The Survivor (4 page)

But what should he do next? Who could he turn to? All at once it came to him. He’d worked in the woods two winters ago with Marc Blanquart who had then left in spring to search for his sister, Sorrel, in France. She had been abused by the master of the household where she had served. Had Marc found her? And what about Monsieur Blanquart, the father, how was he bearing up? Last summer he had appeared to Thomas much the worse for wear, hearing of his daughter’s dire news from the slums of Lille.

Thomas soon found his way to the door of the Blanquart cabin by the edge of the woods, and knocked. The old man came out, and after a moment grabbed Thomas and hugged him as only a Frenchman would. Then he put kindling onto his open fire, and scooped up a kettleful from a rain barrel outside.

With a cup of steaming tea in hand, Thomas leaned back against the rough bark of the cabin to hear the news. Marc had indeed found Sorrel but in less than savoury circumstances.

M. Blanquart went on to relate how James Robin, not known for overwhelming generosity, had nonetheless offered Sorrel a passage, provided that on arrival she work as a domestic in his household. The child born from her master in France had been left in charge of a convent, and now she had arrived and was making a new life for herself.
“Tu vas la rencontrer ce soir”
— You’re going to meet her tonight, the old man told him. “You’ll stay with us, oh yes, oh yes, no backing out.” Thomas demurred but was overruled. And why not? Stay and collect his thoughts.

M. Blanquart gestured to the rough bunks with straw mattresses, one above the other. He would make a third in the opposite corner for Thomas.

“But what about Marc?”

Marc had no longer wanted to return to this harsh life. He had found work in the Old Country and would send money over when he’d saved enough.

That evening, after supping on a watery stew, Thomas took the dishes outside to help M’sieur Blanquart wash up.

“Regardes! Ma fille.”

Thomas looked up to see a slim figure with a stylish gait coming down the trail. The girl stopped in her tracks.

Who was this strange man, she must be asking herself.
“Sorrel, Sorrel, viens!”
the old man called.
“Mon ami est icitte. Il est venu nous voir.”
My friend is here. He came to see us.
“Viens t’en!”

In the moonlight Sorrel paused, shook her head, turned to go.

“Please,” Thomas called,
“s’il vous plâit, mademoiselle,”
and continued in French: “Your brother has told me about you. We worked together in the woods, for Robin’s. It was his wish that we meet.” She paused, undecided.

“She have hard time in France,” the old man said. “No like men.”

No wonder she hates men, he thought to himself as she came slowly forward. She was no doubt one of the more beautiful creatures walking the woods of the New World. Such large brown eyes, and waves of brown hair which had now begun to fall in wisps around her fragile face. Clear skin, a small nose uncommon among the other French here, she was a real eye-opener. But she’d certainly take time to become a friend.

Of all the inappropriate images that sprang to his mind, Magwés appeared, and oddly enough seemed to smile at him. He tried to rid his mind of the image, fearing it would throw him into black despair again, but no, it would not go.

The old man set to heating the remains of their stew. Sorrel had eaten at the Robins’, but having worked into the evening, she admitted that she would like a bite, were it readily available.

Coming across on a Robin’s ship, she had picked up some English from the other passengers, so she and Thomas were able to begin a broken conversation. He just could not take his eyes off her. As she sat sipping her soup, he observed her fingers, already roughening from the weeks in domestic service here. The way she held her spoon and her delicate gestures: all marks of table manners she must have picked up in the household of the French master to whom she had been sold. Her slight shoulders betokened a fragile frame, perpetually hunched as though in fear of beating. How he wanted to touch her, to reassure her, to help her truly relax.

Little by little, Sorrel did relax, unwinding enough to question him. Where did he live? How did he live? Under the enormous power of her two large eyes, Thomas found his own reticence disappearing. He rambled on about his cabin, careful not to reveal its whereabouts; he told her about the new site for his prospective farmhouse; he told her about his brook and the refreshment it would bring to any farm animals he managed to acquire, and even, yes why not, inspired by her, a puppy. He told her how his brook wound down out of the dark hills of the interior. Yes, he did consider it now as his property. And then how his brook widened at its mouth to fall in great, red shelves of rock into the bay. He told her of his compartment in the hillside where he’d buried his tools, of his birchbark roof, and of his cedar bed built of saplings strapped together. They talked until her eyes drooped, and indeed, so caught up he had been in her presence that he had ignored his own drowsiness.

M. Blanquart had long since retired and now was breathing heavily on his top bunk. By common consent, they retired, but not before she had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

That set his mind churning. What indeed were those sorry circumstances in which Marc must have found her? Thomas guessed only too easily: she must have sold her body on the street, and probably for so little. He dismissed the thought. It means nothing, absolutely nothing, he said to himself. We all fall on hard times, and we all do what we can to survive. With the exhausting trip and his fight to survive on a shelf of rock the night before, he fell quickly asleep.

***

Thomas awoke to find the sun already high. He had slept long and felt deeply refreshed. But opening his eyes to such unfamiliar surroundings, he wondered where he was. An empty cabin? He lay back thinking. He retraced his footsteps, beginning with the night under the canoe, and then, the meeting with M. Huard, and finding no work hereabouts — ah yes, Marc’s father, and Sorrel! He sat bolt upright. Where was everybody?

He listened. No sound, save for a far-off saw, and in another direction, someone chopping wood. And of course, the perennial village dogs. He relaxed. The silence reminded him of his own cabin. But something was missing. The brook, the gurgling, that always kept him company. He got up, stretched, and then his eyes went to the workbench by a window he had not absorbed the night before. On shelves above it, half-carved shapes of tiny ships sat among odds and ends of small twine for the rigging, and pieces of roots shaped into small animals and birds. But where were all the tools? Only two — admittedly sharp — knives, to do all this? None of the chisels and fine instruments he’d seen in the carpenter’s shop on board ship, nor in the cabinet-maker’s on shore. A real artist, M. Blanquart, he decided. In his old age, too. So much the better.

But then, how much would he make from selling these trinkets to the odd sailors or visitors, or indeed any of the craftsmen who worked for Robin’s? None of the latter would have money to spare, working under the “truck” system. Which reminded him of his own plight: such a tough world out there; without salt, he’d cure very little meat for the winter. Without wheat for bread, without the molasses or sugar to preserve berries, he’d never make it through. The more he thought about it, the further the lovely Sorrel receded, and the more desperate his plight appeared.

After helping himself to some breakfast from the food cupboard, he went outside to gather his things spread out to dry on bushes around the cabin. As he bundled them up to take back to his canoe, a vision of Sorrel flooded him with unconscious desires. Did that mean he was now open to having another wife? A momentary di version, perhaps, but she had led him to realize that if he were to attract any young lady’s attention beyond the first sprigs of conversation, he would certainly need something more tangible to offer than delightful descriptions of hopes and a few paltry dreams of survival. He would have to become a man of substance. A lot of work lay between these present doleful circumstances and his rather grandiose expectations.

The poor old fellow had obviously gone down to stand at the dock, or some village corner, to try to raise money for their evening meal. Meanwhile, behind the cabin stood a jumble of logs for the fire. Had Sorrel made enough, or perhaps bartered her summer’s work, to acquire this fuel from the lumbering crews? He decided he had better cut and split some as a thank you for the old man, who so readily had given of his mite.

As he chopped and sawed, he pondered his next step. He would look over the town today, checking for any possible work outside the Robin’s Company, though he knew little hope lay in that direction. And then what? He remembered his visit to New Carlisle two years ago, when he had met William Garrett Sr., former officer in His Majesty’s Militia and now a fine farmer. He had been given land, like many Carlislers, under a grant to all citizens who, after the American Revolutionary War, chose to head north and remain under British protection. These families were collectively known as United Empire Loyalists. Most of them had come north from what had been the Thirteen Colonies and now made up settlements here and in Douglastown, and many more in Upper Canada.

So off to New Carlisle he would go: seek first William Garrett and his advice, even if it meant making contact with his three sons who had attempted to turn him in as a deserter, though admittedly when drunk. Would they not still want to gain the reward offered to tempt communities to turn in deserters? Might he not still be charged and thus incur a fatal punishment? A risk he had to run; he saw no other way. And of course, the thought of seeing the youthful Catherine again, after their fleeting moment together, was the incentive that moved him to action.

Chapter Five

Thrusting ahead through the choppy waters of Chaleur Bay, Thomas Manning tried to plan whom to see and what kind of work he might apply for. What about working on William Garrett’s farm? No hope – his sons were quite sufficient for that task. What about another farm? There’d be a blacksmith, surely, perhaps two. And carpenters. He could take up a new craft. And he remembered the sawmills nearby. But with it all, he knew in his heart that money was in short supply hereabouts, and no one would really want to hire an apprentice.

He might have to go miles further up the Coast as far as Bonaventure, another French settlement. The
Bellerophon
had once anchored in off the village, which appeared to be as big as New Carlisle. But the crew had told stories of how, during the French–English war, the settlers had begun burning down their town to keep it from the British. They were not likely to welcome him, a sailor from His Majesty’s fleet. No matter, with autumn and winter ahead, he had no choice but to find work.

His canoe gave him great mobility. How wise had been the Chief who had organized its making and giving. So should he return to the Micmac band? No, he needed money to become a full-fledged farmer landowner and farmer, his only goal.

Rounded billows of cumulus hung above the blue bay, and above them, a thin stratum of mackerel clouds spread out motionless. Mid-grey gulls wheeled past, and further out a flight of gannets sped low in formation over the waters, heading toward Gaspé. On board ship, he’d passed their breeding grounds on an island off Percé, a hamlet with its curious offshore rock shaped somewhat like the prow of a ship with two holes in it. Someday, he would explore the rest of what he now thought of as “his” coastline. What a fine land! How rich in possibilities! The slap of the waves, the sweep of the paddle over the blue endless bay lulled him into a false sense of security. Indeed, what in the Old Country could ever match this? There, the sky was often so uniformly grey, laden with rain, and any rearing thunderclouds were swathed in mist. He placed his paddle athwart the bow and felt among his belongings for the last of his smoked trout. His water gourd had been filled at M. Blanquart’s rain barrel. He ate quietly and drank his rainwater, first offering plentiful thanks to His Maker above.

Here he was, chewing on smoked trout, far from land, no ship visible, only himself alone with the gulls, and in the depths below, more riches than could ever be harvested: herring and mackerel, and along the bottom, flounders, mussels, and codfish. All his for the taking, if he worked long and hard.

He spotted New Carlisle on a rise ahead, above a point of meadows, and began to grow nervous. No doubt that warrant for his arrest lay still hidden in the files of the Justice Department. One slip-up might give him away, and before the Admiralty could be contacted, he’d be punished mercilessly. And what if his reprieve had been an
ad hoc
affair, brought on by the kindly Captain, but not really sanctioned by London?

Well, nothing he could do now but be very careful, and of course, change his name. He certainly sported a different appearance: his tousled sun-blonded hair and rough beard being so different from the well-groomed clean-shaven Midshipman who swam ashore one stormy dawn two and a half years ago. And he remembered grasping for another name to use that summer he had visited the Garretts. He should assume that. James, yes, that was the name he had chosen then on the spur of the moment, it being the King under whom his Bible had been translated. And Allmen, or Oldham, perhaps even Alford he had chosen. Yes, that’s the name he decided he must use here in this haven of British loyalty. James Alford. Why not? He must remember that. Even though all his instincts told him to say, Thomas Manning, at your service. Now it would be James Alford, delighted to make your acquaintance, or some such polite rubbish. When he had plunged off the good ship
Bellerophon
after all those years in His Majesty’s Service, surviving war, disease, rats, and boredom — that too was a jump taken on the spur of the moment. But that escape had been long wished for. From then on, he could not attribute his finding the Shegouac brook to luck alone. He must first of all acknowledge the guidance of His Maker. He lifted his eyes to the skies, noticing at the same time the clouds building, and offered up a good dose of his daily quota of thanks: for his survival, for this wonderful beginning, for his magnificent (though by no means anything more than humble) home here in the uncharted wilderness of the Gaspé Coast. And especially, that start on a permanent farmhouse he one day hoped to complete.