BEYOND THE SHICKSHOCK
MOUNTAINS
A Canadian Talon Saga
Beyond
the Shickshock
Mountains
A Canadian Talon Saga
by Malcolm Mills
Beyond the Shickshock Mountains:
A Canadian Talon Saga
Malcolm Mills
Copyright (c) 2011 by Malcolm Mills
Published by Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords
All rights reserved.
eISBN 978-1-926720-14-2
Published in Canada
Beyond the Shickshock Mountains is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Book cover by Maryna Bzhezitska
www.asteroidpiblishing.ca
editor@asteroidpublishing.ca
Foreword
Long before the Rocky Mountains of western North America emerged from the soil, a languishing chain of tall green mountains known as the Appalachian Mountain Range, sprawled in a south-western arc on the opposite rim of the continent. In the days of their youth, these Appalachian Mountains scraped the skies from what would become the Canadian provinces of Newfoundland, New Brunswick, and Quebec swinging majestically southward along the eastern seaboard, to Central Alabama in the future eastern United States.
Not to be outdone, running parallel at times to these Appalachian Mountains grew other ranges such as the Adirondack, Allegheny, Blue Ridge, Smoky and Green Mountains.
Our story takes place circa 1750 when this vibrant, but confining, range of primordial barriers with all of their verdant peaks and valleys, limited the westward expansion of the British Thirteen Colonies.
The mountains knew not of the conclusion of the Seven Years War between France and Britain (1756-1763) which culminated to British satisfaction in 1763, or that the continental interior and western lands would begin to develop beyond its western slopes soon afterwards.
At their northern tip, oblivious to the invisible horizontal national divide which became the border between Canada and the United States in the nineteenth century, heroic frontier men and frontier women had already begun to conquer the Appalachian Mountains. They called these ranges ShickShock, Notre Dame and Long Range Mountains before leaving them behind in a surge westward to freedom and security of home and family.
The following saga captures, at least in part, the struggles and victories of three hardy yet unsung heroes of this westward migration beyond the mountains.
Equally as determined and as brave as Joliet, LaSalle, La Verendrye, Radisson, Hudson, and Kelsey, northern voyageur vanguards such as the Talon family, challenged the identical barrier which had kept colonists to the south from expanding westward. In the 1600s, there existed as the first Governor of New France, an industrious and clever man by the name of Jean Talon. It was from this surname the family in this story is derived. Approximately one hundred fifty years later, in the latter half of the sixteenth century, our pioneer family begins with Jean George Talon, Trevallion Talon, Rebecca Talon, and Shannagan Talon. These characters play key roles in conquering not only the physical mountainous barrier, but also the social, political, and personal barriers so typical to real-life adventure and endurance in a new environment. And, as is often the case, the legacy of such explorers and adventurers becomes their contribution toward the founding principles and social values for those who followed.
As a matter of perspective, one of the first celebrated American frontiersman to map a practical route westward through the Appalachian mountains, was the colourful Daniel Boone, who conquered the Kentucky region in 1778 when he blazed the Wilderness Road through the Cumberland Gap and on into the Kentucky area of what would become the north-eastern United States. This famed trek led, in part, to a renewed westward American colonization.
In the colonies further south, another explorer of that era, an adventurer by the name of Kit Carson also blossomed into fame as a legendary western hero, leading the likes of Fremont and Jean Nicollet (a French frontiersman) in their expedition to map what would become the American Plains between the upper Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, an area at that time belonging to Spain and France.
Nearly one hundred years prior and to the north, French explorers had explored, trapped, mapped, and even claimed in part, land west of the Iroquois, Cherokees, Sioux, Pawnee, and Blackfoot territories west of the Appalachians. While coexisting with aboriginal inhabitants as equals, France essentially controlled the lands which would become the Louisiana Purchase in 1803.
The Talon family constructs the symbolic door through which other adventurers would follow. Beginning with a single dream, a single historical event, a long-standing barrier is overcome as the first Talon pioneer begins this momentous journey beyond the Shickshock Mountains.
Other Talons and other families would follow.
Part One. Beyond the ShickShocks
Chapter One
My name is Jean George Talon, and as far as I know, I am the last Talon upon this shore. The wiser members bearing our name have long since departed.
In the beginning, we bent to the mercy of God and to the sea; both being harsh masters by times …but then came the fish merchant who took up residence and netted men's souls as if they were codfish.
At times, change cannot come soon enough. Having said that, it may well be our inherent enemies, the British, who bring that change, as they arrive like locusts to invade the Gaspé shore of Quebec to destroy, once more, what is inherently ours.
The Gaspé Peninsula clung like a leaf to the southern shore of the majestic St. Lawrence River, the single large artery leading to the heart of the continent we French had founded two centuries earlier. The Shickshock Mountains of Gaspé stood sentinel over the fledgling nation we struggled so hard to build.
We were not people to sit idly by for if by their numbers the British were taking Gaspé, it was not in me to remain under occupation. Besides, my life had taken a turn unexpected and I had little choice but to follow the path before me wherever it may lead.
Had my God favoured me with exceptional vision and a wisdom I had yet to experience; had I gazed through the eyes of the not too distant future and thought clearly one moment longer, I may have kissed the old man and left him quickly on the day of his burial.
There was naught but conscience to bind me, and revenge, perhaps, but neither emotion served a man well enough in either this or any other time, where a level head was required above an angry heart.
My feet craved distance, my soul sought justice, but my common sense told me to remain patient and wary for these were most perilous times, especially for me. I was torn, not for myself so much, for my youthful arrogance and invincibility was still mine to savour, but I was being drawn and quartered between duty to those living … and honour to one dead; and it plagued me deeply.
A dirge of sadness to an era suddenly lost composed itself darkly within my inner being. I quickly shook off the spectre. The decision was a foregone one. I must depart my beloved land.
There were those here yet living who needed my services and I feared for the weaker ones in our midst. I feared for the tired and the weak, the children and the women whose days and lives had yet to find peace.
I had little time to debate the right or the wrong of it, actually, for there were other more pressing matters at hand. There were innocent people here I intended to protect and care for, if they were to commence a new life in what was left of New France. The British had had good success in their war with our mother country. Louisbourg, our so-called impregnable fortress built not twenty years ago in Acadia, had fallen for the second time. Now, in this year of our Lord, 1758, the British General, Wolfe, was now nearly at our own door. Our Gaspé lay open and naked to attack, for just as misery loves company, the second shoe was about to drop upon our homes.
Within days, our little town had been thrown into chaos by two deaths. One of the victims was the local government agent, a man named Revolte, a treacherous and tyrannical pawn of Intendant Bigot, a supercilious ass in his own rite. Bigot, whose rank fell just below that of Governor, ruled like a tyrant.
Revolte, although neither a wise man nor a strong one, rode that reputation, eventually pushing hard enough for someone among us to retaliate; although it was not I. Revolte’s sudden departure of this world was not an event I would not shed a particular tear for.
Murder, it was, and worthy of all of our applause, but for one thing ... there were those among the many who despised him … who believed it was I who snuffed out that light. Some among us, especially the one who had performed this meritorious, if unlawful deed, was casting fault upon me.
Not that I had not considered his demise a worthy incident in general terms. For what culture does not discuss regularly the joys and freedoms life without government-inspired tyranny would bring? Nevertheless, it mattered little now.
As beauteous a land as this Gaspé Peninsula was, each year I swore that it would be my last, that I would pack my meagre belongings, my hat, my coat, my weapons and my pride ... and travel west beyond the ShickShock Mountains where our greatest explorers had ventured.
Each year, after three hundred and thirty days of dangerous and backbreaking, health-sucking labour, the fishing company for whom we toiled would conduct the annual tally and the settling of bills of credit at the company store.
It worked like this. From the year previous would be calculated our debts. Our debts would then be subtracted from the fish we had caught for the annum. And each year, the results were the same. Our extended credit came equal to, or went beyond, what we had earned after a full year of harsh, life-sapping labour upon the sea.
It was the way of the industry. Simone was the local fish merchant. He paid us but once a year, in the autumn and now was that time. And for these devout men, who among us barely a one could even count upon their hands to ten, the price of fish was always low and debts were always high.
Traditionally, there was but one record kept by which we were paid and that was the tally written in the accounting ledger of Simone Marchant. It was here men lived and died financially, for what we owed and what we earned was dictated by the company bookkeeper. It was a perfect set up for the company, as there were none able to challenge the figures or dispute the debt.
To break even was more than most of us could even hope to comprehend. And so we signed our "x" and agreed that it must be as the company ledger indicated.
The company kept the books, and the company extended the credit.
Schooling was frowned upon as frivolous, when a boy should be learning of hand lining and filleting cod, of building flakes and reducing the family debt. Thus, the cycle of ignorance perpetuated to the detriment of our society.
However, it was not merely the fishermen, for the sailors and pirates and voyageurs, too, lacked opportunity to learn.
But I, Jean George Talon had found an escape, for without their knowledge, I had learned to read and to write and had become decidedly good at sums.
Very early in life I developed an insatiable thirst for learning. It soon became an eager fire within me, one I could not quench, a thirst I never hoped to slake. At every opportunity, in secret, I would slip away to visit my friend, a former Jesuit priest from Montreal. From the security of his home, he would tutor me. Wise and learned, the man was inexplicably timid and withdrawn, telling no one of his education but myself, who had inadvertently caught him reading one day in his cabin.
Chapter Two
It was the first time I had heard of such a thing and I was intrigued beyond telling, for it was not a pastime a man did in the daylight hours. What kind of a person worked indoors when the sun shone and there were chores to do or homes to visit? I was amazed and curious.
The man was newly arrived in the village. My mother sent me to the home he was renting to invite him to a meal. Finding the door partly ajar upon my arrival, I entered timidly, knocking, and then stepping into the room. It was a stormy autumn Sunday and he had his face buried in his work and did not hear me.
I spoke to him and he turned. Recovering quickly from his surprise, he then ushered me into the lamp-lit room, a finger to his lips for silence.
"What are you doing?" I had inquired innocently, for he was writing upon a page and pouring over texts and other papers. At my curious young age of seven, I had rarely seen anyone so consumed with such frivolous a pastime, especially in this village in these times.
My eyes went immediately to the desk and my youthful fingers ached to hold the long-feather quill and to dip it into the ink well. Hesitantly, I found the nerve and asked, "May ... may I try?" My eagerness I could not restrain and he smiled at my enthusiasm.
I remember yet his indecision. After looking up and down the lane, he closed the door behind us and on that day, my education commenced. He placed a knot of wood on the fire and rubbed his hands, looking at me intently through wise and interested eyes as if suddenly pleased with his decision.
After a moment, he said softly, "So, you would like to learn to read and to write?" He cocked his tousled grey head to peer at me in depth, a quizzical gesture much as a yellow bird does upon hearing a curious sound.
His voice was delighted, yet he spoke with caution. "You would perhaps like to ... unlock the secrets of the world?"
I nodded in wide-eyed wonderment, convinced that this stranger before me must know all that there was to be known and that his wisdom somehow towered far above the mere mortals who until now had fished our shores and walked the streets of our village. It was the first day of the beginning of my life.
It was also the commencement of a long and prosperous friendship, for I learned to read and to write, to do sums, and something of geography and religion, of philosophy and history. In return, I became his student, his pupil with whom to share his knowledge and his wisdom, to share the secret of how he had fallen from the good graces of the Séminaire de Québec in Laval.
A bond formed as we sailed upon that sea of knowledge, a tie of friendship and trust became fused, for we were unique to ourselves in a world most content within its own ignorance.
In time, Maurice, for that was the name he used, married a local girl and a family began, but still my studies continued and his secret remained ours. No one but I, knew of his talents. He was not a fisherman and therefore was one of the few who did not have debt at the company store.
The problem with our industry was an ancient one. No one dared to speak out against the merchants for fear of being called upon to make full payment of their debt. The fact that merchants made it a practice to cheat a man of his daily bread did not enter into it. They stood just below God to the fishermen, and therefore must be obeyed.
The price of fish was set by what the merchants dictated and none could argue successfully if they hoped to fish another year. The men, who slaved for little or nothing, earned barely enough to survive upon, and could do little against either the merchant employing them or the market abroad. The problem exceeded their dreams and extended beyond their education.
Geography had little effect on human nature. The rich became richer and the poor became poorer, whether in Europe or in the land of New France.
I was nearly twenty years of age and had been doing my share of the work for eight years, when I walked into the fish house for the annual tally. Each man in line ahead of me had withdrawn sadly from the shed, hat in hand, head hung low. No one need ask if they had caught enough fish to pay off the family debt ... no one ever did.
Simone would shake his fat and ugly head in a pantomime of rehearsed remorse as he doled out the news. "Sorry, Leon" or "Sorry, Jacques ...." His narrow shapeless shoulders tapered at the top of an immense and foreboding bulk as he shrugged in mock despair. "Just one more month, I think, and you would have been clear." Then he would mumble something about high costs and boat repairs or shipping, and in the silence that followed you would make your way to the door, poorer by as many livres as he claimed and by another year of your life.
"Never mind, Jean," or "Never mind, Henri ..." he would often reach over and pat your knee or your arm. Simone Marchant ... harbinger of doom.
"Next year will be better, you'll see." His podgy lips would smack as he spoke. "I know that you and that son of yours will work even harder next year. The two of you will do well." It was the same every year.