by Gary Collins
The very first chief of Taqamkuk was Mattie’s great-grandfather, Michel Agathe. He was a Saqamaw, a very great and important chief who came from a long line of chieftains. He was respected by his people all along the south and west coasts of the island. His name was spoken the French way, Michel. The English, who hated everything French, and who couldn’t pronounce it right anyway, changed Mattie’s surname from Michel to Mitchell.
“French king give my grandfadder sloop as gif’. Just like Danny B’y, maybe?” Mattie continued.
Mattie’s grandfather was called Captain Jock and also King Mitchell, depending on who you talked to at the time. Worcester answered Mattie’s question quickly, wanting to hear more about the man’s fascinating past.
“A sloop is a boat with one mast instead of two, Mattie.”
Mattie acknowledged the answer with a look at the Danny Boy. The schooner had just turned broadside with the leaving tide. The tips of her two masts scratched the sky.
The king from faraway France had bestowed upon Mattie’s ancestor a great gift. It was a rare thing for anyone to give an Indian anything, though Mattie figured the French ruler wanted to trade it for the locations of the best coastal fishing grounds and all the hidden reefs. In his new boat, King Jock was now called Captain Jock, a title more prestigious around the coast of nineteenth-century Newfoundland.
The French learned from Captain Jock not only where to find cod, their best market product, but many other new world commodities. The Mi’kmaq captain showed them white beaches in secluded coves where capelin came in late spring. He knew the rivers with the biggest runs of salmon in summer. He knew every brook where shiny smelt could be caught in the spring and the autumn.
The clever Frenchmen gained much more than that from the proud captain. At their “king’s” command, native trappers passed the best of furs into French hands at the end of every winter season. The French learned the secrets of the countless forbidding bays and coves that defined this part of the coast. They gained infinite knowledge of the mysterious forested land, all in exchange for one wooden sloop.
His father, Mattie said, was a blooded Mi’kmaq named Jean Michael, whom the English called Jack or John Mitchell. At one time he lived in Conne River, a place were Mi’kmaq people found sanctuary from both French and English conquerors. It was situated at the end of a long bay that reached far inland. From Conne River, those who knew the way could follow meandering waterways into the vast interior of Newfoundland. Its entrance from the open sea was a puzzle of islands and deep canyons and dead-end arms that served as a deterrent to any would-be invaders.
Among the Mi’kmaq people John Mitchell was also known as King Mitchell. Like his father, he was a well-respected chieftain. His mother was the daughter of an Abenaki Indian who called the Abenaki “The Dawn People.” Her father was John Stevens, who led the first of the Mi’kmaq to Halls Bay, where Mattie had been born.
Mattie’s voice took on a measure of pride as he spoke of his ancestry. Worcester felt as though Mattie was pleased to talk to a white man who was listening. Mattie brought up his language again, as if he were sorry he couldn’t speak English very well and that maybe Worcester wasn’t understanding all that he was saying.
“When I speak only some of deir English words dey call me stupid man. When I speak my own words dey call me stupid man.”
Worcester sensed he would hear no more about Mattie Mitchell’s history on this night. “Mattie, I have studied in many places. I am considered to be a very educated man. I can speak no other language but my own. Yet you, who have had no schooling, and without being taught, can speak fluently not only your own wonderful language, but also English, which is considered to be the most difficult of all languages to learn. I can understand you very well. You have nothing to be ashamed of and a great deal to be proud of.”
Worcester stood to stretch his cramped legs. He suddenly thought of one of the long-winded professors who had taught him. The man could have used some of Mattie Mitchell’s direct way of speaking. If he had, Worcester thought, he could have stayed awake during his boring lectures. The American smiled at the thought and looked around the still cove. His gaze took in the firelight reflected across the black water.
“You know, Mattie,” he said sincerely, “if your skin were white, you would be considered as royalty.”
And Mattie Mitchell, who was the direct descendant of a legendary line of kings, walked away from the firelight to gather more driftwood. When he entered the shadows, he smiled at the thought.
CHAPTER 9
THE WIND DIED AND THE COVE blackened in deep shadow. The gentle motion from the tide lapped against the sloping shingle. From where the two men lay sprawled on the beach, only the tips of the schooner’s masts were visible against the night sky. Worcester pulled on his pipe and found only the foul, burnt taste of ash remaining. He tapped the bowl of the briar against one of the rocks that lined their fireplace and watched the dottle fall among the glowing driftwood’s ashes.
Mattie watched the preacher man pull a small, round, brass land compass out of his pocket and look into the north sky.
“You told me your people always use the North Star for guidance, Mattie. I know where north is, but I always have trouble finding the North Star itself. It isn’t very bright, is it?”
“No, Nort’ Star ver’ faint. You know where Big Dipper is?” asked Mattie, and when Worcester assured him that he did indeed, Mattie, looking up into the firmament, spoke again. “Find Nort’ Star easy with two fingers dis way.”
There are seven stars in the Big Dipper and also seven stars in the little one, Mattie told him. Worcester had to admit he had never counted them before. The fire crackled and the small waves brushed against the beach. A snipe hunted somewhere high above them. The warbling sound escaped from its folded wings and echoed around the cove as it dived for moths. Pointing skyward, the easy-talking woodsman explained to the educated American how simple it was to get direction from the night heavens. Fascinated, Worcester watched and listened and saw right away what all of his book knowledge had never taught him.
With his long, brown fingers Mattie demonstrated to Worcester the age-old method of finding the Dog Star. Like an eager student, Worcester followed his every move. With the thumb of his right hand on the lower star and with his forefinger extended to reach the star above—Mattie called it the pointing star—which formed the outer edge of the Big Dipper opposite its handle, Mattie moved both fingers straight up five times, always keeping the fingers the same distance apart.
“Now pointing finger on firs’ star in Little Dipper ’andle. Dis is Nort’ Star. Never fail. My people use on land an’ water. When one dipper empty, udder one always full.” Mattie dropped his hand and watched as Worcester raised his own hand above his head to study this method of navigation. When he thanked Mattie for showing him the stars, adding that many of the old ways were still good ones, the Indian simply replied in his matter-of-fact way.
“If old way not good way, ’ow dey get old?” Worcester, who had no answer for such wisdom, said nothing.
They left the Danny Boy in the grey dawn of the following day. The schooner swung on her hook, with lots of scoop given. With two heavy lines running from the shore to each of her two sides, she looked secure in the narrow cove. Seated in Mattie’s canoe, they made their way along the coast. In the stern of the craft and paddling on the left side sat the lean Indian. Seated in the bow and paddling on the right was the broad American preacher.
Between the two men sat their stored accoutrements and enough basic provisions to provide for days. A tan-coloured tent sat atop the pile, and two fly fishing rods stretched across the tent. Among their supplies were a double-barrelled shotgun in a waterproof case and Mattie’s long bow. Next to the latter was a leather quiver filled with long arrows. Worcester had seen him put the weapon aboard but had not said anything about it. He was excited about seeing it put to use.
With each stroke and dip of the paddles, the canoe slid
quickly along the coast. They rounded a point and left the Danny Boy in its sheltered cove behind. When the sun finally broached the mountains, grey clouds moved in to cover it.
“Clouds low. Rain dis day, maybe,” Mattie said softly from the stern of the canoe.
Worcester agreed with his guide and shifted his paddle to the left side of the canoe. Behind him, Mattie changed to the right side. It is the way of paddlers, who know that a change is as good as a rest. Even without the sun the day was warm. The wind here was light, but a brisk wind threatened from the gulf. Before they had gone far, the wind had reached them, and waves came as if from nowhere and slapped against the side of the little craft, causing it to roll dangerously.
They were no more than a few feet from the formidable limestone coastline. Worcester was worried. He could see nowhere to go for shelter. He was about to voice his concern when the bow of the canoe suddenly turned in to the face of the cliffs. For a moment he thought they would capsize and grabbed both gunnels of the canoe.
“Keep paddlin’, ” came a low growl from the stern.
Worcester dipped his paddle into a surge of water that was rolling level with the gunnels. He held his breath in fear but kept paddling as instructed. Just when he was sure they would be thrown against the looming cliff face, the canoe gently lifted from behind and shot through a narrow passage with amazing speed.
And then they sped away from the scud of wind as they entered a long, pleasant arm where the big waves of the gulf could not reach. Worcester felt ashamed of himself for letting go of the paddle. It was a very dangerous thing to do. He said so to Mattie, who replied simply, “You do better nex’ time.” Worcester, hoping there would never be a next time, dug his paddle in deep as the canoe glided down a calm, pristine water valley. There would be many more narrow escapes for Worcester and his fearless guide, but the American would never again let go of his paddle.
They heard the brook running into the sea long before they saw it. It made its way into the sea through a flat, rocky, and very shallow delta. They hauled the canoe along the foundered banks, and at the first turn in the river the sea was gone from their view. They paddled across deep steadies, and up rattles they pulled their craft.
They fished and caught high-jumping Atlantic salmon in the intertidal pools. They caught flashing steelheads, which were in the same river and which Worcester had not fished before. As the two men had enjoyed the bounties of the rolling ocean before, now they relished the days and the taste of the wilderness.
Worcester had always figured himself to be a good fly fisherman. He was good at catching trout, but he was embarrassed with the pitiful results of his salmon catch in comparison to Mattie’s. The man not only knew where the salmon were lying, he was always able not only to “rise” one of the fish, but promptly hook one. He pointed out to Worcester where to find the fish, but try as he might, the American could not get the hang of Atlantic salmon fly fishing.
They were at the end of a long, deep pool one late evening casting for salmon. A salmon would jump out of the water at regular intervals and glisten as it turned to re-enter the water with a noisy splash.
Worcester tried his best to ward off the hordes of blackflies. They always seemed to hunt him more than they did his companion. He was having no success with his fishing and it put him in a foul mood. He called out to Mattie, who was just now removing the hook from his second salmon.
“Mattie, are you sure there are salmon behind these rocks? I have seen no sign of them there and I have changed flies several times without any luck whatsoever.”
Mattie laid his own rod down, walked over to Worcester, and asked him for his rod. After studying the water for a minute or so, he made a long, slow cast. The line swung high and curved in a graceful arc that seemed to defy the wind, then gently landed the hook behind the same rock with which the American was trying his luck. A dark swirl of water appeared behind the hook. Mattie pulled quickly, but it came back empty.
“Dat one smart salmon,” he said. “I try nex’ one, maybe.”
He cast his line toward another rock behind which he had told Worcester several salmon were waiting. The line presented the hook as before, and on the very next cast the same dark swirl of water appeared behind the moving fly. This time Mattie’s pole snapped back with a rapid motion of his wrist, there was a sudden buzzing sound from the reel, a salmon jumped for freedom, the tiny reel gears clicked, the rod bent from tip to middle, and the play began. Mattie landed his fish, cast a few more times behind each of the two rocks, and raised two more salmon. He handed the rod back to Worcester.
“I catch one salmon fer you, show you t’ree more. Now your turn again.”
With that he started to walk back to his own fishing spot. Worcester couldn’t understand what he was doing wrong. He pleaded with Mattie.
Mattie turned and said, “You cast ver’ good line. You don’t watch hook. Your eye mus’ never leave hook. Watch fer willum. Den pull quick.”
Worcester didn’t have any idea what a “willum” was and didn’t know why he had to keep his eye on the hook. In his usual patient way, Mattie Mitchell explained to the preacher the secret of fly fishing for the wily Atlantic salmon. The salmon came in out of the ocean to these swift rivers to spawn, he said, not to feed. He had gutted many of them late in the season. Their bellies were always empty, even though the water surface was alive with many kinds of insects. Why they didn’t feed, he wasn’t sure, nor did he care. He just knew what he saw.
When the fish rose for the hook, it wasn’t for food. He told Worcester that when he saw the “willum,” or swirl, directly behind his trailing hook, the salmon already had the hook in its mouth. That was the instant to set the hook. The fish would spit the metal out of its mouth quicker than it had taken it. Worcester admitted to Mattie that he had always waited for a bite as if he were fishing for trout. Mattie told him again, “No willum, no salmon. Feel him take, too late.”
Worcester never took his eye from the hook again. His salmon fishing improved, but he could never match the skill of Mattie Mitchell. Worcester always believed that Mattie had another secret to fishing, and, like all fishermen, kept it to himself.
FOR THIS EXPEDITION THEY HAD TAKEN one black cooking pot, a much smaller pot for tea, and an iron frying pan. Worcester cooked the red salmon over an open fire near the water where it had been caught. Mattie cut the steelhead down the back, opened up its thick sides with several lateral cuts, and placed the fillets flesh down on flat rocks close to the fire. When the salmon had sizzled to a golden brown and the trout started to emit sweet-smelling steam out of every cut, both men began eating. They exchanged pieces of fish. Worcester loved the naturally cooked trout best. But Mattie Mitchell wanted something more. He wanted meat.
On they moved up the river, which narrowed, widened, and ran deep and shallow, until they came to a place where the river was almost lost in low boglands. They quietly paddled through a place with tall green grasses. Two or more small streams meandered out of the grasses and joined the bigger river. Mattie guided the canoe into one of the narrowest of these leads. A bend appeared, and beyond it the tributary seemed to widen into a circular pond. The long-stemmed grasses grew everywhere here.
Worcester felt Mattie shift his paddle, and in the next instant the boat turned and slid in among the tall goose grass. They were now parallel to the slow stream. Worcester was surprised to feel a firm, gravelly bottom at the end of his paddle. He turned to ask a question but heard “No turn, no talk.”
For a long time they waited, for what Worcester had no idea. Once, he felt a slight movement and heard a faint rustle from the back of the canoe. He did not turn around. Their heads barely topped the grass. Worcester thought the blossoming grass ends would grow into wild rice, but he wasn’t sure and dared not ask.
The stream beside them appeared still and black like a mirror. There was nothing to see of the water save for the slight bend just ahead of them. Presently, two small objects at the bend in the water
came into the American’s view. At first he thought it was something that had been floating there before and he hadn’t noticed. But then another object appeared from below the water. As he watched, three more heads broke the surface, and then all five muskrat swam toward them, with a tiny, V-shaped wake following them.
All five of the rodents stopped less than fifteen yards from the hidden canoe, and two of them started swimming in wide, slow circles. The wobbling sound of air escaping the wings of an airborne snipe hunting for summer moths came to them from high above. Worcester looked skyward, hoping to see it. He had always loved the sound. He spotted the snipe hundreds of feet in the air. Suddenly it dived earthward for something Worcester couldn’t see, and the same high-pitched wilderness sound burst forth.
Worcester turned back to the muskrats. There were only two to be seen. He looked all around but could not see the others. A few minutes passed and they appeared again, bobbing up from the water like black corks. They swam toward the opposite shore, hauled themselves onto a low, sloped rock, and began eating. They were eating clams.
Still no sound or movement came from Mattie. The muskrats on the rock finished the clams and, slid into the water one by one. They swam out into the stream and dived below the surface again. The two larger muskrats, which had kept swimming around during this activity, suddenly dived in unison. One of the other heads appeared. There came at the same instant a sound like a suddenly released branch on a quiet trail. Worcester saw a long, slim arrow pass through the muskrat’s throat where its soaked fur met the waterline.
The startled animal tried to dive, but it only managed to get half of its body below the water. Then, with the arrow sticking straight up out of its neck, it swam in slow circles until it slowed and finally stopped. Another head appeared and for a moment faced the canoe. Worcester heard the same gentle rush of air behind him, this time accompanied by the twang of Mattie’s bow. Fascinated, he saw the arrow enter the muskrat’s throat, heard a sudden squeal of pain from the creature’s open mouth, then watched as its head fell forward in a frothy bubble of blood and water.
