerage. The stench of unwashed bodies and sickness is most suffocating. I wonder why the Captain does not open more hatches to allow in fresh airs. Some of the more fastidious women have done their best to keep their quarters clean, constantly washing with buckets of sea water. However, they lack fresh straw to make new bedding. They tell me the crew mistreat them most cruelly often playing tricks on them and stealing their food. There are a few musicians amongst them who endeavor to keep up their spirits, a tin whistler, a fiddler and a lad with a skin drum. The three are of a most peculiar appearance, which in itself brings laughter along with the merry jigs and reels. They sing a sweet ballad concerning the land we are bound for.

  Oh the green fields of Canada,

  They daily are blooming,

  It’s there I’ll put an end,

  To my misery and strife.

  The creaking and groaning of wood is more cacophonous in the bowels of the ship and the violence of movement more severe. One fears at times that the ocean might break us asunder. The rolling and rocking makes me quite sick. I can rarely stay long below decks and soon find myself yearning for the comfort of my cabin. How much worse off are these wretches who have no other refuge!

  Here let me record some of the dreams of my fellow pilgrims on this voyage to a brave new world:

  Josephina McAtamney, 16 years, from Newry, County Antrim: I wish to find good employment in a nice house with a kindly mistress. Then later to marry a good man and have healthy children and my own wee home.

  Seamus mac Mathuna, 25 years, from Bundoran, County Donegal: I shall work as a laborer and save the money to buy my own land. They say land comes cheap in the wilds of Canada. I will build my own cabin and raise horses and cattle.

  Mrs Maggie Teed, Spanish Arch, 57 years, Galway Town, County Galway: I just want to survive this voyage in one piece, lad! That would be a dream come true!

  I no longer note the day or hour of our passage as we are caught in a limbo of time and season. We were detained for weeks on the Banks of Newfoundland by heavy fog, stiff winds, and the foulest of weathers. We are short of fresh water and provisions. What we have left must be meted out with the greatest of restraint. The steerage passengers are deathly ill and starving. I have heard that the Captain, a decent God-fearing Scotsman, has released food from the stores to feed those below deck. Alas there is little to go around. It must be said there are stories of other Captains who have let their passengers die without raising a hand to aid them.

  We have had our share of deaths, all in steerage. Many men, women and children have gone into the sea. There were times when I wondered sadly would it not have been best that they stayed in their homeland? Yet they were driven from the misery of their lives to seek new hope and better their condition. They died for their dreams.

  Landfall. Never shall I forget that first glimpse of this magnificent country. I waited long and impatiently for the sight. The shores were shrouded by a fog of inclement weather and there was nothing to be seen for many hours though the scent of pine traveled on the air. Then the gray haze lifted and there they were, like giants stalking towards us, the high rugged mountains of breathtaking beauty! Cloud-capped and rocky, they were cloaked with the foliage of a dark green forest. I could only gaze with awe and reflection upon the scene of an ancient paradise untouched by man.

  At last we have traversed the great gulf of the Saint Lawrence to begin our journey up this mighty river. We are accompanied by ships of all nations flying their different flags. Many move under sail while others are steamers that shower the clear air with smoke and flame from their funnels. The waters are broken in many places with islands of all shapes and sizes. The shores to the south are low and rolling, while those to the north rise to lofty mountains. Along both shores are neat white-washed farmhouses, churches with tall spires and leafy orchards. This is country long settled by the French.

  Our ship has cast anchor off Grosse Isle and we have been boarded by health officers. They will determine who may continue the journey to Montreal and who must remain at the quarantine station on the island to await their death. There is no doubt that many will stay here, for the steerage passengers are rife with disease. We can only pray that there is no cholera-plague aboard. Clothes and bedding must be taken ashore to be scrubbed and washed. All of steerage have been ordered from the vessel to complete this task. The cabin passengers are not required to do so and we need only send our servants to clean what linen we have used. Apparently there are thousands of emigrants crowded onto the island. They say the sick are kept in sheds, like cattle. God have mercy on them all. Though the island looks picturesque from this distance with its wooded shores and towering bluffs overhung with evergreen, I am glad not to visit.

  It is a great discomfort to write in the failing light while suffering the jarring and jostling of the coach. However, I have asked my brother to hold the ink pot. For both of us this provides a diversion from the monotony and misery of our journey. We are closely packed into a narrow carriage. The wind whistles through the windows where design would have glass though it is lacking. The road is rough and plagued with a succession of mud-holes and corduroy bridges. This latter term is used to describe patches of ground on which logs are laid down over the boggy earth. Our teeth and our bones rattle as we traverse these dread patches.

  The woods grow thick and dark on either side of the road. Giant pines rise to heights of over a hundred feet or more. Their trunks are surely six feet wide. This is bush country, gloomy with cedar and tamarack swamps, and infested with mosquitoes that would try the patience of Job. We seldom see signs of habitation now.

  When first we traveled northwards from Toronto we passed many stone and wood frame houses with little gardens of vegetables and flowers. They stood near inns, mills or smithy forges. Such comfortable homesteads are long left behind us even as the number of clearings has lessened. The few dwellings we spy through the dense growth of trees are no more than crude shanties befitting the occupation of cattle or pigs, not men. We have entered the backwoods of Ontario, the wilderness of Canada.

  September 28, 1841. There has been no time to write these past several weeks. Each night I have fallen into my bed with a tiredness beyond any of my experience. I have done my part as a dutiful son and stayed with my family to help them settle on the land. The work is hard and constant, clearing the trees to farm. The worst part of our labor is surely the stumps. What effort must be expended to remove each infernal one from its deep-rooted abode! I am more than proud to record that our cabin is built at last. It is a fine dwelling overlooking a lonely lake and a dark belt of pine. Summer has come to an end and while the days are still balmy, there is a chill of frost in the air at night. The rain is unlike that of Ireland where it falls soft and damp upon the green hills. Here it pours down in fierce torrents like the hammers of hell.

  Do I regret this migration? Let me speak from the deep of my heart. I have been bewitched by this land. What words can describe its stern solitudes and beauties? How can I write of the dark forest, the deep lake, the somber mountains? When I hear the call of the wild creatures, the loon and the owl, the deer and the wolf, I swear I am hearing the voices of mine own soul. As for the peoples native to this country who come to trade and converse with us, they are most courteous and kind. Indeed they are more d
ecent than many a settler we have crossed in our travels. The affection shown to their children by both men and women is a lesson to us all as is the respect they grant to their aged. They are honest and truthful in their dealings and they never forget a kindness done to them. Alas, they are too often ill-used and cheated by the Christians who have come to settle in their land. How much they have lost by our arrival! Will they survive this meeting of the races, I wonder?

  “I like this guy,” Jean said.

  “Me too,” said Dana, proudly.

  They took a break from reading the journal when their brunch arrived. The waitress set down plates of pancakes with maple syrup, along with a side order of peameal bacon for Jean. The two attacked their food hungrily.

  Though Dana had dipped into the Book of Dreams the previous night, she had decided to wait for Jean before reading it properly. Tucking the prize safely under her pillow, she had fallen asleep satisfied. The next morning, she woke late to an empty house. A note to “sleepyhead” beside the box of cereal told her that her grandmother was visiting friends. There was no time for breakfast. With the book in hand, Dana grabbed her coat and raced out the door. The bus had already arrived. The door swung open just as she reached the stop.

  Jean disembarked to find her breathless from her run, hair wild, face flushed.

  “Très jolie!” he said, putting his arm around her.

  He leaned forward to kiss her, but she pulled back, panicked.

  “Small town!” she said quickly. “It’s just like Ireland. Someone will see us and tell my gran!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said with amusement, putting his hands in the air. Then he plunged them deep into his pockets, as if to keep them restrained. “See? I am good.”

  Dana laughed at his antics. That was the wonderful thing about being apart; the excitement of meeting up again. She was thrilled to see him standing there, in his jeans and jacket, dark hair falling over his forehead, green eyes flashing. That he, in turn, looked so happy to see her made it all the more wonderful.

  “Have you had lunch?” she asked him. “I’m starving. I got up late. I had a dream last night …”

  • • •

  By the time they were settled in the restaurant and their food was ordered, Dana had told him the story of her great-great-grandfather’s book. Together they began to read the entries.

  Everything Gran Gowan had mentioned was there, and more besides. Not long after Thomas arrived in Canada, he had grown restless, yearning to wander. He couldn’t stay for long in the backwoods of Ontario. He was a dreamer, not a homesteader. Once he saw his family settled, he set off on his own to explore.

  The journal was sporadic, skipping months and even years at times. Often the entries lacked a date. But it was a fascinating jumble of adventures, dreams, poems, and reflections interspersed with descriptions of the countryside and the people he met. Thomas described his various jobs with the Hudson’s Bay Company that took him as far north as York Factory on Hudson Bay, and as far west as Fort Garry, near the Red River Valley, and then west again to Fort Edmonton.

  Though I hold these hunters and trappers in great esteem, for their bravery and resourcefulness knows no bounds, at the same time I cannot but be horrified at the ceaseless slaughter of wild animals. All summer long, brigades of boats and canoes arrive deep-laden with the skins and pelts of countless creatures. Surely this is greed beyond all necessity and comprehension.

  “Oh I do like him so much,” Dana murmured. “My dear great-great-granddaddy.”

  After their meal, the two walked to the outskirts of Creemore and stopped on a bridge that spanned the Mad River. The water was shallow, trickling slowly over a stony bottom. Trees lined the shore.

  “The river got its name from one of the earliest settlers,” she told him, remembering a story of her grand-mother’s. “Bridget Dowling was one of those tough Irish pioneers. She settled north of here with her husband and loads of kids. One day she was coming back from the mill with a sack of flour on her back and a baby in her arms and she had to ford the river. It was wild and rushing. She said later she almost drowned in ‘that mad river,’ and that’s what everyone has called it ever since.”

  Jean smiled at the tale. “You are part of here, n’estce pas?” he commented. “You know all the story. This is what the Old Man say, I think.”

  She gazed into the waters below. “Funny thing. I always thought of myself as Irish, and I used to think of my family here as Irish too. But the Book of Dreams makes me see I really am part of Canada as well.”

  They were standing close together, leaning over the bridge. Well out of sight of anyone, Jean put his arm around her and gave her a long kiss.

  “That’s the hello I don’t get at the bus.”

  She laughed. Everything around her seemed suddenly brighter.

  “I missed you,” she said, “even though it was only a day.”

  “Do you tell your grand-mère I come?”

  “I didn’t get the chance. I …,” she winced at the steady look he gave her and was driven to confess, “I chickened out.”

  “C’est okay,” he laughed. “I go home as wolf.”

  They found a place to sit by the river and returned to Thomas’s journal.

  July 2, 1850. Eight years have passed since I last saw my family and today I am restored to them. It is to my shame and sorrow that I have not returned until this sad occasion, the untimely death of my beloved mother. Father is broken-hearted and so too are my brothers and my dear sister. Despite Mother’s goodly forbearance, I fear the hardship of life on a bush farm was too much for that brave woman. Father knew this too and I believe that is the reason he moved the family earlier in the year to the new settlement of Creemore. Alas, the move came too late for Mother’s health. I shall bide here a while to help comfort the bereaved, though it is not my nature or inclination to linger long in one place.

  I will write something of the settlement, for it is worthy of mention. Though it has not long been established, only five or a little more years, it is already a very promising village. A flour and saw mill have been built on the south side of the river, making good use of its strength. A school and church have also been erected; there has been an Orange Hall since early days. The street names demarcating the allotments are that of Edward Webster’s family, he being the distinguished founder. Though only a few houses have been constructed as of yet, there are many families on outlying farms who feel themselves to be members of the community. Most hail from either Ireland or Scotland, in this generation or the one preceding.

  Father and I had a mild but unhappy disagreement today. He was not pleased when I introduced the notion of my departure. While it grieves me to add to his pain, it is not in my temperament to settle. I am thinking of going east to Nova Scotia or Cape Breton. Or perhaps I shall visit the lands of French Canada. I know something of their language from my time in the Red River.

  “That’s odd.” Dana stopped reading for a moment. “Gran said he settled down after his mother’s death. It doesn’t sound like he planned to.”

  “Something happen to make him stay?” Jean suggested. “Do we come near to the secret?”

  “I hope so,” she said, flipping through the last pages. “There’s not much left.”

  • • •

  July 12, 1850. This is the day so esteemed and respected by all Orangemen everywhere no matter their station. In truth I do not count myself amongst their number, for I am not of like mind with certain aspects of the society that would despise Roman Catholics. I have made many friends amongst Romish people in this country especially the Canadiens as the French settlers do call themselves. Still, I would not like to offend my father or my brothers by disdaining their celebrations, and I agreed to join them.

  There being not much of a main street in Creemore to make a parade, the good members of the Purple Hill Lodge determined that we should walk to the home of one of their group, Mr. Edward Galloway. The Galloway farm is some distance outside of Creemor
e, thereby providing us with a worthy challenge. Both the Bowmore and Tory Hill Lodges joined the walk.

  When we reached out destination, we were well rewarded for our efforts. What a feast awaited us! The fatted calf had duly been slain. Such well-laden tables as ever I saw stood amidst the trees. For our pleasure and consumption were dishes of venison, eel, legs of pork, roast chickens and ducks, fish of several kinds and plentiful potatoes or “pritters” as they call them here. Most delicious and varied were the pies of pumpkin, raspberry, cherry, huckleberry, gooseberry and blackberry currant. Fresh loaves of bread were served with new butter and green cheese, maple molasses, preserves and pickled cucumbers. As is customary at these gatherings, a great deal of whiskey was provided along with the sober beverages of tea and coffee. The latter is a favourite drink in this part of the world and some say it will replace tea one day. I do not think so. It has a bitter taste and is only palatable when generously sweetened with sugar.

  What trifles do I write here! It is done to calm the riotous state of my mind and emotions. Of all that happened on this day, I cannot bring myself to speak of the one event which lies at the heart of it.

  “Come on, Thomas,” Dana murmured, turning the page.