The Survivor (6 page)

Will and John entered, and James hastened to greet them, to demonstrate all had been forgotten. John, now eighteen, was inordinately handsome as well as personable, with black hair, dark eyes, and the kind of jaw one saw on statues. Will stood a shade taller than John, lean, almost ascetic, with a flat mouth and thin eyes from squinting in the hard winter sun. His long face gave him the air of a scholar, though he was hardly that: bold rather, almost uncouth. The two brothers could not be more unlike. The youngest, Joseph, about fourteen, was already at the table.

John gripped James’s hand warmly. In contrast, Will Jr. appeared distant, throwing glances all the while at his sister, who was studiously ignoring them. Did that mean he took himself to be her self-appointed guardian?

“James!” John said as he put out his hand. “Good to see you again!”

“Good indeed,” Catherine snorted, “since you both nearly had him killed two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s forgiven and forgotten, haven’t you, James?” John washed his hands under the indoor pump with a bar of homemade soap, and then dried them on the towel.

“Of course I have, John, no harm done.” James quickly realized that he now must fully adopt this new persona of ‘James’, the name he had used previously. He turned to Will Jr. “And how are the crops coming?”

“Fair enough,” replied Will curtly, the only one of the three brothers to have a hint of his father’s North Country accent.

After pleasantries exchanged and much information traded, James brought up the reason for his return, the job hunt. Well aware that on the Garrett farm, the three brothers would be quite sufficient, he added, “Perhaps there might be another farmer, bereft of children, who might like a hand, sir?”

“A ton of ’em,” William chuckled with the thick North Country brogue James loved, “but none as could pay anything.” He clumped across from his chair by the window and took his seat at the head of the table. James had heard on his previous visit about William’s leg wound received fighting in the Revolutionary War with His Majesty’s Militia some thirty years previously. “Ye’d better not look to farming. Ye say ye tried that rogue MacGregor? I warrant he wants t’git ye for nothing.” William sported a belly and a bluff manner common to the tough northerners of Great Britain. His grey hair was cut short, his hands large, the hands of a farmer. “And that John Gilchrist came here on the
Brig Polly
with me, he did. He’d never part with his money for another helper. He’s got sons enough.”

“That’s about it, sir,” James said.

“Now listen, there’s not a lot of paying work anywhere on the Coast, once you pass up that rogue Charles Robin.”

“But,” James began hesitantly, as Mrs. Garrett placed heaping plates down for her sons, “New Carlisle seems a thriving community. Surely there must be some openings...”

William shook his head, and hammered out a brief grace: “God bless the lot of us and this fine table of food, and keep us mindful of Your presence in all things we do. Amen.”

The others repeated Amen, and tucked in. “What about the sawmill?” Mrs. Garrett finally sat down at the opposite end of the rough table, closer to the fire.

“What about it?” William growled.

“We do have a part interest in it.”

“Sawmill’s working just fine, luv. We don’t want to interfere with old Hall and the way he runs it, now do we?” Be bold, thought James: nothing ventured, nothing gained. “But perhaps, sir, someone eager and hard working such as myself might help him expand his operation. I’m not afraid of long hours, neither.”

William threw him a hard look, but said nothing. James noticed Will Jr.’s eyes went to his father, but he too kept silent. What was going on?

Catherine seemed about to speak, and then said nothing.

John lifted his head, mouth full of vegetables. “He can try, surely Father, can’t he? Might do old Hall a lot of good, to have a dynamic Britisher there. The others are all French.” He grinned at James.

“That’s all he can find,” William mumbled sourly.

“It’s back in the woods a good ways,” Will ventured, and then looked at his mother. “Very out of the way.”

Mrs. Garrett caught his look and paused, as William Sr. nodded absently, and mumbled, “Aye, might be better than nothing.”

“Could you not write him a letter on behalf of our young guest?” Mrs. Garrett wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“We mustn’t meddle, mind. Old Hall’s been clear on that one.”

“But dear, it’s so out of the way...” She glanced meaningfully at Catherine. “And Mr. Alford might not mind living that far out from New Carlisle.” William frowned, apparently trying to decipher his wife’s devious mind.

“It’s not meddling, Father.” Catherine spoke up at last. “It’s just giving Mr. Hall notice. Enlightening him on prospective employees. Surely we owe James that, after our family nearly had him flogged to death. If he wanted to go off tonight to take the letter... I could show him the trail, after dinner.”

“I doubt anyone should go up that dreadful path after dark.”

James looked up. “I’m not afraid of the dark, Mrs. Garrett. In fact, I rather like it.”

“Pretty dangerous these days, James,” the elder Garrett added. “Good many villains hereabouts. They think nothing of preying on poor passersby. Have to be careful, I’m sorry to say.”

“Aye, no telling what’s happened to New Carlisle these days,” John offered. “Lots of lawlessness about.”

“It’s perfectly safe in the village,” Catherine said. “I’ll just show him the entrance to the trail. It’s not so easy to find.”

“Now Catherine, what would Billy say to that?” her father demanded.

“It’s none of Billy’s business,” she retorted, colouring.

“I’d say it’s all his business, now that you two are betrothed.”

James lifted his head. What? Betrothed? Could that be true?

Catherine cast down her eyes as Eleanor spoke up. “Yes, isn’t it exciting? Only last week William went off to meet Mr. Brotherton, and they concluded a nice arrangement. The Brothertons, you know, are one of the better families in New Carlisle. He’s a Justice of the Peace, with large holdings.” She paused. “It would be so nice for both of us.”

“Well,” James said in a calm voice, summoning every reserve of self-restraint. “I do hope you will be very happy, Catherine.”

But for some reason, he felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his world.

***

Here he was, heading into the unknown again. But there was still plenty of light this late in the evening to see his way, being not long after the summer solstice. The track to the mill was scarcely large enough for a horse and cart, James thought, difficult for a team with a heavy load. However did they get the lumber over this rutted track between these thick trees? And then how did they get the sawn boards back down?

After the Garretts’ warnings, James began to be nervous. These sturdy twoand three-foot trunks appeared larger than in his Hollow: above, their interlocking branches blocked out the low sun, making the roadway ahead somewhat menacing. He kept his ears tuned, but all he could hear was the occasional crow, or moose bird, that would startle him with a scream as it swooped past. His practised eye picked out disused tracks, and former pathways of smaller game. The cart tracks were not fresh either. He knew the workers slept at the mill, so there’d be few passersby. Truly, he was here alone and undefended.

Too bad that in this land of plenty, some wretches resorted to banditry, a role assigned to highwaymen back in the Old Country. He remained on guard, but he’d left his flintlock back at the cabin, and carried only his knife in the Micmac pouch around his neck. How much good would that be?

As it grew darker, he began to doubt the wisdom of this expedition, every sense alert. And before too long, he heard the whine of the saw in the distance. He quickened his pace. Coming around a bend he saw the low, grey, hunched building, its weathered form somehow inviting. The river had narrowed at this point for the mill dam to reach across. The sluiceway ran with swift water, turning the paddle wheel. Two men, with long handled pick-poles, or pikes, actually walked on floating logs. He marvelled at their agility — not for him, he knew. Mr. Hall was certainly squeezing every last drop out of the daylight. Hard to make a go of it in these tough times, with little money changing hands.

He leaned against the rough boards of the building and watched the saw sing its way through log after log. Neat stacks of pale yellow boards lay beside an ever-growing pile of sawdust at one edge of the woods. The throb of the pulleys beat in his ears, a sound he decided he liked. It would slow its beat as the saw bit into a heavy log and then speed up again after it sliced off a board.

He went to look under the mill. Beneath the uneven flooring, a lad, an urchin really, wheelbarrowed sawdust onto a pile spreading into the trees. He seemed no older than little Eleanor, or perhaps just skinny so that he only looked young. After dumping the load, he turned to see James, and waved cheerfully.

James wandered over and the lad stuck out his hand. “Hello mister,” he said. “I’m Ben.”

“And I’m James, my lad. Are you the son of Mr. Hall?” That did seem unlikely, with those ragged trousers and skimpy shirt, and more especially, a swarthy skin that could perhaps have only been darkened by the sun. But an urchin for sure.

“Oh no, sir, I came here because Mr. Hall gives me a good meal or two every day. And you know, sir, last week he started even to pay! I get me a shilling a week.” He held up his first coin with glee.

“And you like your work?” asked James.

“Of course, sir.”

“I’m sure you do. Out here in the woods, no one to trouble you to, and no school to go to either.”

“Well, there’s a school in New Carlisle, sir,” Ben replied, “and a schoolmaster, old Mr. Hobson, but you have to pay for books and such, and I...”

“Your parents don’t have the money?” James asked.

“No sir, no parents.”

James absorbed the fact: an orphan, here, working in the mill. But then, he knew of plenty of stories of London’s orphans — pickpockets and prostitutes. So perhaps this lad was not so badly off.

“Well, Ben,” James volunteered on the spur of the moment, “I’ll see what I can do about teaching you your L M N O P’s.”

“Oh, no thank you, sir. All them learning and books — I got no time for that. I gotta earn me money.”

“Ben, you can still earn your money. Just maybe in the evenings —”

“Evenings, sir? I don’t have no oil lamp nor candle in me tent. How’ll I see?”

“Well, maybe I can buy us a candle,” James said. “But hold on, I don’t even know if I’ll be working here.”

“Well, sir, you look like a strong man and you look like you’ve had education. I bet he hires you. He needs a good Number Two man, Mr. Hall does. I’ve noticed that.”

“Oh you have, have you?” James offered. Smart little devil, he thought. No problem to teach him reading and writing. Another reason to hope for the job.

Chapter Seven

As darkness fell, the work stopped. James, with his heart in his mouth and a prayer on his lips, strode into the open end of the mill where the logs were brought in off the river. James selected one man who from his bearing and look — a vigorous short fellow with large ears — must be the owner. “Excuse me, Mr. Hall, sir!”

The man stopped and took James in with a long suspicious look. “What can I do for ye? Come to buy lumber?”

“No sir, in fact, I was looking for work.” James spoke firmly even though he felt anything but firm.

“Were ye now?” Mr. Hall gestured for the lantern which one of his men had taken down from its hook on a low beam. “Thank ya, ’Ti-Pete.”

James noticed his worn trousers and torn shirt, out at the elbows. Not the look of a rich man, he thought, but then, that was applying Old World standards. Here, clothing meant nothing. He liked that.

“Yes, I am, sir,” James added in affirmation, though he hated to push himself. “I’m a hard worker, not afraid of any task. Trained in the British Navy,” he added, and then bit his tongue.

“Well,” said Mr. Hall, eying him from under bushy eyebrows, “we’ll see about that. We work from daylight to dusk. Them’s long days now, summer time and all.”

“Long days for sure,” agreed James, “as I can see now. But that’s just what I need. I would welcome a spell of good hard work.” Especially with the news he had just heard back at the Garretts’ about Catherine being taken forever, this might get his mind off that piece of ill fortune.

The millwright drew on his pipe and studied James in the low light of a lantern.

“I brought you this letter.” James took it from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who’s it from?”

“Mr. Garrett. He thinks I might be of some use, I believe.”

“Does he now?” Mr. Hall took the folded parchment, and tore it in pieces. “So William thinks he’ll plant the spy in my camp, does he?” He turned with his lantern as though the interview were at an end.

“A spy, sir?” James added quickly, following. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Don’t ye now?” Hall stopped and looked back at him. James’s mind tried to fathom what was being said. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hall, but I just do not see what you are telling me.”