The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor (26 page)

A
FEW CICADAS
speak from the trees behind the house. The crickets chirp cozily in the grass. Little John is awake and playing with his fingers. Charlotte stands her daily vigil on the shore.

“A sail!” Charlotte cries. “I see a sail! ’Tis Blake, I’ll be bound!”

It isn’t. An American privateer approaches flying the colours. “God help us, she’ll soon be upon us.”

She grabs the children, starts up the bank, telling them softly, “We shall fly to the woods until someone comes to help us.”

The ship slackens sail. Now two boats depart the shore and row out toward her. One of those rowing is John Murdoch.

C
APTAIN
S
IMON
H
ARVEY SCOWLS
as he listens to the report and can hardly credit what the two men are telling him. They’re aboard the
Viper
, a sloop of war: three masts carrying ten six-pounders and two twelve-pound carronades. She is classed as a Sixth Rate and would shy quick enough from a bigger ship, but Harvey’s battle here in Miramichi Bay is one of credibility.

“If what you are telling me is so, gentlemen, we are discussing one of the greatest crimes contemplated by savages in British North America.”

John Blake looks steadily at the captain.

“There can be little doubt what they contemplate. They accepted readily enough that we were rebels and were eager enough to impart their plottings.”

Harvey looks at Blake and then at Ross and weighs their story. This Blake seems sound enough and his reputation as a ship’s captain and pilot on this river go before him. But Ross, despite his English name, speaks with a curious inflection,
claims he captains “
Le Vairon
, out of Perce, Gaspé,” how does he come to be here in Miramichi Bay?

“You say you blundered but three days ago into a meeting of a council of chiefs on Bartibog Island and, as you claim, they confided in you their intention to slaughter every man, woman and child in this Miramichi settlement?”

“No, captain.” Blake looks at the three officers in turn. “They intend to massacre every settler in the whole of western Nova Scotia.”

“Oh, sir,” Ross interposes. “They were so ill-disposed, they would have slaughtered
us
and our crew had they not accepted without question our little flag.”

Harvey snorts, recalling the flag he calls “the stripey thing,” the patriot flag of the rebellious colonial union that Ross and Blake claim they flew to gain such access.

“I marvel that such a rag should have fooled even a savage.”

“Your help is much needed, sir,” Blake tells him. “The settlers of the Miramichi have only their own arms to protect them. Nothing more. They can expect no support from Halifax or His Majesty’s government anywhere in this land.”

Harvey shakes his head slowly.

“It’s preposterous that these natives should conceive of such a project.” Harvey rubs his eyes and forehead in contemplation. “I cannot disregard your damned intelligence, however you came by it. And in truth it confirms suspicions we gained from the rebel pirates we so recently captured. Tell me more of these beasts you encountered.”

“They were chiefs,” Blake says. “They’ll have dispersed to their several camps and peoples in preparation for the attack. I have no doubt, captain, that they are encouraged in this by rebel elements such as those you took captive. The Mi’kmaq
especially, with the loss of their French friends, spy new friends in the Americans.”

Harvey growls again.

“Blast their eyes. There’s nothing to support their assumptions. His Majesty’s government—I meant the army—has attempted to deal fairly with the savages.”

“The New World is an untidy place, sir,” Blake says. “Much like the Old World.”

They sit a long minute. No one speaks.

“Very well, gentlemen. This vessel that accompanies us is the American privateer
Lafayette
, christened so by the rebels for that jumped-up French fool who has crossed the ocean to join in their adventure. We took her captive in the Gulf of St. Lawrence and now I see she may serve a purpose we had not looked for. You are pilots, both with knowledge of the Miramichi.”

“There is no one more familiar with these waters, sir, than John Blake,” Ross says. “There’s no shoal or snag he has not committed to memory.”

“Hm.” Harvey locks his fingers and presses his thumbs together. It would not do to squander this opportunity. “Very well. You shall go then. Lieutenant Randall and fifteen armed men here shall accompany you. The
Viper
shall lay here in the bay. I shall see the
Lafayette
reappear in five days time.”

“Where are we to take the ship, sir?”

“Up the Miramichi, man, up the Miramichi to meet with your Indians and
not
to trade them
rum!”

“It will be done, captain,” John Blake says.

“You’ve practice already as rebels, have you not? Now you may play the part in earnest and full dress.”

“It will be a pleasure, sir!” Daniel Ross beams.

Simon Harvey scowls.

“Did not these savages recognize you, Mr. Blake, living as you do up the river from Bartibog Island?”

“I saw none I knew, captain, so none knew me.”

Simon Harvey relaxes his scowl and sniffs, “I hope so for your sake, Mr. Blake.” He turns to his officer. “Mr. Randall, have the boy bring us brandy.”

T
HE
I
NDIANS’ CREDULITY
is surprising. They board the
Lafayette
without weapons when Blake drops anchor off their encampment on Bartibog Island. They seem at ease, even enthusiastic at the prospect of examining an American warship, albeit a minor one. There is a good deal of general babble on the deck, with sailors in studied and complaisant postures exchanging words and hand signs with a dozen braves. The rum had gone round for a second time when Blake hears Louis, a tall, handsome fellow of the Goneishe family, speak in English.

“This, good, strong ship,” he says to the men around him. “Before now one year, we dance on this deck at Kouchibouguac. War dance and many many dance.”

Other Indian men laugh and so do the two young tars talking with them.

“What?” Jim Rompole marvels. “You danced here on the
Lafayette
, did ya?”

“Yes, dance,” avows Louis. He stamps his foot on the planking and smiles. “Here.”

“Well, who mighta guessed?” says the sailor. He shoots a merry look in Blake’s direction. “That musta been ’fore my time. Yes, yes, that was before I came on her.”

“Many dance,” Louis says. “Boston men too.”

“Yes, yes. Plenty o’ lads from Boston. That’s our port, Boston. They were good dancers, I wager.”

“Good drinking rum,” another brave volunteers.

“Oh indeed!” Rompole cries. “Good then, was it, at Kouchi-where? Or good this time here?”

“Good,” the young man says.

Blake surveys the crowded deck. So this is the explanation behind their ready acceptance. He chooses this moment to intervene.

“Will you and some others come with us then, Louis?” he asks. “We’re going up the Miramichi to put the fear of God in these English.”

Louis’s smile vanishes. He looks at the other Mi’kmaq men.

“Very bad for Englishmen,” he says.

“Precisely,” Blake nods. “Louis, I invite you and your men to honour us by sharing a meal—some food—with us, then you go back and speak to your chiefs. Your chiefs, perhaps they’d meet and speak of war. Perhaps they’d join us up the Miramichi.”

Daniel Ross appears on deck. Behind him, a lad carries a small keg.

“Don’t go! Don’t go!” he cries. “We’ve but just now opened another cask!”

“We must speak about the English, Daniel,” Blake admonishes him. “Rum is for later.”

“Rum and talk,” says Louis Goneishe.

“Rum and talk, rum and talk,” the men behind him laugh and chant.

“Rum and talk, rum and talk,” join in the tars, their eyes sparkling with mischief.

“At Napan Bay tomorrow then,” Blake tells Louis Goneishe. “When the sun is high.”

A
T FIRST LIGHT,
Blake orders, “Weigh anchor. Unfurl the sails.” The
Lafayette
flying its rebel flag heels a little and catches the incoming tide to the shoals. Blake tacks the ship around the submerged banks to the river. He stands at the helm. The leadsman chants quietly from the bow. “By the deep three,” he calls. “Left full rudder.” Then, “Back the topsail.” Over the shoals they sail straight up the channel and a little beyond Napan Bay.

It’s mid-morning when John Murdoch and John Malcolm slip off from a concealed shore in their own boat and come aboard. From the deck of the
Lafayette
, Peter Brown, Alexander Henderson and his five sons look on as the two men climb aboard.

John Blake comes forward from the wheel.

“John Blake.” Murdoch extends his hand. “If any man might manage this, it would be you.”

Blake hastens to his side. “I understand my wife and children to be well.”

“They are, John.”

From where they lie, Blake can see along the bank to where the brook cuts out of the river. But his cabin isn’t visible, not even with the glass. He averts his eyes from it.

“I believed she was to take refuge with
your
family,” Blake says, frowning.

“You’ve been acquainted with the troubles here, John, and know your wife to be welcome in our house. But Charlotte feared her crops would go to ruin. She chose to return home.”

Blake looks one last time down the shore.

“That’s Charlotte,” he says and turns away. “Weigh anchor, Mr. Smith.”

They drift back to midstream. Blake tacks the ship around. A good breeze comes down the Miramichi from the west and
the water turns choppy. When the sun is overhead, they run before the wind into Napan Bay. Ahead, to left and right, the sun shoots out from under a slate-grey swath of western cloud and gilds the wooded shores of the bay. The smoke of the encampment is straight in front of them.

“T
HEY’RE PAINTED UP PROPER
, are they not?”

Ross stands by Blake staring at the figures in the six canoes that are approaching.

“This is much as I expected,” Blake says. “We must show as much spirit as do they. Gather our committee.”

As the canoes draw alongside, Randall, the six Hendersons, John Murdoch and John Malcolm stand at the rail and lift their arms in one shout.

“Hurray! Hurray!”

Fifteen marines wait unseen in the cabins beneath the quarterdeck.

The rope ladders go over the side. Blake studies the faces of the men who climb them. The chiefs wear no visible expression under their war paint, nor weapons at their sides other than knives. When they are on deck—twenty-eight in all—the regular and irregular sailors of the
Lafayette
back off and the two groups stare unblinkingly at one another.

A dozen of the Indians are as young as Louis Goneishe, who has returned with them. It seems plausible to Blake that these are a bodyguard and the others leaders of the local tribes, or leaders accompanied by elders. Regardless of age, all twenty-eight men had painted their faces as though for battle, and even the older men’s bodies are taut and strong-looking.

“A noble enemy,” Murdoch whispers to his son-in-law.

Blake steps forward.

“Welcome, chiefs and men of the Miramichi Mi’kmaq. I am Captain Patrick Cross of the
Lafayette
. Our home port is Boston, the colony of Massachusetts. You join us as allies in this business with England.”

From the front ranks of older men, a short, deep-chested individual steps forward.

“I am Jean Renew, chief of the Cedar People of the Lustagoocheehk.” He gestures to a man whose features are a weathered version of the young brave Louis Goneishe. “Here is Jean Goneishe, chief of the Metepenagiag people. Here is Sylvain Jerome of Esgenoôpetitj. Here is Phillip Nocoute of Mtaoegenatgoigtog.” Just the trace of amusement—not so much as a smile—crosses his features when he turns to a man who stands taller than the tallest Mi’kmaq and a head taller than any of the English. His face beneath his eyes is blacked with charcoal paint. “This is Pierre Martin.” Renew announces, nodding slowly. His sombre countenance resumes. “We have come at your invitation.”

“Thank you, chief,” says Blake. “We wish to make council with you on behalf of the colonies of Massachusetts and Virginia.”

Jean Renew says nothing.

“These English, Chief Renew, think us slaves who will labour only to increase their trade. But we Americans will brook it no longer. We must know if the Mi’kmaq of the Miramichi will oppose us now.”

Jean Renew looks to his left and right at the chiefs nearest him.

“We will hear more,” he says. “More of the English and you.”

“This gives me great pleasure,” says Blake. “We have prepared a feast below. We invite you to join us.”

“Come in! Come in!” Daniel Ross raises his arm in welcome. “Welcome, friends!”

One by one, the chiefs and their retainers descend the ladder to the lower deck. The Henderson boys had set out a long table and laid planks across upended casks as benches. The guns of a naval ketch being on the main deck and there being no openings on the lower deck, the hatches are open to the sky. Light streams down on the joints of meat roasted the day before, a steaming kettle of fish stewed with potato and onion, the twenty loaves carried aboard by the Hendersons. An aroma familiar and inviting wafts up to greet the Mi’kmaq. Thirty rum mugs had been set out and the cask poised invitingly at the table’s end. Lieutenant Randall and two sailors are already seated. Two marines lean on their muskets in casual conversation. The chiefs, who look uncertain, take places at the table and the braves stand behind. The settlers, with the exception of John Murdoch, remain on the main deck.