Alone: A Winter in the Woods

Alone: A Winter in the Woods

Felicity Sidnell Reid

Illustrations

Jiřina Marton

First Edition

Hidden Brook Press

[email protected]

Copyright Layout © 2019 Hidden Brook Press

Copyright Story © 2019 Felicity Sidnell Reid

Copyright Illustrations © 2019 Jiřina Marton

All rights for story and characters revert to the author. All rights for illustrations revert to artist. All rights for book, layout and design remain with Hidden Brook Press. No part of this book may be reproduced except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise stored in a retrieval system without prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are employed fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Alone: A Winter in the Woods

Felicity Sidnell Reid

Illustrator – Jiřina Marton

Cover Design – Richard M. Grove

Cover Art – Jiřina Marton

Layout and Design – Richard M. Grove

E-Book Layout and Design – Adislenis Castro Ruiz - [email protected]

Typeset in Garamond

Printed and bound in USA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Sidnell Reid, Felicity, 1936-, author

                   Alone : a winter in the woods / Felicity Sidnell Reid ; illustrator, Jirina Marton.

ISBN 978-1-927725-18-4 (paperback)

                   I. Marton, Jirina, illustrator II. Title.

PS8637. I243A64 2015               jC813’.6                  C2015-905602-0

F o r

A n d r e w ,

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A l l i s o n ,

S u l a ,

G i n g e r ,

C h a r l o t t e ,

S o p h i e

A n d r e w  B . ,

A l e x a n d r a ,

C a t h e r i n e ,

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Table of Contents

Alone: A Winter in the Woods

Foreword

1 January 1797: On the Trail

2 The Overnight Camp

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 21 janvier, 1797

3 A Good Rest

4 The Arrival

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 24 janvier

5 First Steps on the Land

6 What Possibilities Are Here?

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 28 janvier

7 Work at the Clearing

8 Work, Work and More Work

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 3 fevrier

9 Starting to Build

10 Brother Black’s Gifts

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 19 fevrier

le 20 fevrier

11 Pa Prepares to Leave

12 All Alone

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 28 fevrier

13 John Gets Organized

14 Finally, a Satisfactory Bucket

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le premier mars

15 Preparing to Make Maple Sugar

16 Boiling the Sap

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 5 mars

le 6 mars

le 8 mars

17 Fighting Loneliness

18 Swept Away !

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 6 avril

19 Home at Last

20 Visitors

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 8 avril

21 The Family Stays Overnight

22 Making Friends

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 17 avril

23 Alone Again

24 Another Visitor

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 6 mai

25 Mr. Dunnett Stays the Night

26 Dunnett Interferes

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 12 mai

27 The Fight

28 John and Opichi Get Rid of the Pedlar

Le Journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le 22 Mai

29 Waiting for Opichi

30 Opichi Returns

Le journal intime de Joséphine Fontaine: le premier juin, en route

31 The Fishing Expedition

32 The Reunion

Epilogue

Acknowledgments:

Historical Note:

Reading and Discussion Guide

About the Author:

About the Illustrator:

Books in the North Shore Series

2 Anthologies

First set of five books

Second set of five books

Third set of five books

Fourth set of five books

Fifth set of three books

Sixth set of three books

Seventh set of four books

Eighth set of six books

Foreword

Though this novel was inspired by a real life incident, the story and the characters who you will meet in its pages are entirely fictional. When I first came to live in Northumberland County I was fascinated by the memorial cairn set up at the gates of Presqui’le Park commemorating the first settler in that area and his family. Obediah Simpson came to the eastern end of what was then Cramahe Township in the Newcastle District in the winter of 1797, with his young son, twelve years old, and some cattle. They built a cabin and then Obediah returned to his previous home over the ice in the bays to fetch the rest of his family. His son, John, stayed alone to look after the animals and the cabin until his family re-joined him. I used this piece of history and some of the facts we know about Obediah’s earlier life as the starting point for this tale of the Turner family.

What a haunting story! So many questions come to mind when one tries to imagine the lives of people, who came to this unknown forest with only a few basic tools and supplies. They had to use every skill they had, work incredibly hard in harsh conditions and call on their inner resources of bravery, faith and a willingness to experiment and invent solutions to the problems they faced.

Life must have been different for families at that time. No parent would think of leaving a child in the wilderness in Canada for more than a month today and would be charged with neglect and abandonment if he did so, so what might have been the feelings of John Turner’s parents and of John himself in this difficult situation? Did parents have very different expectations of their children? Did they not love them in the same way we do? And what were the feelings and expectations of the young person himself ? How could he cope all on his own, not only with his responsibilities, but with his terrifying isolation? Isolation that is difficult to imagine in today’s world, when instant communication with family and friends is usually within our power.

Though I have kept the story within the general historical boundaries of the late eighteenth century, I have sometimes made minor adjustments for the sake of the fiction and clarity. In particular, I have identified the First Nation family in the story as Ojibwa, because their modern descendants use that name, though to the settlers, they were known as the Chippewa. As for the larger political and economic world, I have only mentioned events, which might have had a direct effect on a settler’s family and community.

However I have used the old measurements such as mile, yard etc. with which John and his family would have been familiar, as the kilometres etc of the metric system seemed too alien to the story. A chart comparing old to new will be found at the back of the book as an appendix.

Slowly over a number of years, John Turner’s possible adventures, his acceptance of unusual responsibility and his transition into adulthood, as well as the reactions and feelings of his relatives grew into this story about a family who coped with almost overwhelming challenges.

Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours days and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mixed: sweet recreation;

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown:

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope

written when he was 12 years old

1

January 1797: On the Trail

As the wind flew through the trees, the forest roared like the ocean breaking on a stony beach. The fierce noise drummed against his ears, but John didn’t mind. It reminded him of the little town beside the sea, where he’d been born almost thirteen years ago. Now, he and his father were far, far away from the Atlantic Ocean, deep in the forests of Upper Canada.

The high wind forced the trees this way and that, their great boughs crashing against each other. It was just luck, he thought, that they had not been hit by a falling branch. He squinted up through the flying snow. A tree cracked and exploded right over his head. Would the sled, piled high with their belongings, give them some protection if a heavy limb fell on them?

Unmoved by the buffeting noise, the oxen plodded on. But they were being coaxed by John’s father. John couldn’t hear him for the wind, but he knew that Pa would be crooning in the ears of his beasts.

Come up, Mattie. Another step here, Bruce… and another and another. Come along. Good boys both! Keep going now, keep going….

The snow whirled up from the ground. John screwed his eyes shut. The flakes, sharp as needles, stung those parts of his face that weren’t protected by the long scarf he’d wound around his neck. He’d wrapped it about his head as well and pulled his hat down over his nose.

As he stumbled along in the tracks of the sled, he tried to keep moving steadily so that he didn’t tug too hard on the halter of the cow he was leading. Milly had had a difficult journey. Winter always left cattle—those that weren’t killed for meat, that is—looking thin and gaunt by spring.

There was little to eat on this long, cold journey and she was carrying her unborn calf. Milly was John’s chief responsibility for the moment. He hated the way her bones stuck out so far from her body and tried to find her something special to eat each day. Starvation could kill; and if an animal became too weak, it would be slaughtered to feed the humans and keep them strong enough to complete their journey. He slipped his arm under her chin and drew her head close. Her neck against his cheek was warm and he breathed in the muted smell of her hide, mixed with a whiff of manure and even a memory of hay.

Her calf was due in the spring and John knew the forest would be a joyful green then. They would have built a shelter for the animals and a cabin for the family. Mother, the little ones and Joséphine would come, sailing up the lake in a bateau. And his lonely vigil in the wilderness would be over—or surely nearly over? Oh, if only that day were not so far away. Suppose he couldn’t handle the task Pa assigned him? Milly might have died by then or he could be dead himself. He slipped, slithered and nearly fell. Perhaps, right at this moment, it was sensible to concentrate on putting his best foot forward and keeping up with Pa. That wasn’t much to ask—the journey might be difficult, but right now, he had Pa to guide him.

The track was narrow and bumpy, even though many of the ruts and pot holes were frozen over with snow and ice. John wasn’t surprised when his father halted the oxen and shouted to him, Son, come help me shift this timber.

He sighed as he looped Milly’s lead rope around the nearest tree. Stay now, Milly! he ordered. How many more times would they have to clear another barrier from the track? He was tired and night was falling. Perhaps they’d never reach their destination—the journey might never end. The wind hurled more snow in his face. He grasped the side of the sled and pulled himself around it.

When he saw the size of the tree that had fallen across the road John gasped. But Pa, we’ll never move that monster, he shrieked. And if we try to cut it—that part there, could easily fall and crush us. Ain’t that so?

The barrier was as tall as any house, for the great maple had caught some of its branches in a smaller tree so that they just brushed the snowy track and other great limbs appeared to be acting as legs to the rest. But even as John spoke, the tree rocked in a gust of wind and a great piece split from the trunk before it settled again with a loud thump on the snowy ground. Pa grabbed John by his collar and pulled him away from the crown of heavy branches. Sections snapped and flew about in all directions, while globs of snow rained down, as though the tree was shooting cannonballs at them.

Yes, indeed we could be crushed if we don’t take care. Mind now, stay away from that end of the brute. Pa gave John a little shake before letting him go.

But how will we get past it? We can never move it.

I know that well enough, lad. Just shush up and do as I say. We’ll chop a new path round the roots. I have the axe, you pull away the brush. It’s small stuff—we can make an opening wide enough for the sled here.

John pushed his frozen fingers into his armpits. His gloves were wet and stiff with ice. Even pressed against his body he couldn’t warm his hands. He watched Pa cut away the low brush that had grown up under the tree. Pa never gave up, he thought, even though he must feel just as cold and discouraged as John did.

Pa stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at John. Come on, lad. We can do it, you know. If we work together, we can move mountains if we must!

John smiled, shook his head and sprang into action. Working with Pa was what he liked doing best. He forgot how stiff and tired he felt and hauled away the undergrowth as quickly as Pa cut it. They were skilled woodsmen and enjoyed working together. When Pa started singing—for as he often said, he believed that singing gave workers more energy—John joined in. Pa chose one of John’s favourite songs—a sea shanty which fitted well with the high wind and bursts of snow that blew into their faces. The thud of Pa’s axe gave a strong beat to their song.

Come all you young sailormen, listen to me

I’ll sing you a song of the fish in the sea

And it’s…

Windy weather boys, stormy weather, boys

When the wind blows we’re all together, boys

Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow

Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady she goes.

Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail,

Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail;

And it’s windy weather boys, stormy weather

    boys…

Windy weather boys, stormy weather, boys

When the wind blows we’re all together, boys

Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow

Jolly sou’wester, boys, steady she goes.

There were many fine verses to follow and John knew them all. They sang the ones about the shark with his nine rows of teeth, who says, You eat the dough boys, and I’ll eat the beef !; the one about the herring, king of the sea and reached the final verse with the whale saying, If you want any wind, well I’ll blow you a squall! But at that moment John turned again to haul away a big bundle of brush.

A ghostly, snow covered figure loomed high over his head; the shock hit him hard like a blow to his stomach. A tall horse stood heaving its breath in and out, creating great clouds of fog. It curled about the rider, concealing his features. The almost-forgotten terror John had felt five years before when the family were on the run, escaping to Upper Canada from the newly independent American states, thrust itself up his throat like vomit and choked him. Who could this be?

2

The Overnight Camp

Pa! John croaked, and then stood still, staring up at the mounted man.

What’s amiss, boy? Pa shouted when he realized John had stopped working.

John felt the blood draining from his face; he was frozen to the spot. Pa lowered his axe and stepped up beside him. He knew Pa could see the fright on his face and was aware of his panic. He wished his fear didn’t show so clearly. All the same, he had reason he thought; hampered by the slow-moving oxen, cow and the heavy sled, what could Pa do if the man was dangerous?

Pa had been suspicious of strangers himself on their earlier journey when they’d first come to this part of British North America. They’d left their extended family in New York State secretly and slipped aboard a small boat travelling up the Hudson River. Later, following the trails mostly on foot, Pa had been cautious about what he said to people they met. The family knew they must hide the fact that he had been a soldier for the British during the war. Enemies might be following them and some they met on the road were hostile. Pa and Mother were always looking over their shoulders as though fearing a stab in the back.

John clutched his bundle of brush and stared at the ground. The arrival of the man on a horse was certainly a shock if not a threat, for his approach had been unheard. But now, Pa stood beside John and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. John’s breathing slowed as he recovered from his panic.

A good evening to you, sir, Pa said.

John slowly raised his head and noted that the stranger was unarmed and wearing the wide brimmed hat and black riding cloak of a travelling minister.

Greetings, friends! Can I help you at all? the circuit rider replied, as John scolded himself for having been so terrified.

A willing hand is always welcome. We’re nearly clear and away. But if you’re willing to help haul the brush I shall be grateful. The young rider dismounted briskly and all three took up the labour of opening a path. The grey winter light was fading fast and soon they realized they had lost their race against darkness. Stopping for the night had become a necessity.

John began to gather sticks and small branches for starting a fire even before his father lowered his axe, looked around and said, "Seems