When Richmond and Taylor were in their twentieth year, their families suffered through a poor season that ended with a month of almost ceaseless rain from August into September that made it impossible to properly cure the fish. Most of it went green and mouldy with the wet and was fit only to feed their dogs. Even their garden was ruined, the potatoes and turnips rotting in the ground. Richmond’s father was barely forty at the time but he looked old enough to have fathered a man nearly his age. He walked with a permanent stoop and a list to one side, as if he was just able to resist letting his body topple over altogether. His mother was convinced that another season like the one they’d just suffered through would be the death of her husband. They had no choice but to look for poor relief in St. John’s or to return to England for the winter and she enlisted the support of Mrs. Taylor in lobbying their husbands to abandon the island for good. As the year darkened, the two couples spent their evenings arguing among themselves while they drank glasses of a potent potato alcohol Richmond’s father brewed in a still at the back of the tilt. It was clear the women had more stamina and would win out in the end. Both Richmond and Taylor made up their minds to stay behind regardless.
Tom Taylor married Richmond’s sister, Siobhan, in St. John’s while the rest of their families awaited a passage to England. Richmond’s mother pawned a length of fine satin to pay the chaplain who performed the ceremony, and the entire party proceeded to get drunk at one of the dozens of filthy grog shops above the waterfront. Several men were already asleep on the straw lain against the wall when the wedding party arrived. There was an uneven sputter of light from half a dozen tallow candles. Siobhan wore a muslin gown over grey pantaloons tied at the ankle with a black twist. Richmond led the toasts to the new couple and the parents of the bride and groom, and the strangers in the room stood with the families to offer their best and wish the new couple well.
Neither Richmond nor Taylor had ever seen the northeast shore when they left St. John’s that week to look for Harry Miller. Richmond spotted John Senior on the wharf when they disembarked in Fogo. He didn’t recognize Richmond or remember meeting him. He was about to sail into St. John’s enroute to Poole for the winter, but he delayed his trip long enough to carry them across to Miller’s winter house.
Miller was already three-parts drunk when he came down to the wharf, his head cocked suspiciously at the three young strangers coming ashore in the company of John Senior. He didn’t remember meeting Richmond as a boy either. He didn’t recall the harsh weather during the trip out of St. John’s or the way his business partner had sat next to him without speaking a word the entire journey. “Although that sounds like the contrary bastard, hey?” he said. He nodded at John Senior where he sat and laughed. He scratched wildly at his hair as if it wasn’t untidy enough to suit him. “You didn’t just make that bit up now, did you? I promised you work, did I?”
John Peyton had never heard Miller speak but his voice changed when he quoted these words to Buchan, borrowing the tone of contented surliness that those who’d known Miller used when telling the story.
Buchan shook his head. He said, “I’m sorry not to have had the chance to make Mr. Miller’s acquaintance. He was quite the character it seems.”
“It was Richmond and Taylor that found him. The body,” Peyton said. “After the Reds got to him.”
Buchan nodded. “And they stayed on with your father.”
“Yes sir. And scrapping all the while.” Peyton watched the fire. His feet were so close to the heat that steam rose from his boots and still he was shivering with the cold. “As long as they don’t turn on any of the rest of us, they can snipe at one another as much as they like, is my opinion.”
Buchan tapped the bowl of his pipe against his boot. “All right,” he said.
The wind had gone down with the sun and the temperature dropped as the sky cleared overhead. A second fire was kindled and the men huddled between the two under blankets or furs, but the cold was so intense that no one was able to cobble together a proper stretch of sleep. Peyton managed to fall off only a few minutes at a time before the aching woke him and he stamped his feet or slapped his hands to bring the tingle of feeling back into his limbs. Men got up to fuel the fire or simply to pace the length of the camp to ward off the frost.