The scurvy, which left the camp because of the Spruce Beer, has started to come back. I drink the tree tea every day, and I always push Liam and Angus to drink also. There are some men among us who I know are not drinking it. They may say they are, but those who don’t start to tire easily, and they can’t get on with their work. My uncle is one of these men. He can be so stubborn and hot headed sometimes. I wonder if having his head knocked around so much has made him lose the little reason and sense he has.
“I’m not the only one who has stopped drinking the tea,” Willie confided to the rest of us quietly one night. “There are some who are bringing supplies from York Factory, men who are sympathetic to us and don’t think any reasonable man should have to drink something so foul.”
“What supplies?” I asked quietly.
“Essence of malt, lemon salts. You know the medicine Doctor Edwards started to give to those who were feeling ill a couple of months ago.”
“I thought those things were in short supply, only given to those who were truly ill?”
“Molly, what makes most of us ill is drinking this native remedy. It makes me sick to my stomach. There is not much of the medicine to go around, so those who can use only a little, hopefully just enough to keep a person healthy.”
And yet, it wasn’t enough to keep a person healthy. The hardest people hit by the scurvy was in the cabin closest to ours, filled with men from the Orkney Islands. A couple of these Orkneymen became very ill a few days ago. If not for the quick help of Doctor Edwards, the camp would have lost its first inhabitants. With MacDonell present, the sick men were forced to drink the Spruce Beer under threat of being shot. MacDonell soon discovered men were not following his orders, and he called a meeting of all settlers immediately.
On a frigid morning during the middle of February, MacDonell brought all of us outside. At least the sun was shining, and the winds were calm. MacDonell was anything but calm.
“We have spent almost five months in some of the coldest conditions,” he began. “Some of you need to be commended for your effort. The path to our new land has been difficult. Where we are looks and feels nothing like Scotland or Ireland. That’s why we need rules. Unlike you, I have spent many winters in this land, and I know what it takes to survive, and the most important thing needed to survive is law and order.”
“There may not be a court in this northern fort, but there is discipline. There may not be a judge to hear your crimes, but there is punishment. And what rules are asked of you? Simply that you work and keep yourself safe and healthy. It is but little to ask, and yet there are some in our group who would see to it these simple rules, meant for the health and welfare of all, be disobeyed and perverted at every turn.”
“I know supplies meant for the workers at York Factory are being smuggled into the camp. Needless to say, this problem has been looked into, and a solution has now been put into effect. And what is the reason for this criminal behaviour? Why would moral men go to such extremes to act against the good will of the company that is already paying for, at great expense I might add, a settlement where a new better life might begin? The answer, it would appear, lies in the distaste some of you have for the miraculous Spruce Beer.”
“I cannot begin to describe my thoughts about this problem.” MacDonell’s voice started to rise higher, almost to the point of a scream. “You all will do what is asked of you here! Every day, each man, woman and child will take to their lips a cup of tea made from the wood of this country. Soon enough, once we are able, fresh game will be provided and the medicine of the country will no longer be required. Until then, you will do what is required! It’s bad enough there is fighting in camp between Irish and Scottish. Men will do that. But there is to be no debate about taking this medicine needed for health and survival.”
There was a long silence. The Governor was not to be questioned. With musket in hand, he seemed ready to take on anyone who dared complain. Mr. MacDonell was a military man, and he was drawing on that experience to show who was in charge of this little colony. Beside him stood Mr. Hillier, second in command at York Factory, and he also appeared ready to take any complaints and criticism head on.
It was at this point, when it appeared the meeting was over, that a voice could be heard. “I will not take it.”
Turning around, I saw the voice belonged to an Orkneyman named William Finlay. Taken by surprise, MacDonell moved through the crowd to confront this rebellious voice.
“Finlay, repeat again what you just said,” demanded the Governor.
“I will not take the medicine,” he repeated. Everyone was surprised this Finlay, a mild, quiet man by all accounts, would be so brave. Yet he was not finished. “There are many things a man has to do to survive, and this should not be one of them. I have worked hard for wages I have not yet seen. I have come across the ocean and for what? To live in a log hut in the middle of nowhere? No Governor, I have done more than my share. I can take a lot, but I will not take this.”
Completely taken by surprise, the Governor did not know how to respond. This man from Orkney was not even involved in the fight on New Year’s Eve, yet here he was standing up to MacDonell, saying what was on everyone else’s mind.
“You will do what is asked of you,” MacDonell started, “And if you refuse, then you will suffer the consequences.”
“Then I will suffer the consequences,” Finlay coldly remarked.
MacDonell struck Finlay with the back of his hand. There were gasps from the crowd. Taken by surprise, Finlay stumbled back a few steps, bent down, and placed his hand towards his face. Little drops of blood started to fall on the snow. Stunned for a brief moment, Finlay raised his head and said, “Do your worst, but this poisonous drink I will not take.”
MacDonell’s face started to look almost as red as the blood running from Finlay’s chin. Holding his musket firmly in both hands, MacDonell took the end of it and struck a terrible blow to the side of Finlay’s head. The sound was awful. You could hear the crack of the bone underneath the skin. Poor Finlay fell to the ground and there lay in a crumpled heap. Two of his friends made their way to assist him, but were blocked by MacDonell who raised his gun and fired into the air. That stopped the two Orkneymen dead in their tracks.
“No one will touch this man,” MacDonell bellowed. “Let this be a lesson to all who refuse the rules of the company. Hillier, place this rascal in chains! Forthwith, any settler who does not obey the rules of conduct at this camp will be placed in shackles and be confined. There is no jail at York Factory, but that will be remedied starting tomorrow.”
MacDonell pushed his way through the crowd. The rest of us just stood there in stunned silence, the only sound heard being the faint whimper of my little brother Calum huddled close to my mother’s breast.
Once it was clear MacDonell was not coming back, Mr. Hillier ordered two of Finlay’s friends to lift him up and bring him back to their cabin. It was clear Mr. Hillier was not equipped to follow MacDonell’s orders and bind Mr. Finlay. It probably did not enter his mind that anyone would dare question orders. If Finlay were somehow to escape punishment, where exactly could he go? Certainly not back to the Factory.
“I understand rules are needed,” I whispered to Mama, “But the Governor goes too far.”
“Aye,” Mama responded. “This is not going to turn out well for us, I can see it. Let’s get out of the cold and back inside.”
The wind started to swirl as we made our way back to the cabin. It blew away the footprints in the snow, but as I turned around, I could clearly see the stain of blood from where Finlay lay. The stain will in time disappear, but the memory of his rebellious action will surely last.