by John Wilson
I moved forward and took his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Hudson,” I said formally. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Almost instantly I realized my mistake. Hudson withdrew his hand and stepped back, shock on his face. “How can this be? Are you, too, a lost voyager from England?”
“No,” I replied, wondering how I was going to explain to Henry Hudson circumstances I couldn’t even explain to myself. “I’m from the south. Ottawa,” I added rather pointlessly.
“How then is it,” Hudson continued, “that you are, as Jack says, Christian, know the king’s English, and have heard tell of me?”
There was no sane answer to these questions. I could hardly tell this man I had studied him for a school project almost four hundred years after he died! I kept my answers as vague as I could.
“Where I’m from,” I said cautiously, “we take a great interest in the world. People travel all over and report back what they see.” It was weak, but easier than trying to explain television, cell phones, and the Internet. It would do for the moment, and it appeared to make sense to Hudson, who nodded understandingly.
“Then you are a nation of travellers and traders,” he said thoughtfully, “much like the Portuguese and the Genoese.”
It was my turn to nod. If I could keep my responses vague and let Hudson make assumptions that fitted me into his world, it would give me time to think.
A frown crossed Hudson’s face. “How is it then that I have not heard of your people? By what name do you call yourselves?”
“Canadians,” I answered.
“And where is this Ottawa of which you speak? Is it near to New France?”
New France! Where was that? I searched my mind for what had been happening in Canada in the early 1600s. Wasn’t that when Champlain was exploring and setting up a settlement at Quebec City? I decided to chance dropping a name.
“It is to the west of Champlain’s settlement at Quebec,” I said.
The effect on Jack was electrifying. He jumped forward and said excitedly, “You know of the French. And you have travelled here. There must therefore be a route we might follow to this Quebec to seek succour.” He turned from me to his father. “See, this is a sign. It is possible. We must march south if we are to survive.”
“Aye!” a new voice joined us. “It is surely a sign.”
Looking past Hudson, I saw a gaunt figure emerge from the hut. The man was small and looked deathly ill. He held on to one of the upright doorposts for support. His voice was almost a whine and grated on my ears.
“A sign of the Devil,” he continued, “come to tempt us into the wilderness. We must trust to God’s mercy. Succour will find us if we but keep faith.”
“Syracke Fanner,” Hudson said, turning to address the man, “I think not that this boy is the Devil nor in league with the hellish hosts. I think he is but of an unknown tribe—one of the many wonders of this land—and it may be that, if he is to be our salvation, he has been sent by the Lord God himself.”
Syracke Fanner stood away from the post and took a few faltering steps toward us. I noticed that he was lame and favoured his right leg heavily. Despite his difficulties, he raised his arm and pointed at me.
“The Devil can take many forms and need not show us his cloven hoof. The Lord God provided manna for his followers as they were starving in the desert. So, too, shall he provide for our wants in this extremity. Our faith is being tested. We must not be found wanting.”
“Wanting we shall not be, tonight at least.” It was the deep voice from the fog, and it belonged to a tall man who strode purposefully around the side of the hut. “Wydhowse and I have had some of the Lord’s luck and bring some meagre sustenance for our evening repast.” In one hand Staffe carried an ancient-looking musket. The other held a pole that rested on his shoulder and from which hung two grouse.
“Fanner,” Staffe continued, dominating the gathering, “I would hear no more of your Godly whining. We will perish or not by our own efforts and through any help we may enlist. If we sit and wait for your salvation, we will be corpses before the first snow falls.” The man’s eyes turned to me. “And who is this strangely dressed lad? He looks not like a salvage, but then there is much we know not of this place.”
“His name is Al,” Jack said, stepping forward. “He comes from the south, close by to New France, yet he speaks English.”
“Does he indeed.” The owner of the deep voice placed his musket and kill on the ground and approached. “Well, then, I suspect you may be a timely addition to our small party.” He held out a large, gnarled hand. “I am Philip Staffe, carpenter to this sorry band, and the only loyal servant of Master Hudson here. Will you join us in our repast?”
“I will, thank you,” I said hesitantly as my hand was engulfed in Staffe’s mitt.
“Very well,” Staffe continued. “And now I must return and bring Wydhowse in. He rests in the woods, being exhausted by our exertions.”
Staffe turned and strode back the way he had come. A silence fell. His presence had dominated us all, and we seemed less without him. It was Hudson who eventually spoke.
“Syracke,” he said, turning to the lame man, “we will do nothing without discussion and you shall have your say then as shall we all.” Turning to Jack, he continued. “Jack, settle our new friend by the fire and prepare the beasts Staffe has provided. Our decisions will be easier made with some food in our bellies. I will return Syracke to his cot.”
Taking the lame man gently by the arm, Hudson helped him back into the hut. Jack ushered me onto a rock by the low fire and retrieved the grouse from where Staffe had laid them.
“Can you clean the entrails from these?” he asked, placing the bounty before me and offering me his knife. “Take care that you waste none, for we can make a passable soup from the skin and the innards.” My shocked expression must have betrayed me, because he continued. “Two small birds are little enough for six of us, and it is the first success at the hunt for a week past. We must get what goodness we can from nature’s meagre bounty. Save, too, the feathers. We may yet come to boiling what good we can from them.”
“Yes,” I replied, horrified at the calm way Jack described the desperate situation his party was in. I was glad, though, of the wilderness experiences I’d had with Dad. Cleaning and skinning would be no problem. Perhaps I could even rig some snares and help with the hunt. But could I? How long was I going to stay here? How much time was passing in the real world? With all these worries spinning in my head, I took the knife and got to work.
Jack collected wood and built up the fire. At least if I kept my hands and mind busy, I wouldn’t have a chance to think about my situation. I suspected that way led to insanity and was glad for the easy acceptance I had found among these characters cast adrift in a world so full of wonders that one more made little difference.
I worked busily cleaning, plucking, and skinning. What I would normally have thrown away, I dropped in a large iron pot by my side. As the fire grew, Jack went to collect more fuel. Staffe returned, supporting Wydhowse, who looked almost unconscious. With hardly even a look in my direction, he slumped by the fire and appeared to fall asleep.
I was so wrapped up in my thoughts and my work that I hardly noticed it was getting dark. Eventually I couldn’t ignore it and looked up. The sun was low in the sky, and the few clouds were tinged orange and pink. It was going to be a pretty sunset. Then I almost dropped the grouse I was holding. It shouldn’t be sunset. It should barely be lunchtime, let alone late in a northern summer evening.
Oddly the fact that I was ten or twelve hours out of my own time was more disturbing than the realization I was four hundred years adrift. Somehow I could more easily accept I had come face-to-face with a long-dead explorer than that I had lived through a single day too quickly. I shook my head. Tears of utter helplessness were close to the surface. I felt lost and out of control. Where was I? When was I? What was I doing here? How did I get here? How would I get back?
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My self-pity was interrupted by Jack’s arrival with several sharpened sticks. He began dividing the birds and skewering the pieces on the sticks. “My hunger is so great,” he said, smiling, at me, “that I would eat one of these fowl uncooked, feathers and all. But mayhap we should cook them to some degree to increase their attraction to our palates. What say you, Al?”
I returned Jack’s smile and held up my bloodied hands. “I think I should go and wash up before I eat anything.”
Rising, I walked toward the stream. The cold water felt good on my hands and arms. I splashed some on my face and was about to drink from my cupped hands when I felt an uncomfortable itching in the centre of my back. It was accompanied by the certainty that someone was again watching me. Abruptly I spun around, splashing water on the ground. There was no one there. My back had been to the trees, and all I could see were dark shadows. I strained my eyes, but there was only what there should have been: trees, bushes, rocks, and the long shadows produced by the sinking sun.
I looked back at the fire. Other figures had gathered around, and I could hear several voices in conversation. For all their unaccountable strangeness, the small party looked very inviting just then. And what was my alternative? I had travelled in time. Impossible though it seemed, I had to admit there was no other way to explain the events of the day. My only choices were to return to the fire and see what this mysterious adventure still had in store for me, or face the dark terrors of fleeing alone into the woods. Even were I to flee I would probably still be lost in time, with the added circumstance of being alone. And after my feelings of being watched from the darkness, I didn’t relish that prospect. With a last look at the silent woods, I made my way back to the fire.
The warrior crouched on the bank of the stream, so close to the new stranger that he could have hit him easily with a thrown pebble. He could see it was only a boy, crouched by the river and washing his hands and face. The paleness of his skin was quite remarkable, even more so than the strangers who had wintered in camp. By the reactions of the hairy-faced leader and the tall hunter, this boy, even though he could speak the language of the strangers, was not a part of the group. He seemed uncomfortable and was treated as an outsider by the others. He was also plump and well fed, unlike the others who were obviously starving. Yet the newcomer had made no attempt to trade and appeared to have no possessions with him. Where had he come from and where was his canoe?
In all the time he had been watching, the warrior had been working over this new puzzle, yet he could think of no answer. The strangers were going to die. There was no doubt about that. Two of them were already close to the other world. This was the easiest time of year. Fish, birds, deer, and berries were abundant, yet all the strongest of the strangers could manage on a full day’s hunt was two skinny birds. Hardly enough for one man, yet it would have to do for all six of them.
The warrior’s thoughts were interrupted when the boy sat up like a startled deer. As before, he looked directly at the warrior yet saw nothing. Then he headed back to join the others. Quietly the warrior worked his way around to the trees behind the fire.
SEVEN
Jack, Hudson, Staffe, Wydhowse, and Fanner were all gathered around the blaze. Moving aside, Jack beckoned me over to a space between him and his father.
“Come and sit with us, Al,” he said as I approached. “Some of our bounty is almost ready and, as you can see, a few have not the patience to wait.”
The two birds had been divided into six portions. Four were sizzling on sticks above the coals. The other two were being greedily devoured by Fanner and Wydhowse. The blood on their hands supported Jack’s claim that their portions weren’t cooked through yet. I sat beside Jack.
“We should complete our introductions,” Jack said. “Myself and father you know. Philip Staffe is our carpenter and hunter.” The big man nodded at me. “Syracke Fanner you also met. He has taken it upon himself to ensure we do not leave the Lord God Almighty out of our deliberations.” Fanner ignored both Jack’s comments and me. “Beside Syracke is Thomas Wydhowse, our mathematician and philosopher.” Wydhowse nodded to me wearily and continued eating.
“This is what we are reduced to from the nine who began this adventure in the shallop some seven weeks ago. Adame Moore and Michael Butt were sorely ill and lasted but a few days. Like good sailors, we buried them at sea among the ice floes. Arnall Ludlowe fell into the depths of despair and passed to a better world these three weeks past. John King, the quartermaster, sometime mate, and the only man to raise arms to resist the mutineers, was the strongest among us. It was his work on the oars that mostly brought the shallop to this place. He died but two days past in a great fever and raving of his wife and children as if he were back in the bosom of his family. King and Ludlowe are buried yonder.”
Jack waved his arm toward the two crude crosses. Then he lapsed into silence, his attention fixed on his portion of meat. The others also gazed hungrily at the meat over the fire.
Staffe spoke first. “I think the meat is done.” He brought in his stick, and the others followed suit.
Jack had two sticks and handed one to me. “Here is your portion, Al.”
“Why should he get a portion?” Fanner had finished his and was looking greedily at mine. “He is not one of us and we have greater need than this salvage.”
“Our need may be the greater,” Hudson replied, “but we must honour our guest as best we can, even in the poor circumstances we find ourselves.”
“You will regret this unwarranted generosity, just as you now regret hoarding the cheeses on the ship.” Angrily Fanner stood and limped to the hut. Hudson shook his head sadly.
“’Tis only that man’s anger that keeps him alive to torment the rest of us,” Staffe said between mouthfuls of meat.
I had been planning on offering my portion to be divided among the others. Obviously I wasn’t as hungry as they were and, to be honest, the grubby, half-cooked meat didn’t look all that appetizing. After Fanner’s outburst and Hudson’s response, though, I felt obliged to eat as much as I could. I ate slowly and the others were finished long before me. Carefully they licked every drop of grease from their hands and dropped the cleaned bones into the pot. Then all eyes turned to watch me nibble on the still-bloody hunk in my hand. I felt uncomfortable.
“I think this will serve everyone better in the soup,” I said, dropping my portion into the pot. An audible sigh escaped from the starving men as they relaxed a bit.
“So, young Master Al,” Hudson addressed me, “tell us some tales of the land from which you come.”
“As I said,” I replied nervously, “my home is far away.” How far, I hoped they would never guess, because then, apart from all the other complications of trying to explain my world to Henry Hudson, I would have to say I knew that none of my new companions would ever survive to see home again.
“My home is much different from this.” I waved my arm to include the rough camp. “And I would happily tell you about it, but tell me,” I said, attempting to change the subject, “how you came to be here.”
“That is indeed a long and sad tale,” Hudson began, “and the understanding of it is buried far in the past.” He lapsed into silence.
Since no one else seemed eager to take up the tale, I decided to chance some flattery before he tried to ask me more awkward questions. “I would be interested to hear your tale My people tell many stories of you and your adventures, and I would have a lot of status if I could take home some that I heard directly from the great explorer himself.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack smile.
My flattery seemed to rouse Hudson, and he looked up at me. “You wish to hear my tale, do you? Well, perhaps it is time. I do feel the heavy burden of my years and oftimes I think I may not see my dear Katherine nor Oliver nor Richard again.” At this point he looked over at Jack, who seemed about to interrupt, but his father hurried on, giving him no chance to contradict.
“My years began in 1570 when
Good Queen Bess had but been on the throne a dozen years. Of my early life you need know little, save that it was passably comfortable and that my mind was continually engaged with the great voyages of that time. When I was eleven, I was blessed to meet the great Francis Drake after he returned from his voyage around the world. He suffered much, but returned rich with booty from the Spanish galleons who little suspected his presence off the coast of their American lands. He told great tales of wondrous places, but one stayed with me. He spoke of the Strait of Anian as if he had seen it with his own eyes. ’If we can navigate those waters,’ he told me, ’we will have a Northwest Passage of great ease to take us to the wealth of Cathay. And it will be a route untroubled by the ships of the devilish Spanish king.’ In my childish dreams I became the man who would chart that course and gain greatness for my country.
“My chance came more quickly than I could have hoped. In 1587 I was, through the offices of my father who realized by then that I was destined for a life on the sea, an able-bodied seaman with John Davis on his second great voyage to the north. I had been on short voyages around the coasts of England and knew the rudiments of sail and navigation.
“Of course, Davis was foiled by the ice, but I learned much of seamanship in the northern latitudes, reaching as we did the farthest point north ever reached to that date. I also saw the Furious Overfall, which all realized must come forth from some vast sea. Unfortunately the roaring of the waters and the rushing of the great blocks of ice forbade us passage, but both Davis and myself agreed that, could passage be made through the Furious Overfall, the route to Cathay would be most probable and the execution easy. That voyage and what we saw on it has been the guide to everything I have done since.
“The next year Davis sailed north again, but I was not with him, as Drake had need of every able-bodied seaman to withstand the Armada of the perfidious Spanish pretender.” Hudson seemed to sit straighter and stronger as he recalled the battle. “I was on one of the ships that harried the Spaniards up the channel. We were smaller vessels but were more than their match in seamanship and gunnery. We were more manoeuvrable and could sail closer to the wind, so we harried them like terriers at a wounded deer. I was also there in the Calais Roads when the fire ships were sent in, flaming and blazing to spread panic among those overproud wooden citadels.
