The Survivor (8 page)

“More blather! I thought from our one meeting that I could trust you.” She turned back to stone hunting. “I misjudged you, that’s all. It was my own fault. Don’t feel badly. I have learned my lesson. Well and truly!”

James pondered a reply as they dropped their stones. When she straightened, she looked him straight in the eye. “I think it best you go now. You can check for glue with the cabinetmaker, if you have not already done so. I’m sure he will have some.” Her eyes were flashing. “I can finish this field myself very easily, thank you very much. When I get home, I’ll leave on the porch some material for you, and whatever glue I can find. But please don’t knock.”

“You want me to leave now? Right now?”

“Yes. You disturb me, far too much.” Was she close to tears? “And that, if you must know, is the one thing I most hate to admit.” She turned away, and headed off, stopping to add, “I don’t like men coming around, talking me up, without an honest idea in their heads. Except perhaps one, which all men have, I’m finding out. Just one single thought, all of them, and one I do not relish.”

James took off his hat and wiped his brow. This was far worse than he expected. How could he make it right? A thousand strands of feeling tangled up his brain: How could he explain? He should definitely not tell her the real reason he’d not returned last summer, apart from clearing his land, was that he had been betrothed.

He cast down his eyes, dropped the boulder he was carrying onto the rock pile, and began to walk away. But his last glance at her eyes flashing so angrily under the sweaty hair hanging down under the kerchief made her utterly desirable — now, when she was at her most angry.

He quickened his pace. How else to regain any dignity? How else to show he meant it, but to take off with speed. Had he looked back, he would have seen her shapely form slump, her hands drop the rocks in the middle of the field, and turn away, hands covering her face as emotions welled.

He entered the trees, and paused. Would he ever see her again? Yes, of course, but only from a distance. Would he ever have another time alone with her? Not if she could help it. She did not want him around; he disturbed her too much.

But then again, no time like the present. Here and now, he faced his last, and only, chance to confront her. He could not let it go. He turned.

He saw her stoop and pick up the stones she had dropped and walk heavily over to the pile, where she let them fall once again, oblivious of him, of everything, even of the stones themselves.

He stepped out from the trees and covered the ground quickly toward her, holding up one hand to stop her speaking.

“Catherine,” he said stoutly, “every word I have spoken to you — how I feel about you, about us — and I know I shouldn’t say it, but every word is true, I swear on my mother’s head.”

She stared at him, angry, but moisture springing into her eyes.

“Now I know,” he went on, “you would rather I left this minute. But I intend to spend the afternoon here clearing stones. Forget for a moment the past — let us just share one afternoon alone together. For had fate been otherwise, the Good Lord might have arranged for us to do this for the rest of our natural lives. I want just this one afternoon to remember.”

She glanced at him, then lowered her eyes, perhaps so that he would not see any tears start, and turned away. “All right, this one last time, let us work together.”

***

Heart soaring, James fell easily into his Indian run. Dusk would soon be falling; a dangerous time to be heading back to this trail. Why on earth had he left it so late? He had been warned about thieves, so now, he was on the alert. He had to get this glue from the cabinet-maker’s and stitching from the Garretts back as quickly as possible. But no point in running so fast as to collide with danger.

His body was bursting with feelings for Catherine. Such a glorious afternoon, working side by side with her for those few cherished hours. Time wasted? Not in the slightest. Because getting to know her would sustain him over the many weeks of summer as he laboured in the mill. The days would be so long, he knew. But perhaps another chance would present itself.

He stopped to listen. Voices ahead? As he stood panting, he became sure. Two men, laughing. Now what?

He waited. Were they coming toward him? Or was he overtaking them? From the odd sounds of their broken conversation, they were staying in one spot. Not good. Better not risk it. This glue and this stitching were vital. He turned into the deeper woods.

Again, he blessed his Micmac friends for their moccasins that allowed him to move through the under growth silently. He picked his way carefully past thickets and through bushes, going around the thieves waiting, perhaps, to pounce.

He stopped again. The voices had grown quiet, as if they had heard him. Silence lay like the dusk around them. He didn’t move. And apparently, neither did they. After a time, their voices began again. Did they suspect a deer, a bear, even a moose? Had he been successful? Reaching the trail, he set off again at his swift Indian pace; he wanted no more impediments to his getting that glue and stitching to the mill.

Chapter Nine

Delighted with the success of James’s mission, Mr. Hall watched him repair the belt for the main pulley in his tent, a ways off from the other cabin. Hall allowed as how he much preferred this solitary existence — feelings James shared. The whale oil lamp beside them on a stump threw a glow onto Ben’s swarthy face as he sat watching with dark eyes.

One end was now glued, stitched, and beeswaxed, and the second one lay before them. Mr. Hall pulled at it to test it. “You’re better ’n any of us. You’ll make a fine millwright one day.”

James set to stitching the other end, wearing his “palm,” a heavy leather covering for his hand with a loop for the thumb. He thrust his sailor’s awl, about four inches long, rounded at the eye, into the heavy canvas of the belt. “Well, ’tis a farmer I’ll want to be, sir, although I certainly enjoy this time here at the mill.”

“A farmer, is it?”

“Yes sir, I have a modest piece of land and I am about to start on my new house. I have the foundation prepared, rocks from the brook, but next I need lumber.”

“So that’s why ye want boards from me instead of all cash?”

James nodded.

“I can see ye done yer bit o’ stitching in the Navy.”

“Aye. You can’t work in the Navy as long as I did without learning something of all that. Our uniforms — I was a Midshipman — had to be just so, you know. No mother or wife to sew it. And then, of course, there’s the sails which I seldom touched, tarpaulins and such like. I’d watch the sail-makers work on them; I guess I never knew when it might come in handy.”

Hall turned to the lad who was solemnly taking it all in. “You’re larning from a master, Ben.”

“Indeed I am, sir.” From the way Ben looked at James, he almost worshipped this ex-seaman rapidly becoming Hall’s Number Two.

“I enjoy teaching him, sir,” said James, finding it helpful to divert his mind from those blue eyes that followed him through the days. On the practical side, he doubted lovely Sorrel with her tiny frame and hunched shoulders could ever take the arduous winters in a desolate and isolated cabin, much as she had also impressed him. No, it was Catherine he wanted, nay, longed for.

“Them Garretts is a fine family.” Mr. Hall seemingly had read the thoughts behind his foreman’s distant eyes. “Byes, that old Will sure has the pair of prettiest daughters in New Carlisle.”

James looked up sharply. Well, he’d grown to like Hall, so why not confide to him some of his buried feelings? “Yes sir, I’ve been far and wide on His Majesty’s ships, but never have I seen anyone to compare with the young Catherine.” He dropped his eyes as he took the next piece of belt and prepared it for stitching. “I’ve never met Billy Brotherton, but I presume he must be of a calibre equal to or even greater than she, for William Garrett to have granted this match.”

James glanced up to see a curious look come onto the older man’s face. But without pursuing the matter, he continued stitching in silence, thrusting the needle even more angrily than needed.

After a time, Mr. Hall spoke. “Them Brothertons, I had a bit of problem with them, so you can’t count on me for any true appraisal of Billy.” James looked up. “But the one thing all of us know, that Billy is one spoiled brat. Always was. My son went to school with him. Nobody liked him. ’Cept for a bunch of fools followed him as leader. Terble good athlete. That kinda made up for things, I guess.”

“Get the glue ready, Ben,” was all James said in reply.

“I reckon she’d be better off with the likes of a man like you,” Hall averred, “a man who’s served his good King for years in the Navy, and who’s not afraid of hard work. But that’s just my opinion.”

“I only wish to God it were hers too, sir,” mumbled James as reached for the glue pot. But later that night as he lay on his straw mattress, James tossed and turned in agony. Come on, he scolded, forget Catherine. Work with them all here at the mill, and teach young Ben. There’ll be lots of young girls come along, once you’ve got your house built.

But he knew that wasn’t true; he knew he was just lying to himself. After much anguish, his worn-out body drove him to sleep.

***

A month later, the squeal of the saw could not drown out the agonized cry as a stream of red liquid spun into the air, covering James as he stood in the millwright’s position. He threw the saw out of gear, and grabbed up Ben where he had fallen.

These sounds and spray of blood were to be replayed in his mind for many months to come. But now, he hurried out holding the lad, his brain reeling as he cried for help.

’Ti-Pete came running, calling to his mate, Serge, out on the floating logs, who in spite of his girth came leaping across like a squirrel.

James kneeled, placed Ben on the earth, tore off his shirt and tied one sleeve around the arm as a tourniquet. Lifting his shirt, he wiped his own eyes clear of the blood. “Get Mr. Hall!”

“Gone upriver,” ’Ti-Pete replied.

James looked down at the boy, his eyes clouding over, stricken with shock. Dazed and clearly in another world, Ben’s face bore only a questioning expression: how had this happened?

During the four or five weeks since they had repaired the main belt, James had found himself increasingly in the position of Number Two. And so he had occasionally invited Ben into this main sawing area to see how it all worked, as part of Ben’s general education.

That morning, Hall told James he had noticed a small malfunction — every so often, as the log was hefted closer to the saw after each plank had been sheared off and kicked out, it gave a jolt. Hall had decided they should try to fix it after nightfall, so as not to shut down the mill at the height of activity. Today he’d gone off to Bonaventure to try and find a carpenter who might help them, and left the mill to James. The board had flung up, struck Ben on the head, knocked him backwards and then, as he grabbed for support, his arm had come against the sharp heavy-toothed saw blade.

Act fast. The blood came pumping in spurts out of the mangled forearm and wrist and fingers. How much of his arm could be saved?

Auguste, a tall, long-faced worker, and Serge, the burly log-jumper, rushed up. “A strip of finer cloth!” James cried, repeating it in French. “I need a better tourniquet.”

Auguste hurried off. James thought fast: Get him to a doctor? What doctor? No doctor that he knew of in New Carlisle — three hours away on foot. And they had no horse available anyway. The realization struck him — no one else. He would have to handle this alone. Think fast, but think clearly. A life was at stake.

Auguste returned with a strip of cloth. James tied it quickly around the arm, picked up a firm twig, thrust it into the bandage and wound it tight. “You’re going to be fine, Ben, just fine.”

He hoped Ben’s state of shock would keep him still while he thought out his next move. The battles he had seen on the
Bellerophon
should serve him now. In one of them, he had assisted the ship’s surgeon. He made himself look down with a professional eye at the boy’s arm. Fingers sliced off, hand mangled, wrist torn apart, exposing the bone in a mass of raw flesh and white tendons. The tourniquet had to be released every ten minutes or so. What next?

One thing was certain: no way to save the hand. Amputation? Inside, his stomach churned. He loved the little lad. What lay ahead might turn the stomach of any grown man — even a surgeon. Nothing for it, he had to amputate.

“Light a fire,” he ordered, and Auguste hurried off. Then, to ’Ti-Pete, “Go into the mill, ready the saw right away.” ’Ti-Pete jumped to obey: the command was given with such force and alacrity, as when James had commanded his gun crew.

“Ben,” he said, looking into the hazy eyes, “you’ll have to trust me. In half an hour, it will all be over, and you’ll go to sleep. I was in the Navy, Ben, I have seen it many times. You’ll soon be fine.” He knew that telling a lie was the best thing he could do, in the circumstances. Ben nodded. “Water,” he mumbled.

“Water!” James commanded, and as he picked the boy up, a container was duly brought. “And rum! A flagon of rum.”

Serge ran back to the bunkhouse. The saw had been thrust into gear, and its whine grew. James looked down at the little lad in his arms. Quickly, before he thought too much about it, he picked him up and headed into the mill where the logs were hauled up the inclined planks.