Storms and huge breaking waves tossed the Alderney around violently. Water poured down through the poorly fitting hatches and creaking deck boards. At night, the ship groaned as powerful gusts of wind roared through the rigging. The smell of vomit never left my nostrils.
When the fresh vegetables and fruit were gone, we had nothing to eat but salt beef and ship’s bread. Those rock-like biscuits were filled with weevils, but we still tried to get them down. Some of us began to suffer from scurvy. Teeth loosened. Sores and wounds that had been long healed began to open and run with pus. Death became a familiar event, as did the horrible burials at sea. Before long I could recite by heart the service the captain read as the remains of some poor soul were dropped into the cold water. At a land burial, people would be weeping and sighing, but here every eye was dry. No one had tears to spare for the dead.
My mother died only a week before Alderney reached land. She too was buried at sea, of course. It was impossible to bring her remains to shore. I kept dreaming of the sound her canvas-wrapped body had made as the ocean received it. My father mourned her terribly. And yet, people still said how fortunate we were, that we had made the crossing in a fairly healthy ship. I wished they could have crossed with us, just to see the truth.
Halifax, when we reached it, was a surprise. Its houses were built of simple planks. Some had several chimneys because Halifax winters were wickedly cold. My fingers and nose might fall off, I was warned. After our hardships at sea, a cold winter did not frighten me.
The town was noisy, muddy, and rougher than any I had ever seen. After the tameness of Brierly, I loved it. Not everyone agreed, however. As soon as some men had a chance, they disappeared, probably slipping away to the New England colonies, where they believed life was easier.
I could not say if it was easier, but I suspect it may have been safer compared to Halifax. There was a rough log palisade surrounding the town. In it, at the top of the hill, was Fort George, named after our king.
There were also defences on Georges Island in the town’s harbour, complete with cannons. But none of that protected people from what was in the wilderness just beyond the town. There were Indians out there, tribes they called the Micmac and Maliseet. Both were allied to the French. It did not take long for stories of what happened to those caught by the French and Indians to reach my ears. What nightmares I had!
My father seemed right at home in all this, though, and if he was discouraged he did not show it. A practical man, he began the business of providing for me without my mother. The idea of farming was set aside, and he went back to sea on one of Mr. Joshua Mauger’s merchant vessels. Merry Lot, she was called. We took cheap rooms at the widow Walker’s inn, and when Father sailed out I was left behind with the widow.
It was there at Mrs. Walker’s inn that I learned many useful things. She taught me to wipe tables and carry cups of her spruce beer to the patrons without spilling a drop. Best of all, she taught me to read and write.
And then there was the dog.
It appeared suddenly one day. Small, brown, and spotted with white, it had very little tail at all. Mrs. Walker tried to shoo it away with her apron, but the dog growled at her. She waved the poker and banged pots, but it had no effect at all on the dog. Sometimes it wandered away on its own and Mrs. Walker sighed with relief. But then back in it would stroll when some unsuspecting sailor opened the door. They fed it bits of meat, being careful not to lose a finger. Mrs. Walker still grumbled, but even she could see that the dog was good for business.
“It needs a name,” I said one day, stroking the dog’s head.
“I can think of several choice things I might call it,” grumbled Mrs. Walker. “Mind your fingers, William. The creature can crack a bone with those wicked teeth.”
“It’s a good ratter, though,” I said in the dog’s defence.
“True enough,” Mrs. Walker admitted.
“Name it, then,” said my father, who had arrived home that morning. “It is only fair, since the dog seems to like you as much as anyone. But name it well, as well as a captain christens a ship. A good ratter can do a house proud. It needs a name that it can be proud of.”
Mrs. Walker shook her head. The dog was scratching itself like mad. “Fleas,” she muttered.
“Well … I christen thee King Louis!”
“The French king’s name?” laughed my father.
“I cannot very well name him after own King George, can I?”
And so King Louis he became. He continued to reign over Mrs. Walker’s tavern, and all of Halifax was his kingdom. Sometimes he could be seen riding along with a group of sailors who were going out to their ship. It made me wonder what such a free life would be like.