have a word with her father.”
“I suppose it was different with her.” He glanced across at Reilly, but the look on his face made Peyton drop his eyes quickly back to his lap.
“Her being Micmac, is what you mean?” When the younger man didn’t answer him, Reilly said, “She’s a good Christian woman, John Peyton.”
Peyton nodded. He lifted his glass to his mouth and drained it. He said, “Could I get another drop of rum, do you think?”
Reilly cleared the heat from his voice. “Who is this lass now?” he said.
Peyton got up from his seat to fetch the rum. “Never mind,” he said over his shoulder.
Reilly asked no more questions and did the favour of not even looking much at him, which Peyton was grateful for. They went on drinking a while longer until Reilly excused himself and climbed into bed as well. Peyton sat up in the dark then, nursing a last finger of rum, upset with himself to have been such a stupid twillick. What he’d intended to say about Annie was altogether different than what he garbled out. And he had never discussed marriage with a living soul before. He wished now he’d had the sense to leave it that way.
Peyton was sixteen the first time he laid eyes on Cassie, shortly after sailing through the Narrows of St. John’s harbour,twenty-nine days out from Poole aboard the
John & Thomas.
A fine cold day after a night of heavy rain and the few ships anchored in the still water had raised their sails to dry. Running inland from the east side of the Narrows was Maggoty Cove, a rocky stretch of shoreline built over with wharves and stages, behind them the wide flakes used for drying cod. Each season wet fish fell through the lungers of the flakes and bred maggots on the ground. The dark, bottomless smell of rot rooting the clear sea air.
Peyton and his father made their way to a two-storey building on the east end of Upper Path, which housed the postmaster and the island’s first newspaper — a single sheeter folded to four pages that carried government proclamations, mercantile ads, parliamentary proceedings, local news, a poet’s corner on the back page. A small harried-looking man with a New England accent came forward from a cluttered desk at the back of the room to greet them. The two men exchanged a few words and John Senior handed across a large leather satchel of mail he’d carried up from the ship, then produced a letter from his own pocket.
The postmaster nodded as he scanned the page. “Got the trunk for you along this way,” he said, jerking his head repeatedly to indicate the direction they should follow.
The trunk was large enough to sleep an adult fairly comfortably. Peyton took one end and his father the other. Even John Senior showed the strain of the weight. They huffed it out the door where a crowd had already gathered for the calling of the mail. At the waterfront the trunk was rowed out to the
Jennifer
, a coaster scheduled to leave for Fogo Island in two days’ time.
“What’s aboard of her?” Peyton asked, watching it being lifted awkwardly over the ship’s gunnel. He was soaked in sweat from hauling the weight of it. He took his cap from his head and wiped a forearm across his face.
John Senior shrugged. “Mostly books, I expect.”
When they boarded the
Jennifer
two days later, Peyton spotted the trunk set against the back wall of the fo’c’sle. There was a woman seated on the lid in the light drizzle of rain. She wore a dark hat and a long cloak of Bedford cord that showed only black worsted stockings below the knees.
She stood when they approached her and she extended her gloved hand to John Senior. “Master Peyton,” she said. Her face was misted with rain, tiny beads clinging to the long lashes of her eyes. Light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, a small, full mouth. There was a suggestion of misproportion about the features that Peyton couldn’t assign to anything particular. He had no idea who the woman was or why she exhibited
“I suppose it was different with her.” He glanced across at Reilly, but the look on his face made Peyton drop his eyes quickly back to his lap.
“Her being Micmac, is what you mean?” When the younger man didn’t answer him, Reilly said, “She’s a good Christian woman, John Peyton.”
Peyton nodded. He lifted his glass to his mouth and drained it. He said, “Could I get another drop of rum, do you think?”
Reilly cleared the heat from his voice. “Who is this lass now?” he said.
Peyton got up from his seat to fetch the rum. “Never mind,” he said over his shoulder.
Reilly asked no more questions and did the favour of not even looking much at him, which Peyton was grateful for. They went on drinking a while longer until Reilly excused himself and climbed into bed as well. Peyton sat up in the dark then, nursing a last finger of rum, upset with himself to have been such a stupid twillick. What he’d intended to say about Annie was altogether different than what he garbled out. And he had never discussed marriage with a living soul before. He wished now he’d had the sense to leave it that way.
Peyton was sixteen the first time he laid eyes on Cassie, shortly after sailing through the Narrows of St. John’s harbour,twenty-nine days out from Poole aboard the
John & Thomas.
A fine cold day after a night of heavy rain and the few ships anchored in the still water had raised their sails to dry. Running inland from the east side of the Narrows was Maggoty Cove, a rocky stretch of shoreline built over with wharves and stages, behind them the wide flakes used for drying cod. Each season wet fish fell through the lungers of the flakes and bred maggots on the ground. The dark, bottomless smell of rot rooting the clear sea air.
Peyton and his father made their way to a two-storey building on the east end of Upper Path, which housed the postmaster and the island’s first newspaper — a single sheeter folded to four pages that carried government proclamations, mercantile ads, parliamentary proceedings, local news, a poet’s corner on the back page. A small harried-looking man with a New England accent came forward from a cluttered desk at the back of the room to greet them. The two men exchanged a few words and John Senior handed across a large leather satchel of mail he’d carried up from the ship, then produced a letter from his own pocket.
The postmaster nodded as he scanned the page. “Got the trunk for you along this way,” he said, jerking his head repeatedly to indicate the direction they should follow.
The trunk was large enough to sleep an adult fairly comfortably. Peyton took one end and his father the other. Even John Senior showed the strain of the weight. They huffed it out the door where a crowd had already gathered for the calling of the mail. At the waterfront the trunk was rowed out to the
Jennifer
, a coaster scheduled to leave for Fogo Island in two days’ time.
“What’s aboard of her?” Peyton asked, watching it being lifted awkwardly over the ship’s gunnel. He was soaked in sweat from hauling the weight of it. He took his cap from his head and wiped a forearm across his face.
John Senior shrugged. “Mostly books, I expect.”
When they boarded the
Jennifer
two days later, Peyton spotted the trunk set against the back wall of the fo’c’sle. There was a woman seated on the lid in the light drizzle of rain. She wore a dark hat and a long cloak of Bedford cord that showed only black worsted stockings below the knees.
She stood when they approached her and she extended her gloved hand to John Senior. “Master Peyton,” she said. Her face was misted with rain, tiny beads clinging to the long lashes of her eyes. Light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, a small, full mouth. There was a suggestion of misproportion about the features that Peyton couldn’t assign to anything particular. He had no idea who the woman was or why she exhibited
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