Jim was not afraid of a fight. Oh no. But that last time they’d had a big scrap with the French down in Port Daniel, Little Arnold’s big brother had busted his wrist, and it never healed well, so he had to do all his work with one hand. Now if you’re a farmer, you could not risk that sort of thing. But he knew what happened when fellas got to drinking.
And to make matters worse, he’d heard rumblings last time he’d gone down to Port Daniel to have Lively shod. Dan Legallais had apparently got a French girl in trouble, and his family had refused to let him marry her, because she was Catholic. And so in spite of the girl’s pleas and his own protestations, they did not marry. The Frenchies were all up in arms now, blaming the whole of Shegouac. Well, if they wanted a dust up, he’d be in the thick of it.
“Whoa.” At the Smiths, he pulled Lively to a halt, pleased to see Henry waiting. “Jump in.” He was bigger and stronger than anyone in Shegouac.
“She’s gonna be some meetin’!” Henry vaulted in. “Bet the whole country will be there. You ever seen a black fella, Jim?”
Lively took off, trotting merrily for Port Daniel. Nephews and nieces from the Byers and Youngs were hanging on behind in Jim’s new express wagon, a buggy seat with a space behind for hauling things. “Yep, saw a couple in Montreal. One black as charcoal.” A Methodist minister, an Abolitionist, was bringing a former slave, a black fellow. The whole country was on its way to see what he looked like.
“Bound to be a pile of French fellas there,” Henry ventured. “Hope there’s not too much liquor.”
The sun was sinking behind a low bank of clouds as they made good time through Shegouac. On the way they passed couples and families walking and Jim stopped to give them lifts until the express wagon bulged. Lively enjoyed a good pull, but Jim knew he found it hard going. They climbed Port Daniel mountain and, once over, arrived at the Port Daniel schoolhouse. Other horses were already tied up, with more coming. They dismounted and Henry tied the horse to the hitching rail as Jim stood to survey the scene. Yes sir, kegs of beer on the backs of carts, and flagons of rum were being passed around. A real celebration.
Jim spotted Margie Skene. When she caught sight of him, she turned away. Ever since that night in the sleigh with Angel, Jim had found her acting odd. He stared at her: she had filled out for sure. Well, he thought, if only she’d been born a bit earlier...
Jim decided to head into the crowded school to find Sam Nelson. Most of the seats were already taken, so he had to stand at the back, but there was Sam.
They greeted each other and chatted while they waited for the meeting to begin. In came Reverend Lyster, who had trained under the Reverend Mr. Milne and now was in charge of Port Daniel and with him was another gentleman in clerical garb, probably the Methodist. Following, the crowd gaped as they saw an imposing black man. He caused gasps and excited giggles from the assembling gathering as the three took their places in front.
Soon Reverend Lyster introduced his Methodist friend with a few words about the abolition of slavery. And now, here, they would all learn first-hand how on the Coast they could help this worthy cause.
Then the Methodist, Mr. Watkins, gave a short preamble, and went on, “Families down South, they actually own other humans! You don’t pay a slave his wages, you just buy him. And if he escapes, like sheep over a fence — instead of acting like the Good Shepherd and bringing them back into the fold, you know what they do? They hang ’em!”
This caused a ripple of shock and disgust among the listeners.
“Oh yes, and listen to this, if you have women as slaves, you can do whatever you like with them.”
This caused even more of a horrified reaction, and voices rose. Jim clenched his fists as his ire rose, when Sam, who had his head cocked to one side, said, “Something’s going on outside. Come on!”
Jim was loath to leave, but followed. In the semi-darkness of dusk, Jim saw a brawl in progress. A few girls, safely out of harm’s way, watched with wide eyes. Should he run in to alert Mr. Lyster? But then he spotted Henry Smith on the ground with four French fellows on him, pounding away. He tore down the steps and launched into the fray.
He hauled the smallest one off first and knocked him backwards. He grabbed off the next, threw him aside and fell on the third, slugging it out. The French fellow, short and built like a bull, gave Jim a mighty wallop that sent him flying, but when the man went to pounce on him, Henry had gotten up and came to the rescue.
Real mayhem. Both sides were piling on each other with full vigour. Freed from the heavy Frenchman, Jim grabbed another who was pounding a Shegouacer on the grass. He hauled him off and smacked him good, knocking him flat, but another jumped him from behind. As he spun round, another crashed into him and he fell. Struggling to get up, he got knocked down again. Two English fellas from Port Daniel rescued him, only to be attacked themselves by four others.
What a brawl! Though his jaw ached and his eyes stung from the blood, Jim was almost enjoying himself. In he went again, swinging wildly, landing a good few punches here and there, helping comrades, ducking blows, tackling others, being hauled off and getting himself pounded in this wild free-for-all! Shouts of “Câlisse” and “Tabarnac,” and “You bastard” raged back and forth over the grounds until at last the doors opened and the big, black ex-slave, Longuen by name, boomed out, “Brothers, brothers, stop all this!”
He grabbed the rope and hammered at the school bell hanging by the door so that it jangled loud and true. “Stop right now! Listen to me. Listen, aren’t y’all brothers? Men your age down South are chained by their necks, starving, harnessed like horses to haul wagons, and here you are, free men — acting like fools!”
With the jangling of the bell and the funny accent of the black man, each side shook off the other and lay about in pain or exhaustion. “Listen to me, I still got relatives rattling their chains in Southern prison houses, and here you are, acting like chillun. Shame on you!”
“Damn right,” a few English yelled, amid cries of “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” from the French. Mr. Lyster translated his message into French.
“C’est pas nous,” one big thundering French tough yelled. “They start! They act bad to our girls. They no good!”
There was a chorus of agreement and disagreement, but at least, no more fighting. The meeting was brought to order.
“Brothers, brothers,” Longuen boomed, “apologize right now for any insults to the ladies. Both sides!” This was met with silence, and odd looks. “Come on now, make your apologies. Be friends. I’ll tell y’all stories ye’ll never forget, but only if you calm down.”
Others came out of the hall to stand on the stairs or lean against walls. The fighters began to unwind like obedient schoolchildren. Stories? Well, that made one sit up and listen. Nothing like a good story, everyone knew.
“When Sister Moon comes up, we’ll all do our share of singing. Songs from the South. But for now, just listen.”
Oh good, a singsong. Jim shook his head to clear it, tried to rise, but just fell over again. Damnation, he’d sure taken the bad end of that brawl. But then he saw, wending towards him... Margie Skene! What was she doing?
She knelt by him with a cup of water she had gotten from the school pump. She got out her handkerchief. “Jim, what have you done to yourself?”
He shrugged. “They musta knocked me about a bit. Lotsa fun, though.” His face felt as if it had been kicked by a dozen Livelys. In Margie’s big brown eyes, he saw concern mingled with determination. She began to smooth away the blood and to wash clean the cuts. “Jim, you mustn’t do that sort of thing,” she whispered in a motherly way. “You could get yourself hurt.”
Those eyes, he hadn’t looked closely into them before, so wide, brown, full of tenderness. Freckles on her nose, too, very pretty. And what a womanly touch in someone so young, as she cleaned up his blood.
She too seemed to be studying him. She put a cold folded hankie on his temple where a bruise was beginning to flower.
Meanwhile, Longuen was speaking in rich, deep tones, the voice of a true orator. Margie turned and sat beside Jim, so they could listen. No more fighting tonight, that seemed obvious. The man held them spellbound, with harrowing tales of what went on in those Southern states, and of the blood-curdling escapes that his compatriots had made, finding their way finally to Canada West.
“We don’t know how lucky we are on the Coast, Margie.”
“That’s for sure, Jim,” she said simply.
He had a great urge to turn and kiss her, but restrained himself. This was not the time nor the place, in front of everyone gathered in the moonlight in front of the old Port Daniel schoolhouse. But one thing for sure: Margie might be young, but she was someone worth waiting for. Oh yes, but would she wait for him?
Right now, he only squeezed her hand, and mumbled, “Thank you, Margie.”
After a time, she broke the silence. “When I seen ya with that schoolteacher o’ yourn, I swore to meself I’d never speak to you again. You’ll never guess what that did to me, Jim Alford. For me, that was the finish.”
“So, how come you’re nice now?”
She shook her head. “No idea. When I seen you beaten around like that, I just went right to that pump and got me some water.” She shrugged. “If a fella needs looking after, I guess I figured, that’s my job.”