Chapter
2 Indian Point © August 2010 by smck
In
late May of Seventeen and Eighty-one the barkentine Northern Cross
landed eight families by longboat to the bar of beach at the mouth of
the unnamed river flowing clear and smooth from the unremitting
forest. To the eastward as far as the eye could see the shore and
sea and the sand pipers did their ancient dance of wave on wave up
the beach of sand and stone. To the westward the shore climbed
abruptly from the deep, reaching for the sky in an immense barrier of
living stone overlain with the glacier till of gravel, clay and rocky
boulders of every kind that had been scoured and carried from the
great Canadian shield ten thousand years before, now crowned with the
same arboreal forest that had blessed their vision this whole
bless-ed day coasting down from Sydney. An on shore breeze
mercifully kept the myriads of flies at bay.
Four
fishing shacks and seven human souls were already on the shore -
three Indian women from a local tribe, and four Basque fishermen
eking a living from the sea, supplying great racks of drying cod to
the firm of Sweetman and Saunders out of Placentia in Newfoundland.
Their small cod seine skiff was anchored just inside the mouth of the
river and slightly behind the island like tip of the long sand bar
peninsula that stretched westerly to the great hill of the mainland.
Three of the fishing shanties were on the rocky rise of the spruce
covered island tip and facing the open breeze of the sea. The fourth
primitive structure was across the hundred yards or so of the river
mouth, to the east nearer to the long cod covered racks that
stretched impressively down the shore. This particular nameless
summer fishing settlement had been here for more than a hundred years
and never in that time had a soul, or at least never a European soul,
ventured farther inland on the small and handsome river except to
retrieve an occasional duck or goose, shot to mitigate the
fisherman’s unrelenting diet of fish and salt pork.
Even
today, the stoic workers made no great movement toward the longboats
but simply clustered, staring for a moment or two at this unheralded
intrusion into the long isolation of their lives and then turned to
their present task of turning the drying fish. Luckily, the mate in
the long boat knew some smattering of French and was able to piece
together an introduction of the two groups – the one Gaelic, the
other Arcadian, as united and clashing as they ever had been along
the coast of Normandy. It would be no small matter to have the
unprepared settlers an access to fire and shelter and food for the
coming days while they would begin wrestling shelter and substance
from the wilderness. Summer would be short and the winter, more
brutal than they could ever envision, would be soon.
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