The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor (10 page)

“She sought the security of his fortune.”

Walker carefully shovels a scoop of coals onto the tiny grate.

“This he naturally considered. But to test her in this regard, he offered to make her a dowry that would restore some measure of respectability to her position. Still she has professed her love, saying that she saw in him measures of honour and courage that surpassed those of any younger man.”

“And which he possesses?”

“In my judgment, this is a true estimation. And so it is, my friend writes me. Can it be imagined, he writes, that a woman so young, so properly bred and of such beauty as to draw the admiration of any who encounter her, could form a true attachment to a man in the winter of his years?”

He sits suddenly forward. “Now look. You’ve emptied your glass and you’ve left potatoes here, swimming in gravy. I cannot have it.”

They eat the last of their meal in silence. In fact, she is unsure exactly how she should answer, or how her answer could be of help to Commodore Walker’s friend.

“George, I can claim no special wisdom in these matters,” she finally offers.

“Who among us can, my dear?”

“But I have a sense.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure you have.”

“Your friend is a man whose life has brought many satisfactions and rewards. Naturally there may be others who would like to share in these, but few could hope for success except a woman, especially a young woman—and this is exactly who makes a claim.”

“But even if she were to have other reasons, my dear, you must address whether, in your opinion, such a person could conceive of a true and lasting love for so old a man.”

“She might form many bonds of strong regard, George, some seeming very much like love. But I do not believe such bonds would be the love your friend seeks. That love is the love that arises between men and women of more equal age.”

Walker nods with slow assent.

“His hopes are dashed then,” he says.

“You did not speak of hopes, George, but said only that your friend’s feelings were tender ones. And I see no reason why they should be trampled underfoot by a young woman’s vagaries.”

“Absolutely well said! In fact, I must confess these are my own sentiments precisely and I shall write to him as soon as we are in port and give him these very words, if I may have your permission to repeat them.”

“Of course you have. But now I must press you in turn. You have told me of these troublesome times in Nepisiguit, and that American privateers are wreaking havoc on outposts such as yours.”

“That is hardly surprising.”

“And that they are assisted by the Indians and the Acadians, with whom you trade.”

“Alas, this is so.”

“But why would you trade with men who join in arms against ourselves and our King?”

“The answer is perfectly simple, though the question reveals intelligence I would often be glad to discover in my own people. The answer is that we canna judge others by category but by their individual actions. The ancestors of the Acadians I know learned to be good hunters and good fishermen from the ancestors of the Indians I know. If we in turn learn from them and reward their teaching according to our ability, we have nothing to fear from them.”

“But surely the tales I was told of Indian massacres are not entirely fabrications?”

“The Indian nations are many and widespread. Some tales are true, others are not. I speak only of the Indians I know, the Indians of Nepisiguit, the Micmac. They are my friends.”

They speak on and the fire dims in the grate. It is dark by the time the commodore comes to the end of his story. He suggests the cabin air should be amply cooled now that the sun is well gone and that the gentle seas ought to bring a fine sleep this night. Outside on the deck when he walks her to her cabin, he reverts to a formal tone and says, “I bid you good evening, Mrs. Willisams.” Charlotte thanks him for his hospitality and adds, “My name remains Charlotte Taylor.”

“Thank you for your company,” are his final words.

Charlotte undresses and lies on her bunk in the dark. It is measurably cooler now and she has recourse to the lighter blanket of pelts. The bear, she has decided, makes an admirable rug. Her sole concern as sleep claims her is that the commodore had
made no mention of her inheritance, although she is certain he has not forgotten it.

The lamp is long extinguished when Charlotte is jolted from her sleep with a menacing crack of thunder and the realization that she is suddenly very cold. She retrieves the hairy black bearskin from the floor to protect herself from the frigid air but the thunder—cracking like a gunshot now rather than rumbling like a cart of stones being unloaded—is announcing a storm that will likely mean she has to go below. She no sooner considers the option when Will comes to her quarters in great distress telling her to get below. “Take cover. It’s a nor’easter. Tie yerself down to the pole in the hold and stay there until I come to fetch ye.” What is this nor’easter, she wonders, but quickly grabs the bearskin and finds her way to the ladder. On the way she can see that the wind is lashing the deck and the sea is rising and falling like a mountainous landscape. It’s an awesome sight, unlike any storm she’d seen before. At this stage it seems to be even wilder than the one she survived in the mid-Atlantic.

For three days the nor’easter blows. The men in the crew take turns staying below to dry out a little, eat and rest before returning to the upper deck. The rain pounds down on the ship, threatening to drown them where they hide. Charlotte wonders at times which direction they are taking. She fears the gale-force wind will blow them over into the pounding sea. When Will comes below, he tells her the wind is not the problem. It’s a rogue wave they’re frightened by. “It could swamp this schooner and we’d all be sent to the deep.” Charlotte begins to calculate the likelihood of a rogue wave and realizes that the longer they are stayed in this storm, the more likely it is that the one would find them. It’s a long way to come to drown before reaching the shore, she thinks.

But there’s more to do than worry. She tries to keep the tea ready, to scrape mould from the last pieces of cheese so that she can put them with slabs of equally mouldy bread and have some sustenance ready for crew members when they come below. There is still a good supply of water and the food will last for many days yet, but the bread and cheese are all she can reach from the place she is tied to and she dares not release herself as the ship tosses violently in the brine. No one has slept during the days and nights of being dashed about in the storm. On the third day, Will takes a fall from the ladder and when he struggles to his feet his arm is dangling by his side, broken. There’s nothing to do but lay it—straight she hopes—onto a board and wrap it with ties of cloth she finds by the stores. Will manages to smile at her throughout her ministrations, even as sweat beads on his pale brow.

They are, all of them, nearly exhausted when at last the rain begins to lesson and the wind dies down. “ ’Tis over,” Will tells her, “blown itself out.” It is safe to return to her quarters and she’s relieved to get out of the hold. Back on deck she finds the commodore looking little the worse for wear and asks him whether the storm has pushed them ahead or cost them time. He points his finger to the northwest and says, “In that distance we will soon see land. We’ve been alongside Nova Scotia throughout this storm. Miscou Island is ahead. We need to sail around the north coast of Miscou and then you’ll see a sight you won’t soon forget.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
the dark green coast of northern Nova Scotia lies high on the horizon and she can make out the island they are approaching. The commodore invites her to join him for breakfast and speaks his mind immediately. “You are
a curious woman. I have noted your interest in where this ship will sail and the history of the people in these parts. It sounds to me as though you may plan to stay in Nova Scotia once we land. Is that a possibility?” She has thought about this conversation a dozen times and is still uncertain about the position to take. Now almost five months’ pregnant, her secret is becoming harder to conceal.

“I wish to stay on this side of the ocean,” she tells him.

“There are no other European women at the post,” he replies.

She says she already knows that—Will had told her. He states his case again.

“It is most unusual for a woman to be alone.”

Silence from Charlotte.

“There are men to marry, men who can take care of you,” Walker proposes.

She wonders if this is an oblique reference to the story he’d told her about the aged suitor and the young woman. Is her future in the New World predicated on marriage to the commodore?

Then he says unequivocally, “Charlotte, I am convinced that a hasty return to England is in your best interest.”

Before she can say another word, he dismisses her with a curt, “I have duties to attend to.”

She is on her way back to her cabin when the coast comes into clear view. “Land, bloody land—thanks be to God,” Charlotte cries. Soon they steer around the high cliffs of Miscou still being swept by a stiff Atlantic wind and suddenly sail into the calm of the Baie de Chaleur. Charlotte catches her breath at the sight of a land that captures her soul. A beautiful wilderness lies before her. Forests of fir trees drop off into fields of
glistening seagrass that wave over long, sandy beaches. The water around her is teeming with fish. Will is at her side and tells her the huge marine mammals with the horizontal flukes on their tails are called whales. They move like undersea mountains, riding up to the surface and slipping out of sight again. The smaller ones with tusks are walrus, he says. The cod are so plentiful, she thinks, she could scoop them from the water with her hands. She can hardly believe the long journey from England to the West Indies and now to this place called Nepisiguit is over. Standing in awe at the ship’s rail and remembering defiantly what has gone before, she vows, “I will make my own way.” As the incoming tide sweeps the vessel to Alston Point and the home of Commodore Walker, Charlotte is determined to tame this wild and enchanting land and make it her own.

W
ioche stands on the Second Rock, alone except for Atilq. He had come here at first light to watch the movement of men at the shore of the bay. It’s his habit. His father had taught him this among other things: you learn most about men when you watch them unseen, since every man does alone what he will not do if watched.

Wioche pulls his wolfskin around his shoulders, the onshore wind being brisk this late August morning. He takes a piece of dried whale meat from his pouch and chews it slowly, looking at the empty horizon. He looks down at Atilq, who tilts his nose out across the bay to demonstrate that he would not be seen to beg. Wioche reaches again into his pouch and tosses a piece to Atilq.

“Where is your ableegumoocj-k today?” he asks the dog, and Atilq raises his ears because he knows the word
rabbit
.

The wind brings a sound from the direction of the English outpost—footsteps. He follows the sound with his eyes and sees
a woman stepping through the brush from the commodore’s lodge toward the beach. There were no women among the English, but all the People knew the commodore’s ship had been in the bay since yesterday. Evidently, though an old man, he had brought a woman with him. Wioche watches from the Second Rock. The woman in the long dress stands half a head taller than the men he knows at the lodge and has hair the colour of raspberries. No one among the Salmon People stands taller than Wioche and no
woman
of any people. He squints his eyes against the rising sun, watching her stealthily find her way to the shore.

T
HE SUN
has already made its way fully over the horizon and is bathing the water as well as the sands with its rays. Morning gilds the sky. She takes a step forward and stops in her tracks. A giant bird with blue-and-grey feathers, a long angular neck and long, spindly legs is standing like a solitary custodian gazing out over the water. She stands as still as the winged creature, taking in the sight. The bird is grand but vulnerable, so lonely in its repose. She feels the solitude—her own as well—and thinks, This isolation here—it will be my saving grace as well as my struggle. She knows the life beyond this compound must be different to the comparative luxury Walker enjoys. She knows, too, that her own future has been reduced to survival. But above all, Charlotte sees the opportunity here. The genteel covering that she has worn for twenty years has begun to peel away. The lessons of the West Indies ripped off the first layer, exposing her vulnerability. But the mantle of this general’s daughter was rent piece by piece as the reality of food, water, shelter, pirates, rebelling colonies, wild beasts and nature’s ferocity exposed the life of a settler in the New World. While she stands here in
the dawning, she knows there is still a level of naïveté that could defeat her, but she also knows she has pioneer in her bones.

“Why ye be to the beach at this early hour?” Will calls out. The bird she’s been watching lifts off the sand suddenly and soundlessly, its massive wingspan spreading to a width that astonishes her, its neck coiling as it takes flight. Charlotte watches the bird circle toward the sea and asks Will, “What is that magnificent creature?” He tells her it is a great blue heron. “There are many in these parts. They stand for eternity at the shore.” She wants to know when the tides change. “It was a low tide at about three o’clock this morning,” he explains. “Did ye not hearken the squawking of the birds?” So that was the sound that had wakened her in the night. “The gulls fight for clams on the flats of the low tide,” he says. She asks what the flats are. “That ye’ll see later,” Will promises. “But for now, ye must come to the house. The commodore asks for ye at the breakfast.”

W
IOCHE KNOWS
the men will be coming to trade soon and lets his thoughts stray to the molasses the white men bring, the strange sweetness that rivals honey and syrup, the fierce mother of rum, the devil potion that possesses its drinkers. He whistles softly to Atilq and together they move off the rock to a canopy of young trees, a vantage point closer to where the trade will take place.