No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  “How can you split yourself in two?” Tom asked him later.

  “I go away in the summer and stay with my family in the winter. Everyone is satisfied.”

  Not me, thought Tom, but if I want to keep his affection I have to accept his rules. He couldn’t endure being alone again.

  When he returned home, he made enquiries about the forest. It belonged to Malcolm Buchanan, a reclusive man who had moved to Cape Breton over twenty years earlier. He lived alone on a small cabin on the edge of his woods. There was plenty of gossip about his secretive ways but little information.

  “I could visit him,” Tom suggested. “It might be he has no wish to sell.”

  “We’ll come with you,” said Spring Thaw, looking at her husband and brother. “This man needs to know that it’s us who are buying his woods.”

  As so often, Tom was taken aback at her directness. He had been given information about Buchanan’s whereabouts but there was no sign of any path through the ranks of trees. Tom scratched his head.

  “How would you have done on your own?” Silent Owl asked, slapping Tom on the back.

  They had to thrust and hack their way through low branches and undergrowth. Silent Owl led them, stopping often to look and listen. He found a length of twine behind a rock, close to some overhanging sticks bound together to form a roof. As he pointed it out they heard a crash. Something huge and urgent hurtled toward them. Tom pushed Spring Thaw behind him, cursing that he had no rifle. Silent Owl crouched down, knife in hand as a snarling head with glistening teeth leaped at him. But instead of striking it he dropped his arm and made clicking sounds in his throat. The creature whimpered and lay down, its feathered tail swishing.

  “Take us home,” Silent Owl whispered in its ear.

  It stood and padded ahead along a narrow track up to a homestead. It looked abandoned with its sagging roof and bulging walls. But a thread of smoke spooled out from the chimney. The grizzled dog whined and scratched at the battered door. It swung open to show a man with long, tangled hair, wearing a fur waistcoat.

  “What do you want?” He spat out a plug of tobacco.

  “Mr. Buchanan? May we speak with you?” Tom held out his hand. The old man glared at it. A second sticky pellet splattered in front of Tom’s feet.

  Spring Thaw stepped forward. “We want to buy your wood,” she said, her dark eyes fixed on the old man’s rheumy blue ones. He opened his mouth and Tom braced himself for a roar of fury. The dog’s ears twitched and a growl rumbled in his throat. Silent Owl felt for the knife in his belt.

  But it was a rumble of laughter that erupted. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said and showed them inside into a warm but bare room. He kept staring at Spring Thaw, “Aye, maybe I’ve got the second sight.”

  Was he simple minded? Tom wondered. Had living as a hermit rotted his brain?

  It was Spring Thaw who recovered first. “We need somewhere to live. Somewhere that can’t be taken away from us. Our ancestors helped yours when the first white people came. They saved them from starving. They didn’t know that hordes more would come and drive us off our land.”

  What was she doing? Tom thought. That kind of talk would only vex the old man, but he seemed bewitched by her.

  “And how much money do you have to reclaim the Garden of Eden?”

  Tom intervened, “So far only £100 as a deposit.”

  But Malcolm wasn’t listening. His parched eyes drank deep of Spring Thaw’s face, drawn toward her like a neap tide to the moon.

  “You’re so like my wife in her youth. ‘Bright Star’ she was called, a chief’s daughter. You have her bearing.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I came out to work for the company up north at the end of Boney’s war. It was like the Garden of Eden then, a cold one.” He paused as his laugh turned into a wheeze. “In those days we got on well with the natives, well enough to marry them.” He spoke only to Spring Thaw. It was as if the others were invisible.

  “What went wrong?”

  “Greed. That was the serpent. Greed and trickery. Too many furs taken. Indians given drink that made them crazy. The women used to hide all the weapons when their menfolk were on the whisky. So they tried to kill each other with their bare hands.”

  “But what became of Bright Star?”

  “Dead these many years and our children died young.” She came close, hugging him and putting her head on his chest.

  “I couldn’t bear to stay up North any more. I bought the woods here to clear them but I couldn’t do it. Too much gone already.” He loosened her arms and tilted her chin up. “I’ve had men with money sniffing around here but I set the dog on them.”

  “Would you let us have it?” she asked.

  The only sound in the room was the dog panting,

  “I’ve no one to leave it to. So you shall have it. I’ve been waiting for you to come.”

  Chapter 40

  Cape Breton Island, 1865

  “Did that really happen or was it a dream?” Tom asked as they turned homeward. “I’m not sure he’s of sound mind.”

  “Sound enough to do what was right,” Spring Thaw replied.

  “Who cares? We won!” Iain yelled, throwing his cap high in the air. It blew off the back of the buggy, but Silent Owl somersaulted off the back and caught it. Iain whipped up Maple so that she cantered too fast for him to climb aboard again.

  “Come on boys, behave yourselves.” Tom tried to sound stern, but a smile was in his voice. Spring Thaw caught his eye and sighed.

  “You want back on, do you?” Iain pulled on the reins to stop the horse.

  Once they were home the doubts began to circle again, pointed fins around an open boat. The business of getting the legal papers drawn up would bring unwelcome attention. So Tom approached a lawyer in Halifax to arrange the sale rather than a local man from Sydney.

  He made the appointment by letter. Mr. MacGregor’s face was a study when they all sauntered into his office. His jaw hung open like an unlatched gate and his eyes almost burst out of his head as Spring Thaw and her brother appeared in full native dress. Disbelief, apprehension, and disdain scudded like wind-driven clouds across his face. Then the lawyer steadied his features back into professional composure. He drew up the papers, still looking stunned and had them delivered to Mr. Buchanan. After an anxious delay MacGregor sent a letter to Tom. It explained in stiff legal prose that the terms had been read aloud to Mr. Buchanan who signed them with a cross.

  “I would like to have been there when they fought their way to his cabin and braved that dog,” Tom said. “No wonder Mr. MacGregor’s fees are so steep.”

  It had been agreed that Mr. Buchanan would continue to live in his home. So nothing had visibly changed. Tom began to trust his weight to their good fortune until the afternoon when Iain came hurtling in from a trip into town, pulling in cold air behind him.

  “Look at this in The Chronicle.”

  Virgin forest sold to Indians

  Tom ran his eye down the report:

  The land near Bras d’Or lake was sold to Mi’kmaq natives by Mr. Malcolm Buchanan who acquired it after leaving the service of the Hudson’s Bay Society. The sale was expedited by Mr. John Robinson on behalf of his daughter-in-law’s native relatives. Mr. Robinson used to rent premises in Sydney for use as a photographic studio and was well-known for the unusual displays of native photographs that adorned his windows. Mr. Stephen Miller and his business partners had been planning to buy the forest themselves to turn it into farmland.

  There is a desperate need for new farms and we are disappointed that this land is going to remain unproductive. It’s well-known that Mr. Buchanan is an elderly and somewhat reclusive gentleman. We can only assume that he was willing to sell his land to the natives and was not misled in any way.

  Tom thrust the paper away. “They’re suggesting that Mr. Buchanan was tricked out of his land but just skirting clear of libel. It’s a pity that Stephen Miller’s involved. I don
’t want to upset that family even more.”

  “They can’t harm us. We can always set Silent Owl and the others on them. I’d like to see tubby wee Fraser running away with his backside full of arrows.”

  Tom smiled but the old jumping at shadows was back again. Skittish as a jack rabbit, ears swiveling and eyes straining he dreaded the swoop and snatch of teeth from behind or claws from above. He tried to shrug off his fears by thinking about the summer expedition. He had wondered about traveling to New Brunswick this summer to see the famed tidal surge in Fundy Bay, but he longed to go even further west, to the plains that were being opened up. He wanted to capture the tribes there before their way of life was too tainted by contact with settlers.

  He decided to go into Sydney to buy supplies for the journey. A watery sun had broken through the gun-metal sky. As he hitched up Maple to the buggy he saw Spring Thaw taking a rare rest from her work, leaning against the cabin door with her eyes closed. She looked weary and on an impulse Tom invited her to accompany him. Her eyes widened in surprise before she smiled and agreed.

  “It would be good for the baby, too. He’s in pain with his new teeth. The ride will soothe him.”

  They were all cheered by the journey. After stowing the provisions in the buggy, Tom suggested a walk along the shore. He pulled faces to make Owlet laugh. Looking up he saw a family group coming toward them. As they drew closer his heart slumped as he realized it was Mrs. MacKenzie with her daughter Eliza and son-in-law. There was no avoiding them. Tom felt awkward and exposed. He remembered the comment in the newspaper about “unusual displays of native photographs.” Was he ashamed of being seen in public with Spring Thaw? No, not any longer. It was the fear that Mrs. MacKenzie would never forget this latest affront. He straightened his back and forced his mouth into a smile. The matriarch and Peter looked as fleshy and bustling as usual but what had become of Eliza? He could barely recognize her in this hollow-eyed woman with the yellowish complexion.

  “How do you do, today?” he asked, doffing his hat.

  “Very well, thank you kindly,” was the stilted reply from Mrs. MacKenzie while her companions nodded, their faces tense. Spring Thaw gazed at Eliza.

  “You’re not well.”

  She touched her arm. Eliza flinched.

  “It’s your womb isn’t it? I know some herbs that could help you if…” Her words scattered in empty air as Eliza shrieked, “Let go of me, you savage.”

  Her husband rushed forward to push Spring Thaw out of the way at the same time as Tom reached to draw her back. For a moment the two men glowered at each other before Miller scurried away, wafting his hands at the women.

  “Disgraceful! Fancy a white man living with savages,” Mrs. MacKenzie shot over her shoulder.

  Tom walked away, squeezing his lips together. Had she forgotten how eager she had been to have him as a son-in-law? He shuddered as he thought about the hatred in her eyes. She was dangerous and vengeful. Spring Thaw’s face was unreadable. He squeezed her hand, as much for his comfort as for hers. They drove home in sombre silence and spattering rain. The baby caught their troubled mood, grizzling and wriggling in his mother’s lap.

  Chapter 41

  Nova Scotia, Summer 1865

  Silent Owl dismissed Tom’s idea of traveling to the plains. “The tribes will be jumpy if white men are taking their game. They would kill us both without a second thought.”

  He hoped that Emma would be more encouraging.

  I can understand why you want to use art in the service of philanthropy. It reminded me of Mama showing me one of those medallions of Mr. Wedgewood’s that Grandmama had made into a bracelet. Do you remember? It showed a man in chains with the inscription, “Am I not a man and a brother?”

  I know that artists have sold paintings to help the cause of the natives. There was an American gentleman called Catlin who opened an Indian gallery about twenty years ago, first in London and then in Manchester. Fred and I went to see it on one of the rare occasions he managed to escape from the demands of his patients. There were all sorts of objects displayed, weapons, costumes, skulls even but what impressed me most were the portraits. What fierce noble faces! And of course, there were some live Indians there, a troupe of men and boys. I believe they were from Canada. I read later that some of them died and Catlin’s own wife succumbed to pneumonia.

  Would your idea of an exhibition of paintings and photographs be successful, I wonder? Fashions change. Pictures of exotic places are still popular. There are plenty of ladies like me with time hanging heavy on their hands who are willing to run charity committees. However, there are so many worthy causes that I doubt if helping dispossessed Indians would be a popular one. If people think about them at all, it is as rather bloodthirsty savages. Of course there is always a call from the Churches to convert the heathen, but I sense that you don’t want to see them turned into well-behaved Christians in European dress.

  Tom scrunched up the letter. Iain had told him now that Spring Thaw was expecting a second child, he wanted her to rest more from the farm work. The wind was blowing against his westward adventure from every direction. It would have to be New Brunswick instead. At least he could pretend for a few precious weeks that he and Silent Owl were in the Garden of Eden. No that was wrong. There was no Fall. They were free of religion and convention. How far he had traveled from the rules of his past life. His old self was a tiny, distant figure seen through the wrong end of a telescope. By the time they came back, the fuss about the land sale would have burnt out. But he could blow on the embers of the summer memories to keep him alive through the lonely winter.

  Again they were feted at every village. Why was everyone so keen to be photographed? A photograph told them that their lives mattered, even if they lived in the wilds. But the camera could only captured an instant of their lives. That moment was preserved, a sort of photographic taxidermy, an illusion of life. They were drawn to the beam of the camera as if it could illuminate their lives. But photographs were so fragile. They faded and crumbled away like the gossamer wings of a dead butterfly. And what about the photographer himself? He created a mirage of immortality for others but stayed invisible. Tom would never appear on the other side of the lens because his image could betray him.

  People he photographed told him their stories. Many like Iain had left behind poverty and misery in their homelands although some had welcomed the chance of adventure and reinvention. Others had been exiled twice over, their ancestors forced to flee northward because they had stayed loyal to the Crown in the American wars. A photograph was a certificate of survival.

  As always, once they turned homeward Tom felt the warning blast of losing Silent Owl again to his wife, but he braced himself against the blizzards of jealousy. Better to be together and complete for some of the year than not at all, he kept telling himself. How could they live and love together all the time? Tom had to act the part of the steady citizen, the quiet bachelor approaching middle age. He couldn’t risk the dangers of scandal seeping out among his neighbors.

  They let the horses amble at their own pace once they were back on the island. Tom drank in every detail of his companion’s being as they rode side by side, his supple legs and muscular chest, ripened brown by the sun, the delicate softness of his ear lobes and the ridges of old scars on his arms, like rows of rough stitching.

  Silent Owl turned his horse’s head several miles before home, leaving Tom to ride on by himself. But Iain was waiting for him at the summit of the small hill, in sight of the farm. Surprised and pleased, Tom was about to dismount and stretch his legs.

  “No, don’t stop. Let’s get back.”

  “Is something wrong? It’s not Spring Thaw or the baby?”

  “No, they’re well. I’ll explain when we’re inside.”

  “I hope he’s not worried you too much, father-in-law,” Spring Thaw said once they were inside away from the mosquito patrols.

  “What is it? Imagining is worse than knowing.”

 
; “Thank God you didn’t get back last week,” said Iain. “I was in the town when I saw that old witch MacKenzie. Talking with a stranger, too busy blethering to see me. I didn’t like the look of it. So I slipped into a nearby alleyway. There was no one else about and I could hear most of what they were saying.”

  Tom felt dread, wind ripping a sail. “Carry on, son.”

  She said, “John Robinson used to rent a shop from me.”

  “Describe him to me if you will,” the man asked.

  “Not young, but not yet well into his middle years.”

  “The same age as me, perhaps? Yes? My height? Taller, you say? Now what about his coloring?”

  “Fair, very pale hair, almost white.” Tom held back a gasp.

  “Ahh, that’s interesting. Do you know anything about his life before he arrived here?”

  “She sniffed, ‘A secretive man. I always thought he had something to hide. He claimed to have a fiancée back in England but no sign of her. Is he in trouble? A criminal?’

  “The witch couldn’t keep the glee out of her voice,” Iain said. “The stranger kept firing questions at her.”

  “Did he ever talk about his previous profession?”

  “If I remember rightly he said about working in a shipping office. In Liverpool?”

  Iain paused, his breathing ragged.

  “What happened then?” Tom whispered.

  “Some people walked toward them and they moved along to let them past. I couldn’t catch any more.”

  “But you sniffed out more, didn’t you?” Spring Thaw prompted.

  “The stranger was from a naval vessel, a Captain Rogers,”

  Tom’s heart was bolting. That was a name he never thought to hear again.