The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor (15 page)

“I appear to be in perfect health.”

They stand awkwardly in the clearing, near the wigwam of Francis Julian, where the main fire blazes in the clearing. The chief himself and the two members of Walker’s staff idle at a discreet distance. Wioche has made himself scarce.

“I cannot express the shock and—yes, displeasure—I experienced in hearing of your conduct at the time of the
Hanley’s
departure,” Walker says. “But now I see you, I … I cannot retain those feelings.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“You are wilful, Charlotte, but you are courageous. A man would be a great dolt not to acknowledge it. I should have respected your request to remain. I wanted only to discharge my duty as I saw it toward your father.”

“I know that to be true. You’ve been like a father to me, kinder than my own.”

“I … I have believed myself to be your friend.”

“You are, George.”

“I have spoken to Chief Julian, and we are both of the opinion that you would find accommodation at my house a welcome change. Charlotte, you are under no obligation to please me in any way on account of your father. And there won’t be another ship bound for England until the spring.”

“I need to give birth here, George, where there are women around me.”

“I understand that, but you have not come yet to term. I think you could return to your people safely for a week or two.”

“My people?”

“English people, I mean. We are at the winter lodge now. It’s less than a mile west of this camp. Come enjoy some of the comforts the old life offers.”

F
RANCIS
J
ULIAN WATCHES
the reunion with some relief. The harbouring of the Englishwoman is not without its complications, her growing friendship with the son of Amoq’t among them. Julian will do what he can to assure her permanent installation in Walker’s camp, but for the moment he offers his guests the opportunity to share his meal.

When everyone is finished eating and the pipes are lit, Chief Julian’s granddaughter Miq whispers to Grik’las, her maternal grandfather. Julian nods toward the old man, and as his wife extinguishes two of the three lamps that hang in the wigwam, he leans toward Walker. “Grik’las will tell us the story of Gluskap and winter,” he says in English. “It is a story for Miq, our little one.”

Grik’las, a remarkably weathered and toothless man, begins by meeting the eyes of every person in the room in turn. When he is satisfied that he has the attention he deserves, he launches into his narration in what sounds to English ears like a tuneless song.

Julian waits for the old man to pause and then interprets for his guests.

“Winter was a giant who lived in a large house in the north. Winter’s very breath withered the trees and they could make no leaves or fruit. He covered the corn, the rivers and the animals in frost. This brought famine and death to the People.” He looks down intently as he again listens to Grik’las. “Gluskap saw this was not good. He went to the house of Winter to ask him to stop. But when he entered the house, Winter breathed on him and froze him. Luckily, Tatler the loon was nearby. He flew into Winter’s house and wrapped his wings around Gluskap until he thawed.

“‘You must go to Summer, the queen of the south,’ said Tatler, ‘and tell her of your plight.’

“So Gluskap ran to the sea and sang for Spout, the whale, who came and carried Gluskap on his back. The clams peeped a warning along the way whenever Spout got too close to the shore, until finally, they reached a land covered in flowers. Gluskap jumped off Spout’s back and swam to the beach, where he saw a rainbow because there is always a rainbow in that land. He followed the rainbow and, at its end, in a house made of the vines of grapes and all the grasses of the world wound together, he met the queen called Summer.”

The chief pauses in his translation to wait for the old man to catch his breath and carry on.

“Now Summer fell in love with Gluskap,” Julian interprets, “and said she would follow him anywhere.

“‘Come with me to the north,’ said Gluskap.

“Spout carried them back to the north and they saw only ice and snow. When they reached the house of Winter, the giant was waiting. He blew on the couple and Gluskap felt his blood
run cold. But Summer smiled and Gluskap felt warm again. Each time Winter blew, Summer smiled. Finally, Winter melted to the floor under the force of her smile. Summer now went with Gluskap across the north and awakened everything the giant had frozen. Buds burst open in the trees and grass and corn sprang to life and water ran in the rivers.

“When they returned to the house of Winter, Queen Summer said to the giant, ‘You have been too greedy. Henceforth, you are banished from Gluskap’s country for six months of the year. You may return only if you agree that you will be less harsh.’

“Winter rose from his floor, glad he was not completely melted.

“‘And I will rule the land six months of every year,’ declared the queen.”

Grik’las finishes speaking and looks around with an expression that conveys both his own satisfaction and a request for approval. Miq smiles up at him.

“And so she has always returned,” Julian concludes.

“Never precisely the same tale twice,” Walker says in a muffled voice to Charlotte.

C
HARLOTTE ADDS
two large sticks of wood to the roaring fire and dips a finger in the kettle. It is already hot. She lifts it from its hook and adds the steaming water to that which already half fills the great tub beside the fire. Here truly is a luxury almost equal to that of her father’s home. She crosses to the door and assures herself again that the latch is secure, then lifts her gown over her head and steps carefully into the tub. This is her second bath in a week.

She sits down slowly, amazed by the round bulk of her abdomen, warmed and supported by the water. She allows her
eyes to close and her thoughts to slow. In the distance, she can hear the crack of hammers as Walker’s shipbuilding enterprise proceeds apace, the business of making money neverending. The baby shifts, jabbing her in her groin; she is carrying low now. She shouldn’t remain much longer in this house of grunting, sweating men. She tries to think of Pad, whose soul and flesh she had once found so thrilling, but her thoughts would not remain with him, though she makes every effort to persuade them.

She puts her hair up before she joins the commodore and his men for dinner, a rite that strikes her as odd now that she has passed so much time among the Mi’kmaq. To show off her long white throat was something her mother had always encouraged her to do, but in this place and climate it seems a foolish invitation to cold breezes or worse. She contemplates letting her hair down again, but then convention stays her hand. For these few days she would play the proper Englishwoman, and perhaps distract some of the men’s eyes from her condition.

Unlike the summer quarters at Alston Point, the winter house has few windows, a larger hearth and almost nothing to adorn its dark wooden walls. After they had finished a haunch of venison, platters of cod and chunks of bannock, Walker offers a round of port.

Walker, sure of the loyalty of his men, is complaining openly about his financial backers. “I must fend off sharp practices at every turn. They alter the accounts in their own favour. They refuse my requests to seek more generous grants of land, without which we can hardly hope to increase business.”

“Indeed. Honest men must wonder why we make such exertions for their benefit,” joins Primm, who had been uncharacteristically muted in her presence this whole last week. “They pay our efforts no heed at all.”

“And I cannot rely upon His Majesty’s officers in Halifax,” Walker continues. “I have asked for governing authority here in the north but am quite ignored.”

The others nod in silence, but Charlotte speaks up.

“Sir, do they not recognize your achievements here on the Baie de Chaleur?”

Walker looks at her.

“My achievements? They hardly recognize the Baie de Chaleur
itself
. It might as well be in the South Seas for all they care. They might then take a
greater
interest.”

“If I may say so, sir, your description of their actions only adds to my impression.”

“What impression is that?” Primm ventures to ask.

The other men shoot careful glances at one another. They know the woman well enough.

“My impression of the conduct of our countrymen since they have come to this land. It seems not to have been conduct becoming to Englishmen.”

“It’s a rude world, Charlotte,” Walker replies. “Who would you compare us with?”

“I would compare us with the Acadians.”

“What!” Jack Frome cries. “Madam, you take a low view of us altogether!”

“I would compare us unfavourably, sir.”

“Madam, if you were a man, I would take offence.”

“Now, Jack.” Walker smiles at Charlotte. “My dear Charlotte, do you really imagine we conduct ourselves less well than the Acadians?”

“Is it not a fact, George, that the Acadians have lived amidst these Indians for a hundred years or more and never fought with them, or once impinged on their territory without a fair
arrangement? Is that not a stark contrast with our own bellicosity, our many hedgings and agreements?”

“The problem with the world, Charlotte, is its complexity. You speak of Scots. Even as we sit here by our fires, Scots lords enclose the lands of their countrymen and throw women and children onto the highways without means or livelihood. The French plot and meddle to retain their power in Europe and threaten us with war—or practise it—at every opportunity. I would not be surprised to see them within our lifetimes make another bid to conquer all of Europe, even England.”

“Which they shall not do!” declares Jack Frome.

“Here here!” comes the ragged round of agreement.

“I would not have the blood of these Acadians on my hands for all the world,” Charlotte says with passion. “We might have lived in peace with them.”

Primm speaks up. “In the past and elsewhere, madam, when one nation defeats another, those disloyal to the victors are put to the sword. You see how we English compare.”

“We allowed them to die on ships, instead.”

“Charlotte.” Walker leans forward with no trace of impatience in his expression. “His Majesty’s government has permitted the Acadians to return. Grant us that.”

“To find their farmlands occupied by British settlers.”

“There
is
a right of conquest, Charlotte.”

“Spoken like a privateer, sir.”

The table falls silent.

“Pass your glasses, gentlemen,” says Walker. He fills each with deliberation. “Charlotte, in the Salmon camp here you have met an Acadian named Landry.”

“André Landry. I am acquainted with him and better with his wife, Marie.”

“His family lived in a place called Caraquet, just south of Ile Miscou. During the expulsion, they took refuge among the Mi’kmaq. Alexis Landry, uncle of this André, was a leader among these Acadians and apparently made clandestine visits to Caraquet to discover the condition of his old property. The land was in fact unoccupied, the gardens overgrown but otherwise unharmed.

“When I arrived at Alston Point to start this fishery, the governor in Halifax appointed me magistrate for all of Nepisiguit. Alexis was among the Acadians and Mi’kmaq who traded at the outpost. He resolved to plead directly with me for the return of his property. Other Acadians tried to persuade him of the folly of such an action, believing I would punish him for his effrontery. He approached me nonetheless and I granted him official permission to settle on his own land. No British policy forbade it. Alexis immediately set to working the land and rebuilding a house. His relatives meanwhile cowered in the woods, fearing events could turn against them again, or hoping for the overthrow of our regime. Eventually a move was deemed safe and most of the Landry family repaired to Caraquet. A few, such as André, decided to remain with the Indians. Perhaps they preferred it there.”

Charlotte doesn’t have the heart to point out that such clemency had been conditional on the decency of one man. “With your permission, George, I shall retire.”

S
HE PUTS THE DIARY DOWN,
gets into bed and is soon fast asleep.

The knocking is persistent. “Charlotte? I would speak with you, Charlotte.” It is Walker’s voice.

She slides from the bed and stands in momentary confusion. She had been dreaming of her father, the general, of some past day when things had been right between father and daughter,
and the shelter of his parental concern still stretched over her. It had been peaceful there.

Her room still glows from the fire in the grate, but she lights a candle before unlatching the door.

“May I come in?” A dishevelled George Walker stands at her door. His jacket is askew, his white hair tumbling onto his forehead.

She steps back so he can enter.

“Your fire is low,” he says. He bends slowly, carefully places three pieces of wood on the coals. She thinks him perhaps unsteady.

“Do sit, George.”

“I hope I have not disturbed you.”

The silence stretches as Walker stares at her. “Are you quite well George?” she finally asks, hoping for both their sakes he isn’t going to embarrass himself.

“Charlotte, your child soon comes to term.”

“In five or six weeks I think.”

“And the Indian women will attend you?”

“They are kind, George.”

“I know they are kind, Charlotte, but … then you shall have a child.”

“I shall.”

“And no husband. And, Charlotte, you can’t be planning to remain forever with these Indians.”

She sits on the edge of her bed and rests her hands on top of her belly. “No. No, we cannot.”

“And you have had some breach with your father and will not on that account return to England.”

“You’re right about that too.”

Silence. “Where is the letter I gave you for him?”

“I threw it in the grate on the day the Hanley arrived.”

“It is destroyed then?”

“Well, in fact, the grate was cold. Will took it and said he’d burn it for me later.”