The Deserter (9 page)

I managed to make my way ashore from the vessel on which you so kindly arranged me a position. Now as you see, I have begun to take up a life in the New World. The future is so very uncertain — unlike the Old Country where so much is laid down — so I am unable to predict what will become of me. Suffice it to write that at times I am very happy and at others in despair of ever making the life I intended. The winter promises to be harsh, but the people are good.

At this writing I am alive and well...
He stopped again, about to write:
and making a good job of working on a ship.
No, he had better not say that either, as the letter might be opened, and thus betray his whereabouts. Better reveal as little a possible.
In short, My Lord, I am eternally grateful and shall give you news when the events of the future reveal what course I am to pursue. Your humble servant, Thomas Manning.

And then he wrote on another piece of paper which he hoped to send with this one:

My darling Mother,

I have not forgotten my promise to send for you, but as we both know, it may be some time. Be sure that your position in the castle is far better than ever you would find here. That is in no way to say that life is not surprising and full of unexpected joys, but it is also full of remarkable challenges, which your son is endeavouring to overcome with the best will. Your loving son,

Thomas.

PS: As you might understand, Mother, the times being somewhat precarious, I am not able to divulge a return address. But as soon as I establish myself, it will be sent.

He folded the two papers, sealed them with wax, and addressed them. Now how to despatch them? New Carlisle would be the quickest, and safest, mailing point. But what about here in Paspébiac? No, Robin’s ships travelled to Africa and all over Europe, sometimes not even calling in at Liverpool. He didn’t want to risk the letters being lost. Perhaps from the trading post in Port Daniel? No, the trader was already his enemy.

So now he had to find an opportunity to go to his compatriots in New Carlisle, no matter what the danger. They would have frequent means of communicating with the Old Country, and besides, he’d love to know just how his countrymen managed to fare in this often brutal wilderness.

But when to go? And how to get there? Trek through heavy woods — no, there’d be a road, well a sort of trail, but a long day’s walking for sure. This would mean he’d only arrive at night. Take two days off work? M. Huard would not be pleased. How could he manage that? What about by boat? Far swifter, if the winds were good. But how to effect that with no regular commerce between the two communities, though he knew an occasional barque made the trip.

Best wait and bide his time. Meanwhile, why not let it be known to the other men on the shipbuilding crew he needed to make the trip? He must fulfill this promise of a letter that he had made, at no matter what risk.

Four nights later, Thomas was shaken awake. His eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, ready for flight.

His French partner leaned over.
“Calme toi!”
the apprentice whispered.
“Mon père va à New Carlisle. Demain matin, à l’aurore.”

“He goes tomorrow? First light?” Thomas had by now picked up enough French to understand. But was he ready for the Loyalist settlement? Had he prepared himself enough to take off on this possibly precarious expedition? “In his boat?”

“Oui. On va y arriver à midi.”

“We get there midday? Sunday?”

“Mais ça coûte.”
The apprentice rubbed his fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for money.
“Allez et retours, deux jours de travail pour moi.”

Thomas frowned. “You want me to credit two days of my work here to your account at Robin’s?” He’d grown accustomed to the “truck” system, which meant cash was almost never used — all barter. The food they ate, supplies they used, even their simple accommodation, were all paid for by units of work. But this return trip, two days? A steep price, he thought, for just going along in a sailboat that was making the trip anyway. But his duty was clear. He had to post those letters to his mother and his benefactor. This was the only way to get there and return without missing a day’s work. He’d better accept.
“Oui, j’irais.”

The next morning before dawn, Thomas found himself clambering into a fishing boat loaded with several large
paniers
of fish, with the apprentice’s father at the tiller and one French companion. Earlier he’d scrubbed away at himself, hoping to erase some of the smell of the oakum that had infused his flesh. He’d even rubbed himself with the leaves of cedar, much to the merriment of the one worker who caught him at it, and who made rude remarks about him visiting some mistress or other. Normally the oakum smell, rather like finescented pipe tobacco, never bothered him, but he wanted none of it when he went visiting to find a compatriot willing to send his letter. He’d borrowed better clothes for the trip, too.

They sailed on a rough and building sea but the high clouds carried little hint of rain. The wind direction, as had been predicted, allowed them swift progress under full sail. Going before an east wind, they arrived at the settlement well before noon. One private schooner lay at anchor, but otherwise the jetty contained only small boats and their comings and goings.

Here in New Carlisle, he’d find himself at last among his own. But what reactions might he face? Certainly, in County Durham, no one ever just “turned up” without an invitation, he knew that. But he also knew that in the New World, other practices held sway. Visitors were always welcome no matter what, an unwritten rule. But might notices of his desertion be posted? If so, would they turn him in? Naval ships occasionally called in at Paspébiac, but none had ever pierced, or tried to pierce so far as he knew, his disguise as a French carpenter. But they would stop in New Carlisle, and there, among the British, Jonas Wickett would have certainly seen to it that word would have been left with the authorities. So he did face considerable risk. One place to avoid would be the general store.

Thomas leapt out of the boat and tied it to one of the many bollards. He looked hard at the village settled along the low elevation above this flat meadow where cattle grazed, not unlike the commons at home. He glanced east and saw clouds beginning to rear over the horizon. Should have known, he said to himself. This trip’s been too easy so far, and an east wind always brought rain.

He pointed to the rearing cumulus and the fisherman nodded. They might well have to sail back to Paspébiac in short order. Thomas didn’t look forward to weathering a storm in this small boat. In any case, they arranged to meet back at the jetty in two hours.

With plans made, the fisherman and his mate hefted onto the dock the first square container of fish. Clambering out of the boat, they set off to trade with the general store.

Now, which house should Thomas visit? A track led through the meadow up to the neat frame houses that bore the style of the Thirteen Colonies: wood frame, mostly two stories high, roofed in black-tarred shingles above nicely clapboarded sides. Two or three were skirted by verandas, or “stoups,” which marked houses of means — his target, for sure. But how to approach them? What story to tell, where should he say he was from and finally, how did one send a letter to England?

This latter seemed the least important obstacle, for he knew that, in addition to the squadron of four or five ships arriving each spring and another going back each fall, occasional ships must visit every month or so. The schooner at anchor out there might even be leaving momentarily and he’d be in luck.

Thomas strode along the single roadway with its two wheelruts, noting horse droppings on the road and sheep dotted among the grazing cows. Wool and mutton — as well as beef and milk — pretty amazing, he thought to himself, with all the harsh winters he’d heard about. He climbed the hill, wondering how to handle his mission. Beyond the houses stretched a few acres of cleared land with crops ripening in the sun: oats, wheat, and of course, mostly timothy or hay. Well, the farmers have been here since the resettlement orders in 1784 after the Revolutionary War, so they’ve all had time. And support, he imagined.

He selected one of the more imposing houses, toward the western edge of the village, beige with white trim and a grey flooring on the veranda. As he approached it, he reassured himself that he resembled a fine French worker in his borrowed clothes, not his choice by any means, but then, safe enough as a disguise. He was glad he had decided not to shave just yet. No one, he presumed, would look at his bearded face today and see a Midshipman from His Britannic Majesty’s Navy.

He walked up the five wooden steps, crossed the veranda and knocked on the door. It was opened by a gaunt, welldressed woman, older than his mother, with dark greying hair held up in a bun and a prominent nose that divided two sparkling black eyes.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he bowed, “but I’m from the Old Country, and I’d very much like—”

“Well, don’t stand there, young man, come in come in. Catherine, put on a kettle.”

Her daughter rose from a loom in the window, blonde hair in a bun, plain but not without a luminescent beauty, verging on plump but that could be baby fat, he guessed. He put her age at around sixteen.

Her six-year-old sister raced to the kettle, dunked it in a water barrel by the door and lugged it back to the stove. “I’ve got it, Cathy.” Cute as a kitten, full of fun, she had her mother’s twinkling eyes.

Catherine stooped to put in kindling and a couple of birch logs to encourage the ensuing flame. Her eyes had risen to Thomas as he came in but now she paid him little attention.

He stood awkwardly.

“Well, young man, you’ve come to see my husband?” the mother asked, looking him up and down with a curiosity she didn’t try to mask.

“No ma’am, not really — well, yes, in a way I have, yes.” He almost kicked himself for being gauche. “You see, I have a letter that I would like to send to my mother.” He paused, seeing that this registered approval, then went on, “Since I arrived here, I’ve been in Paspébiac—” He stopped short, aware he must not give too much away. “I was told that M’sieur Robin sends his boats to many African and European ports before they get to the Old Country. I’d heard that you hereabouts are British, so I thought perhaps you might have a quicker way...”

“Well, I’m sure my husband will help. A very thoughtful young son you must be.”

A distant rumble of thunder startled him as he blurted out, “I do try, ma’am.”

And in the custom of the time, Thomas was invited to lunch. Out of politeness, he deferred.

“No, please young sir, do join us. My husband is due at any moment. I am sure he would be, as we, honoured to receive you.”

Learn as much as you can, he told himself, for their life seemed quite idyllic, or at least, very different from his French carpenter and fisher friends in Paspébiac. So he accepted the invitation, forgetting for the moment the weather and what it might do to his return. And of course, he was famished, as he was most of the time these days.

Sipping a good cup of tea, which he realized he’d not had for almost three months now, and surrounded by a familiar language and by manners to which he was accustomed, he allowed himself to relax and take in the pretty dresses, a stylish assortment he’d hardly expected in this distant and savage land.

His hostess seemed to read his mind. “Oh we don’t always dress this way, but today has been rather special. Our visiting clergyman, Reverend Mr. Pigeon, comes twice a year, and this morning he took the service.”

“It must be a great comfort, ma’am, to have a real church.”

“’Tis only a temporary building, down by the commons.”

“On the flat land below? I believe I saw it.” She nodded. “So are you a religious man, Mr... ?” Oh-oh, my name... “I am indeed, ma’am, I went to church almost every Sunday back in the Old Country.”

Thomas replied to her first question to give him time to think up an answer for the next.

“Did you now...” she said, as if clearly asking what came next — his name, of course.

“Please ma’am, call me... James,” he went on quickly, trying to give himself time to think. His love of the Bible and its language made him grab the first name associated with it: James I. He should definitely not give out his real name; that was just begging for trouble.

She looked at him as though she sensed his prevarication, but introduced herself. “I am Eleanor Garrett, this is Catherine, and that youngster is my namesake.” The two daughters curtseyed. “I have three sons, dallying after church with William.”

In the ensuing conversations, Thomas mulled over the question of his name. Why on earth was he not prepared? He tried every name he could think of: occupations, Barber, Smith, Taylor, Arkwright, and on to his tradesmen’s friends back home: Ainsley, Alderson, Alford — what about that? James Alford. Nice ring.

In due course, Thomas put himself to work carrying in wood. Catherine soon joined him. An able-bodied young woman, she seemed determined to show she was as strong as he. He did so want to begin a conversation with her. Amazing to him that these well-to-do women — actually owning a large house — worked just as hard, if not a lot harder, as the maids at Raby Castle. No room for pretensions and airs, only hard work, he realized approvingly. The door opened and in walked William Garrett: a broadshouldered man, not tall but heavy with a definite girth and a solid face, bushy eyebrows, and light hair, every inch a settler.

“Where are the lads, William?” Mrs. Garrett asked.

“Gone fishing with Edmund. Well, they worked hard all week... Now who on earth is this fine-looking young fellow?”

“James Alford, at your service, sir,” Thomas dutifully replied.

“English?” William retorted. “You look bloody French to me.”

“He’s been working in Paspébiac, dear.”

“Off a ship, are ye?” William peered at him.

“Oh no sir, I’m from down the coast,” Thomas lied quickly. “My family... they’ve been there for some time.” William nodded, but did not, for some reason, appear quite convinced. And Thomas wondered, why on earth did he ask me if I was off a ship? Trouble ahead?

Now that the head of the household had arrived, Mrs. Garrett and Catherine busied themselves at putting out what seemed to Thomas a sumptuous meal.

“So you work in Paspébiac, Mr. Alford?” William limped up to the table and plumped down at the head of it. He gestured to his leg as he caught Thomas trying not to stare. “Holding Ticonderoga against the revolutionaries, in ’77. Grape shot,” he stated briefly.

Thomas knew of the many battles around Albany and Lake Champlain in the Revolutionary War. But he quickly wondered how he should answer William’s question. He certainly looked like a Robin’s man, so no point in denying it. “I do, sir, for M’sieur Robin. Temporarily.” “And so where do you hail from now?” asked Mrs. Garrett. Thomas had been preparing himself for this question. He knew about another English settlement one hundred miles towards the mouth of the bay, near Gaspé. A place no one would question, he’d decided, and safer than giving away the precious location of his cabin by its brook. “I stay with relatives in Douglastown. They told me there was a deal of work at Robin’s, so I made the trip up here this summer.”

“Don’t know how rich he’ll make you!” Garrett retorted. He spoke with a distinctly North Country accent, probably Nottingham, Thomas guessed. He loved hearing it. Made him feel at home, though William was by no means graceful. Well, men from that part of England were known for their abrupt and brusque manner. “That Robin keeps his people on a pretty tight rein, I’ll warrant.

Those French, they all look half starved. Scruffy lot.”

“Now dear, just because you cannot speak their language.... And if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times, Mr. Robin is not French, he’s a Jerseyman. And a Protestant to boot. They’re all Huguenots.”

“I believe many of the workers to be indentured servants, sir.” Thomas couldn’t stop staring at the princely meal. He’d not eaten like this since he’d left England, if even then. All thoughts of storms and fishermen went out of his mind. “Bloody awful system.”

“Dear, it’s the same all over,” Mrs. Garrett contradicted once more, as she was serving. “You know, Mr. Alford, we all run up bills at the merchant’s.” She passed him a heaping plate of mutton and local vegetables: potatoes, beans, and peas. “By the way, William, Mr. Brotherton came around again. Heard we’d begun our potato harvest. Wanted to know when we’d settle up for the nails.”