The Book of Dreams (51 page)

We have had our share of deaths, all in steerage. Many men, women and children have gone into the sea. There were times when I wondered sadly would it not have been best that they stayed in their homeland? Yet they were driven from the misery of their lives to seek new hope and better their condition. They died for their dreams.

Landfall. Never shall I forget that first glimpse of this magnificent country. I waited long and impatiently for the sight. The shores were shrouded by a fog of inclement weather and there was nothing to be seen for many hours though the scent of pine traveled on the air. Then the gray haze lifted and there they were, like giants stalking towards us, the high rugged mountains of breathtaking beauty! Cloud-capped and rocky, they were cloaked with the foliage of a dark green forest. I could only gaze with awe and reflection upon the scene of an ancient paradise untouched by man.

At last we have traversed the great gulf of the Saint Lawrence to begin our journey up this mighty river. We are accompanied by ships of all nations flying their different flags. Many move under sail while others are steamers that shower the clear air with smoke and flame from their funnels. The waters are broken in many places with islands of all shapes and sizes. The shores to the south are low and rolling, while those to the north rise to lofty mountains. Along both shores are neat white-washed farmhouses, churches with tall spires and leafy orchards. This is country long settled by the French.

Our ship has cast anchor off Grosse Isle and we have been boarded by health officers. They will determine who may continue the journey to Montreal and who must remain at the quarantine station on the island to await their death. There is no doubt that many will stay here, for the steerage passengers are rife with disease. We can only pray that there is no cholera-plague aboard. Clothes and bedding must be taken ashore to be scrubbed and washed. All of steerage have been ordered from the vessel to complete this task. The cabin passengers are not required to do so and we need only send our servants to clean what linen we have used. Apparently there are thousands of emigrants crowded onto the island. They say the sick are kept in sheds, like cattle. God have mercy on them all. Though the island looks picturesque from this distance with its wooded shores and towering bluffs overhung with evergreen, I am glad not to visit.

It is a great discomfort to write in the failing light while suffering the jarring and jostling of the coach. However, I have asked my brother to hold the ink pot. For both of us this provides a diversion from the monotony and misery of our journey. We are closely packed into a narrow carriage. The wind whistles through the windows where design would have glass though it is lacking. The road is rough and plagued with a succession of mud-holes and corduroy bridges. This latter term is used to describe patches of ground on which logs are laid down over the boggy earth. Our teeth and our bones rattle as we traverse these dread patches.

The woods grow thick and dark on either side of the road. Giant pines rise to heights of over a hundred feet or more. Their trunks are surely six feet wide. This is bush country, gloomy with cedar and tamarack swamps, and infested with mosquitoes that would try the patience of Job. We seldom see signs of habitation now.

When first we traveled northwards from Toronto we passed many stone and wood frame houses with little gardens of vegetables and flowers. They stood near inns, mills or smithy forges. Such comfortable homesteads are long left behind us even as the number of clearings has lessened. The few dwellings we spy through the dense growth of trees are no more than crude shanties befitting the occupation of cattle or pigs, not men. We have entered the backwoods of Ontario, the wilderness of Canada.

September 28, 1841. There has been no time to write these past several weeks. Each night I have fallen into my bed with a tiredness beyond any of my experience. I have done my part as a dutiful son and stayed with my family to help them settle on the land. The work is hard and constant, clearing the trees to farm. The worst part of our labor is surely the stumps. What effort must be expended to remove each infernal one from its deep-rooted abode! I am more than proud to record that our cabin is built at last. It is a fine dwelling overlooking a lonely lake and a dark belt of pine. Summer has come to an end and while the days are still balmy, there is a chill of frost in the air at night. The rain is unlike that of Ireland where it falls soft and damp upon the green hills. Here it pours down in fierce torrents like the hammers of hell.

Do I regret this migration? Let me speak from the deep of my heart. I have been bewitched by this land. What words can describe its stern solitudes and beauties? How can I write of the dark forest, the deep lake, the somber mountains? When I hear the call of the wild creatures, the loon and the owl, the deer and the wolf, I swear I am hearing the voices of mine own soul. As for the peoples native to this country who come to trade and converse with us, they are most courteous and kind. Indeed they are more decent than many a settler we have crossed in our travels. The affection shown to their children by both men and women is a lesson to us all as is the respect they grant to their aged. They are honest and truthful in their dealings and they never forget a kindness done to them. Alas, they are too often ill-used and cheated by the Christians who have come to settle in their land. How much they have lost by our arrival! Will they survive this meeting of the races, I wonder?

“I like this guy,” Jean said.

“Me too,” said Dana, proudly.

They took a break from reading the journal when their brunch arrived. The waitress set down plates of pancakes with maple syrup, along with a side order of peameal bacon for Jean. The two attacked their food hungrily.

Though Dana had dipped into the Book of Dreams the previous night, she had decided to wait for Jean before reading it properly. Tucking the prize safely under her pillow, she had fallen asleep satisfied. The next morning, she woke late to an empty house. A note to “sleepyhead” beside the box of cereal told her that her grandmother was visiting friends. There was no time for breakfast. With the book in hand, Dana grabbed her coat and raced out the door. The bus had already arrived. The door swung open just as she reached the stop.

Jean disembarked to find her breathless from her run, hair wild, face flushed.

“Très jolie!”
he said, putting his arm around her.

He leaned forward to kiss her, but she pulled back, panicked.

“Small town!” she said quickly. “It’s just like Ireland. Someone will see us and tell my gran!”

“Okay, okay,” he said with amusement, putting his hands in the air. Then he plunged them deep into his pockets, as if to keep them restrained. “See? I am good.”

Dana laughed at his antics. That was the wonderful thing about being apart; the excitement of meeting up again. She was thrilled to see him standing there, in his jeans and jacket, dark hair falling over his forehead, green eyes flashing. That he, in turn, looked so happy to see
her
made it all the more wonderful.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked him. “I’m starving. I got up late. I had a dream last night …”

• • •

By the time they were settled in the restaurant and their food was ordered, Dana had told him the story of her great-great-grandfather’s book. Together they began to read the entries.

Everything Gran Gowan had mentioned was there, and more besides. Not long after Thomas arrived in Canada, he had grown restless, yearning to wander. He couldn’t stay for long in the backwoods of Ontario. He was a dreamer, not a homesteader. Once he saw his family settled, he set off on his own to explore.

The journal was sporadic, skipping months and even years at times. Often the entries lacked a date. But it was a fascinating jumble of adventures, dreams, poems, and reflections interspersed with descriptions of the countryside and the people he met. Thomas described his various jobs with the Hudson’s Bay Company that took him as far north as York Factory on Hudson Bay, and as far west as Fort Garry, near the Red River Valley, and then west again to Fort Edmonton.