The Deserter (20 page)

Two weeks later, Thomas leaned back against the wall of their cabin, almost healed “This will be perfect next winter, I just feel it.”

Little Birch looked at him. “It is perfect...” She frowned. “But next winter? Next winter we go with the band, no?”

“Well... I thought we should stay here.” Thomas realized he had yet to reveal his vision of their life together, it had been so real to him, he’d felt she knew it already. Obviously not. Had the time come to explain it?

In fact, the new joy of being together, working together, and with time for play too, had filled their days. Little Birch found a new freedom, she had told him.

Micmacs were fun-loving, enjoying laughter and games, but somehow women in the band always had more responsibilities than leisure. Although Little Birch now worked harder than ever, she felt so much freer somehow, finding that idea hard to translate, for in Micmac there was no such concept. Their whole lives, in a sense, were free.

Stitching the birchbark roof, making meals, preparing hides, helping him drag logs, decorating a shirt for him, she had been working tirelessly, and seemingly happily. She checked his arm regularly, making sure, by means of the herbs she knew, that it healed well.

And he had begun to feel his old self again. Moving slowly at first, he had finished up clearing space around the cabin, then cut wood into small lengths and stacked it for next winter’s fires, fished, snared, worked at fixing up the cabin interior, and then had begun in earnest to explore this new territory of his.

“You see, Little Birch, I don’t want you to go through another winter like that again. We must prepare more to be like settlers, living the way they live, and farming.” She said nothing, just looked down. “Is that wrong?”

She shook her head. “But you know what we call this brook.”

“No. It has a name?”

“Every brook and every hill we have given a name.”

“So what is this?”

“Shegouac.”

Thomas frowned. “But that means, empty.”

She nodded. “Well, it means not much game. And so, not good to stay for winter.”

“And you knew this all along?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“You like this place. You like your brook.”

“But...

“Not woman’s place to speak things. And I like it now.” Thomas nodded. He knew better than to start an argument. But that night, he realized, she might be dead right. For the time being.

So what would they do this winter? He was determined not to let her go through all that again. And he certainly didn’t want to face it.

“Maybe we will soon begin to farm,” he said. “Like real settlers.” “Yes.”

“We can plant some corn between the trees. Wheat, maybe. I can clear more land.”

“Down here? But Thomas, this land is wet. No sun morning and late day. Many small brooks. This land maybe not right for farm, to me...”

She was right. The Hollow, as Thomas now called it, did tend to be swampy. One area, probably a couple of acres, where the valley widened between the cabin and the brook’s mouth, was flat and, looking far ahead, Thomas could see that the land would be arable. But hardly the place to make the magnificent farm he envisioned. So perhaps she was right.

***

A few days later, he came back from exploring to find Little Birch sitting in the sun in front of the cabin, working over some hare pelts she was cutting into strips, about an inch wide, and twisting them into a furry rope. From that, she would likely make a coat, or a small blanket. “I have an idea, Magwés,” he said. “Come.” She rose obediently and followed him up the west bank of the Hollow and out along its lip toward the sea. He brought her to a high point where, through a screen of new leaves, they could see blue waters about five hundred yards ahead. Before them, the hill sloped sharply down to a flat area that ran level to the cliffs. Up here, a great vantage point, Thomas thought.

“What about up here for our location? To build our real house? It’s a great vantage point.”

She looked at him in surprise. “We do not need a ‘real’ house. Our home is bigger than the Chief’s wigwam. It is enough.”

“Suppose we have a family?”

“Suppose?”

“Well, if we have a family, that means we will need more space. Bedrooms.”

“Bedrooms? Don’t settlers sleep where the fire is?” She shook her head. “You will have to explain all that.”

He would have to, he could see that now. “And we will need a barn, for animals.” So much to explain.

“I see.” She frowned slightly, and then moved away from him, making her way down the slope towards the flat area.

From the way Little Birch was checking the ground, sensing the trees, the growth, and looking about, Thomas began to wonder, why make the house up here? He followed her down, and they met at the foot of the hill.

“This is better for your special house, Thomas, more sheltered from north wind.” “But the view...”

“We will have a view here. When you cut those trees.”

He saw the wisdom of her remarks. The area she had selected was indeed level as it spread towards the cliffs and also westward, which he had explored. Room for a barn, and four or five acres in front for an eventual garden, with acreage to spare for feed and animals. The ground seemed fertile; lots of sun, once it was cleared.

He could claim four or five acres westward, then run his property line back, even a mile or more, past the west fork of the brook. Good water for cattle back there and down in the Hollow. Lots of woodland and pastureland, which one day he would clear.

“You are right, Little Birch. It’s good here.” He turned to her, eyes shining. “You are just wonderful.”

“No Thomas, you are amazing, you have many ideas. I just help you.”

On these trips of exploration, Thomas preferred bringing Little Birch, who knew the forests and plants. She found berries and roots to eat, herbs for healing, all of which had Micmac names, not much help to Thomas, but he tried to memorize what they looked like.

“And you don’t want to hunt with the band this winter?” she asked.

Thomas shook his head.

“It was hard, but not all winters are so hard,” she said.

“Little Birch, my customs are different, I want you safe in a warm house, no fear of hunger, I want to keep you warm and our baby warm, by a fire we have filled with wood; I want us to have a settler’s life, with our own land, and our barn full of animals. We can still hunt and fish and snare, and build a canoe, we will even fish in the ocean too, of course, but I want to stay in one house all year, winter and summer. We shall grow food between the trees, and when they are cut down, we shall plough and plant crops, and work with oxen, and our children will help us.”

He could go on and on, he had developed such a strong vision, and the more he spoke, the more he wanted to speak, and the more Little Birch got caught up as she tried to visualize it.

“All right, Thomas,” she said at last. “I trust you. If you want to make your farm and you want your life this way, I will help.”

And he took her and wrapped his arms around her, and clung to her as though she were life itself.

At midday a few days later, Thomas was up at his new house site clearing brush and cutting trees, when he heard a call from Little Birch down by the brook’s mouth. It sounded urgent. Worried, he grabbed his axe and set off at a trot down the rough trail that dropped steeply to the broad brook’s mouth.

He pulled up short. A long war canoe had beached with what looked like a form lying in the centre.

Tongue was conversing with Little Birch. She turned as she saw Thomas and hurried over. “Our Chief is sick. His stomach. They brought him here.”

The band’s four best paddlers stood by the waiting canoe. In its centre Thomas could see the Chief, lying on skins. They were hoping, Little Birch explained, that Thomas with his knowledge of white man’s ways, might know what to do. “Here? Now?”

“Yes, you must look at him.” She went on to describe some preliminary symptoms.

“Magwés, they don’t need me, they need a surgeon. If your
Buowin
cannot cure him, they’d better take him to Paspébiac.”

“But Thomas, no one listens to natives. We need a white man.”

“You mean, they want me to go with him to Paspébiac?”

“If he must go, then you must go. I will come too.” Thomas paused, frowning. He wondered how safe it would be? But no time to waste! “Wait here.”

He set off for the cabin, only to find her trotting beside him. He would get some things, but so would she. On the way, Little Birch explained that the
Buowin
, their healer, had done all he could to no great effect. The Chief, known to be exceptionally stoic, nevertheless evinced great pain. When Thomas arrived, he grabbed his pouch and, on a hunch, his golden guinea. When she was ready, they trotted back down the path.

The paddlers pushed off and forced a pace towards Paspébiac. Thomas began by questioning the Chief through Little Birch, who had become a better translator than Tongue. Before long, Thomas decided that his sickness was what befell a cousin of the Earl of Darlington: gall stones. Thomas knew the gall bladder could get infected, and eventually kill. It required an operation, and one that certainly only the most experienced surgeon could perform.

He explained all that to Tongue and Little Birch. They passed this on to the Chief as the Micmacs paddled on, in precise and beautiful rhythm. With the east wind behind them, they made exceptional time. Thomas soon spotted the point where they had landed on their last trip one year ago. But this time, they headed right out past — and into the full view of a British man o’war. Three masts, square sails, and this time, yes, his own
Billy Ruffian
.

He froze. “Magwés,that’s my ship! It must have come back from Europe this summer.” Long forgotten images of Wicked Wickett swarmed all over him, icing down his spine and chilling his heart.

“Oh no!” She knew about her husband’s desertion and what punishment it could bring: one thousand lashes on each of ten ships of the line. Very little left of his body after that. His soul would have long departed.

What should Thomas do? He tried to collect his thoughts as they paddled around the spit of land to the jetty on the west. His nemesis being back had not crossed his mind, occupied as he was with the Chief and Little Birch. Would Jonas Wickett have already come ashore to search for traces of him hereabouts? But he would have to find a surgeon fast.

Better chance it and go straight to Monsieur Huard. Ask his advice, even though he’d be sure to get reprimanded for not passing on his whereabouts, and not accepting that shipbuilding proposal for him to work here this spring.

She looked round at him, gesturing: what should we do?

“Keep going,” he said, and she frowned. “The Chief comes first.”

They pulled up at the jetty and the paddlers moved the Chief quickly onto it, laying him under canvas on soft bags of flour awaiting transfer to the
Bellerophon
.

Thomas checked, and saw no signs of any redcoated marines. He set off for the administration office to ask M. Huard’s help. When he entered, he found no one but a young assistant. “Where’s Monsieur Huard?”

“Who is asking for him?” the youth demanded bluntly, with an odd French accent. From Jersey, Thomas imagined. Clearly, Thomas with his beard and odd Micmac outfit was not someone this young man wanted to deal with at all.

“Thomas Manning, at your service,” he replied smartly, but then paused. How could he get his request across to this idiot?

Just then the inner door opened, and M. Huard came out. “Well well, look who’s here!”

“Bonjour, M’sieur.”
Thomas doffed his hat.

“Ah, so, I thought it might be you, Thomas,” which he pronounced in the French way:
Tomah.
“I have heard something about you and your Micmac friends.”

“You did?” He wondered how that news could have reached him.

“News gets around on the coast, as you will discover. Now may I ask why you did not come work for me this spring?”

Thomas hung his head. “Forgive me,
M’sieur
, I have been unmannerly. But I have come now on a matter of some urgence. I shall be pleased to inform you of everything, but later on.”

“And how can I help, young man?”

“By finding me your best surgeon here.”

“Surgeon? We have only one, and he left last week on a schooner for Jersey. His replacement is due any day.” “No surgeon?” Thomas was stunned. An eventuality he’d not dreamed of.

“We have a woman; she claims to be nurse.”

“No good, we need a surgeon, a real surgeon.” Thomas walked back and forth in the office, like a man possessed. “We’ve got to do something. I have a Micmac man, the Chief in fact, out on the jetty and his life is in danger.”

M. Huard shrugged. “I’m sorry, but what can I do?” “I see.” Now what next?

“Well, my boy, I do know where there would be a surgeon...” “Yes?”

“On the
Bellerophon
.”

Thomas turned pale. True. He’d forgotten. There would be one on the
Bellerophon
, and a very good one. “Thank you, thank you very much.” Thomas tipped his hat. He turned and hurried out of the office, trying to decide what to do now.

Little Birch saw him coming and ran up to him. “No surgeon here,” he said. She looked crestfallen.

“But...”

“Yes?”

“There is one on the
Billy Ruffian
— on the man o’war out there.”

“But that’s...” Little Birch looked at him with pleading and frightened eyes. “You cannot go there, Thomas. You cannot.”

He looked around helplessly. “No, for sure I cannot. But perhaps
you
could. You could bring the Chief out to the ship. You speak excellent English.”

She looked at him as if he had gone crazy. “Me? A Mic-mac girl? They will catch me and take me away. They will not listen. You know that!” “Bring Tongue with you.”

“He’s native too. They will capture both of us as prizes.”

Also possible, he knew, with the attitude of those sailors to the “poor ignorant savages and their squaws.” One so pretty as Little Birch, well, it didn’t take much imagination to know what might happen.

But there was no time to lose.

He stood, undecided. All at once, he leapt into the canoe. “Take me to the ship!”

“No, Thomas!” Little Birch called from the jetty. He waved back. “They might not recognize me. It’s worth a chance. You stay here.” As they paddled swiftly, he told himself, “Just don’t think. You are doing the only right thing. Just go. And trust in God.”

In four minutes they had arrived at the ship to be greeted by an astonished group of seaman, and one young Midshipman, new this year Thomas guessed. But no sign of Wickett.

Thomas called up, “Ahoy! May we see your surgeon, please? We have a sick man. Without immediate attention, he will die.”

The Midshipman ran off. So now Wickett would be the next face he’d see — and Wickett would know him anywhere, no matter how different he looked. He waited apprehensively in the canoe floating beside the hull looming above. Fortunately, the sea was calm.

Soon the surgeon arrived and Captain Edward Hawker with him. They looked down.

“Surgeon, sir, we desire your help.” As soon as Thomas began to speak, the surgeon, whom Thomas knew and had not overly liked, leaned close to his Captain and whispered. The Captain stared, as Thomas went on, “An Indian Chief must have an operation at once. Would you mind if we brought him on board to your surgery?”

Thomas caught the Captain’s look of alarm. Yes, he did appear odd in his Indian garb, with long hair and a beard, but there was no doubting it: the Captain knew him as last year’s deserter.

The surgeon turned to the Captain. “I believe a fee would be necessary for me to perform this outside the line of duty?”

The Captain nodded.

“So that’s it, I’m afraid,” the surgeon said gruffly. He turned away.

“A fee?” Thomas reached in his pocket. “Would this golden guinea suffice?”

The surgeon stared, then stepped back from the rail to speak with the Captain.

He reappeared moments later. “Very well. Bring him on board.”

While a ladder was being let down, Thomas turned to see the marines’ longboat rowing around the bow and coming right at them, pinning them against the hull. The marine Sargent stepped up and pointed to Thomas. “I arrest you in the name of His Majesty King George. Will you please step into the longboat, sir.”

The four Micmac rose, unsheathing knives. One lifted his bow.

The marines raised their muskets.

Thomas calmed his friends. “No, I must go.” He handed the coin to Tongue. “This is one guinea. When the surgeon is finished and the Chief is brought back and put in his canoe, give it to him. Not before.”

Tongue nodded, staring at the gold glinting in the sun. The Chief had returned it to Thomas, and now it was going to save his life.

Thomas stepped into the longboat, knowing full well the punishment that lay ahead.

Thomas sat on a small stool in the dark brig, a bucket for slops at his side. Had he done the right thing? Where on earth was Wickett? Gloating in his quarters, probably. What about Little Birch now? What about his newly built cabin? She’d have need of it, or would she go back to her band? Of course. And his mother? And the good Marquis? He determined he would ask for a pen and paper, so that he might write to them, send them one last message.

He had been held here since noon, and now he sensed it must be night, for sounds on the ship had quietened. From experience, he knew punishments were administered at eleven o’clock before the noon meal. They mustered the whole ship and made the men watch.

He was glad, somehow, that he’d made it through the cauterization. There was every chance he would pass out before the worst of the pain. But he also knew they threw buckets of cold water over you to keep you awake. British Justice again. A devastating message to would-be deserters, he supposed. But still some did jump ship to seek new lives.

He wondered, when he died, if they would just throw him overboard? Or would they give his beaten remains a decent Christian burial? Well, he was in God’s hands, and he devoutly offered himself up to his Maker as an all too human sacrifice.

Maybe if he got more paper, he might write Little Birch too. Someone might translate it, if not now, in a year or two. He wished he had also taught her to read.

But perhaps a note would just make the wound of his death more painful. So he couldn’t decide whether he should write to her or no. In the great despair that was settling on him, he could make no sense of any decision. In a kind of torpor, he drifted off, only to be awakened by the brig door clanging open. No it can’t be! Give me another hour, two or three hours, to have time to write, and... And then, he sighed and thought, perhaps the sooner the better. It was the Captain.

Thomas struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry, sir,” he began. “I have all my life wanted to live in the New World. To die if necessary, for a life of freedom.”

The Captain nodded. “Well, my lad, the operation on that savage was a success. His life has been saved, and they’ve been sent off with proper instructions how to care for him.” In the dim light of a low lantern that the Captain carried, Thomas watched his face take on a perplexed look. “You knew what would happen, and yet you still came.” He shook his head wearily.

“Yes sir.” Well, Thomas thought to himself, at least it’s been worth it. “I did not doubt for a moment that our surgeon (whom Thomas knew as surly but an excellent practitioner) would save the Chief’s life.” He supposed that this made his punishment a bit more endurable, knowing Little Birch and her band would again have their finest hunter and leader. He went on, “I can only say I am heartily sorry for any disrepute I may have brought upon our vessel by leaving it.”

The Captain nodded, and reached out to touch his arm. He coughed, and said, “Your Marquis, once he had received your letter, wrote me inquiring of the details of your misdeed. On my reply, he was kind enough to send by messenger a handsome recompense for all our difficulties. Very handsome, I must say. I did not know him previously, but he is a man of distinction, with many connections...” The captain paused and looked at Thomas, seemingly trying to figure out how and why these strange circumstances had come to pass. “He appeared thankful for my having delivered you more or less safely into this terrible wilderness, which apparently for years you have yearned for, and which you now so obviously enjoy.”