The Lad From Pointe de Bute (Chap. 16)

SIXTEEN

All of those thoughts and incidents continued to occupy my mind as I skipped along the trail aside the men working on the ocean shore.

Looking about, I was pleased to see only a few crows heard my oft spoken aloud words.

Shouting warnings should anything be amiss seemed like a mountain of responsibility for Mattie, Johnny and I.

But then, these were hardy times. And while we made plans to protect my family members, I wondered if soldiers housed in their barracks were preparing for battle.

That thought was most unpleasant and I was determined to plunge it from my mind. The day ahead promised to be one filled with delightful things for a young boy. All this was taking place, and I not yet twelve years of age.

Such a tender age, and yet for a boy growing up on a farm in a new land, it was the beginning of my manhood.

I was in a happy mood as I skipped back home after the purchase of morning’s breakfast, now able to skip along with two healthy feet. And I pushed away those thoughts from days behind me.

Along morning’s shore, the misty fog gathered as a blanket, then silently, disappeared allowing such as I to once more scan the sea.

It was proper to gaze across the waters upon more of Nova Scotia’s fertile land that stretched as a finger on the far side of Baie Verte. When the advancing tide arrived upon our side of this vast Bay, a safe swimming place was formed beside a large shelf of rock.

It was here where lads from Pointe de Bute and surrounding farms came together after chores for a good exchange of swimming. And as the tide withdrew, clam digging was a pastime of furious movement.

On one such occasion, I cut my right thumb digging furiously after a retreating Razor Clam.

Along the traveled road to Cape Tormentine were other settlements. Jolicure, Baie Verte, Port Elgin, Upper Cape and Cape Spear were additional memories. They too had similar collections of buildings and families working together, as my own place of residence at Pointe de Bute.

Horses pulling wagons with common folk were a sight, ambling along the roadway.

They came upon us as constant reminders of the hardy business needed to supply our communities. Most were farmers, like Da, and our acreage was proper for a family at the time.

My footsteps soon returned to the farm where Mum was properly anxious to serve breakfast.

A tune escaped my lips as I toured the world around our Inverma farmland with a boy’s satisfied gaze. Seagulls above, the wind tossing my mop of hair, and the strength of my arm firmly grasped my wrapped newspaper package.

Our home awaited me with its shades of weathered wood, along with fertile fields, a fence to climb, and my favorite tree.

Nearby our workhorse patiently awaited new instructions. All these sights were a part of my boyhood journey.

“Ta-Rah” was my statement to that young boy being left behind.

Now this purchased fish would be most suitable to serve at our table along with a cup of steaming tea.

Loudly I called, “Da! Mum!” I be here.”

I remembered the day that myself, Johnny Trenholm, son of John Senior made a proper defense to abide in this country, and on Inverma farm.

It was my good fortune to allay Da’s concern about my safety. And not be a passenger on a ship returning to England in the company of a good neighbor. “Hurrah!” I was to remain on the land my father claimed.

“Aye,” Inverma Farm is our land, and no longer threatened by the British,” Da said solemnly.

‘The men from Yorkshire are now friends and allies of the British.” Somehow I rearranged my mind and forgave those poor soldiers who had taken part in the calamity long ago. Now we were united in kind agreement to protect our kin, our lands and our country from any foreign invaders.

I remember racing Mattie across the meadow with my news and our happy voices joining the clouds above. My bare feet were unmindful of thistles or any bees rummaging among the berries.

And I was unconcerned about sharp pricks or other insect bites. I wanted to remember everything about that moment. Mattie’s hair fluttered behind her shaking head, as the wind captured each strand and flung it about. It resembled the tail end of a kite.

The joy within her frame matched the brightness of sun that breathed warmth upon the Maple leaves. Their splendor created a myriad of color this Autumn-day. Johnny, me, was so pleased to be staying in this new country.

And so it was with Mattie.

EPILOGUE

And it came to pass that not so far south of this country area, storm clouds crowded together in busy turmoil.

Colonel Jonathan Eddy, a “Planter” from New England was full of ideas. He desired this area of Nova Scotia join the Americans in throwing off British rule, and becoming their fourteenth colony.

It was also notable that a soldier-politician named George Washington was strongly encouraging him. In the backrooms of smoke-filled rooms, plans were being carefully discussed.

They were to have an effect on every family in the Isthmus of Chignecto. Unknown to these former residents of Yorkshire, the inhabitants of Pointe de Bute were situated in the middle of the coming melee.

Johnny soon came to learn about war in his new country.

CO-AUTHOR NOTES:

Esther and Richard Provencher are co-authors and Managers of Dester Publications, our umbrella name for many titles. At this time we are seeking a commercial publisher interested in any of our work. In the meantime we wish to share our writing at no charge. We worked together in earnest when I suffered a brain aneurysm in 1999. Writing has helped immensely, combined with prayers, a dear wife-Esther, and a great doctor-“WB” who were encouraging and inspiring in my slow but dogged recovery.  Ongoing observation and treatment continues. Esther and Richard continue to live in Truro, Nova Scotia after moving to this area in 1986, from Sarnia, Ontario. Richard was born in Rouyn, Quebec, and Esther born in Cape Spear, Nova Scotia.