Where the River Takes Me Read online

  My bed is made of boards and there are HBCo blankets for the mattress and covers. Just like always. The only difference is the woven cedar mat placed over the boards — similar to the ones we had on the canoes. I like the smell of the cedar. Lucy says the people on the coast weave the inner bark of cedar trees and use it for almost everything, even hats and cloaks.

  The dormitory walls have no covering, not even tarpaper, so there are only the logs to keep us from the night air. Mosquitoes and rats — and there seem to be a great many of those — get in through the cracks. Last night as I was settling into bed I saw an enormous rat running along the stovepipe. (The stove will not be lit until the fall, says Lucy, no matter how chilly the nights.)

  We share a washstand and a bucket of water for washing, but can only use a small amount. Lucy says there will be more in the rainy season. The only fresh water is from a well in the yard and it dries up in the summer — there are no streams running nearby. The water has an odd taste and looks cloudy. Lucy says it is because of the clay in the ground.

  We have tallow candles that must be extinguished by 9:00, and there is a chamber pot under each bed.

  Lucy is 13, the same age as me. The rest of the girl boarders are between 6 and 19. Eliza will be moving into the dormitory tomorrow. For the time being she and James are staying with Mr. Douglas and his family. He has a wife and five daughters.

  Even though Mr. Douglas is a Chief Factor and is in charge of the Columbia District, he does not have a grand house like Mr. Rowand’s. He does not even have a house! His living quarters and his office are in the same building as the dining hall.

  Governor Blanshard does not have a house either. He is waiting for his house to be built. In the meantime, he has to live with Mr. Douglas. He is not happy about it, says Lucy. No wonder! I should think a Governor would have his own house.

  Lucy knows so much about everything partly because she has been here since February, and partly because she is a snoop. She told me so herself! (I did not tell her that snooping was a Misdemeanor and that I have been scolded for it on many occasions.)

  Before we put out our candles last night, she showed me a loose floorboard. It is between our two beds, and when you lift it up you can see what is happening in the Common Room. A Spy Hole! How perfect for my Novel! The boys have a Spy Hole too, she says, but ours is better. No wonder she likes to snoop!

  The best part of last night was hearing the familiar call of the watchman after he had closed and locked the gates. O-h-e-s W-e-e-e-l-l …

  Aunt Grace used to grumble, “Why can’t he say ‘All’s well’ and be done with it.” I like the long drawn-out comfort of the words.

  Time to go in. I am weary of swatting mosquitoes.

  August 1850

  Thursday, August 1st

  My first day at Staines School.

  First, Mrs. Staines had to inspect my person.

  Hands, face and fingernails clean?

  Yes, scrubbed to the bone.

  Hair brushed and groomed?

  Yes, double-brushed and braided so tightly it made my scalp twitch.

  Next, she inspected my clothing. She told me that my moccasins were acceptable, as was my dress, but where was my hat? When I told her I never wore a hat, she gave me a white bonnet that looks like a coal scuttle. I am to wear the bonnet at all times, like the other girls, to keep the sun off my face. For my skin has been “bronzed by the sun to a most unsightly shade.” (Her very words.)

  After that she gave us a test on how well we could read and write and do sums. Later on she asked about our other accomplishments. I wanted to mention all the things I could do well — set traps, walk on snowshoes, speak Cree, make moccasins, dye porcupine quills, do beadwork, make pemmican, etc. — but no sooner had I started than she flapped her arms and said, “No, no, I meant accomplishments. Can you draw or paint? Can you dance or sing?”

  Dance or sing? “Of course,” I said, thinking it a foolish question. Whereupon she ordered me to sing a hymn.

  “Do you know ‘Rock of Ages’?” she said.

  “It’s my favourite!” I said, pleased beyond belief that she had chosen that particular hymn. But I did not sing it mournfully, the way Rev. Rundle had liked it, but in a lively manner — so lively, in fact, that when James started clapping to the beat, the others were quick to join in.

  Well, Mrs. Staines would have none of that. She ordered me to stop and turned her attention to James and Eliza. They sang the same hymn but fared better than I did, for they kept the tone serious.

  I am going to be singing many hymns, because Mrs. Staines says her “young ladies” (as she calls us) have to lead the hymns in Service. That is on Sunday. And every Saturday afternoon “the young ladies” have a class in Deportment.

  There goes the bell, and the dogs are barking and howling just as they did at home. Must hurry and wash before Supper.

  Later

  Some of the girls must think they are quite the grand ladies, for they were snickering behind my back as we were going into our dining room. I overheard the girl they call Maggie say that my dress looked like a bag with holes cut in for the neck and the arms, and that it was horribly out of fashion. I whirled around and snapped, “I don’t care about fashion!” My reaction shocked them into silence.

  But I was so angry, I could not stop there. “My aunt makes my clothes and I do not like to hear her work being ridiculed. And she made this dress especially for School so I would have something new, and I like it, and if my dresses were good enough for Fort Edmonton and Fort Colvile, they’re good enough for here.”

  At that point Mrs. Staines appeared and we sat down to Supper.

  What is fashion, anyway? Besides being something that the dress and I are “out of.”

  All I know is that beaver hats were once the fashion and now silk hats are the fashion. Father used to grumble about the HBCo coffers not being as richly filled because now the “toffs” in Europe were putting silk on their heads instead of fur. Well, if fashion means putting a coal scuttle on my head, I am better off without it.

  What use is fashion in Fort Edmonton or here? If Father had lived he might have ordered me a “fashionable” dress (one that didn’t look like a bag), but Aunt Grace would never have considered it, not even for herself. Caring for one’s appearance is a sinful mix of Pride and Vanity, as well as a waste of money, especially when you have to order 12 months into the future, and by the time the ship arrives with your dress you might be smaller or larger than you thought you would be. So better to spend the money on oatmeal.

  I missed Fort Edmonton’s oatmeal porridge this morning. Breakfast here is tea without milk, and bread with sticky black treacle. But Lucy says we have jam sometimes. Dinner so far has been salmon, coarse bread and potatoes, and Supper was much the same.

  I wish I were back in Fort Edmonton.

  List of possible Villains for my Novel:

  Mrs. Staines

  The girls who were making fun of me

  Friday, August 2nd

  The day began with a vigorous scrubbing of hands and plaiting of hair. (My skin and scalp still smart.) Then — to prove that I did not care about fashion or what anyone said about my clothing — I put on my prized ceinture fléchée, tied it proudly around my waist and marched in for Breakfast. Maggie and her friend Sarah said the sash looked silly with a dress and Lucy asked where I had beached my canoe. Everyone laughed but I held my head higher and sipped my tea.

  Sarah and Maggie are now on my list of Villains, but I did not object to Lucy’s remark (although it was meant to poke fun at me). The ceinture makes me feel Adventurous and Brave, able to suffer the most torturous hardships when on a brigade — and compared to that, a little teasing is of no account. James said my ceinture looked dashing. Mrs. Staines took one look and raised her raven-feathered brows, but said nothing.

  James looked wretched in his school clothes — leather breeches and a moleskin shirt with buttons the size of dinner plates. I caught him looking at m
y sash with envy.

  We sat in our “uniforms,” girls on one side, boys on the other, waiting on tenterhooks as Mrs. Staines made her inspection, and when she commented on our cleanliness and well-groomed appearance — such relief! I swear our collective “whews” could be heard across the yard.

  Later in the morning Mrs. Staines remarked on my Reading, Composition, Penmanship and Mathematics skills. She said I must have had “a superior tutor.”

  “Only my aunt and my father,” I said proudly. I added that my aunt had gone to Fort Edmonton to instruct the girls with special permission from the HBCo and at the request of my father and other officers — even Mr. Rowand the Chief Factor. And that though she was not formally educated, she was extremely well read and had insisted I work hard at my studies and read for two hours every day. And that was after her lessons. But I did not mind for I too love to read. (I did not tell Mrs. Staines that there were times I hated Aunt for it, usually when the day was hot and my friends were larking about by the river, or when I wanted to help Nokum make moccasins or dye porcupine quills.)

  Mrs. Staines raised her brows with surprise. “Whatever did you find to read?”

  An easy question! The Pilgrim’s Progress, the Bible, Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language, Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens — books that Father and Aunt had brought with them or had ordered from London. I also read whatever newspapers the brigades brought from the Home Ship, even if the news was six months old. Aunt would make me read out loud and would question me on the meanings of words, and we would talk at length about the subject matter.

  By then Mrs. Staines was smiling. (Yes, smiling.) “You say you read Johnson’s Dictionary?”

  “Not cover to cover,” I admitted.

  “My word!” She turned to the class and said, “Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.”

  My classmates were not smiling. I noticed a few scowls and fancied several arrows aiming in my direction.

  In the afternoon Rev. Staines took over the class. He turned out to be a more deserving target of scowls, etc. and my arrows (with poisoned tips) were quick to join the others’. He is a brute! If he sees you fidget or squirm or blink the wrong way or yawn or smile (but why would you), sneeze or pass wind or scrunch up your brow in confusion — Heaven help you! His switch is always in hand and he is more than eager to use it. One of my mosquito bites was begging to be scratched and I had to oblige — only to hear the whistling of air as the switch came down. The backs of my knuckles are still stinging.

  A new Villain for my Novel: Rev. Staines. I will change his appearance, though, and give him one eye, like the wicked schoolmaster Mr. Squeers in Nicholas Nickelby.

  When Rev. Staines wasn’t whipping someone, he was teaching. It might have been History. He speaks with a mouthful of pebbles and the words roll around so slowly and ponderously, one loses the meaning before he is halfway through the sentence. And just when you think you might understand, he has swallowed a new bushel of pebbles and is rolling them out on another topic.

  As for my fellow pupils, there are 27 in all, 17 girls and 10 boys. 4 of the girls are too old to be my friends — the oldest is 19 — and 10 are too young. Annie is the youngest, about 6.

  One of the boys is Mrs. S’s nephew, Horace. He is about the same age as James and comes from France. The youngest boy is 6 or 7. He is a tough little beggar who tags along with Alec and Davy, the two oldest boys. They call him Radish. Another little scamp is Thomas.

  Most of the pupils are between the ages of 12 and 14, and half of them are girls, like Eliza, Lucy, Maggie and Sarah (Thomas’s sister) and Jane Douglas.

  There are only 3 of us — 2 boys and me — who do not have a brother or sister at school. 4 of the Douglas girls are here (the 5th is too young), and 6 children from the Work family (5 girls and a boy).

  Only the children of HBCo officers or ship captains can attend Staines School. The other children are mostly canadiens and Roman Catholics, and go to their own school. It is in a small log building just outside the Fort. I have seen their teacher, Father Lempfrit. He looks kinder than Rev. Staines.

  Some of the pupils have had some learning, from missionaries or the odd teacher, but most have not, and appear to be far behind in their Reading, Composition, Penmanship, Spelling and Mathematics.

  Sarah and Maggie, who laughed at my dress and ceinture, accused me of showing off during the lesson, since I answered more questions than anyone else, but I was not showing off on purpose. I was happy and proud that I knew so much. A double Misdemeanor, being boastful and proud, but Aunt Grace is not here to scold and I do not care what the others may think. Although I would like them to like me. Perhaps I should be a little less eager to answer questions.

  I wish I could write a letter that would reach Aunt Grace or Suzanne tomorrow. No, I would be content with next month.

  Saturday, August 3rd

  It is only half twelve and tomorrow is hours away, hours that I must endure in this stifling, ratty dormitory without Dinner or Supper. And why? Because I left the Fort without permission and without telling anyone where I was going. But how could I? An Adventurer does not know in advance where he will have an Adventure, and part of the Adventure is the unknown and unexpected.

  As for permission, I meant to ask — in fact I was about to ask Mrs. Staines right after Breakfast, but then I overheard Sarah and Maggie and some others making fun of my moccasins, saying they were even more unfashionable than my dress, the way they were decorated, but at least they matched my “ridiculous sash” and then Maggie said, “She doesn’t even try to look English.”

  Well I flared up inside, so burning with hurt and anger I could not turn around and confront them, not this time, because they were talking about Nokum’s precious gift — my mother’s moccasins. And to think I put them on this morning to make the day special.

  So I ran outside to get away from the girls — I did not want them to see how upset I was — and I forgot about Mrs. Staines and asking permission and before I knew it I was through the gate and on the trail that goes to Beacon Hill. And the whole time I was imagining that Suzanne was with me and I was telling her what happened and saying, So they think I don’t look English? Well I won’t act English either, if it means being snooty like them — and soon enough I realized I was halfway around the Bay.

  Well, there was no point in turning around then, and I was back in time for Dinner, so where was the harm? No harm at all, but a cause for war — Mrs. Staines marching into the dormitory as I’m washing my hands, demanding to know where I’ve been — and exploding when I say, “Are we not allowed to explore?”

  “EXPLORE??”

  Aunt Grace could have taken notes from the rant that followed. Mrs. Staines was responsible for my welfare, it was unladylike to go rambling in the wilderness without a companion, anything could have happened, the Indians were not always to be trusted, I had gone off without telling anyone, leaving her and Rev. Staines to worry as to my whereabouts — and on top of all that, I have the gall to be flippant!

  “Allowed to explore?” she shouted. “You are a little girl!”

  I could have told her about the girls’ teasing and how I’d run off without thinking, but I did not want to tell tales — the girls would never like me if I did — and besides, my exploring did turn out to be an Adventure and I was glad of it, no matter the consequences.

  If this were a Novel I would call this chapter In which Jenna Inflames the Wrath of Mrs. Staines and is Unjustly Punished!

  I am too furious to go on.

  Later

  I have been holding Nokum’s deerskin pouch and it has helped me calm down. So I will set my mind back to this morning. A bright and beautiful morning, with no lessons to spoil it — well naturally I wanted to explore beyond the Fort.

  I had asked Lucy to come with me, certain that she’d be an adventurous sort, but she said Mrs. Staines would never allow it and there was no point in asking. As it turned out, there was
no chance to ask anyway, so I went off on my own.

  At the head of the Bay there’s a little brook, and a plank that crosses it. By then I was enjoying myself, my hurt and anger were spent and, best of all, my moccasins felt as if they had been made especially for me. So I crossed the brook and on I went, through woods so dense I could see nothing but trees, mostly evergreens, and so tall I could not see their tops. It was a novelty at first — dark and mysterious, a perfect place for someone to hide — but I soon felt closed in, and was desperate for the open sky and a breeze.

  By and by the path left the woods and I found myself at Beacon Hill, gazing down at the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Olympian Range. (Yesterday’s useful Geography lesson: the place names around Fort Victoria.) And spreading out from the hill, a wide-open meadow that ended in ploughed fields, which I took to be the Company’s Beckley Farm. (I think that’s the name Lucy mentioned.) I could have rested on the hill but I was hot from my walk and the sea breeze was so refreshing I decided to explore a bit more. As I was running down the hill I stumbled upon a trail that led me down the cliff and to a cove.

  The tide was out and little fountains were spurting up all over the beach — a curious sight, and I now know the cause. They’re made by clams!

  Well I was watching the little fountains when two canoes turned into the cove. There were no men, only women and children, and after beaching their canoes, they took out some baskets and pointed sticks and started to dig.

  I went to have a closer look and one of the boys told me about the clams. Well not told exactly. He was trying to explain something, using gestures and a bit of English (like the word clam), and as I was standing there, trying to understand, I felt a spurt of cold water on my leg. I yelped, startled, and everyone laughed. Right away the boy dug out the culprit to show me that the clams make the fountains by spitting out water! They’re cooked in a fire and when the shells open, they’re ready to eat. The other children helped with that part, pointing to shells and open mouths, and rubbing their stomachs to show that clams are very tasty.