The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor (12 page)

When the plates are cleared, a haunch of venison is brought, and good gravy. After serving it, Walker clears his throat auspiciously.

“Charlotte,” he announces in a tone that seems curiously formal, “I have excellent news. I’ve been most anxious for your safety, as have we all—and all the more because of our imminent departure—in view of these various alarms. But now these men, just arrived from Quebec, tell me that we may expect the arrival here at Alston Point of the
Hanley
, bound for Bristol. It may appear within the fortnight but will stop only to drop letters. We shall attempt to make every arrangement possible before my departure, but I have asked Mr. Primm to remain here as your protector and guardian.”

Charlotte nods without speaking.

“Needless to say,” Walker concludes, “I am most relieved.”

Later that night, she finds him alone in the small room he calls his study, where his books have a place on sturdy shelves and his papers a place on a capacious desk.

“George,” she says without preamble. “You must know how grateful I am for your concern. But I wonder if I might not await another ship.”

“Another?”

“You have provided me with an opportunity that few such women as I can look for, that is, to see the New World in the company of enlightened men. I beg you not to abbreviate this exceptional circumstance.”

Walker looks at her.

“Charlotte, I’m flattered indeed. And were the season not now so far advanced, I might consider your request. But we cannot be certain of another ship. The crossing will become increasingly dangerous with each passing week. And were you to fail to find any ship, I cannot contemplate your staying in this place through the winter.”

“Will you remain here yourself, George?”

“Of course. But these winters, Charlotte. Nothing in your experience would allow you to imagine their fierceness. They are a test even for the strongest man.”

“What of the Indian women we have seen?”

“They are a remarkable people, Charlotte, but they are not the likes of you.”

“And the Acadians? Have there not been Acadian women here these two hundred years?”

He looks at her without expression, then smiles.

“You must allow me to assure you, dear Charlotte, that your request is impossible. But here is something I can offer.”

He takes a sealed letter from his drawer and hands it to her.

“This is for your father’s eyes. I think when you see his response, you will appreciate my wisdom. If you’ve been rash, you were rash for love and that speaks well of you and lies very much behind you. The general will read here the sort of daughter he has, and I tell you, he will be proud and forgiving.”

“My father,” Charlotte says, her voice without expression.

“You will make a proper marriage, Charlotte, to one of those good young men of good family that Sussex teems with. You and your husband will be happy, live in a fair house and raise fine children. Could any woman want more?”

He stands, places a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

“The past is done, Charlotte, and no longer to be feared.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
after a breakfast of fried potato and salt pork, the commodore spreads a large, hand-drawn chart across the main table and several men sit with him.

“Charlotte?” She stands nearby, not wishing to be seen as too curious. “Charlotte, do come and see where we are going.”

He draws a finger from the small house that marks their place at Alston Point on the shore of the Baie de Chaleur along the breadth of the bay to its western shore where it meets the Restigouche River.

“Thence, we shall travel through the eastern hills of Quebec to the St. Lawrence River.”

“Why, sir, will you not travel by sea when you have a ship of your own?”

“We save a week by avoiding the Gaspé Peninsula. We will follow the Restigouche and make a series of portages. Once on the big river, and with the blessing of a favourable wind, we will paddle in haste to the ramparts of Quebec.”

O
N THE NIGHT BEFORE
Walker’s departure, Charlotte paces in her chamber, burdened by her deceitfulness to the man who is her benefactor. Her anguish is interrupted when a bluish light flashes across her room. It’s so peculiar she wonders if it is an omen. It appears again, then vanishes. Wondering what it could be, she exits her chamber to investigate and finds Walker outside
surveying the night sky. It is a sight to behold. The heavens are awash with great waves of blue luminance that spiral and dive in galloping columns like a game of chase. “The northern lights,” he says, “the Indians call them megwatesg. They come at this time of the year when the weather is starting to change. Chief Julian says they are the lights of the Great Spirit.”

“What are they really, George?”

“I know not, Charlotte. Some charged vapours of the air, some curious lightning in these more northern regions.”

“They are not spirits then?”

“We leave the spirits to the Indians, Charlotte. Our reason does not allow them. God Almighty is enough of a spirit for Christian men.”

They stand together, mesmerized by the astral vision above them—the safeguard and the salvaged—under the surreal firmament of the Baie de Chaleur.

He turns to her and she can see his face by the mixed lights of the sky and the lantern in the window. “Provided you have no objection, I have decided also to leave Will MacCulloch here to watch out for you. I can see he is very fond of you and feel assured he will see to your needs.”

“I’m most grateful to you, George.”

The next morning, the convoy of six canoes paddles away.

F
OR THREE DAYS
after the commodore’s departure, Charlotte keeps to herself. She twice saw Salmon women on the flats, and Salmon canoes paddling out of the bay and back from time to time. But she contents herself with mending the plain dress she favours most and reading from Walker’s library. There she discovers to her delight a book entitled
The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders
and found a heroine who, battered as
she might be by circumstances, offers more inspiration than the wilting Clarissa.

In the evenings she eats with Will and the ever-watchful Jack Primm and others of Walker’s employ. With the exception of easy banter with Will, there is a rather thin courtesy at the table and talk among the men of rebellion and trade.

On the fourth evening, Primm turns to her directly.

“Mrs. Willisams, excuse me, Miss Taylor,” he says pointedly, “I have every reason to think that the
Hanley
shall put in soon to this harbour. The wind has been favourable for some days now and she is well captained.”

“This is the ship bound for Bristol, Mr. Primm?”

“It is. I would advise you to see that you are packed and ready.”

“I will see to it, Mr. Primm.”

After dinner, she walks out to the shore and watches the long lines of birds flying into flocks like pointed arrows. Walker had said they were a kind of goose, though she could hardly match these distant travellers in the sky with the honking geese and ganders of Sussex barnyards. The evening sky casts a pink glow over the fluttering seagrass, the distant forests of pine look like black columns of sentries shadowing Alston Point and the sandy beach washed by the water from the bay seems to blink in the last of the light. For a moment, she feels the peace of eventide.

M
ARIE
L
ANDRY
carries her basket out onto the flats and wraps her blanket robe about her tightly. Already the season is turning and the air is both cool and wet. She has enough mussels for the meal, but she wants the fat clams too. They’re hiding in their bubbling holes, but she knows how to winkle them out of their lairs. The gulls soar and dive, but she pays them no heed.

There, at the edge of the flats, is the red-headed English woman, alone. She walks with her head down, her English dress shrouded in a man’s long coat, but with no air of despondency. Rather, she seems absorbed by the things, living and not living, left exposed on the sand. Marie walks to her and Charlotte looks up and smiles.

“Do you gather”—for a moment she cannot recall the French word for
mussel
—“food?” Marie asks.

“Mussels,” says Charlotte. “I find them rather good. I never ate them at home.”

“In England?”

“Yes, I never ate them in England. We never see them there. Not in Sussex, anyway.”

Marie shows her own collection.

“Oh, what an excellent lot! I see you gather your food from the sea here, as we do in England too, though not so much. We
do
eat—I can’t recall the French for them, but we call them oysters.”

“Oy-eesters?”

“They have dark shells with thick sharp edges and you eat them alive.”

“Oh yes, we have them here.
Huitres.”

They stand for a moment looking across the bay.

“Such a wild, empty land,” says Charlotte.

Marie points toward the seaward island Charlotte had rounded on the
Achilles
and traces her finger down the outline of the coast.

“My husband’s parents have moved there, to Caraquet, south from that island of Miscou. That was five months ago. Now we stay with my parents.”

“Does your husband like to stay with your people?”

“Oh yes. He is an excellent fisherman and hunter.”

“But he is comfortable with
your
people?”

“André is one of us. He speaks our language very well. We have taught him and he has taught us. That’s how it has always been with
les Acadiens.”

They stand again in silence, each resting from the effort of speaking in a language not their own.

“Where is your husband?” Marie asks suddenly.

“He has died.”

“Oh.”

They walk on. Marie whistles to the sandpipers skittering along the shore. The two women stop, and Marie bluntly says, “You are pregnant.”

“I am.” Charlotte tries to walk on, but she cannot withhold her own wretchedness. She feels a hot tear course down her cheek.

“What shall you do?” asks Marie.

“I don’t know, I truly don’t know,” says Charlotte.

Marie bends to collect the cream-coloured clams, which withdraw their fleshy necks into their shells as soon as she has plucked them from the sand.

“The commodore is sending me back to England.”

“Back to your home?”

“Yes—where I
cannot
go. My father will not have me with this child.”

The Indian woman puts a small dark hand on Charlotte’s.

That tender gesture undoes her.

“I cannot explain!” Charlotte says, trying to swallow the rising emotion that’s constricting her throat when she cries, “What shall I do? Who can help me?”

Marie looks at her dumbfounded and says, “You cannot go home with your baby?”

“No! And
he
will not let me stay in his outpost here!”

“Where will you go?” she asks.

“I don’t know!” All her poise and dignity leave her. Tears pour from her eyes and she reaches out blindly to take Marie’s hands and says, “I need someone who can help me.”

“Stay with the People,” Marie Landry says in her slow, careful French. “We will keep you safe.”

F
OR TWO DAYS
it rains, a slow, misted drizzle that matches the weather to Charlotte’s mood. When at last it stops, the sky turns a pale watery blue and Charlotte leaves the lodge for an afternoon stroll. She has adopted a miscellany of apparel that suits these excursions and protects her from the weather. She favours the boots and had cut a dress to make a simpler skirt, which she wears with a shawl she had stitched so that it would hang loosely over her now-let-out bodice. She had been somewhat inhibited from venturing away from the water on account of bears, but understood from her conversation with Jenkins, one of the outpost men, that bears had other business on their minds in this season. Apparently the beasts slept in dens all winter, buried in snow. She suspects that this is in several respects what the human beasts may also do.

She sets off with no firm idea of her direction, but it is unlikely to have been an accident that she finds herself on the path that leads up in the direction of the Indian camp. And in the woods just off that path, she hears the voices of women: Marie and another woman are stooped over gathering leaves from a bush. They look up at her approach and Charlotte’s heart lifts at the sight of Marie’s broad smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Marie. What are you doing?”

Marie shows her a wide basket with a number of smaller baskets inside.

“Upsoolemanokseel,” she said.

Charlotte holds the tiny red berries in her hand. They look like chokecherries to her.

“What do you do with these?”

“Tea,” said Marie. “Very good tea, but you may eat them also.”

“Without cooking them?”

“Yes. A little.”

She nibbles a berry. It is bitter almost beyond description.

“I think I would prefer the tea.”

Marie laughs. “This is Anne,” she says.

The other woman is taller than Marie and although she wears clothes much like Marie’s, her features are not that of an Indian. Her French is fluent, better than Charlotte’s, with a curious country accent.

“There are still
les Acadiens
among us,” Marie explains as they put berries in their baskets. “Both her parents are French.”

The three walk together to the edge of a clearing where a grove of white birch stands in the watery sunlight. Marie takes a cloth from her basket and carefully unwraps it to reveal an iron-bladed knife. She begins to cut pieces that look like mushrooms, the shape of half-plates, off the white bark from the living tree. Elsewhere on its trunk, Charlotte can see the evidence of earlier cutting.

“Is this, too, for tea?”

“No.” Marie cuts with determination, stretching up to harvest fresh pieces from higher on the trunk. “This we boil and mix the juice with bear grease and rub it on sores. It’s good medicine for sores.”

“And see here,” says Anne. She opens the sack she carries and shows a half-peck of soft brown cylinders the size of a man’s finger.