The Witchin' Canoe

by Mel Bossa

  For a moment, Gédéon looks at him with something like curiosity in his eyes. “You still think you’re right, don’t you?” He scoffs. “I can appreciate that. Believe me. I too, was once convinced of my righteousness.”

  “If you were so convinced,” he asks without even thinking it through, “why did you have that cross in your pocket?”

  There’s a slight tremor in Gédéon’s expression, but he doesn’t look down or away. “So Hayes told you. That’s fine. I don’t care what you think of me. Get on that train.”

  McGauran holds his tongue and begins to turn away. Then something Gédéon said strikes him and he has to ask, “How would Father Hayes know?”

  “Well, how do you know?”

  They stare at each other.

  Finally, Gédéon blows out an impatient breath. “Hayes was there that night, all right? He was a young priest and he was there at the shanties for a few days around New Year’s Eve. He celebrated Christmas mass for us.” Gédéon shakes his head. “But that forest doesn’t belong to God.”

  McGauran feels his feet sink into the ground. His head spins. “Was he—did he ride the canoe?”

  “No, when that canoe came rising out of the dirt, he pissed himself and ran off into the woods.”

  “But he was there. He saw what you did?”

  “O’Dowd, you don’t know what love is, and you’ll never know. So you can’t understand what a man, a real man, will do for the woman he loves.” Gédéon tosses his chin up at the train. The whistle blows, announcing the departure. The crowd grows louder and people begin to cluster around them. “Go to the goddamn camps and if I’m lucky, you’ll never come back.”

  McGauran won’t let those words shake his resolve. He promised he’d return for Honoré with enough money to flee, and by God, he will. He holds Gédéon’s furious stare with his own. “I’ll be back,” he says. “For Honoré.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Gédéon walks off in a huff, straight for the carriage.

  A few minutes later, after he’s boarded the crowded train wagon, McGauran stares at the carriage, at the black cabin where he shared his first kiss with Honoré, and regrets having defied Gédéon. But it’s too late. The train rolls away from the platform, tearing him away from Honoré’s world. He clears his throat to keep the tears from spilling out.

  “Ah, come on now, mon ami,” Simon says, nudging his knee with his boot. He sits in front of him. “You’ll see her soon.” He cracks a smile. He’s a handsome man with bright brown eyes and a shock of blond hair. “She seemed real upset to be parting with you, so you don’t need to worry, right?”

  McGauran nods slowly, gazing out the window. He wanted to leave Saint-Anne’s parish and now he is. Goodbye, Griffintown. Goodbye, Lachine Canal. Goodbye, noise, dust, misery.

  The train picks up speed. There’s no turning back. He leans his head to the glass and shuts his eyes.

  Lord, watch over him for me.

  Chapter 24: The Cambuse

  Sitting on his thin straw mattress, McGauran settles back into the pillows propped up against the cabin’s log wall, careful not to spill his stew. It’s beef, carrots, and potatoes tonight. Simon calls it Irish stew, but obviously, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It doesn’t taste like his mother’s stew at all. Just tastes like beef, carrots, and potatoes in water.

  It doesn’t matter. He’s starving. And it isn’t pea soup for a change.

  Stirring the spoon around the steaming food to cool it down, he glances around at the guys—everyone is eating ravenously, being quiet, even the Sullivan brothers. A rare occurrence. But it’s been an exhausting few days. They had their first winter storm yesterday, though it’s only mid-November. The snow piles up fast in these parts. It’s already reached the roof of the cabin. And that wind. That wind is like nothing else he’s ever known. So cold and biting. Unforgiving. He’s spent a big part of his survival money at the shanty store on a new wool union suit and better mitts.

  “Hey, Danny,” Benito shouts from his cot in the corner of the small, stinky, smoke-filled cabin. “Play us a little something, will ya? That one about the old Irish woman. Yeah, plays us jig. Per favore, bambino.”

  The men grow louder, teasing or harassing each other, and as usual, their favorite target is Louis, a French Canadian with a lazy eye who doesn’t speak much English and spends his evenings drawing naked women in hats.

  Danny O’Brien, a young man from the neighborhood, indulges them, taking out his fiddle. Soon the wild, frenzied melody of his violin fills the cabin. Danny’s repertoire consists of three or four songs which he’s been playing every night for a month and a half.

  Shaking his head and smiling a little, McGauran takes a spoonful of his meal. The music isn’t Tchaikovsky or Schumann, but still, it appeases the pain, the loneliness he feels. How he misses hearing Honoré’s music traveling through the Latendresse home. He should have spent more time sitting by him on that bench, watching his lovely hands run across the scales. Honoré tried teaching him a few notes, but he was always too proud to let him. He regrets it now. Hoping to hold it together, he swallows the knot in his throat and focuses on the fiddle playing.

  “You think I did all right today, Mac?” Jimmy settles down on his cot, next to his. “I mean—I think I did okay, right?” He draws his knees up and sets his bowl on them, gazing at the large fire burning in a square filled with sand in the middle of the small room. The cambuse. That fire is their mother and father. Their protector. But when the wind picks up and blows through the cracks in the logs or saplings, the men smoke like hams.

  “You did fine,” McGauran says, nudging Jimmy’s shoulder with his.

  “You know, I didn’t wanna be a whistle punk.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna be felling trees all day, but we’re a small team and everyone has to do their part.”

  Jimmy is quiet, eating solemnly. Then he looks over at him. He’s a good kid. Braver than he first appeared. “Aren’t you going to read your letter?”

  Those simple words cause McGauran’s tension to shoot up. Yes, the letter. The second one he’s received from Honoré, though he’s written Honoré half a dozen since arriving at the camp. Mail is slow, arriving intermittently. He hasn’t opened the letter yet. He wants to read it later, when the men are asleep, so he can savor each word, undisturbed.

  “I’ll read it in a little while.” He scoops up some of his stew with a piece of bread. “What did your mother have to say? Any important news from home?”

  “Linus’s baby sister died last week.” Jimmy watches the flames for moment and adds, “But Linus and Rose are going ahead with the wedding.”

  Why didn’t Linus write to let him know of his sister’s death or upcoming marriage? Does he hate him now?

  “And my mother writes that Liza Brogan is thinking of becoming a nun.”

  This time, McGauran can’t hide his true reaction. He sets the bowl down angrily. “Jesus Christ,” he curses.

  “Indeed.” Jimmy laughs a little. “She plans on marrying him.”

  “She’ll change her mind. It’s—it’s a phase.”

  “More like a reaction…Folks say you broke her heart.”

  “I never promised her anything,” he says, a little too defensively.

  “No, I know.” Jimmy clears his throat and looks back at the fire. “Anyway, I don’t understand women.”

  “Give it time.” He lies back on his mattress, drowsy from the long day and food. “And you’ll be even more confused,” he adds with a smile.

  Jimmy laughs again, his face brightening up. He wolfs down the rest of his meal and sets the empty bowl down. “Uh-oh. They’re passing the rum around. Here we go.” He stands. “Why don’t you ever drink, Mac? Afraid the Devil will get you?” He leaves, heading for the cluster of men who’ve already begun to drink and clap around Danny and his fiddle. But he can’t drink. Can’t join in on the camaraderie or he’ll reveal himself. So he stays aloof and the guys think him independent.
They call him Mac the Mute.

  He watches them now, these men he spends his days and nights with. He trusts them with his life out there.

  McGauran pats Honoré’s letter in his pocket. If any of them ever discovered who is secret lover is, they’d probably cast him out. But it wouldn’t matter. All he needs, are the words in this letter he longs to read.

  * * * *

  Later, when the night is filled with the sounds of the forest, and around the fire, the men snore, McGauran retrieves the red-wax sealed envelope from his pocket. With unsteady and stained fingers, he slips the letter out and unfolds the thick smooth paper, trying not to soil it. The ink is bold and dark blue. He loves the feel of the letter in his hand. It belongs to Honoré. Before reading the words, he brings the paper up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Honoré must have dropped a bit of his Fougère Royale on the paper. The familiar green and lemony scent awakens his body and he feels flushed already. Has to keep his wits. He reads, taking his time, enjoying every word.

  Montreal, November 5th, 1886

  My dearest friend,

  It is late in the night and I write this letter sitting at my desk, sheltered in my bedroom. Through the frosted pane, I can glimpse my cherished carré, but every time I catch my reflection in the window, my troubled expression startles me. Then I have to wonder…

  What will become of me?

  I yearn for you, my love.

  Without you here, the winter won’t stop at my window. I fear it sometimes. Its windy presence, like a door unhinged somewhere in my mind.

  Why haven’t your written me, McGauran? You promised me. You swore it.

  Every day, I go to the post office and ask, as we’d agreed, if there is a letter for Louis Hippolyte Coffin. Not a word from you since you left.

  Perhaps a letter of yours will be there in the morning.

  I am sorry for my melancholy.

  My uncle has been keeping me quite busy these last weeks. My head is full of transactions, ledgers, all sorts of excruciating notions rational men deem of utmost importance. And though I have the wits to understand these mathematical details, I would rather be learning a new Liszt or Mendelssohn symphony. But my piano has become discordant from lack of use and my uncle refuses to call for the piano tuner.

  The evening before last, Gédéon had some guests, a dozen so-called upstanding men whose interests revolve around politics and banking, and he insisted I attend. Oh, Gaury, I am not made of the same materials as these ferocious beasts are. I could not conceal my disappointment and bitterness as they guffawed and patted each other on the back—these masters of the world. Some spoke to me, others blatantly ignored my presence. Those who did try to engage me in a debate must have thought I suffered from some form of mental debilitation. I could not find my voice. I could not string together a few sound words. My ideas were like frenzied birds fitting their wings against the walls of my skull. I felt cold and nauseated, without resource or courage.

  I am ashamed to admit this, to confess my dark thoughts, but I am so confused.

  I have such love for the dance of life, and yet, I prefer to sit and watch it. How can I understand the dance if I am asked to waltz along with everyone? I want to write its music, that is all.

  I want to live, while remaining outside of life.

  I need you…

  Fredeline and Maggie have both resigned. They will be leaving for Ohio in the coming days. Fredeline promised to write. She was a mother to me. Yet I cannot begrudge her desire to flee this house. My uncle has been in the foulest of moods ever since my father’s passing. He seems to be perpetually awaiting catastrophe. It sets my nerves on edge and I have to drink a few glasses of cognac so that I may sleep, and even then, I hear him walking around at night, talking to himself. In the morning, dark circles ring his eyes. His hair is always in such a mess. His shirts have not been properly starched in weeks. We have no valet to tend to these things. A cook will come once or twice a week, after Fredeline’s departure. This house seems to be shutting down for the winter, except, I am still here, inside it…

  Trapped.

  If only Bernard had not deserted us. In his letters, he promises to return after his sister leaves this world. How tragic our lives have become.

  McGauran, a letter, a simple few words from you, would appease this maelstrom inside me.

  I have begged my uncle for news of the camps and he assures me that all is well with his men. None have been injured or thrust in the claws of some awful disease. As proof, and I suppose in hopes of easing my fragile nerves, he showed me a letter from Gene Sullivan, your foreman, in which Mr. Sullivan reports that all men are accounted for and in somewhat good spirits, in spite of the harsh weather moving in.

  The letter is dated October 27th.

  My mind is troubled by this, but my heart remains steadfast in its love and devotion to you.

  Eternally yours,

  H. L.H. Latendresse

  McGauran reads the letter again. And again. And then one more time. How is that possible? He must have written Honoré at least half a dozen letters since his arrival. Sent them all with the mail bag, along with everybody else’s. He glances around the room, at the sleeping men. Could one of them have intercepted his letters, read them, destroyed them? No, none of the men have any reason to suspect his correspondence of being any more interesting than their own. Besides, Honoré and he agreed that he’d send his letters directly to the post office and not through the home delivery service. He used Honoré’s middle names, Louis and Hippolyte, and his mother’s surname, Coffin.

  Gédéon…

  But how could he know of their secret arrangement?

  McGauran runs a hand over his bearded face, his heart beating faster and faster. Whatever or whomever is keeping his letters from safely arriving to their destination and into Honoré’s fine hands, deserves to be crushed—no, destroyed. What creature, what demon, would purposely cause such suffering in a heart as gentle as Honoré’s?

  Six weeks. Honoré has been waiting for a word from him for six weeks.

  McGauran stands, puts his boots on over his thick wool socks, and quietly makes his way through the pile of snoring men.

  He exits the log cabin, and immediately, the cold wind swarms around him, lifting his hair. Clad only in his long johns, he walks off into the barely visible path the team cleared this morning, into the black mass of pine trees. Above, the moon glares at him, almost as bright as an electric bulb. His footsteps crush hard snow. Like a steam train, he pushes through the forest, tripping on roots and discarded logs, nearly falling a few times, his thoughts spiraling out of control around his heated mind.

  “Damn it,” he cries out loud, causing a few critters to scatter somewhere at his left and a night bird to squeak. He stops and looks around, the anger slowing evaporating along with his body heat. It’s so cold out here, and he shivers, staring into the black woods. Then after a while, his vision begins to adjust to the night. He can see the trees, or at least, their silhouettes. He freezes, his back and shoulders hardening. There are eyes out there.

  Yes, right there, right in front of him. In the bushes.

  But he won’t move. Won’t run. With his clenched fists, he watches the two yellow crescents gleaming in the darkness. “Go back to hell, where you belong!” he yells, bending for a handful of snow. Without hesitation, he throws the snowball as hard as he can in the direction of the hidden beast. “You hear me!” He gathers more snow and with freezing hands, fashions it into a bigger, harder ball, and then throws that into the woods. “Get out! Leave him! I’ll murder you with my own hands! Leave Honoré alone!” He throws more snow, scooping it up in great big armfuls, and soon, he’s spitting, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Leave him alone!”

  “Mac. Mac, hey.” Someone touches his shoulder.

  He swings around, fist raised. “Get away from me—”

  “Easy now, fellow, easy.” Simon stands back with his hands open. “You’re shouting so hard, we got a telegram
from Montreal asking you to be quiet.” He puts his gloved hand on McGauran’s arm. “What are you doing out here in your union suit? You’ll catch your death, Mac.”

  He searches the trees, but the thing is gone. Shivering, his teeth clattering, McGauran looks back at Simon’s kind face. “I had a nightmare,” he stammers, quickly walking off into the barely visible trail.

  Simon follows suit. “Yeah? What about?”

  McGauran speeds up, his legs burning under the wool trousers. He’s so cold. How long was he out here for? He lost track of time. The sweat on his back is freezing on his skin.

  “Mac…wait up.” Simon matches his stride, panting now. “The Devil after you or something? What’s wrong?”

  “No, I had a nightmare. I wandered off.”

  They soon reach the shanty, where a few men are standing in the entrance, smoking pipes and drinking out of the rum bottle. “So you found the bastard,” Frank Sullivan says, as they come up to them. “Now we can finally get some shut-eye.” He spits, gives him a biting look, and enters the cabin.

  “What happened to you?” Benito asks, offering him the bottle. “Here, drink. It’ll help get your blood going. It must be twenty below.”

  “Let him in, will you?” Simon elbows his way through the men.

  “How long was I gone?” McGauran takes a sip of the rum and follows Simon inside.

  “Half the night,” Benito says, eyeing him over. “What were you doing out there?”

  How is that possible? He was only in the woods for a few minutes. The warmth of the cabin envelops McGauran and he starts to feel drowsy and disoriented. He collapses back on his mattress and throws an arm over his face. From under his hand, he glimpses Jimmy sleeping soundly with his mouth open on the cot next to his. The kid didn’t hear a thing.

  Gene stands above him, looking tough. “Take this extra blanket,” he says gruffly, before dropping a big wool quilt over him. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, boy, going out there in the middle of the night with your pasty Irish ass almost hanging out. But you better be top shape tomorrow.” He shakes his head at him and walks away, his large figure throwing a gigantic shadow on the log wall. One day, McGauran thinks, they’ll make a legend out of Gene, like that Big Joe Mufferaw.