The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor (24 page)

“Fie, William! You mustn’t speak so!”

“I’m afraid for you, Charlotte.”

W
HEN
W
ISHART HAD LOADED
the handcart to the top with his previous year’s potatoes and turnips and a small sack of half-grown onions and cabbage, they pull it together from the boat to the house. Charlotte opens the sacks to the air. A pronounced smell of mould wafts out. She pulls out several specimens.

“It appears a little life remains in most of them,” she observes. “I’ll make a soup tonight with pork and my new parsley. Will you stay to dinner with us, William?”

“No, Charlotte, there is something else to tell ye.”

“Is it John?”

“No, the captain is a man at home with hazards and I think ye should have nary a fear for his safety. The
Hunter
is in the bay.”

“The
Hunter?”

“Captain Boyle come from Halifax with all arrangements for the registration of the lands.”

“The governor now deigns to acknowledge us here?”

“The governor? Were you not aware then that the rogue, Legge, is recalled to London?”

“I was indeed. But our masters in London have sent us another better man, have they not?”

“You run behind the times, Charlotte. There’s more news with every ship. Our masters in London have not sent us another and better man. This Legge remains governor. Though now residing in England.”

Wishart sits on the blanket where Elizabeth plays and puffs his pipe into life.

“So Legge governs us from England?”

He nods. “I should think it worth his life to appear again in Nova Scotia. And Whitehall has forced the resignation of Michael Francklin as lieutenant-governor. He was an honest Englishman and one who had nearly won the loyalty of the Indians. Now in his place they’ve put our lives under one Admiral Aruthnot, a proven blunderer advanced to commander of His Majesty’s Royal Navy on this continent. By God, a man might blush to think of these stumblings.

“But for all this there’s news for us—or some of us. Captain Boyle has come with the authority of the governor’s minions in Halifax. Eight persons here on the banks are properly registered. You and John are included.”

“I’m glad of it, then. For aught we knew, with their many high purposes, they might have forgotten us entirely.”

“Alex and I are not among the chosen.”

“How can that be, William? You have been settled and working your fishery these several years.”

“Ay, but we didn’t stake an official claim to our lots and this is the consequence.”

“Did you and your brother not apprehend that life here is all about these lots? Land and owning land is the constant subject.”

“To be sure, to be sure. We thought our presence was enough
for now, as perhaps it might have proved. No matter, we are off and finished with it for now.”

“How will it be done then with this Captain Boyle?”

“This river is so dangerous, Boyle must actively patrol the bay, as does Captain Harvey on the
Viper
. He’s sent a fellow named Plumnell in his stead. Some have met with him already, but you must meet him at the Murdoch place, since it is the nearest to the bay. That is my chief reason for coming to you now.”

“You’re most kind, William. When will this Plumnell be there?”

“Tonight. He seems anxious to rejoin the
Hunter
so he can scamper back to Halifax. There’s great anxiety everywhere. You can well imagine, no employee of the government chooses easily to risk his skin. We should depart forthwith.”

“Let me gather what I’ll need for the children.”

S
HE HAS NO GREAT AFFECTION
for the sea, but a boat on the river on a bright, late afternoon with a good breeze is a different thing altogether. She looks back with unalloyed pleasure at the house as it diminishes with distance, admires the broad swath of cleared land, the tidiness of the garden, the woodpile, the outbuilding, the seemly rise of wooded slope beyond. There is my world, she thinks. There is what I have made with my husband and there is where we shall build and grow.

In midstream, they drift downriver until the Murdochs’ house comes into view. It is a grand if ramshackle affair—the brief shelter and place of work for a company of departed loggers—and it perches on a considerable lot of five hundred acres on the curve of land where the river debouches into Miramichi Bay across from Bartibog Island. John Murdoch himself—with his mild, thoughtful eyes, ruddy, red-veined
cheeks, high brow and fair, thinning hair—was quickly recognized as a steady and upright individual. The jutting nose of land he occupies was soon called Murdoch’s Point in recognition of this—and of the size of his family.

Past the house and around Murdoch’s Point is a Mi’kmaq summer encampment. When the Murdochs had first arrived, and before the recent commotions stirred by rebel privateers, Janet Murdoch had made it clear to any who would listen that there was much of value to be learned from the natives. This was hardly lost on Charlotte, but though she had longed to visit the camp, the strong opinions held by her husband, and the fact of her having no grown children at home, had kept her from doing so. Janet had gone herself with her daughter Mary and Mary’s husband, John Malcolm. They reported the natives cautious but friendly and that there was nothing to suggest they intended mischief, though they had complained of mistreatment by British soldiers and sailors. Yet as news of Indian attacks spread along the river, less heed is paid to Janet Murdoch’s soft regard for the Mi’kmaq, and Charlotte sees little wisdom in making her own opinion more widely known.

John Murdoch had done much to improve the house, with bedrooms in the upper storey and glass windows in every wall. And in fairness to Janet Murdoch, Wishart’s reservations notwithstanding, she had played her part despite a most unpromising beginning. Her appearance upon their arrival the previous year had remained a source a covert mirth in the vicinity of Blake Brook: the polished riding boots, the quilted dress—admittedly a very good dress—with its embroidered apron of what may actually have been Spitalfield silk, topped, as it were, with a properly plumed bonnet. But poor, thin-lipped Janet Murdoch was not seen in those clothes again.

The Murdochs had not been long on the banks when stories of their origins caught up with them. Janet, the daughter of a good family in Banffshire, had eloped with her father’s coachman, a bit of gossip that secretly thrilled Charlotte. They had first kept a store on St. John Island, but John Murdoch wanted land—the preserve of privilege in the Old World and the birthright of the poor in the New World. The Murdochs brought nine children—three sons and six daughters—to the settlement, and Janet did indeed lift a hoe to feed them.

A
LBERT
P
LUMNELL
has made himself comfortable at the Murdochs’ expense, an arrangement in which John Murdoch apparently sees some advantage. Plumnell is a rotund, bespectacled man who might have been groomed for his role as official errand runner and clearly relishes the dispensing of fates. Eight families are recipients of official allocations, with each to receive a half-mile of river frontage, the depths to vary according to the allocation.

“Ah,” says Plumnell when Charlotte enters with the baby John asleep in her arms and Wishart behind her, carrying Elizabeth. “This then is the renowned Mrs. Blake.”

Not one to dodge a challenge, she replies curtly, “I hope my renown is of the proper sort.”

Greetings are exchanged between neighbours and the necessary introductions completed. The whole Murdoch family is present except for the eldest child, Mary, who had recently married John Malcolm and they had built their own small cabin farther along the bank and at a distance from the water. In their place are two dewy youths just come up from New Hampshire to work for them, James Doone and Douglas Rose.

Plumnell makes much of opening ledgers and shuffling documents, then adjusts his spectacles.

“As I have informed the others, Mrs. Blake, I act here for Captain Boyle and on behalf of His Majesty’s government at Halifax. I have John Blake, who is your husband, registered as the first settler on the Miramichi. Mr. Alexander Henderson, whom I understand I am to expect presently, is the second.” He shuffles some more, looks up. “Captain Blake is absent, I gather.”

“He’s in the West Indies,” Charlotte says.

“Is he? I had thought otherwise, madam. Well, you shall convey all to him, I’m sure. Three hundred acres are registered to Captain John Blake and to yourself, madam, as his wife. You are listed here as the third settler on the banks.”

“I was so.”

“In my opinion, madam, the Miramichi River is unsuitable to be inhabited by women.”

“Is that what you think, sir? Whom shall it be inhabited by?”

“By men equipped for its dangers. Women should find their place only when these wildernesses are tamed. I have told these others so.”

“Have you consulted with the men in this matter, sir?”

Plumnell looks at her sharply over his spectacles.

“Madam?”

“Are other men in agreement with you, that they should be without the company of women so as to comply with your theories?”

“I do not understand you, madam.”

“Here, Charlotte.” John Murdoch intervenes. “See the maps Mr. Plumnell has brought.”

“Hush!” Janet Murdoch says suddenly, a plate of boiled eggs
and green onions still in her hands “There’s someone at the landing.”

“Is there?” William Wishart laughs, though thinly. “How can you tell? ’Tis getting dark, Janet.”

John Murdoch laughs too.

“Oh, she’s a hare, she is, our Janet. She can hear the birds break wind in the trees, can you not, my dear?”

But Janet remains where she had first stopped. “They’re coming up,” she says.

The men push their chairs back from the table. John Murdoch crosses to the hearth and takes his musket in his hand.

“I’m quite certain ’tis none but Alex Henderson,” Wishart says, but he looks keenly from face to face.

Murdoch opens the door. They all see the lantern approaching from the river.

“Halloo!” Murdoch calls.

“Halloo!” a voice responds.

“Ha!” cries Wishart. “ ’Tis the bold gentleman himself ! Throw wide the door and hide the rum!”

“He’s running,” says Janet Murdoch.

They gather at the door as he bursts into their midst.

“Shut the door, by God!” he pants. “Let no light from the window to the river!”

“What is it?” Murdoch and the whole company stand back a pace and look as Alexander Henderson slumps into the first chair.

“Alarm, gentlemen! Alarm!”

“Children!” Janet Murdoch sweeps around the room like a brood hen. “Quickly,” she tells them. “Extinguish the light.”

“To the river,” says Henderson. “They’ll come on the river.”

“Is it the rebel privateers, man?” Wishart asks.

“I think not, Willy. I think not. I was just returning by boat from the forks when I came upon them. They were burning Robbie Buchanan’s mill and I saw their bodies painted and saw the dancing devils and the fire. I drifted by, my heart almost stopped in my breast, but they ne’er saw me, they were so intent.”

“My God!” Charlotte steps back. “What of Robbie?”

“I know not. Fled, I hope. I came here straightaway.”

“Oh,” cries Janet. “What of Mary and John!”

“George!” John Murdoch turns to his twelve-year-old. “Run now to the cabin and tell Mary and John to hurry here. Tell John to bring his musket. Run now!”

“This is intolerable, sir!”

All eyes turned to Albert Plumnell, who had spoken from his place farthest from the door. “I am the representative of the governor of Nova Scotia, gentlemen. I cannot under any circumstances be subjected to these dangers and indignities. What action can you take that Captain Boyle should know the danger I am in?”

Charlotte cannot help herself. “We’ll do what we can to save ourselves, sir, and if you be saved as consequence, God be praised.” She turns to Murdoch. “How many weapons have we?”

“I have two muskets here, and two swords.”

“I have my pistols in the canoe,” Alexander Henderson says.

“The weapons belonging to my brother and myself are in my boat,” says William Wishart. “I’ll fetch them now.”

“We each have a pistol,” says Douglas Rose.

Murdoch, Wishart and Henderson go out to fetch the arsenal, staying low to the ground and scanning the river for evidence of approaching canoes. The young Glasgow men go into the back room, where they had stored their baggage.

“Janet, have we other means to defend ourselves?” Charlotte asks.

The Murdoch children look from one to the other.

“Knives?” Charlotte asks. “Axes? Pitchforks? We cannot stand helpless while the lives of our children are imperilled, Mrs. Murdoch. What have we?”

Janet is suddenly animated, though her voice is calm.

“We have forks in the barn.”

Albert Plumnell meanwhile feels his limbs weaken and believes he might suffer a spell such as he had suffered two months earlier. He sinks into the largest chair and applies his handkerchief to his brow. Charlotte regards him a moment, then goes to the west window. Blake had said they came by night, but were often poorly armed. She would not huddle in fear while the house was burned around them, as had happened to the Camerons and now Buchanan. These windows facing the forest are a poor business. Attackers who come by water cannot be relied upon to attack from the water.

“Abigail!” The girl stops following her mother. “Help me here. We must watch from these windows.”

Even as she crouches by the window, her mind shrinks from the notion that the Mi’kmaq could play a part in these desperate events. Nothing she had observed when she had lived in the camp of the People suggested any capacity for such brutality.

“Charlotte, there’s a light in the woods.”

A prickle of fear runs along Charlotte’s shoulders and climbs the nape of her neck.

“Where is that?”

“I saw it up the slope, in the woods.”

“Stand back from the window, Abigail.”

It is a moonless night but enough light remains to make the sloping land behind the Murdoch house dimly visible. Murdoch had cleared it quickly enough, but the drudgery of uprooting stumps was still in progress. Beyond the open ground, the wooded land rose a little more steeply. It had been cleared of brush for firewood, and she is able to see the contours of the hill for some distance. Above the grey silhouette of the forest, a few stars twinkle in a black sky. All is otherwise still.