by Ruth Glover
“Now, Angus,” someone said, glancing at his pocket watch, “do you have some word for us from the Bible School of the Dominion?”
“Aye.” Angus read the brief epistle assuring the church at Bliss that a man had been selected and would be on his way shortly.
“His name,” Angus supplied, “is Ben Brown.”
“How old?” someone asked.
“They dinna say. Young, I would assume, since he’s been a student at the Bible school for a couple of years.”
Brother Dinwoody stroked his chin thoughtfully. Chances were the youthful preacher would not be a fount of knowledge where the Bible was concerned; end-time prophecy would surely be beyond him. There was, Adonijah thought with relief, only the faintest of chances that this Ben Brown, greenhorn, might ever speak on the twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew and the housetop.
The board meeting was adjourned, and the weary men turned their rigs homeward for evening chores, a short night’s sleep, and another week of struggle to wrest their livelihood from land that, some years, seemed to frustrate their efforts at every turn, and grudgingly at all times granted its bounty.
Contemplating a cold supper that would certainly be coolly served, Adonijah Dinwoody’s suspicion—that he might yet favor topknots—became a positive fact, a sure thing.
Quite anticipating the happy results, he clucked to his horse and hurried home.
With the British Isles lost behind her in the fog and the Dominion of Canada hidden somewhere in the fog ahead, Allison had the sensation of being a leaf cast on the sea of life, a speck in a mighty universe, disconnected. For a few days she floated free, unanchored, her beginnings gone and her future uncertain.
Perhaps the feeling was shared by others, and celebrated, for in the ship’s salon a general air of bonhomie existed. These sportive passengers—Allison noted as she stood in the doorway, hesitant to enter and perhaps break up the party—were men.
They were young, they were well dressed, they were spendthrifts. They were the sons of the aristocracy. The graceless sons.
Since medieval times Britain had operated under primogeniture inheritance laws: The eldest son inherited the real property of the family estate. Second sons, though living like young princes and attending the best schools, had no preparation for any worthwhile contribution to life and no guarantee of a means of livelihood. While it was unfair, it was a reality, and it caused upheaval in many families for centuries.
British schools had an obsession with teaching classical languages and literature such as the works of Cicero and Virgil, and the very students who needed preparation for life were poorly taught in practical matters. They excelled at games—rugby, cricket, tennis. They were dedicated rowers in colorful regattas and were able competitors in track and field.
Their code included being loyal to their own kind, but they were not always thoughtful of anyone else; in fact, they were prone to bully less fortunate individuals. Elite, in a class by themselves, they enjoyed the moment, carousing much, studying little. Schoolmasters were tolerant of their escapades as befitting sons of the upper class, demanding little in the way of discipline and getting no more than they expected. In short, many of them were hellions, troublemakers living aimless, useless lives.
Eventually these libertines were turned out into a world as unready for them as they were ill prepared for it. As charming rakes, they were in demand as weekend houseguests, excelling at riding, playing games, drinking, gambling. But as for the serious task of doing something worthwhile, benefiting society, they were totally unfit.
Some settled eventually into a career in the army, while others chose to become clergymen, hoping to obtain a well-to-do parish where they could have a good living and mix with a congregation of similar class stature; England’s spiritual life was in the hands of clergymen who chose the calling for purely practical reasons rather than in response to a higher call.
Most, however, led purposeless lives, their time and attention given over to cavorting and carousing. Besides being an embarrassment to their families, they were a drain on the family revenues.
One solution that had come into favor among aristocratic families was to send a superfluous son to a far corner of the empire; it was a simple solution that brought sighs of relief to worried parents. Once a young man was on a distant shore, a small payment from home each month would support him until he was able to do something useful, perhaps buy land or establish himself in business.
The transition from the old life to the new was luxurious, however, as these men traveled to their destination “saloon” or first-class. Taking approximately two weeks by steamship, they ate well the entire time, slept well, bathed and shaved each morning, and spent the day with other chaps equally unregimented, playing cards, smoking expensive cigars, and drinking.
It was into this melee that Theodora ushered her charge.
“Heavens!” Allison murmured, standing in the salon doorway, bombarded with sights and sounds never before encountered.
“Go ahead, Allison,” Theodora said impatiently at her elbow. “The salon is provided for the pleasure of all of us, not just these rogues.”
While Allison hesitated, a good-looking youth leaped to his feet, raised his glass in a salute to her, and made his way to her side.
“Bertram Wallingford at your service, ma’am, better known as Binky,” he said with a courtly bow.
Allison was taken aback and wordless for the moment.
“Come join us,” Binky Wallingford invited cordially; then he added in a merry tone, “We’re harmless, I assure you.
“Look now,” he said, watching Theodora as she moved past them into the salon, “your companion is not hesitant. And I offer a comfortable seat and good company. Are you waiting for a better offer?” His pink face, young and unlined, was smiling, his eyes twinkling with great good humor. Allison found herself smiling back in spite of herself.
“I don’t like to intrude on a private party.”
Binky Wallingford laughed heartily. “It’s not private, and it’s not a party. It’s a way of life, my dear Miss—”
“Middleton,” Allison found herself responding, lured by the open countenance and teasing ways.
Taking her elbow, Binky Wallingford directed Allison toward a table that was even then scrambling to make room for one more. Besides herself, there was one other female, an owl-eyed, stiff-necked young woman who looked sadly out of place. No doubt she, too, had been accosted by Binky Wallingford or his associates and escorted, willy-nilly, into the maelstrom of males lounging at the table. Her name was lost in the hubbub of welcome that came from right and left as names were called out, glasses raised, a toast offered.
Drinks were generously ordered, and Allison hastily made a choice of shrub—water slightly soured by fruit juice; she was to drink more of the innocuous shrub than she had imagined possible before the voyage was over.
With Binky on her right and a cheery, cheeky young man on her left answering to the name of Freddy, Allison had little need to do or say anything, being surrounded by constant chatter and spontaneous laughter. Whether the carefree mood would last the entire trip or whether seasickness would deplete the jolly group, time would tell.
For a moment she searched the crowd for Theodora, but her attention was claimed again by the antics of those around her.
“Here’s to the far-flung reaches of the empire,” someone toasted, and everyone drank to that.
“Long live the queen!” another offered, and glasses were raised again.
Theodora had proceeded into the room as though she had a destination in mind, a purpose, and Allison located her eventually in a cozy tête-à-tête with a man of dark visage and considerable facial hair and who was rather fussily overdressed. Theodora’s manner seemed not to be that of a stranger meeting a stranger; she and the man, with heads close together, talked intimately, animatedly. Puzzled, Allison wondered if he could be Johann Kryzewski, the man her father had mentioned vaguely as being his contac
t in locating Theodora as a suitable traveling companion. If so, what was he doing on board the Griffin? Johann Kryzewski—the name and the man and Theodora’s attachment to him raised a faint uneasiness in Allison.
Binky Wallingford, the soul of hospitality, ordered more shrub for Allison and something more invigorating for himself, then introduced her to Gilbert “Gilly” Greenborn, and the merriment continued.
And so it was, that day and every day. Amused at first, Allison soon found herself bored, restless, impatient with the empty, meaningless hours spent in the company of England’s finest and best.
Here, in the noise and distraction, there arose in her mind a portion of Scripture she had memorized as a child, a couple of lines isolated from the Book of Jude that seemed, suddenly, to have an application: “Clouds they are without water, carried about of winds; trees whose fruit withereth, without fruit . . .”
She shivered.
“More shrub!” Binky, the most attentive of hosts, called out.
“Remittance men,” Theodora said later that day in answer to Allison’s query.
Remittance men! So these were the scalawags her father had spoken of. The famous—or infamous—remittance men. Fun-loving, happy-go-lucky, hail-fellow-well-met. Purposeless, aimless, useless. Thinking of them, Allison had a strange, hollow feeling.
“Yes, remittance men,” Theodora repeated. “And you, my dear Allison, may very well qualify for history’s first remittance girl.”
It was a daunting thought, a sobering thought. It was a bitter thought. Allison made her way again to the ship’s railing to watch the tumbling seas and the vacant horizon and wonder what life was all about.
Clouds without water . . . trees with withered fruit. Empty horizons. Purposeless landfall. No call . . . no beckon—
But there was a call. And there was a beckon.
“Allison!” She heard the call and, turning, saw the beckon. It was her new acquaintance, Georgina Barlow, calling from behind a roped-off area, beckoning.
Allison made her swift way toward the girl. It was reassuring, somehow, to touch again the one person she knew with a sure voice, a sturdy confidence, a hope, and a known future. “Georgie! It’s good to see you. How are things going down below?”
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Georgina answered, greeting Allison with an open smile. “Fortunately we’re not traveling under sail, or the time would be much longer and the conditions much more grim. I can stand anything for two weeks. And three days have already slipped away, thank goodness. Are you all right? Standing there at the rail, you looked—”
“Bored?”
Georgina hesitated. “No, not bored—”
“What then?” Allison asked, knowing. Knowing very well what had been on her mind and how she must have looked to a keen observer.
“Troubled,” Georgina supplied. “You looked unhappy, sad. Troubled.”
“Oh, Georgie,” Allison said abruptly and honestly. “Theodora says I’m . . . I’m a remittance girl.”
“I see,” Georgina said slowly, leaning on the dividing rope, reaching a quick hand of sympathy toward this troubled young person.
“Do you know about remittance men, Georgie?”
“Well, of course I do,” Georgina said. “But you don’t need to align yourself with them.”
“I’m like them, Georgie. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m truly like them,” Allison said. “No purpose, no goal, getting money to enable me to live as I always have, only living somewhere other than home. I don’t like the comparison, Georgie; I don’t! Those men in there—I see what aimless creatures they are. And I see where I’m like them in some ways, and, Georgie, I don’t want to be. I want life to mean more!”
“Have you prayed about any of this?” Georgina asked gently. Perhaps it was that unexpected yet expected solace Allison was seeking. At any rate, it was the one solution Georgina had to offer, and it was what she gave.
“No,” Allison said. “I haven’t. Would it really make a difference?”
“Allison!” The peremptory call made both girls start. It was Theodora, tardily checking on her charge.
Allison looked mutinous. “Listen to her! You’d think she’d been sticking close as a burr all this time, wouldn’t you? You’d think she really cared. Truth is, I’ve gone my own way, and she’s gone hers—”
“You better go and see what’s on her mind,” Georgina said. “But I don’t know if I’ll get to see you again, to talk to you. Allison—”
“Yes, Georgie?” Allison was reaching across the rope as a drowning person reaches for a rescuing hand.
“Allison! What would your father have to say!” It was Theodora.
“My father!” Allison gritted. “A thousand miles away and not caring a whit! But I suppose he warned her that I might try and run away, or something like that. What were you about to say, Georgie?”
“I’m going to be praying, Allison; I’m going to be praying for you. Everything will be all right; you’ll see.”
With a last touch of fingertips, the girls parted. Allison, in spite of the insistent strident voice calling, watched Georgie Barlow disappear below with a new, faint thread of hope that she hadn’t known or felt before.
There were no words to describe the excitement that pervaded the air. Passengers crowded the rails, waiting for the gangplank to be lowered and disembarking to begin. On the dock, equally excited, stood another mass of people. Eyes, from ship and from shore, searched for a familiar face. Occasionally an arm was raised in a vigorous wave. More often than not silence prevailed, though here and there mouths could be seen moving, offering up murmurs that seemed to be prayerlike in fervency. For many it was a time of reuniting with family members, loved ones left behind when they emigrated.
Anxiety was heavy on the faces of some who waited; they knew what it was to be disappointed, to search among the passengers of a newly arrived ship and find no familiar face, to conclude once again that the distant one had failed to make the proper connections. Would this ship, this time, bring the expected loved one?
Not yet having stepped foot on the new land, Allison felt she could sense the raw energy of it. Looking out over the crowd below, she could see it was unique, not a British group by any means. Though some people represented England and Victorian propriety, many were obviously of foreign extraction. Clothing was rough, and babushkas were much in evidence. Though this was Quebec City, buckskin and good English tweed rubbed elbows, Scandinavian lilt blended with Scottish burr.
Aboard ship, there was no separation of the classes now; regulations were overlooked in the excitement of the moment as steerage joined saloon, as the holds were emptied and bleach-faced travelers from below joined those who had made the crossing in comfort, even luxury. Class was forgotten or perhaps ignored. Were they not in Canada, the land of the free?
Allison searched for a glimpse of Georgina Barlow, wondering which sturdy male on the dock was also watching for her, straining for a glimpse of that well-loved figure not seen for three years. Together at last, they would make their way to the Territories and a new beginning.
At Allison’s shoulder stood Theodora, and at Theodora’s shoulder, the man Allison had come to the realization was Johann Kryzewski. Though the mysterious man had been in the background during the voyage, Allison had caught sight of the dark, slick figure numerous times and always in the company of Theodora Figg. Now he had forsaken circumspection and caution and pressed forward to a place at Theodora’s side, bold at last. Allison did her best to ignore him; soon, she consoled herself, she would be in the company of Maybelle Dickey, and Johann Kryzewski and his inamorata—if that’s indeed what Theodora was—could go their devious ways.
But Maybelle Dickey was not here in Quebec City; she lived in Toronto, and it would mean a train trip to make connections. Allison wondered if the tenacious Kryzewski would cling stubbornly to them as she and Theodora continued inland.
I don’t suppose I can complain, Allison thought briefly
. The voyage wasn’t too bad; I’m here safely, and that’s what Theodora was hired to accomplish. Papa would be so pleased—
Allison stiffened; a strong whiff of Bay Rum revealed that a man—in fact, Johann Kryzewski—had moved up behind her, so close that she could feel his breath stirring the hair on the nape of her neck. Pushed against the railing, she could only endure.
What a crush! Fortunately, at that moment there seemed to be a forward surge. The objectionable pressure at Allison’s back disappeared, the man caught away, she supposed, in the crowd.
“At last!” someone muttered and took a few steps.
“Here we go!” others exulted, and it was echoed throughout the passengers.
Inch by inch they pressed ahead; Allison was happy when, turning her head slightly, she could no longer catch sight of Johann Kryszewski; neither could she see Theodora. No matter; they had discussed this very thing and had determined to meet at the baggage distribution area if they became separated.
Allison’s last glimpse from the ship, before she disembarked, was the dockside reunion of Georgina Barlow and David Abraham. Though she could not hear the sound, the shout of the man reached Georgina’s ears; she turned at the familiar voice, and, it seemed to Allison, her spontaneous cry of joy joined the myriad calls, cries, shouts, and cheers with which the air was punctuated. Locating each other at last, held in a grip as tight as human arms can manage, the lovers met, and the scene brought a mist to the eyes of the watching Allison. Happy ending, she thought, and she realized that, for them, it was actually just the beginning.
The young couple hadn’t seen her, but before Allison turned her attention elsewhere, she honored their future together with a small salute, at the same time recognizing a hollow feeling at the realization that she would never see Georgie again, never meet David.
And so she stepped onto Canadian soil—rather, a dock made of Canadian timber—turning toward her own future with eagerness and expectation. Slowly she made her way to the edge of the throng of greeting, weeping, rejoicing people. Others, alone and with no one to meet them, stared around soberly, uncertain and unsure.
