The Deserter by O.C. Paul Almond Read Free Book Online

sailors and other whites saw these natives as messy brutes, not worth tuppence. But here he was, facing a wilderness they had adapted to and even conquered for millennia. Slowly over the morning, it came to him that he’d better get rid of any prejudice fast, and learn all he could. After all, he’d be quite alone for the foreseeable future. And they might end up being his only contacts.
    Living off the land, the tribe had few of the items that Thomas took for granted, like good steel knives. Working on hides, for example, most of them he knew used sharp ened shoulder blades of moose, or scrapers made from the lower legs of a moose or caribou. Throughout the camp, he’d seen scattered remnants of European goods they had traded for: old kettles, a cauldron, some knives, indeed a tinderbox or two, hardly anything new or really serviceable. Why not start by offering them some modest presents? He would definitely need to be taught by someone the rudiments of survival here. Everything seemed so alien, and unfamiliar, compared to the oak forests of Northumberland Even as a young footman, he had no need to survive apart from the castle. All meals, albeit simple and rarely abundant, had been taken in the cellar kitchens. His mother, the undercook, saw to it he always had enough, though just enough. So what had he been thinking, diving off that ship? The urge to escape, to avoid the forthcoming, and inevitable, punishment emanating from Jonas Wickett, had been so strong, he had not properly looked ahead, apart from knowing the one reason he had joined the Navy was to get here, to this promising New World.
    And now here he was, what should he do? How would he actually survive alone? He just had no idea. He had with him a couple of lead shots, thinking he’d buy more, of course, from settlers who all made their own out of lead. But was his powder dry? And if the firearm did work, how much nourishment would he get after the first shots at an animal — skinny enough in spring, he could see now. Wait! Why not ask the band to go trading for him? That way he could avoid all contact with the trading-post owner and his dogs.
    He discussed this with the translator, who told him that four tribe members intended to make one of their spring trips downriver to the trading post. They might easily do it today, if the Chief gave permission. Relieved that they were being so helpful, Thomas handed over some money, and thought quickly: a big saucepan, a frying pan, a bigger axe and saw if possible, a hammer and nails, and so on. Powder and shot for his firearm. He also needed blankets, but the translator suggested he get them here from the tribe. The Chief said he could wait until late this afternoon when they’d be back.
    So now, he decided, he’d learn something of hunting with a bow and arrow; his pistol might be useful if they got some shot for him, but hopeless in any emergency, the loading being so unwieldy. He confessed this new learning goal to the translator, whom he nicknamed Tongue, much to the latter’s merriment. Thomas decided to give them all nicknames, not being able to remember the complex series of sounds that signified their Micmac names. He and Tongue traded names, “Thomas” or “Domas,” being easily remembered by Tongue, who told the others.
    So Tongue arranged for the young Indian who had tied him up last night to teach him archery. Several gathered to watch the demonstration. His teacher looked as if he had been burned as a child: on the right side of his face near his ear, he carried a heavy scar, so Thomas nick-named him “Burn.” Slight of build with wild, black locks of untamed hair and bright inquisitive eyes, Thomas saw in him a gentle quality, almost out of place with his intense and wiry strength.
    Burn set up a target, a chunk of wood on a stump, and showed Thomas how to hold the bow, made from ash, and how to place the butt of the arrow against the bowstring between thumb and forefinger, while his middle