The Survivor (19 page)

He came opposite the trading post.

Should he go in? He edged closer. On the veranda, some men, sounding inebriated, were arguing loudly.

From what he could make out, a second person had been found, badly beaten. Another victim of the same villains?

Head back fast to the canoe? No, they’d have posted a guard, if they had any sense. Or maybe they’d already stolen it. What should he do? Set off toward home? But such a long way. And with this burden? Almost impossible.

After a time, someone came behind him, thrashing the bushes. Without a thought he turned and plunged on. Should he strike for the main road east? He’d make better time. Or just duck down and hide here? What if the calf kept moaning?

As if in answer, the calf did moan, this time louder. James stopped. He heard the thrashing stop. The man had obviously heard, too. Then the movement continued. No question of trying to hide. Just go, go fast. But his knees were giving out.

James looked around, and found a stout dead branch, perfect as a club. He grabbed it and pressed back into the branches of a heavy spruce, leaving the calf in full sight as a trap.

The lumbering brute burst into view. He stopped when he saw the calf. As he bent over it, James whacked him hard. He dropped, senseless. James grabbed up the calf and, still with the club, tore for the road.

His burden grew heavier. He slowed down. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Oh no, not rain! How would his calf survive the long trek to Shegouac in this weather? He should have left well enough alone. So leave the calf here and save your own life? He dismissed that thought as quickly as it arose — this new prize would bring the farm enormous benefits, were it to live. And he had already developed feelings for the little creature.

And just then, down his neck and across his back, warm liquid began spreading. Oh heavens, it was pissing! As the wet urine began to chill, he also realized that his pursuers, being faster and having seen their companion clubbed, would double their pace and be on him in no time. He’d better get his strategy straight. The little bull was letting out sporadic moans of discomfort, not enjoying its position draped around James’s neck. Enough to alert anyone within range.

C’mon, he told himself, think fast. In his pouch, he carried extra twine for the canoe. Make a tripline? Like the cord the Micmac stretched across their path to warn them of intruders. Why not?

He spotted two trees, not too far apart on either side of the trail. He turned into the woods, put down the calf in the roadway as a decoy, grabbed one end of the twine, and tightened it around one tree trunk. Then he went quickly to the other and started to tie the twine, just as his pursuers ran down the path. He stretched the cord tight.

The first attacker, the heavy man, went sprawling. The other, the weasel, ran past. James stepped forward and landed a solid blow on the head of the fallen thug.

The weasel stopped and turned. He pulled out a hunting knife, and came at James. Knife versus club. But James felt in no condition to fight, having carried his burden for what seemed hours.

“Hey,
je n’ai plus d’argent sur moi,”
he called out.
“C’est ridicule!”
No money on me! Ridiculous. In French: “I’ll let you go. I’ll tell no one. You can go back safely.”

The weasel lunged. James dodged to one side, and swung his club. The weasel feinted again. He was far more agile than James.

They feinted back and forth, lunging, counterlunging. Panting hard, James lowered his club like a battering ram and ran at his opponent. Confused, the man lifted his knife to strike. James thrust the club’s butt end into his gut, but the knife struck James on his shoulder as the man crumpled. James lifted his club again and struck him hard. Not enough to smash the skull. But quite enough to keep him down. Damn, James thought, as blood began running down his chest. Now what?

He threw down the club and went to the nearest pine. A branch had been hacked off when this path had been cleared. With his knife he pried loose some gum, stuck it in his mouth. Then chewing hard, he went back to his opponents who lay motionless. He checked them. Both breathing. The first man began to stir. James picked up his club and whacked him again. He lay senseless.

He took a couple more chews and then pulled the flap of skin tight where the knife had struck. He pressed the gum onto it and held the wound hard, until he felt the trickle slow. He closed his shirt, picked up the calf, draped it round his neck again, and went off. But would the calf live through the night?

***

The rain came down heavier. Good, it would wash away the piss. But also drain what little warmth his calf could muster. Many miles before the Nouvelle River. All night for sure. Death had been stalking them and now should finally catch up. Full of doubts and conflicts, he saw the trail widening. He could even make out in the darkness two distinct ruts, indicating oxcarts. Might there be houses ahead?

He had to stop every so often to put the calf down. Sopping wet, exhausted, he had not eaten; neither had his calf, except for a couple of bowls of porridge. Find a stream, he thought, water would help. And what about his tar left behind? And the canoe? At the jetty. It would be gone by now, he felt sure. Too much to absorb. Just save yourself — and your future worker.

And so on they went, man and burden, for another hour. In the hard rain and low clouds, the night was as black as the tar he hadn’t been able to buy. Twice he fell with the calf on his shoulders. The second time he stayed down, resting. What if he sprained an ankle? Or broke an arm? Must be careful. But how, in this utter darkness? Would it be better to huddle under some tree and weather out the night? That way he could impart warmth to the little bull.

No, try to struggle on. The trees were thinning out. More open space. Perhaps some houses? In the east, a pale ledge of light had begun to slide forward under the solid night. Dawn this early? Yes, they were near the summer solstice.

On he struggled. As the light spread upwards and the sky took on a blue-grey cast, he realized this was a made road. How recent? Some open space featured tilled land, and log fences. The Nouvelle River could not be that far away. Hungry, chilled, and worn out, he prayed for some early-rising settler.

He passed a homestead, and peered intently. No sign of life. He kept going. As he neared the river, he saw more tilled land.

With no nourishment since early yesterday, James knew he’d soon have to give up. His legs were giving out. He had to keep putting down his little animal to rest.

Better bang on doors. At the first modest-looking cabin on the bay side of the road, he stopped. He stroked his little bull, wiping off the rain. Still alive, he saw, but only just. He must find nourishment soon. But with the summer solstice at hand, this first light was still middle of the night. Who’d be awake now with a hard day’s work ahead? Well, here goes, he thought, and banged on the first door.

Nothing. He banged again, harder, and called out. A woman inside gave a frightened cry. A man’s voice asked in French, “Who is it? Door locked. No come in.”

“Please... I’m a settler. I’m bringing home a calf. We need help.” He repeated the last phrase in French.

“Go away,” the man said, still in French. “We trust no one.”

“Please,” said James. “I’ll back away, you can open the door, see who I am.”

“No! Go ’way.
Vas-ten vite
! I have gun. I will shoot.” James sighed, shook his head, and set off again. Shame that even here, lawlessness must reign.

Starving and worn out, James at last saw in the distance a low hill that might hide the Nouvelle River beyond. He picked out a couple of decently constructed houses set well back from the road. Surely one of them would open their door. If not, his little bull was done for. One good-sized house displayed the faint glow of a whale-oil lamp. He turned in and banged hard. The door opened and a tall, lean settler with a long face, about fifty, stood in the doorway. “Welcome stranger!”

Before replying, James cast his eyes skyward and offered a quick but fervent thanks to His Maker. “I can’t believe I’ve found salvation! You’re English?”

The man nodded and came to help him, as James laid down his calf. “Where you from? Them houses other side of Nouvelle?”

“No, much further down. James Alford.” He held out his hand.

“John Ross. Come in, come in. Bring that animal in, too. Needs warmth, by the look of it.”

What luck! A warm-hearted home with welcoming flames burning in the open fireplace, a cauldron of porridge cooking, and a wife who looked as if she’d cared for many children. The place gave off an air of kindly hospitality. Safe for the moment. If only the bull calf kept living.

Chapter Twenty-Two

James woke up with a start to find Catherine crying out over him, “James, are you all right?”

He tried to collect his thoughts. “Yes yes...” Where was he? Catherine? He must be near home! But what had he been doing? Oh goodness — the calf! He tried to get up, but his legs would not respond.

Catherine bent down, and tried to help him stand. She kept asking, “Whatever happened, James? Where is the canoe? You gave me such a fright, lying there. I had a premonition, you know. Well, first I found these raspberries — a surprise for you. But something just made me come out...” She chattered on as he sat down again, eyes bleary. “I just knew something was wrong. Well, are you all right?” she asked again.

James nodded weakly and, hanging onto Catherine, rose again to look around. “I brought a surprise.” Amazing, he had made it after all. After the Rosses, crossing the Nouvelle, soaking, stumbling, losing the little fellow, finding him in the dark waters, tripping again in the sluggish bottom, struggling on, then reaching the bank and walking, walking... He turned and began weakly retracing his steps, Catherine following with the baby on her back. James had improvised a sling for her from old canvas, using the Micmac carrier as an example. “James, what are you doing?”

“Looking. For a present.” Had the calf survived? “Oh dear, where is the little fellow?”

“What little fellow?” Catherine cried in alarm.

“There!” He stopped and pointed.

Catherine gasped. “What is that!”

“Our prize. If it’s alive.” He knelt. No, the animal had not made it. Lifeless.

James felt its chest. No movement. He knelt close and pressed his ear against its chest. Yes, a heartbeat. He looked up. “Still alive!”

“James,” Catherine exclaimed angrily, “what have you done!”

“Brought us a bull calf, Catherine. Just think, our very own bull calf.”

Catherine stared. “What do you mean, James, a bull calf? How are we going to feed that? We have just enough to keep us alive. Can’t you think of the baby? What on earth have you been doing!” She was furious. “But Catherine, please, think what it will do! Just what we’ve wanted all along.”

“What good will an ox be to us if we’re both dead of starvation?” She turned angrily and threaded her way through the bushes to the raspberry patch, and then headed through the heavy woods ringing their clearing. James remained kneeling, what little life he had draining out of him. Never for a moment had he dreamed Catherine would be anything but thrilled.

He slumped back and wiped his head. What should he do? Just take the little animal and throw it over the bank? No doubt in his mind Catherine came first. If she didn’t want the animal, no matter what he had gone through to get it here, he’d have to get rid of it. But perhaps she just hadn’t understood. If she had time to think, perhaps her reaction would change?

At any rate, he stooped and with his last burst of strength he picked up the little animal, lifeless though it seemed, and staggered after Catherine, till he reached the corn and wheat beginning to sprout in the weedgrown earth between low stumps around the house. At the front door, he almost collapsed with the calf.

Catherine appeared, basket of raspberries in hand, eyes flashing. “I suppose you traded our wonderful canoe for that!”

James shook his head. No strength to go into all that now. But one thing he resolved as he stroked the little beast’s neck, he would not now let it die. Get rid of it, he might, but right now, he had to find it some food.

“Catherine, I’m sorry. I’m just so hungry.” He forced himself up and struggled over to flop at the table by the fire. He glanced up to see her, still in the doorway, looking at him with real concern. Had she begun to see what bad shape he was in?

She hurried to the shelves, got crushed oats and mixed them in a bowl with hot water from the kettle over the fire. She stoked it, adding kindling, and poured the porridge into their spider, a frying pan with legs. “I’m sorry, James, I was so shocked I forgot about my dear husband!”

His head spun as he sat. He’d tell the whole story later. He watched as she moved to the shelves for bread and molasses. “I found your bow and arrow.”

“My bow and arrow?” He had hidden them well up by his secret storage compartment. Had she also found the spear? All easily explained — he needed them for hunting this autumn, because only a substantial store of meat would keep them through the winter. A moose. Porcupines. The latter, being such slow movers, he’d pick off with a bow and arrow — not to waste precious shot and powder. But was he strong enough to explain all this just now?