“I’m sorry, James, nothing’ll get me to agree to no school.” Old George Robinson downed his piggin and wiped the last drops of beer from his bristly moustache and beard. “We already done a lot here in Shegouac. But there’s more to do. We got our farms to think of. Ploughing and harrowing, what school teaches that? Time in class? Better spent learning how to cure a sick pig, I’d say, or when to plant. Lots o’ time later for a school, but not right now.” He rose to his feet with an effort. “Well, I’d best be off. Thanks a pile, Mrs. Alford.”
Catherine smiled a reply, as James rose to see him out.
James could not believe it: all evening, he’d presented every notion he had prepared. Catherine had baked for two days for this supposedly impromptu meeting. But all he’d faced was stiff opposition.
Vid Smith, a tall, fine-looking sixty year old with a high forehead and chiselled features, swallowed his last morsel of scone and got up too. “I gotta say the same, James. I want no new expenses to be worrying about when I’ve got them twelve acres still to clear back behind. Look at Mrs. Alford here, she don’t know her readin’ and writin’, but have you ever seen a finer mess of cakes and cookies and pies? By the holy gee whizz, how did she do that if schooling is so important? Beg pardon, ma’am, but this was a terble fine feast you and young Hannah put on today. It’s too bad none of us agree with James, but maybe like Ol’ George here said, the time’s just not right.”
Catherine acknowledged his compliments with a graceful smile. “Thank you, Vid,” she said. “But just think, if you’d all agreed, you might have been treated to this every month!” As they chuckled, James nodded. “And,” she added, “wouldn’t it be lovely if your children could read the Bible on their own?”
Silence greeted that. “Well, Mr. Alford,” Sam Allen, the youngest of the three, though not by much, with black hair and heavy features, leaned back in his chair, “that sure gives us something more to think about!” He looked at the others. “Maybe at the very least, we can think over what James proposed.” He glanced at his host. “I know you and my poppa was the best of friends. He came here a year after you did — I was just a baby — and you helped him. So it hurts me to say no today. But you can count on me to do some thinking, and maybe even some talking, too.”
James and Catherine helped the three men into their coats. He had never dreamed of such a response — even marked the calendar as being a red letter day when the trustees launched the school. Heavens! Imagine them saying: what’s good enough for our fathers is good enough for our children. He knew they couldn’t read or write themselves, so perhaps he’d been overly optimistic. He’d always had a love of learning himself, ever since he’d started doing those chores for the children’s tutor while an under-footman at Raby Castle so that he could learn something himself. He had thought the desire for education was part of everyone’s nature.
James saw them out into the starry darkness with a light wind blowing and a crescent moon showing them the way home over the snow. He paused in the open doorway, then closed it, came back through the outer kitchen and stood, shaking his head.
Catherine and Hannah were putting away the remains of the food. James could see they were pleased at how much had been eaten: a fine evening all around. And he also was pleased he had provided beer, over Catherine’s objections. No one had gotten drunk, and the warm drink had helped them display their feelings openly. Much better that than hidden complaints voiced later.
His son-in-law Thomas Byers sat sipping the last of his tea and thinking. “But why did we ask Old George? And Vid? Why not the Nelsons? Sam is a great friend of yours.”
James walked heavily forward and sat beside him. “You know they’re Catholic. They have their own school.”
“None here in Shegouac. If you’re gonna build one, wouldn’t they go for it?”
“Not how the system works on the Coast, Thomas, you know that. Protestants and the Catholics, they have to go to different schools.”
Thomas shook his head, and rose. “Well,” he said, “looks like maybe we lost the battle.” He walked over to put on his heavy coat. “I’m sorry. But you know, I’ll try talking to Old George’s son, James, I know he’ll be of mind to persuade his father. Specially with that there Bible idea. And Vid Smith’s son, young Henry, he’s got kids coming along, he might be in favour. We just have a lot o’ work to do.”
James nodded. But he was dejected and it showed. “Thank you, Tom, thanks a whole lot. I never expected all this, I dunno why. I guess the subject of a school never was thought of before. I mean, apart from church meetings, where nothing ever happens.” He turned his head. “Catherine, you just did wonders, you and Hannah, you were both the best.”
“I’m sorry, Poppa,” Hannah said, “but as I told you, for me it wasn’t that unexpected.”
So now, James had neither his school, nor his son. What remained?
* * *
James found it hard to sleep. His mind kept going over the meeting: had he really done all he could? If he’d handled it differently, would it have changed things? No, probably not. New ideas, he’d seen how they’d been received in the Navy, and also in the Old Country. The status quo always prevailed.
He turned on his side and tried willing himself to sleep. But what was going on? For what reason had he been put on this good earth? He had done most things properly in life, and lived according to certain principles. Never had he lied or cheated anyone, so far as he knew, always relying on the Lord to provide the best judgement in any situation. So why was he now, with no heir, destined to leave behind only a farm headed for ruin, and children who would remember him, of course, but what else? Shouldn’t that be enough? No, in his heart of hearts, he knew it was not. So how to make this failure — to provide his community with something lasting — tally with the image of a kind and responsive God?
And then in one awful flash, a thought struck him: What if God did not care?
Radical thought. And not unheard of, either. Several neighbours brought news of others in faraway climes who even questioned His existence. So what if, when he finally departed this world into the comforting arms of a Saviour, no arms were there? “What if he’s not there?” he proclaimed out loud.
Beside him, Catherine stirred, reached out, touched him, and then moved closer. “Who’s not there, my dear?” She laid a comforting arm across his chest. “Try and get some sleep.”
“I have! What else have I been doing, the last hour?” Why had he snapped his response? But he was enwrapped in his own agony. It did not allow him to be gentle.
Catherine rolled over. “All right, James, better tell me what is troubling you.”
“What if...” James just could not bring himself to mouth the terrible words.
“What if what, James?”
He struggled with his conscience. Would speaking the words make them come true? Or would it ease his mind? At any rate, he found himself saying, “What if God doesn’t care? What if he’s not even there?”
Catherine did not respond, at first. The sentence seemed to move through the inky darkness, threading among those dust motes that danced in the moonbeam slanting from the window onto their hooked rug. What response could there be?
“I’m sure he does, my dear.” Catherine reached out to feel for his hand under the covers. “You’ve just got the soul sickness. That’s all. Everything looks black. That is when the devil comes to take us. We must resist.” She paused. James lay, hoping for more to console him. “When morning comes, you will feel better. This is always the hour now for dreadful thoughts. When the sun floods into our room tomorrow, they will all be gone. You’ll be yourself again.”
Myself again, James thought. Yes. Perhaps that was what was happening. But some instinct told him that once he had broached the unholy question, it would dog him. No, he had to reach a satisfactory conclusion. On the morrow, he would take up the Bible and read passages about doubt. That might do him good. At least, it was a start. He rolled over and clutched Catherine close. She turned on her side, and pushed herself into the crook of his body. With his arms around her, he soon fell into a deep, and now untroubled, sleep.
* * *
On the morrow, with the cow milked, eggs collected, cattle and oxen fed, the few sheep nestling down to chew their cuds in their pen, James sat reading his large Bible by the open fire. Catherine and Hannah were preparing dinner. A knock came at the door.
A visitor. So rare. James rose and went across to the back porch and opened the door. A letter.
He thanked the courier and invited him in for a meal as was the traditional courtesy. The man, tall and thin even under his bulky clothes, thanked them but had a good way to go, so he left.
James closed the door and announced, “Catherine, Hannah, Momma, we have a letter. From Jim!”
Excitement such as this should not to be taken lightly. They decided to have their dinners first. And then, over cups of tea, they gathered around while James sat by the fire and gingerly opened the manuscript.
“Dear Momma and Poppa,
So I got here. So much to tell. First, I met a doctor in Restigouche who told me about England. Medical things. A fellow could now go to McGill University and get a degree in medicine. Imagine that! I bet it’s not too long before we all have doctors up and down the Coast. Though you’ll have your doubts.”
Catherine gave a laugh. “I have my doubts too, Jim.” She smiled. Eleanor and Hannah kept their full attention on James. He went on to describe the medical developments the letter spoke of, and the amazing introduction of “ether” that put patients to sleep.
James paused and shook his head. “If only they’d had that in the Navy, how much suffering it would’a saved,” he said. Then he read on, pausing to savour the paragraph about Nelson’s monument, which pleased the others, too.
“That Kempt Road is really long, and empty. I only passed two or three coming past. I snowshoed the whole way, Poppa, you’d be proud of me. There are four places along the Kempt Road, the oldest up beyond Salmon Lake at its head called Pierre Trochu, at this end it’s his son Marcel. But my best visit was Mr. Noble, at the Forks, halfway along. I was freezing, and I’d say he almost saved me.
“I made it to the Saint Lawrence. You know, that coast on the opposite shore is right out of sight. It’s even wider than Chaleur Bay. Sometimes I got lucky with a ride in a sleigh. After a bit, I could see across to little white houses, and then, we crossed from Lévis to Quebec City, because the only road to Montreal is on the north shore, through Three Rivers.”
James read them Jim’s short account of the canotiers, which excited them all.
“Land sakes,” Eleanor said, “the dear child, what has he been through?”
“Go on Poppa, go on,” Hannah urged. “I want to know what happens.”
“At Montreal you have to cross the river again. It’s over half a mile, I’d say, and you wait in a kind of building for the sleighs to take you. This part of the river, she ices up earlier than Quebec, and sleighs had already been crossing. Well, off we went, two sleighs, maybe half a dozen in each, with good fast horses.
“I got the sleigh with a smart driver. The other fella, I guess he didn’t know too much. I reckon the two of them were having a race. But our fella, with a big, black beard, he’d been doing it a good while. The other fella got ahead, but when we reached the middle, our fella pulled up his team, and yelled at the younger driver. He looked back but paid no attention: he kept going straight across, like he was winning. Our fella, he turned us off the track and headed downstream.
“Well byes, first thing we knew, we heard cries and the other sleigh, she started down through the ice! Poppa, Momma, it was terrible. The woman and them were tumbling out of the sleigh, but that shelf of ice there, it just sank, and the whole lot of them, they just disappeared, pulled under, horses and all.
“In our sleigh we were standing up, me and another Englishman, we yelled at our driver, stop! We got to help.
“But our guy just held out his arms, shook his head, and kept going. At the time, we were angry but now I see he did the right thing. Nothing on earth could save those poor souls from under that ice. They was all gone. All the walk into town, I couldn’t get the sight out of my mind. But here I am, I found this bit of attic, with a nice friendly widow, and I reckon I’ll stay for a bit, and try my hand. I’ll let you know how things go.
“I miss the farm, and you both, and Hannah, even grandmother with her knitting. Tell her I wore her scarf the whole way and I was real glad of it. Bye for now. Your son, Jim.”
James folded the letter and looked at the three of them. “The Lord be praised,” he shook his head, “our son is safe.”
All four sat without moving while they contemplated the picture Jim had drawn for them. “Well,” Hannah started to get up, “we’d best be getting about our chores. No use worrying about people lost weeks ago.”
“You’re right, my dear.” Her mother joined her in clearing the dishes, while Eleanor sat quite still in her chair. Then she looked across at James and spoke. “In the midst of life, we’re in the midst of death.”
“Never a truer word, Mother.” Get over your black feelings, James thought to himself, they’re drowning you, just like that sleighful. Jim’ll fight his own battles. Time to fight your own.