|
.Preface
This novel is a fanciful mix of history, fiction and fact. Although everything outside the footnotes is entirely fictional, I have tried to use authoritative and eyewitness accounts whenever possible. Nevertheless, for the purists, I will admit to some liberties. For example, Alexander Wood made a return trip to his native Scotland between 1817 and 1821, so he couldn’t possibly have interacted with my main character in 1820. However, his significance in the social history of the time begged for his inclusion. I will also admit that while the “The Londonderry Air” is thought to have originated in the eighteenth century, the lyrics to it (i.e., “Danny Boy”) were not written until 1913. Readers may also notice quite a profusion of events all condensed into a fairly short period of time. This is due to the journal-entry format. To further extend the timeline would have resulted in a volume far too lengthy for a convenient read. On the other hand, the compressed format keeps the pace fairly lively, which I think adequately compensates for this particular stretch of the imagination. The vocabulary, writing style and layout are all reminiscent of a nineteenth-century novel, but since it is obviously meant for a twenty-first-century reader, some modern language and speaking styles have also been incorporated. Once again, I think this makes for a better read while retaining the general character of the period. To my knowledge, this book is the first attempt at writing a fictional version of pioneer life from a gay perspective. Moreover, since homosexuality was an illegal lifestyle at the time, there are no personal anecdotes to rely on. Therefore, a fictional approach may be as close as we can come to an understanding of how it might have been. Nevertheless, my description of the laws and penalties of the day are fairly accurate, as are the societal sanctions. Common sense also tells us that men like Sean and Patrick must have existed, and it must have been a very difficult time for them. Although I have taken some liberties here and there, the portrayal of the justice system is also true to history. Magistrates generally had no legal training, decisions were frequently handed out quite arbitrarily, and executions were not uncommon for offences such as Uttering (a form of fraud) and horse theft. Moreover, there are accounts of individuals being flogged in the courtroom, and also of convicts who were hanged directly after sentencing. Similarly, conditions in prisons (“gaols”) were every bit as dismal as I have described in the novel, being as they were almost devoid of heat and sanitary conditions, and inmates’ diets were carefully regulated to cost no more than a few pennies per day per prisoner. Extreme boredom was also a factor, so it can well be imagined that there must also have been some illicit sex among the inmates—to suggest otherwise is to deny human nature under such confined conditions over extended periods of time. My setting of Baldwin, Ontario, was a somewhat sentimental choice. In the later part of the nineteenth century, my grandfather occupied a farm in nearby Vachel, and it was this farm that inspired my fictional “Éireann” in the story. Furthermore, I have long suspected that Baldwin was named after Robert Baldwin, arguably the first premier of the province, and one of my principal characters. Finally, while the novel contains no offensive language or explicit sexual content, it is nonetheless intended for a mature reader.
Chapter 1
March 17, 1820: St. Paddy’s Day, and what a grand day it is for an adventure. My name is Sean McConaghy, third son of John McConaghy, a master printer of Derry, Ireland, and his wife Rose Ann Doherty. Some people call it “Londonderry” these days,[1] but I am a Derryman and not readily given to change. Therefore, “Derry” it is in my mind, as it has always been. This morning I boarded the Lovely Nellie with my second cousin Patrick McConaghy of nearby Antrim, and together we are bound for Canada across the sea. He is a good lad with a pleasant disposition, and I think we will fare quite well in our new land. It will be a fresh start from the turmoil that has plagued us Ulster Catholics since the English came to stay, as well as the hard times that currently beset Ireland,[2] and for these two reasons we have decided to seek our fortunes elsewhere. Nevertheless, I record that I leave my native land with great remorse. In her soil are buried my kinsmen both ancient and recent, and my loved ones, whom I am not likely to see again in my lifetime, still walk her emerald hills. I will also admit to this private journal that I have a certain fear of the unknown, and it is for this reason I am especially grateful for the company of my young friend and cousin. We will be the first of our line in this new land, and perhaps we will start lines of our own in time. What remarkable thoughts these are! However, we are now under sail, and my beloved homeland is quickly disappearing behind me. Therefore, I must hurry to a higher vantage for one last glimpse of Ireland before it fades from my sight.
Sean McConaghy of Derry, Ireland, a Derryman of the Catholic faith, son of John and Rose Ann McConaghy, bound for Canada on this 17th day of March, in the year of our Lord 1820. Éireann go brách![3]
March 18: Thursday. I record with some trepidation that nothing I have known thus far has prepared me for the rigours of this journey. Our sleeping quarters are nothing more than rough wooden bunks with a thin mat to cushion our bodies. However, I hasten to add that this is somewhat better than the next class down, for they have no bench or cushion at all, and they huddle and sleep wherever they can. Altogether we are about eighty souls, men, women and babes, all pressed together in a common hold below the deck. Along the walls of the ship are the second-class sleeping quarters (about forty in number—including Patrick and I), and below these is everyone else. To further mark the difference, we second-class passengers have an area reserved for us where we can congregate or cook meals over charcoal pots. Quite good foodstuffs can be purchased from the ship’s stores, and a stew consisting of peeled potatoes and bacon (called a “beggar’s dish”) is included with the passage fare. Patrick and I have decided to eat the beggar’s dish for as long as we can stomach it. With the help of our families, we have some money—about sixty pounds sterling[4]—but we wish to save these meagre funds for the various unknowns lying ahead. Patrick sleeps next to me, and next to him are two of our countrymen bound on a similar adventure. It is fine that they are Irish and affable enough, but their snoring causes an almost constant din—I believe theirs is the only Irish “song” I have ever truly disliked! One of them, named Callahan, has kinsmen already established in an area called “Upper Canada,”[5] and he speaks of it as a place of considerable opportunity. It is a fair journey from Quebec, where we are destined to land, but it is also for the most part accessible by an inland waterway. Therefore, we may consider it as a destination as well. Above-deck are the first-class passengers. They rarely talk to the other classes, of course, and I have yet to hear an Irish accent among them. Could it be that these fops are rushing to dominate this new land too? The sun is now setting on an empty sea, so I will close this entry and descend to my rightful station.
Sean McConaghy.
March 20: [Saturday]. The weather has turned very foul indeed, and both yesterday and today the ship was tossed about in a fearsome gale. As a result of this turmoil, it was almost impossible to do anything but hang on, so I said a silent prayer to Saint Christopher[6] and clung onto Patrick and the bunk for our security. Saints preserve us both!
S. M.
March 21: The weather is somewhat calmer this morning, and I can only thank God for our safe delivery through the storm. Fortunately, the ship suffered only minor damage, but nearly everything onboard was in chaos. All but the passengers had to be lashed down, walking about was nigh impossible, and cooking was prohibited for fear of spreading fire. Not that it mattered much, for hardly a single soul had any stomach for food. In truth, quite a few were violently ill, and others fouled themselves in the midst of it all, and the stench lingers on in spite of the floor having been scrubbed with a mixture of powdered lime and seawater. With great embarrassment, I took my turn at being ill as well, but Patrick seemed quite impervious to the ship’s violent movements. In fact, he found the whole ordeal “quite exciting,” and even whooped when the ship lurched and heaved at its utmost worst. I have known Patrick since he was born, and I have visited with him on several family occasions, but it is only now that I am beginning to appreciate his nature. I record therefore that he possesses an indomitable spirit and a disposition that is almost as fair as his features. Overall, he looks quite cherubic with a mop of flaxen hair tumbling over his forehead, a set of clear blue eyes, and an impish smile that can be quite disarming at times. He should make some cailín[7] quite a handsome catch when the time comes. On the other hand I am his near opposite in many ways. My hair is almost ebony by comparison, and my manner is somewhat more serious as well. Nonetheless, I have a trim body and passable features, and I too hope to attract a wife in time. At twenty-five, I am somewhat older than my peers to remain single, but in keeping with my nature I feel that a man should be able to maintain a wife and family without want or worry, and I have some considerable ways to go before I achieve this level of means. Meanwhile, I remain celibate as my faith dictates, but at times my manhood cries out for a loving partner to fulfill my wants as God intended. This afternoon I had occasion to meet up with Callahan, and I pressed him to tell me more about this territory of Upper Canada. He responded with a description of vast lands to be had at a reasonable price, and also fish and game for the taking. What a paradise this must be!
S. M.
March 22: I slept somewhat better last night, so perhaps I am acquiring what the sailors refer to as “sea legs.” Nevertheless, I am now beginning to feel the need for a good overall scrubbing. In a more civilized setting I would probably be shunned for my lack of hygiene, but here we are all in the same boat (so to speak), so there is no one who can justly complain without being criticized in return. However, this may not be the worst of my discomforts, for lately I have felt the need to scratch more often than usual, and I fear I may also be infested with fleas! In my opinion, this is the lowest possible affliction, and beyond the discomfort it is also a source of considerable shame and humiliation. Consequently, I raised my concern with Patrick for fear of infesting him as well; however, he simply waved his hand in dismissal. “It is probably nothing more than the want of a good scrubbing,” he reassured me. “Wait for a nice warm day, and then we can both take a bath in the latrine.” “Not I,” I said, quite categorically. “I am not about to undress in front of a crowd of strangers.” “Suit yourself,” he laughed. “But I hope you won’t feel offended if I start sleeping on the deck when you get overripe.” I record here that the “latrine” is merely a canvas-shrouded area where the male passengers perform their various toilets. It has an outhouse-like bench rigged out over the sea, a bucket for hauling seawater up, and a few metal basins for washing our bodies. However, there is no privacy at all, and it is not uncommon to perform one’s necessary functions in the presence of a small crowd. Nevertheless, Patrick’s threat has given me cause to think, and I may have to reconsider my reserve after this.
S. McConaghy.
March 24: [Wednesday]. Today marks the end of our first week at sea—and there is still a very long journey ahead of us. Just when we will arrive in Quebec is a matter of divine providence, for if the winds are favourable we could reach land in a month or so; and if they are not, it may take six weeks or even longer. Therefore, I pray to him who watches over us for favourable winds throughout. I will be truly happy when this part of the journey is behind me. There may come a time when I can look back on all this as an adventure, but presently I am itchy, uncomfortable and wracked with uncertainty.
S. McConaghy.
March 25: The sun arose both bright and warm this morning, and after some debate with my inner nature I finally decided in favour of a good overall scrubbing. Nonetheless, I shed my trousers with some trepidation (being careful to keep my backside to the others and my hands covering my manhood at all times). However, since no one appeared to take any notice of me at all—apart from regarding my behaviour somewhat curiously—I soon abandoned my concerns to enjoy the quite liberating experience of a fresh breeze on my naked skin. Needless to say, Patrick was quite delighted, and he christened my newfound temerity with a bucket of cold water. I reciprocated of course, and soon a water fight ensued between the two of us and nearly everyone else in the latrine area. It was great fun, and afterward I wondered why it had taken me so long to get around to it. Sadly, we also experienced our first death at sea today. One of the lower-class passengers had been ailing since she came onboard, and she finally succumbed to her illness this morning. Her passing is made all the more melancholy by the fact that she leaves behind a husband with a wee babe-in-arms, and also two other children of tender ages. Her poor husband is practically beside himself with grief. Nevertheless, I am warned that we could experience more such deaths before this journey is ended. It seems that some of the lower-class passengers were already weak or ill from privation before we embarked, and yet they pressed on in a desperate hope of finding salvation on the other side. Worse, there is also the possibility of a contagion among them that would devastate us all in a similar manner, and I pray we will be spared from this.
S. M.
March 26: The day dawned well enough, but it soon took an ominous turn as the skies began to darken and a strong wind arose out of the northwest. These conditions continued to escalate until the sea rose up in mountainous waves that eventually washed over the entire deck. Moreover, the receding water soon found its way below to drench nearly everything, including our bedding.S. M.
March 27: The squall has abated, but not our discomfort on account of the dampness below. Even Patrick’s indomitable spirit is being tested by it, and his blonde locks are presently drooping over his forehead like a wet spaniel’s. Nevertheless, he could still manage one of his customary smiles when I pointed this out to him. “I’ve always wanted to be a lap dog,” he quipped. It is well I decided to avail myself of a good scrubbing when I did, for it is presently too dangerous to go on deck, even to answer the call of nature. Instead, we are forced to find a remote corner of the hold to make water, and to squat on a bucket with a blanket wrapped around us to relieve our bowels. It is a primitive existence to be certain, and yet it seems quite ordinary under the circumstances.
S. M.
March 28: The storm has finally passed, but a persistent rain now conspires to hold the dampness below. Therefore, Patrick and I have draped a blanket over ourselves for warmth, and we huddle beneath it like two damp mice under a cabbage leaf. With calmer seas prevailing, we finally committed the body of the dead woman to her watery grave. Everyone but the infirm attended the on-deck funeral, and the captain conducted a very nice service indeed. Nonetheless, it was truly pitiful to see the grieving father and his little knot of a family huddled together in the drizzle. We therefore took heart regarding our own comparatively insignificant discomforts.
S. M.
March 30: Today I record with some considerable concern the persistent rumour of a contagion among us. Last night the baby of the dead woman joined her in death, and one of her other two children appears to be ailing as well; therefore, the distraught father and his tiny flock have been banished to a remote corner of the hold, and there they are being shunned even as they move about. Not surprisingly, the father sits with his head in his hands, looking truly forlorn indeed, and his frightened children huddle beside him in wide-eyed bewilderment. What a cruel penance to be delivered upon these wretched individuals at such a sad time in their lives! I will readily admit to a fear of contracting the contagion, but I hasten to add that my concern is mostly for Patrick’s welfare. If I become infected, he will almost certainly suffer a similar fate. Nonetheless, I am sorely tempted to offer the poor father some small gesture of comfort in his time of need. However, I will consult Patrick before I decide.
* * *
Later the same day. I did consult with Patrick, and I am quite pleased to say his response was entirely in keeping with his nature. “If they have a contagion, it is probably too late for us already,” he reasoned. “So let us do the right thing by going to them now before it is too late to matter.” I was truly impressed by both his compassion and his courage, and if it were not unmanly to do so, I could have embraced him for it. Nevertheless, I grasped his hand with both of mine to express my admiration as best I could. We then went forward together, and I am truly grateful we did. The poor man was so utterly overcome by our simple gesture that he wept quite openly. Moreover, others soon took heart as well, and slowly the barriers began to dissolve as the men came forward to offer their condolences, and the women rushed in to comfort the children as only women can. I now record, therefore, that I am prepared to face the future with a clear conscience, and this episode has given me another reason to appreciate Patrick’s remarkable nature.
S. M.
March 31: The day being fine, we spent a good part of it up on deck enjoying the warm sunshine, and while we were at it I spied several great fish spouting water from the back of their heads. What a curious and magnificent spectacle they presented! I pointed these out to a passing sailor with some excitement. “They be only whales, mate,” he said at a glance and continued on his way. In truth, I was somewhat disappointed by his apparent indifference, but I am forced to admit that there is much I have yet to learn on this adventure.
S. M.
April 1: [Thursday]. All Fool’s Day,[8] and a reason to be on the lookout for jokesters. There were several such among us, but the captain outdid them all by sending a sergeant-at-arms to arrest the lot of us at gunpoint. He then had us paraded on deck to be sentenced to a splendid breakfast that he himself presided over. It was the greatest fun and it has also raised the captain quite high in my estimation.
S. M.
April 2: Today we encountered another ship. It was homeward bound, and our captain signalled for it to come alongside. He then sent word around that letters could be passed between the ships, and this caused quite a flurry as we all scrambled to write a few precious lines to our loved ones back home. Mine had a few tears on the outside, but only positive news within. Otherwise, the weather and winds are favourable, and we are averaging 150 miles per day. At this rate, we could reach Canada by the end of the month—which would make it a very quick crossing indeed—and it is now time to think ahead. With this in mind, I queried Patrick on where he thought we should settle when we finally arrived. “Is this not a land of vast opportunities?” he asked in typical fashion. “This is my understanding,” I replied quite seriously. “Then one place seems as good as another to me.” “But this is no help at all, Patrick,” I complained. “We are in this together, so I need your opinion as well.” He thought about this for a moment. “Do you have one?” he replied, instead. “More or less, but I would like to hear yours before I decide.” “Where are you thinking?” “Upper Canada.” “Then Upper Canada it is,” he declared. “And I give you my word on it.” “What if I had said Lower Canada?” I asked, curious. “Then Lower Canada it would be,” he grinned. It was therefore decided (after considerable debate) that Upper Canada would be our chosen destination.
S. M.
April 3: It was another favourable day with clear skies and a stiff breeze behind us. Also, the captain has confirmed that “barring any unforeseen difficulties,” we should reach Quebec within the month. This was most welcome news indeed, for we are all beginning to suffer from the tedium of seeing nothing but the rising and setting of the sun. Nonetheless, the captain does his best to keep us entertained. Presently, there are two fiddlers playing on the deck and a variety of couples dancing to the music. The men usually dance with the women, but when there are not enough of these to go around they frequently dance with one another. This would probably seem quite peculiar anywhere else, but at sea it seems quite acceptable. I have therefore tried to dance with Patrick once or twice, but since we can’t seem to settle on who will lead, our feet get tangled in the process. As part of the entertainment, the crew often perform small skits of their own devising. Some of these are quite clever, but others are just plain silly. Presently, a sailor is dressed in women’s clothes and is parading about the deck like a tart. Nevertheless, the men are chasing after him as the rest of us cheer them on. It is all very silly of course, but it helps to break the monotony. Such is life at sea.
S. M.
April 4: This morning Patrick had a scuffle with a young ruffian who has been intimidating nearly everyone since he came on board, but their scuffle quickly ended when the captain himself intervened. He then ordered the two of them to stand at attention while he dressed them down in no uncertain terms. After this, he sent them on their way with a sly wink in my direction. “That should settle their cocks’ feathers,” he chuckled. It did, because Patrick was quite contrite when I found him again, and he at once apologized for his action. “Did you get a good slap in?” I asked him. “More than one, for sure, and I would have given him a few more if the captain hadn’t come along,” he replied. “Well now, that is regrettable,” I observed. In the afternoon, we strolled along the deck and talked about our general hopes for the future. Patrick is particularly excited by the thought of owning some of this vast land we have heard about. “Everyone back home will think we are lords!” he remarked. “Truly—and Catholic lords[9] at that,” I observed. “Yes, there is that about it, as well,” he agreed. Otherwise, our remarkable progress continues, as we have now gained another 178 miles since yesterday afternoon.
S. M.
April 6: [Tuesday]. I met up with Callahan this morning and asked him what we might expect to find when we reached Upper Canada. He replied that it is mostly covered with forest, but with a little industry one could clear enough land for planting in the first season and also use the logs for building a shanty.[10] I had only a vague notion of what a shanty was, but I was more concerned about the forest part of it. “And how does one go about clearing this forest?” I asked. “With an axe and saw, of course,” he replied with a questioning look. “Do you not know these things?” “In a general way,” I replied, to conceal my actual ignorance of any of it. “But I always like to ask in case something has changed.” We parted company shortly after, and I immediately rushed to find Patrick with this disturbing news in mind. “But the government posters didn’t mention anything about chopping trees,” he reacted in surprise. “Nor did the land company’s—it appears they may have left out a few minor details.” “It seems we will have a bit of work to do before we become lords,” he observed. “Be serious, Patrick!” I snapped. “Do you know anything about felling a tree or building a shanty?” “Nothing,” he replied. “But it must be doable if others have done it, and it’s too late to turn back even if we wanted to.” “Well, you are certainly right about that part of it,” I admitted. “It’s the first part that I am having some difficulty with.”
S. M.
April 7: Although the weather and sailing were both fine last night, my sleep was often disturbed by thoughts of what lies ahead. We are both young and in good physical condition, but I am a clerk with no physical background, and Patrick is no better suited as an apprentice cheese maker. Moreover, it is my understanding that the winters arrive quite early in Canada, and with a severity unknown anywhere in Ireland. Therefore, the stakes are rising, but Patrick’s reasoning seems fairly sound. If others have done it, it must be doable, and I will try to focus on this before giving way to panic.
S. M.
April 8: This morning a slender pine tree was seen floating on the water, and the captain took a boat to fetch it onboard. In truth, I have never seen such a curiosity, for it was entirely covered with a host of tiny seashells called barnacles. Otherwise, it is a promising sign of land being near, and we all rejoiced when the captain told us this. We expect to see the island of Newfoundland any day now.
S. M.
April 9: Shortly after breakfast we encountered a large mountain of ice floating upon the water, and the topsail was lowered so we could have a better look at it. What a magnificent spectacle it presented! However, while we were all admiring this colossus, another one came into view directly ahead of us, and the crew had to scramble quite frantically to alter our course. Therefore, we got a rather uncomfortably close look at this one as the ship lurched out into open water. Later in the day we arrived on the banks of Newfoundland, and also sailed into a thick fog that reduced our progress to a mere seven miles per hour. This is particularly frustrating since we all long for our first glimpse of this new land. However, we are somewhat comforted by the realization that we are entering the final stage of our sea journey. With this thought in mind, I seized upon this opportunity to ask the captain about the inland stage. He explained that ships cannot sail beyond the City of Quebec, but added that there are other crafts plying the St. Lawrence River from thence to a place called Kingston in Upper Canada. He also recommends the river as the fastest route on account of the questionable condition of the roads at this time of year. Patrick and I have therefore decided to take one of these riverboats in order to gain time for clearing land before the winter sets in.
S. M.
April 10: The fog cleared this morning, and we were finally able to see the Island of Newfoundland. Although it appeared as merely a large landmass from our vantage point, it is nonetheless our first glimpse of land since leaving Ireland. Moreover, the captain came on deck to inform us (with some fanfare) that this had been one of the quickest voyages he could recall. Therefore, I thanked God for the favourable conditions that made our progress possible. Following the captain’s welcome announcement, the mood onboard has now become one of considerable anticipation, and even the husband of the dead woman has regained some of his spirit. He is James Lowery from County Tyrone, and he never fails to mention his gratitude whenever we meet. His “good boys,” he calls us, and we are greatly touched by this. In spite of all they have endured, he still plans to settle his little family in the wilderness. Upon hearing his intentions, I explained the hardships I had heard of from Callahan. “No matter,” he replied. “I’m doing this for the children now. They’re all I have left, and I have vowed to make a home for them no matter what it takes.” I was truly impressed by his noble dedication, but I was somewhat sceptical regarding his chances, so I mentioned this to Patrick. “Have some faith, cousin,” he laughed. “Remember he’s an Irishman like we are, so he must have a little luck riding on his shoulder.” “I certainly hope you’re right,” I replied, “for his sake as well as ours.”
S. M.
April 11: We are now encountering more ships both coming and going, several of which we have overtaken along the way. This always raises a great cheer from everyone aboard the Lovely Nellie, for our affection for her is almost personal by now. The captain also raises his stovepipe hat on such occasions as he proudly acknowledges our enthusiasm on her behalf. Meanwhile, we have passed three more islands in rapid succession, which the captain identified as “St. Peter’s,” “Langley” and “Magalawn.”[11] With all that is happening, we seldom go below for fear of missing some new and different feature. It is all very exciting indeed!
S. M.
April 13: Our pace remains brisk, and it is almost as if Lovely Nellie is equally anxious to complete the journey—we passed Cape Breton Island by mid afternoon, and just as the sun was setting the captain announced we were entering the Gulf of the St. Lawrence River. “The very womb of your promised land,” he added somewhat poetically. Hearing this, my heart began to beat quite rapidly, and I reached out to embrace Patrick without thinking. However, since many others were doing the same, it didn’t appear quite so out of place.
S. M.
April 14: After sailing all night we have now entered the river proper. However, a persistent rain and fog are conspiring to deprive us of our first glimpse of our new land. Nevertheless, Patrick and I both continued to run up to the deck for brief glimpses until the captain sent an oilskin for us to huddle under. I record therefore that we did see some rather large islands to the north (called the Bird Isles, I believe), but nothing of the mainland. We are greatly disappointed by this, but we remain hopeful of seeing something tomorrow. Meanwhile, we are progressing at a speed of eight miles per hour.
S. M.
April 15: [Thursday]. The fog lifted overnight, and as we came on deck this morning we finally got our first look at the mainland—a veritable wall of enormous trees that quite literally towered over the ship! Moreover, some of these monstrous timbers appeared to have a girth of four or five feet at shoulder height. Truly, my heart nearly froze on account of what I saw, and Patrick’s lower jaw dropped open in astonishment. Therefore I rallied myself to offer him some reassurance. “Faith, cousin,” I told him. “We are together in this.” “Even so, it appears we may have quite a bit of work to do before we become lords,” he observed, but then his customary grin returned once again. “But at least we won’t be wanting for building material.”
S. M.
April 16: This morning a pilot came onboard to steer us safely up the river. This is a very promising sign because it means we are near our destination. Neither Patrick nor I have mentioned the trees again, which is probably because neither of us wants to think on them; however, I can only hope that these are some sort of a local phenomenon that won’t be found in Upper Canada. Otherwise, I may give way to panicking a little early.
S. M.
April 17: Today marks the fourth week of our journey and it is being hailed as a reason to celebrate by nearly everyone onboard. Some of the passengers have donned their finest attire and are promenading the deck like gentry. There is also music and dancing on deck, but it is now strictly between men and women. Therefore, the single men are vying for the limited number of females available. However, Patrick and I chose to bypass all the festivities in favour of an overall scrubbing, and afterward I leaned against the ship’s rail and reflected on how my life had changed so remarkably during the past four weeks. Indeed, I can hardly believe it myself. I wonder what other changes are in store for me before this adventure plays itself out.
S. M.
April 18: We had an occasion to see three small whales today, as well as two other species of fish I have never heard of before. One is called a “seal” (being a fish entirely covered with fur!), and the other is known as a “thresher.”[12] This fish has two sharply pointed fins it uses to prey upon whales. The sailors tell me that the thresher combines its endeavours with those of the swordfish,[13] the thresher attacking the whale from above, while at the same time the swordfish pierces the whale’s belly from below. What an incredible notion this is!
S. M.
April 19: We are still coursing the river, and we have passed Bird Island and Green Island.[14] Here the river narrows, affording a pleasing view of both sides. To the left are high mountains that appear uninhabited, and on the right the land is cleared and inhabited by French and Indians. This is a most encouraging sight for me, for it appears to support Patrick’s theory that it can be done. We also passed a small oval island (name unknown), as well as Hare Island.[15] Hare Island is about 105 miles distant from Quebec City, so if all goes well we should reach our destination within a day or so.
S. M.
April 20: [Tuesday]. A tremendous storm shook the ship overnight, and the captain had to sound the depths every five minutes for nearly two hours. However, with the benevolence of the Almighty, and the considerable skill of our captain and pilot, we were seen safely through it. This morning brought us good weather again and also a fine view of the shore. Here lies such civilization as I never expected to see outside Europe. Indeed, there are large and small houses, neatly built, as well as churches, windmills, tan yards and some large buildings that appear to house industry. These are all situated in close order (like crofters cottages), but I have yet to see a really vast estate among them. Nevertheless, it appears we are coming very close to our destination.
S. M.
April 21: We arrived at Quebec City sometime during the night and awoke this morning to a forest of ships’ masts all around us. However, it took us a good part of the day to be medically examined (I am relieved to say we were all declared quite healthy). Following this, two boats were then launched to transport us to the shore by turns. When Patrick and my turn came, we rejoiced quite openly as we were deposited on dry land. However, to our utter amazement we could hardly walk. The earth seemed to bend away from us in a most peculiar manner, and in our bewilderment we staggered about like two drunken sailors. Moreover, our stomachs began to heave on account of our disorientation, and it was with the greatest embarrassment that we spewed our lunch under the bemused gaze of the soldiers on the citadel above. Therefore, I regret to say that we made a most unseemly entrance into our adopted country. However, we are now on dry land at last.
S. M.
Chapter 2
April 22: [Quebec]. We have regained our “land legs” and are now able to move about quite normally. Nevertheless, it was both a strange and amusing experience, and it may also be the origin of the term “drunken sailor.” Therefore I feel quite badly for using it in reference to the brave men who brought us safely across the Atlantic. We have taken lodging at an inn not far from the quay. It is somewhat more comfortable than our quarters aboard the Lovely Nellie, but only by degrees. The chamber is somewhat cramped, and a constant din arises from the tavern below. However, it is set upon solid ground, and for this I am truly grateful. Otherwise, Patrick is like a child with his eyes agog, so we will spend some time exploring before we move on. I am curious too, but I feel hard-pressed to get settled as quickly as possible.
Sean McConaghy, a resident of Canada.
April 23: By great good fortune we have met the conductor[16] of a riverboat that ferries goods and people upriver (at a passage of 12 shillings). He is French, but he also speaks enough English to be understood. He tells us the journey to Kingston should take a little more than a week, and from there we can take a regular ship to York—the capital of Upper Canada—which lies another day-or-so west of Kingston. However, since he must acquire enough business to make the trip worthwhile, he is presently unable to give us a departure date. This seems like a rather strange way to conduct a business, but I am prepared to wait for a few days. Meanwhile, we will do some exploring while we wait.
S. M.
April 24: Our inn is located at the base of a towering cliff, and outside the city itself. The city-proper stands above us like a mighty fortress that can only be reached by climbing a single cobblestone road. We climbed this road today, and once inside the massive walls we discovered an orderly city with cobblestone streets and an array of substantial buildings. The majority of these are built of stone as well, and they house both people and commerce. There are also many fine churches, and Patrick and I took advantage of one of these to make our confessions and to receive Holy Communion. It has been a long while since we last did so, and it may be an equally long time before the opportunity arises again. Beyond the city’s western wall lies a small meadow that the English revere as the “Plains of Abraham.”[17] It is here that they defeated the French in the last century, but the French do not appear to have lost many rights on account of it. They can still practice their Catholic faith, speak their own language, own their own land and hold public office if they so choose. On the other hand, we Irish Catholics can do none of these things in Ireland; therefore, I cannot sympathize with them unduly. Fortunately, my father is a skilled tradesman and therefore better situated than most, but still he cannot own land in his own name. Before leaving the city, we climbed to the top of the ramparts, from where we could see a very great distance up and down the river. It was only then that I began to grasp the vastness of this country, and I record that I am truly awed by it. Upon returning to the inn, we encountered the riverboat conductor once again, and he informed us that he would be departing for Kingston in the morning. Therefore, I asked him for the name of his boat. “No name dis boat,” he replied. “I find you for sure.” Consequently, we have packed our belongings with great anticipation, and we will retire early to be rested for our journey in the morning.
S. M.
April 25: This morning we dressed in the same rough clothes we had worn at sea, and we arrived at the quay just as the sun began to rise. A thick mist covered all, but I scanned the docks for something looking like a riverboat. There were several birch bark canoes being loaded, but there was nothing that looked like a riverboat as I imagined it to be. We therefore settled down to await the conductor, and he appeared a short while later to lead us to one of these rustic vessels. “Surely this cannot be our riverboat!” Patrick whispered in astonishment, but the conductor was already loading our belongings onto it. He then escorted us to another canoe of similar size (perhaps 25 feet long by 6 feet wide), and once there we were seated on rough planks beside several others. These others included a crew of ten rather colourfully dressed paddlers. “Faith, cousin,” I quipped, and got a poke in the ribs for my cheeky comment. Nonetheless, I took the precaution of saying another silent prayer to St. Christopher, and thereafter I braced myself for whatever might lie ahead. While moored at the quay, these paddlers (called “voyageurs”) appeared a coarse and motley lot, but once underway they were truly remarkable. Indeed, the boat raced through the water with such velocity that my hair was literally tossed about by the wind. This went on for mile after mile without any letup, but I was eventually overtaken by nature and had to ask one of the paddlers if we might go ashore so I could relieve myself. He merely looked at me rather curiously, and nodded toward the river. “I do not understand,” I said. “Pees in river,” he replied. “But I don’t have to pees.” “Sheet over side, den,” he grunted without missing a stroke. “We not stop ’til conductor say so.” I therefore threaded my way through the others until I found a spot near the stern, where I balanced myself on the narrow gunnels of a lurching canoe while hanging my bare bottom over the side. “Faith, cousin,” Patrick snickered when I returned. “Your turn is coming, smarty,” I warned him, but we both laughed about it anyway. We are now encamped for the night, but I am too weary to write more.
S. M.
April 26: Today passed in a similar fashion to yesterday, and we are now encamped further up the river. Patrick and I are gradually adjusting to these rugged conditions, and we are making remarkable progress. The rowers are amazingly hardy, for they can toil from early morning until late afternoon with hardly a pause; therefore, I estimate that we covered twenty-five to thirty miles per day. Our conductor steers with a long oar and sometimes rows, but it is the crewmembers that do most of the work. They even hoist and strike the canvas lean-to used to shelter us passengers, but they themselves sleep in the open or beneath the canoe when it is raining. They also prepare all the meals. The food is quite basic, but it tastes remarkably good in the open air. Salt pork, lentils and potatoes are the usual fare, but they also prepare a cake called a “gateau.” It consists of dough sweetened with maple sugar and a handful of dried berries. The mixture is then baked in an iron pot and served with a drizzle of maple syrup over it. We are not wanting for entertainment either, for the voyageurs seem to have a great love of singing (which they do to the rhythm
|
