“I’m speaking to you now,” Duckworth said with a conspiratorial air, “as a gentleman and a friend.”
Duckworth wrote Buchan a letter of orders to spend the late summer months navigating and mapping the coastal waters of the northeast shore to justify the expense of assigning the Adonis. He sent the officer away with a proclamation issued on the first day of August, 1810, which promised a reward of one hundred pounds to any person who could bring about and establish on a firm and settled footing a friendly intercourse with the native Indians. “Of course, I have no authorization to propose a reward,” Duckworth admitted, “but the brutes will simply laugh at you if you come without one.”
By the end of September, Buchan had conceded the failure of his summer mission and wrote to the governor to inform him the Adonis would winter over in Notre Dame Bay and undertake a trek to the Red Indian’s lake after the freeze-up. The Indians’ winter camps were reputed to be much larger and less mobile and Buchan was certain a dialogue could be forced if he was able to reach them. Duckworth offered his consent with the understanding that Buchan would act as a floating surrogate while he was stationed there, hearing civil cases across the district. The Adonis was anchored in Ship Cove by chaining the schooner to trees on the shoreline and the chain links were studded with brass nails to keep them from chafing through the trunks.
Buchan consulted with local fishermen and made a list of the most prominent settlers on the shore, then set about visiting those he had yet to meet. He presented the governor’s proclamation, outlined his plans for the winter, and, where it seemed likely he might receive some, he requested advice and assistance. About the middle of October, shortly after John Peyton had left the coast for the traplines in the interior, Buchan and a small party of marines from the Adonis arrived at John Senior’s winter house.
TWO
“I was just now across in Ship Cove,” John Senior said. “Not a week past. Your man Bouthland offered me a little tour of the Adonis.”
“He told me.” Buchan pushed his empty plate towards the centre of the table. “I’m sorry to have been away,” he said. “Though I would have lost the excuse to impose on your hospitality.” He smiled across at his host, but John Senior made no effort to return it and Buchan looked quickly around at the kitchen. The house was well appointed for this part of the world. It was the first two-storey building Buchan had encountered outside the village of Twillingate. He said, “This is quite a property, Mr. Peyton.”
“This is where we spend the winter. Come the spring, we move across to our place on Burnt Island. We’re after the cod from April or May. My son works out there with me.” He nodded towards Cassie who was moving about the table. “Cassie is with us. And there’s three or four hired men come out around the capelin scull to help with the busy times.”
They had long ago finished their meal and Buchan had given Corporal Bouthland a nod to take the marines off to the hired men’s quarters for the evening. “You have salmon rivers as well, Mr. Peyton?” he asked.
“My father come across with his partner one season before he died and I took on his share of the fishery afterwards. There was hardly a Christian in the Bay of Exploits in those days. Harry Miller and me weired up a new river every couple of years, set them up with hired men. A dozen and more rivers now between Gander and Badger bays. Plus the cod, and traplines through the backcountry come the snow.”
“Your son is working out here with you, did you say?” There had been no mention of a wife and Buchan kept clear of the subject.
John Senior nodded. “He’s off on a trapline. Third generation on the shore,” he said.
“The Peyton dynasty,” Buchan offered amiably.
“I wouldn’t want to overstate the case, sir. John Peyton have yet to marry, let alone sire a child. But a man has hopes.”
“You don’t winter-over in England?”
“Not since John Peyton came out from Poole, sir. It don’t appeal as it once did. I’m happier where I’m situated.”
“A livyere, then. You’ve gone native.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Buchan nodded. “This area,” he said. “The last bastion of the Red Indians, I understand.”
John Senior looked at the officer. To his mind, there was something of the dandy in his appearance, in the spotless spats over the polished half-boots, in the buffskin-coloured kid gloves tucked into his tunic. His prematurely greying hair was oiled back from the high forehead, his face was narrow, well proportioned. He was prettier than a man was intended to be, John Senior thought. “There’s enough Indians to warrant taking precautions,” he said.
Buchan nodded. “You have much dealing with them?”
He laughed, a single half-choked barking sound. “You could say I have had dealings with the Reds, yes. That lot have got the face of a robber’s horse.”