The trip south in the provisioner’s wagon took two weeks. It skirted the eastern edge of the Great North Woods, went wide enough of Mount Katahdin to keep us from seeing the snow-capped mountaintop, then picked up the Kennebec River, which we followed down to Camden. It was a lonely trip through that part of the state; not widely settled now, it was practically empty then. We’d passed trappers and occasionally camped with them for the night, the wagon drivers anxious to have someone to share a bottle of whiskey with.
The trappers we met were generally French Canadians and were often either stoic or strange, the trade suiting those who were hermits or fierce independents at heart. A few of them seemed to me to be half mad, gibbering to themselves in an unsettling way as they cleaned and oiled their tools before settling down to work on the game they’d caught. Frozen animals would be set by the campfire until they’d thawed enough to be malleable, and then the trappers would take out their narrow-bladed knives and set to skinning. Watching the men peel back the skin and reveal the wet, red bodies made me nauseous and uneasy. Having no desire to sit with them, I’d slink away to the wagons with Titus and leave the drivers to pass the bottle with the trappers in the warm embrace of the campfire.
While unhappy about my exile, I’d always wanted to see something of the world outside my village. St. Andrew might not have been sophisticated, but I had assumed it was civilized in comparison with most parts of the territory, which were largely unsettled. Aside from the trappers, we saw few other people on our journey to Camden. The Indians who were native to the area had moved on years before, though there were a few living in the white settlements or working with the trappers. There were tales of settlers who’d gone native, leaving their towns to set up camps in imitation of the Indians, but they were few and generally surrendered during their first winter.
The trip through the Great North Woods promised to be dark and mysterious. Pastor Gilbert warned of evil spirits that lay in wait for travelers. The axmen claimed to have seen trolls and goblins-to be expected, as most of them were from Scandinavian lands where such folklore was common. The Great North Woods represented the wild, the part of the land that had resisted man’s influence. To enter was to risk being swallowed up, reverting to the wild man who was still inside each of us. Most of the people of St. Andrew would claim not to put much stock in this talk in public, but it was a rare soul who went into the woods by himself at night.
Some of the drivers liked to try to frighten one another by telling tales around the campfire, stories of ghosts seen in graveyards or demons encountered in the woods while driving a route. I tried to avoid them at such times but often there was nothing for it, as we’d have only one fire burning and all the men were hungry for entertainment. Judging from the drivers’ frightening stories, I suppose they were either very brave or terrible liars, because despite their tales of wandering ghosts and banshees and such, they were still willing to drive a wagon through lonely stretches of wilderness.
Most of the stories were about ghosts, and as I listened, it struck me that all the ghosts seemed to have one trait in common: they haunted the living because they had unfinished business on this earth. Whether they were murdered or died by their own hands, the ghosts refused to move on to the afterlife because they felt they belonged in this world rather than the next. Whether to exact vengeance on the person responsible for their death or because they couldn’t bear to leave a loved one, the ghost remained close to the people from its last days. Naturally I thought of Sophia. If anyone had a right to come back as a ghost, it was she. Would Sophia be angered when she came back and found that the person most responsible for her suicide had left town? Or would she follow me? Perhaps she had cursed me from the grave and was responsible for my current unhappy situation. Listening to the drivers’ stories only reinforced my belief that I was damned for my wickedness.
And so I was cheered and relieved when we started to come across small settlements with more frequency: it meant we were approaching the more populated southern part of the territory and I would not be at the mercy of the wagon drivers much longer. Indeed, within a few days of finding the Kennebec River, we arrived in Camden, a big town on the seacoast. It was the first time I would see the ocean.
The wagon dropped me and Titus off at the harbor, as that was the agreement with my father, and I ran out on the longest pier and stood staring at the green water for a long time. What a singular smell, the smell of the ocean, salty and dirty and coarse. The wind was very cold and very strong, so strong that it was almost impossible to catch my breath. It buffeted my face and tangled my hair, as though it were challenging me. Then, too, I was taken with the vastness of the ocean. I’d known water, yes, but only the Allagash River. Wide as it was, you could see the riverbank on the far side and the trees beyond that. In contrast, with its never-ending horizon the flat expanse of ocean looked like the very end of the world.
“You know, the first explorers to travel to America believed they might fall off the edge of the world,” Titus said, reminding me that he was at my elbow.
I found the raking green tide frightening but mesmerizing as well, and I couldn’t tear myself away until I was nearly frozen to the bone.
The tutor escorted me to the harbormaster’s office, where we found an old man with frightening leathery skin. He pointed the way to the small ship that would take me down to Boston, but cautioned me that it wasn’t sailing until near midnight, when the tide would be going out. I wouldn’t be welcome onboard until shortly before it would make sail. He suggested I spend the time in a public house, get something to eat and perhaps convince the innkeeper to let me pass the hours napping on a spare bed. He even gave me directions to a tavern close to the harbor, taking pity on me, I suspect, because I could barely make myself understood, tongue-tied from nerves and so obviously unsophisticated. If Camden were this big and intimidating, how in the world would I find my way in Boston?
“Miss McIlvrae, I must protest. You cannot stay unescorted in a public house, nor can you walk the streets of Camden by yourself at midnight to find your ship,” Titus said. “But I am expected at my cousin’s house and can scarcely remain with you the rest of the day.”
“What other choice do I have?” I asked. “If it would ease your conscience, walk me to the public house and see for yourself if it is respectable, and then do as your mind dictates. That way, you won’t feel as though you’ve betrayed your assurances to my father.”
The only public house I knew was Daughtery’s tiny homespun place in St. Andrew, and this public house in Camden dwarfed Daughtery’s, with two barmaids and long tables with benches, and hot food for purchase. The beer was considerably tastier, too, and I realized with a pang that the people back home were deprived of so many things. The unfairness of it struck me, although I didn’t feel privileged for being introduced to it now. Mostly, I felt homesick and sorry for myself, but I hid this from Titus who, anxious to be on his way, agreed that it didn’t seem to be a place of ill repute and left me to the innkeeper’s care.
After I’d eaten and had my fill of gawking at strangers who came into the pub, I accepted the invitation of the innkeeper to nap on a cot in the storage room until my ship was ready for boarding. Apparently it was common for passengers to pass the time at this particular inn and the innkeeper was used to providing this service. He promised to wake me after the sun set, in plenty of time for me to get to the harbor.
I lay on the cot in the windowless storage room and took stock of my situation. It was then-curled up in the dark, arms hugged tight around my chest-that I became aware of how alone I was. I had grown up in a place where I was known to all and there was no question of where I belonged or who would take care of me. No one here or in Boston knew me or cared to know me. Heavy tears rolled down my face in self-pity; I didn’t imagine, at the time, that my father could have come up with a more brutal punishment.
I awoke in darkness to the rapping of the innkeeper’s knuckles on the door. “It’s time you got up,” he called from the other side of the door, “or you’ll be missing your ship.” I paid with a few coins I pried out of the lining of my cloak, took his offer of an escort as far as the harbormaster’s office, and retraced my steps down the waterfront to the pier.
Evening had fallen quickly, along with the temperature, and a fog started to roll in from the ocean. There were few people on the street and the ones who were about hurried home to get out of the chill and the fog. The overall effect was eerie, as though I was walking through a town of the dead. The innkeeper was friendly enough despite the late hour and we followed the sound of the lapping ocean to the harbor.
Through the fog I saw the ship that would take me to Boston. Its deck was dotted with lanterns, illuminating the preparations being made to set sail: seamen clambered on the masts, unfurling some of the sails; casks were rolled up a gangplank for storage in the hold, the ship buoying gently under its shifting weight.
I know now that it was a common cargo ship, but at the time it was as exotic as a full-masted British ship-of-
