The Americans Are Coming by Herb Curtis Page B

embedded in the forested hillside twenty yards away, nor could the camp be seen from the bushy old truck road, a hundred yards to the south. If you were to stand thirty feet from the camp, looking directly up at it, you might not see it, unless you knew it was there. Nutbeam had built three quarters of the structure under ground, with the slant of the roof parallel with the hill. He built it down and into the hill like a mine shaft, so that he had to actually tunnel out a path to the door. All that could be seen from the front was a small door and two grey logs. Once a deer had actually walked on the roof. The tiny seven-by-ten-foot square camp contained a table, two chairs, a cot to sleep on, a barrel stove and three tiny kegs. In one keg he kept salty salmon; in another, he kept salty gaspereaux and in the third, flour. There was a shelf on the eastern wall, on which sat a can of tea, a can of Forest and Stream tobacco, a can of baking powder, two pipes and a can of molasses. On another wall hung two rifles and a wrinkled, frameless picture of the Virgin Mary. On a nail beside the picture hung Nutbeam’s rosary beads. On a wall beside the stove were some more shelves occupied by pots, tin plates, cups, a frying pan, a box of matches, knives, forks, spoons and a tin can full of odds and ends – a pencil, a small magnifying glass, a ball of string, some fish hooks, one of a set of dice which Nutbeam called a “douse,” a spool of thread, buttons and a red squirrel’s tail. Clothing hung haphazardly on all four walls.
    In a box in the corner he kept his traps, a revolver, ammunition and his trumpet.
    There was no window in the camp, so that when he entered he either had to leave the door open so he could see, or light the lamp that sat on the table. Lit, the lamp was usually turned as low as Lindon Tucker’s.
    By the light of one tiny star, which shone through the open door, Nutbeam found his trumpet.
    He took the trumpet outside, put it to his lips, pointed the horn at the star-spangled sky and blew.
    HONK, HONK, BEEP, BEEP, BARMP-BARMP!
    The sound of the trumpet echoed from hill to hill, crossed brooks and rivers and shot through windows and doors all over Brennen Siding. Nutbeam played what he hoped sounded like “There’s a Mansion in the Blue” for several minutes.
    Then the rifle shot went off, the retort slamming against his big floppy ear, startling him into a sudden, silent trance just a hair short of death.
    Darkness reigned supreme.
    *
    Shadrack and Dryfly stood on the steps that scaled the east end abutment of the bridge, panting heavily from running all the way from the forest to the river. Shadrack was particularly tired from carrying the heavy .303 rifle. Both boys were very happy to see the lit windows of the little settlement. The sight of the river, calm, reflecting the starlit sky, restored their courage. The river, a symbol of home, strength and identity, would give them courage for the rest of their lives. At the age of eleven, they already loved it.
    During their lives, Shadrack and Dryfly would travel to Vancouver and New York, Toronto and Nashville, England and Italy, but their hearts would always remain on the Dungarvon, the Renous and the Miramichi. At the age of seventy, they would still at times speak a little too fast and at other times a little too slow and would repeat the word “and” too much. At the age of seventy, they would still speak with a Miramichi accent, softly, as the river people do, and refer to themselves as “Dungarvon boys.”
    “You gonna be able to go home by yourself, Dry?” asked Shadrack.
    “Yeah, I’ll be all right.”
    “I have to sneak the rifle and flashlight back in. If I git caught doin’ it, I’ll be killed.”
    “What d’ya s’pose happened to the whooper thing?”
    “Must’ve scared ’im, that’s all.”
    “Me and you scared the whooper, Shad!”
    “Yeah, I know. Can’t be nothin’ too dangerous if me and you scared it.”
    “We gonna