when it was done, hands still on the counter. He could hear his father moving behind him, sucking air heavily through his nostrils to catch his breath. There was the sound of glassware set on the table, a cork loosed from a bottle. “Have some of this now,” his father said.
John Senior turned from the counter and took the proffered glass of rum.
His father’s thick upper lip was beaded with sweat and his hair frizzed away from his head in all directions, as if he wasstanding on a charge of static. He said, “You see where thieving will get you.”
They never spoke of the incident afterwards. And nothing in his father’s demeanour or actions in the years that followed predicted the bouts of blind rage he would descend into once the disease overtook him. When nothing else could appease him or settle his outbursts, John Senior was forced to beat his father senseless, weeping with frustration as he struck the sick man about the shoulders and head.
Through the worst of his fever, fifty years on, John Senior relived those moments, thrashing on his sick bed and shouting. Cassie leaned over him and pinned his arms to the mattress. “I’m not your father,” she shouted at him, but he was too delirious to understand her.
The illness was still burning through the old man when Peyton arrived at the house from the traplines and Cassie sent him to Ship Cove to ask after Buchan’s surgeon. By the time he returned accompanied by both the surgeon and Buchan himself, the fever had broken. The doctor prescribed a regimen of salts and cod liver oil for strength and told him to put aside any thought of accompanying the expedition that was due to leave in three days’ time. Cassie echoed the doctor’s orders to the old man and sent the visitors away the next morning with salt fish and bread tied up in a cloth.
Peyton thought she seemed immensely relieved to have settled keeping John Senior at home and to have the navy men out of the way. He studied her look of relief for a moment before going to the door. He called out and motioned them back up the path and volunteered to take John Senior’s place on the expedition. He told the lieutenant he would come downto the
Adonis
on the twelfth. Buchan shook his hand and thanked him and nodded another goodbye to Cassie who stood behind Peyton in the kitchen. “Miss Jure,” he said.
John Senior was as furious as his weakened state allowed. “It’s a goddamn fool’s errand,” he said.
“You were fool enough to sign on. And to send Taylor and Richmond and Reilly along.”
John Senior began to speak but fell into a fit of coughing that purpled his face. Peyton called for Cassie who came running from the kitchen and lifted the sick man forward and pounded his back with the open palm of her hand until he had coughed up a mouthful of green-and-black phlegm into a handkerchief.
“I had my reasons,” John Senior managed as she helped him back against the pillows. His lungs clawed at the air.
“Out,” Cassie said to Peyton. A lock of her hair had fallen out of the bun at the back of her head and she turned it behind her ear with a distracted motion that made Peyton’s stomach knot. “Go on now,” she said when he made no move to leave. “I mean it, John Peyton,” she said.
Cassie was already up and had lit the fire and boiled the kettle for tea by the time he made his way down to the kitchen. The dark play of light from the fireplace sent her shadow up the opposite wall like a vine. There was a single candle burning on the table where she’d put out a plate of brewis in pork fat for his breakfast.
“What way is he this morning?” Peyton asked after he sat down.
She set an earthenware mug in front of him. “Well enough to be contrary,” she said. “He’d be down here now if I hadn’t threatened to start the fire with his boots.” She pushed the sugar towards him and he ladled a teaspoonful into his mug. “Are you going to look in on him before you go?”
Peyton
John Senior turned from the counter and took the proffered glass of rum.
His father’s thick upper lip was beaded with sweat and his hair frizzed away from his head in all directions, as if he wasstanding on a charge of static. He said, “You see where thieving will get you.”
They never spoke of the incident afterwards. And nothing in his father’s demeanour or actions in the years that followed predicted the bouts of blind rage he would descend into once the disease overtook him. When nothing else could appease him or settle his outbursts, John Senior was forced to beat his father senseless, weeping with frustration as he struck the sick man about the shoulders and head.
Through the worst of his fever, fifty years on, John Senior relived those moments, thrashing on his sick bed and shouting. Cassie leaned over him and pinned his arms to the mattress. “I’m not your father,” she shouted at him, but he was too delirious to understand her.
The illness was still burning through the old man when Peyton arrived at the house from the traplines and Cassie sent him to Ship Cove to ask after Buchan’s surgeon. By the time he returned accompanied by both the surgeon and Buchan himself, the fever had broken. The doctor prescribed a regimen of salts and cod liver oil for strength and told him to put aside any thought of accompanying the expedition that was due to leave in three days’ time. Cassie echoed the doctor’s orders to the old man and sent the visitors away the next morning with salt fish and bread tied up in a cloth.
Peyton thought she seemed immensely relieved to have settled keeping John Senior at home and to have the navy men out of the way. He studied her look of relief for a moment before going to the door. He called out and motioned them back up the path and volunteered to take John Senior’s place on the expedition. He told the lieutenant he would come downto the
Adonis
on the twelfth. Buchan shook his hand and thanked him and nodded another goodbye to Cassie who stood behind Peyton in the kitchen. “Miss Jure,” he said.
John Senior was as furious as his weakened state allowed. “It’s a goddamn fool’s errand,” he said.
“You were fool enough to sign on. And to send Taylor and Richmond and Reilly along.”
John Senior began to speak but fell into a fit of coughing that purpled his face. Peyton called for Cassie who came running from the kitchen and lifted the sick man forward and pounded his back with the open palm of her hand until he had coughed up a mouthful of green-and-black phlegm into a handkerchief.
“I had my reasons,” John Senior managed as she helped him back against the pillows. His lungs clawed at the air.
“Out,” Cassie said to Peyton. A lock of her hair had fallen out of the bun at the back of her head and she turned it behind her ear with a distracted motion that made Peyton’s stomach knot. “Go on now,” she said when he made no move to leave. “I mean it, John Peyton,” she said.
Cassie was already up and had lit the fire and boiled the kettle for tea by the time he made his way down to the kitchen. The dark play of light from the fireplace sent her shadow up the opposite wall like a vine. There was a single candle burning on the table where she’d put out a plate of brewis in pork fat for his breakfast.
“What way is he this morning?” Peyton asked after he sat down.
She set an earthenware mug in front of him. “Well enough to be contrary,” she said. “He’d be down here now if I hadn’t threatened to start the fire with his boots.” She pushed the sugar towards him and he ladled a teaspoonful into his mug. “Are you going to look in on him before you go?”
Peyton
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