Entry #2
Extracts
from the diary of James Cooper, 1816.
by Scott Butcher
Being the 1st of June, 1816
It be that I have heard news that the
Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, Major Francis Gore, has declared a
Thanksgiving to be the date of Our Lord the 6th day of this June.
The celebration is for the termination of the war that had raged hereabouts.
This event has injured me. I feel so that I
am compelled to write these diary words, not having done so before.
I press the rose, as proof herein. For
instead of Thanksgiving, which no man greater than I should wont, I feel an
illness, a trepidation approach. I write these words as witness, for I should
be thankful. Did not I stand by my brothers, both heathen and militia, to fight
back the invaders in bloody skirmishes most awful in the region of Niagara?
This ball that I carry, that had pierced my
chest – I should give Thanksgiving of that. On that day as we fought against
others most foul, who invaded our lands, pillaging and burning, my blood did
roughly boil as we shouted our cries ‘Remember York’ and beat against them we
did, till the pain ripped through my chest and my neutered body fell. Left I
was as the battle in woodland was pressed against us. I am told that day ended
well. Having sent the offenders crying for home, my own militia came back in
search of we wounded.
They found me there, already roughly
tended. My bloodied chest was
unnaturally bared to heaven, and sewn was the hole where the musket bolt should
have seen my end.
On me they found lying the leaden ball,
and… a single, small, black rose. A native one, no bigger be the bud than my
finger width. I have pressed it here. It is not aged to blackness as one may think.
It was fresh and black when they found it on me. With the ball it was kept for
me during my recovery.
Being the 3rd of June, 1816.
And on this day, should I be most thankful.
For I walk through streets of York rebuilt where buildings had once been burned.
I will shortly see my sweetheart, Emily, who is promised me this summer and on
the morrow I will visit her.
Then as I stand overcome on a corner there,
wondering that such rebuilding be glorious in the sunshine, a small thing is
pressed in my hand, I barely notice by whom, though a figure a good foot
shorter than I did scurry through the crowd. Of native extract, I saw braided
black tresses on her back, but only through a fleeting glimpse. Most strange.
In my hand did prick my palm for there did
I find… a single, small, black rose.
Being the 4th of Jun 1816.
Oh calamity, dismay! For what have I done?
On seeing my Emily, she did turn me away. For thinking it a thing of beauty,
and so unique a thing as ever I did see, I gave my Emily… a single, small, black
rose, the one most recently pressed in my hand.
Her eyes were so hollow, hurt to her core
was she. I see her still, the rose in her hand, and the tears that they did
bring. What had I done?
Being the 5th of June 1816.
The soldiers did come, and roughly handle
me, but knowing the officer, I recalled to him my militia days and my lowly
once title of Sergeant, and the officer recognising me ordered me unhanded.
They took me so, for sorrow has befallen York as my sweetheart Emily was found
dead in her father’s house. Her bones were pitifully splintered, and bloody
marks did cover her, and on her broken body… a single, small, black rose.
I protested my time, being as it was at the
tavern, where the owner and many others besides had seen me take my kit and sleep
beneath the benches where the other travellers did! It was not I that did this
thing.
Though… could I have done so? For having
drunk so much, I have no memory of things of that night.
My poor Emily. They left me there for my
innocence, but I felt no tears. For my Emily, I feel naught.
Being of the 18th of August,
1817.
I had not been convinced of myself for
writing for over this year, but have drifted afar from my previous abode.
I am here, of all places, in Fort William,
where the Northwest Trading Company does ply the richness of beaver fur – for
hats, I am told, in Europe. I have come this far to forget my unthankfulness,
and so that the stillness of my heart is not an insult to God. For I am assured
that God does not roam here, though when I walk these forests I cannot help but
think that God is only here, and that I offend him still.
I write this with wonder in my eyes, as I
hold a freshly sprout sister of the petals once I pressed here. From where it
came, I do not know. But found it on my person on my waking. So curious am I
that I will show the serving girl whose bed I sometimes keep, for somewhere
hereabouts must bloom others of these, small, black rose.
Being of the 21st of August,
1817.
I cannot assume myself for what I am. I
stand here, my heart is still, no blood rushes my veins, nor pounds my pulse.
It has been so since the ball of shot was taken from me. I fear my secret is
known, for a native man hissed a new name for me…
Wendigo.
The serving girl at Boucher’s house and
canteen was found. On her blood soaked body… a single, small, black rose.
I am finished this, I know not what my
curse… but must end myself, I will do so.
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