The Survivor (21 page)

She came across, a picture of warmth and solace, and folded him into her arms. He buried his head on her shoulder as she hugged him, and rocked him, and patted his back, as she had done many times with Mariah. They stayed this way for a long time, until she led him back to the table by the fire.

She rose, and came back with a piggin which she put in front of him. “Rum. We both need a drink.”

He looked up at her, sitting opposite. Her voice had been warm, caring, giving, everything a mature wife could ever be. He lifted the piggin, took a swig and handed it back to her.

She took the piggin, and gulped three or four big swallows, after which she broke out in a fit of coughing. In spite of himself, he laughed. And she laughed, too. He rose again, went around the table and she got up into his arms. “Oh God, James, that’s awful! Why do you men drink it?”

“Well, we don’t drink it that way!” He took the piggin and sipped again. “I feel so much better. Why have I kept it secret for so long?”

“Well, James...” She sat down suddenly. “My head is spinning. I’m angry, I’m very angry.”

Well of course. “Yes, Catherine, of course. I understand completely. You must —”

“— because you left that poor little baby all winter long with those horrid people. You must go down to Port Daniel and back up that river, and get him at once. You must bring him here so that we can look after him. He is your son. He needs our love. He needs our care. You’ll have to go. As soon as you can. I cannot believe you let that poor little baby be brought up by savages!”

James sat stunned. He lifted the piggin and took a big gulp. He brushed aside her prejudice — just her oldfashioned mother talking, and the heat of passion. She’d soon change. Or would she?

“The first thing I have to do is get back to Paspébiac for our canoe.”

“No.”

He looked up.

“Something else is more important. First...” She nodded at their bed.

Their marriage was consummated more fully than ever before, and afterwards, James slept the sleep of a good and just man.

***

Two days later, James set off by land to retrieve his canoe in Paspébiac. Across the Nouvelle River, he stopped in to thank the Ross family for saving him and his bull calf. He reported that the animal was recovering, and invited them down to see his new house. On approaching Paspébiac, he slowed down. Those dangerous villains could still be lurking. He had to move carefully, checking for ambushes.

When he arrived, he looked down over the
banc
and saw that his canoe was no longer tied up. Stolen! Devastated, he continued, almost not caring, to the Robin’s administration office.

Monsieur Huard, the Robin’s manager, hailed him as he neared. “James! We are happy to see you. The rumour, she say you are dead, like poor Jean-Pierre.”

“Jean-Pierre?” James reached out to shake his hand.

“Oui, oui
.
L’homme qu’on a trouvé sur la plage
. We find him dead on beach. But you are fine,
hein?”

“Very fine. But I’d be even finer if I had news of those villains —”

“Ah,
les nouvelles
?” M. Huard went on to recount, partly in French and partly in English, that a group of settlers had banded together and went in search of the villains, finding one still out cold. With not enough evidence to link them to the murder, the settlers still made it clear that the scoundrels were not welcome in Paspébiac and put them on the next schooner for Quebec City. Several workers had wanted to dispatch them on the spot.

“Et maintenant, tu es ici,
and you are safe. You some kind of hero for beating them,
hein?”

M. Huard revealed that M. Robin, who knew of James’s exploits offering up his life for the Indian Chief at the
Bellerophon
the previous year, had agreed to give James a barrel of tar as the Robin’s contribution for his efforts in dealing with the villains.

James was delighted. But then, disheartened by the theft of his fine canoe, he blurted out, “My canoe...”

“Safe! My men, they put in warehouse. Very fine canoe. I go myself, I look. Very fine.”

Once his canoe was back in the water, the Robin’s storekeeper sent an assistant to carry down the tar barrel. So James found himself not only with an ox, but with free tar for his new barn and house.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A month later, in spite of Catherine’s continued insistence that he go fetch his son, James had not resolved in his mind how to persuade the tribe to let the child come live at Shegouac Brook. The last thing he wanted was any form of confrontation with his former Micmac family. He needed to resolve all that in his mind before allowing himself to voyage back to Port Daniel.

A few days later, James was digging out a spring that he had found in the hill not far behind the house. With its water, he’d gone across to fill Broad’s container. The animal’s resuscitation had been almost a miracle. Over the past four weeks, the little animal had grown strong. James kept him tethered by the barn so that Broad could forage for food, and drink from the bucket outside his stable door. Though still emaciated, he was growing into a fine young bull calf. James lifted a flask of the same spring water to his mouth and drank. Above, the sky was streaked with all manner of cloud. Crows called raucously from the tops of trees. A robin made itself heard: a thrush-like warble he loved. Not a soul in sight.

Then a cry came from the Hollow.

He leapt up and was shocked to hear another yell. “James! James!” Catherine screamed, and then silence.

He broke into a run. He soon reached the clearing around his house. No sign of Catherine anywhere. “Catherine!”

He ran to the door quickly, looked in. He came out, ran behind. No sign. Had some villain grabbed her? Was she being raped in the woods? “Catherine!” he yelled again, and stood, listening hard. Silence.

Where was she? Where was Mariah? Frantic, he came to the front of the house and then, out on the bay, saw war canoes.

Oh Lord, a flotilla! Two, three, yes, four loaded canoes heading his way. So where was Catherine?

“Catherine!” She had hidden herself. But Indians would find her in no time.

He ran back and forth, peering into the bushes that lined the foot of the hill. “Catherine, come down,” he called again. “Get in the house. We’ll barricade ourselves in.”

Oh yes? They only had one measly fastener. He’d been meaning to put up a stout wooden bar. But now, anyone could break in.

So what to do? Get upstairs, load his flintlock and sight down through the dormer window? Thoughts of his pure wife made him panic. So many stories: men scalped, women raped — who were they, coming in full regalia? The Iroquois? Had they massacred his tribe? Should he go and negotiate? With no bars on the door, no real means of defending himself, that was the only option. He headed down his trail, pausing halfway to check once again.

Could it be... he peered intently. Was that man in the costume of a Chief in the central canoe his own Chief from Port Daniel? But why so many canoes? Why head so ominously for his own landing at Shegouac Brook? Coming to seize Mariah? Or snatch his wife, to make up for the loss of Little Birch? Crazy ideas lurched about in his brain.

He kept on down the trail — to reconciliation or death, he knew not which. If he greeted them, diverted them, perhaps Catherine could get away.

On the beach, he stopped. In the canoe with the Chief — did that not look like a woman, holding a baby? Not John? He leapt across the shelving of red rock and stood, a solitary figure, waiting.

One after another, the decorated canoes beached. The occupants nimbly leapt out to haul their crafts above the high-tide line.

James signalled with open arms his welcome. The Chief’s canoe drew up, and from the prow Tongue got out.

James’s head spun. What on earth? A ceremonial occasion?

His whole family came ashore: Full Moon carrying John, Brightstar, now a fine young lad of twelve, and One Arm, dressed in his best outfit.

James was so pleased he grabbed Full Moon and hugged her, forgetting again that this was not the Indian way. Gravely, he shook hands with One Arm and Tongue; and finally he could not avoid giving Brightstar a big hug too, as though he were still a little lad, embarrassing him no end, though he did giggle with delight. Full Moon gingerly handed him his son, and he looked for a long moment into the sombre little face.

They all gathered round while he made a short speech, welcoming them to his farmland, expressing extreme pleasure at their visit. He handed back his son to Full Moon and started up the trail, waving them onwards.

His first thought was Catherine. She should be there to welcome them, as right and proper and only to be expected. But was she still hiding somewhere, off in the woods? Had she climbed the hill behind the house, carrying Mariah to safety? When he reached the yard in front of the house, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Catherine, come down. Our friends have arrived. Come welcome them.” No answer.

What should he do? How far had she gone?

He tried again: “Catherine, come quickly. We need you. Please! Help me greet them!” Still no answer.

The entourage broke out into the flat clearing and gathered silently, staring at this newly finished farmhouse and barn, roofs pitched with tar.

In spite of the natural reticence of the Micmac, he could see their eyes glow with satisfaction. He waved them forward, standing by his open door.

They moved forward, albeit with some awkwardness. Brightstar, unable to contain his excitement, ran over to Broad and began to pat him. But frightened by the enthusiasm, the calf had pulled back to the length of its tether. And then, James saw their heads turn. He looked round. There stood Catherine at the edge of his cleared land — the picture of an angel, blonde curls over perfectly formed full features, holding a lovely baby daughter, four months old.

“Catherine,” he walked quickly over, “come and meet my former family.”

“Why have they come?”

“Who knows? Catherine, please be gracious.”

“Of course, James, but I’m nervous...” He brought her down to meet them. “This is Full Moon. And One Arm. Look, little John.” Catherine stared at her new son, stricken by this avalanche of new sensations. “Brightstar, come on over and meet my wife,” he called in Micmac.

Shy greetings took place, and then they all began to relax, pointing at the house and talking quietly. James could see they were pleased.

Full Moon came closer to Catherine, interested in how she carried Mariah: a piece of cloth improvised around her, on her back. At that age, John had been securely carried on his cradle board. Full Moon was talking volubly all the time in Micmac, explaining the advantages of a cradle board, clearly worried that Catherine’s homemade piece of canvas was not sufficient.

“Hold it, hold it,” James said in Micmac to Full Moon, “she doesn’t understand.”

Catherine gestured gracefully for them to enter her home. Cautiously, they picked their way closer, talking among themselves in low tones, admiring the buildings and land.

James held his door wide and ushered them into his all-purpose room. Leading the Chief to the place of honour before the fireplace, James came and sat beside him on the rough bench. Catherine approached, full of conflicting emotions, though her fear had dissipated.

The ceremonial pipe was lit with Indian tobacco that the Chief had grown, as Tongue explained. Catherine went over to take another close look at John. Then she noticed Full Moon checking her utensils on the shelves. Gesturing, she explained each one, and how she cooked with them. James guessed she’d give her selected ones later.

Soon Tongue rose, and the gathering fell quiet. Their shaman, the
Buowin,
who had rescued James from his utter despair, had signified that in a dream Little Birch had come, and ordered the band to rethink their decision about John. Magwés had commanded him to send their best scout to Shegouac to investigate John’s father and his new wife. The
Buowin
had been so firm and insistent that the Chief had dispatched their foremost scout, who had indeed come and, unnoticed, observed James and Catherine at work. His report had been positive.

The Chief now rose and spoke in Micmac, of which James caught the gist, announcing the tribe’s considered decision. They had reached a consensus that John would be safe in the hands of these English settlers. Then Full Moon, with short but touching phrases, handed the yearold baby to James.

“We should take care of him now, Full Moon?” James asked in Micmac, in formal fashion, Catherine at his side.

Full Moon nodded her full accord, and little John for his part looked up and actually smiled. The group reacted approvingly.

James put John down, now over a year old, so that he could crawl and pull himself up at the bench. He tottered over to the Chief. Smiling, the stately Indian turned him around, and John tottered back to James and reached up to be taken into his arms. Mariah lay quietly in her pine cradle.