10 November 1781
Long ago I found my self in the habit of recording the events of my life in journals so that I may one day return to those days and relive my own history on the days that seem so difficult. The practice fell away from me when we so abruptly decided to follow the path that has led us here. Not only did I find no amount of time to spend with my own thoughts and memories, I was forced to abandon the works that I had previously created in our departure. This has been my first attempt to reclaim the therapy once so loved. It is my secret hope to find the desire in my children to also pick up and continue the good work of journaling, now that they approach the threshold of my door to pursue their own lives. The wonderful tales of our lives should be recorded and shared for those who follow in our tread. Albeit a manual of the mistakes best not made rather than a chart of safe passage.
Two years we have held up a humble shelter here, so near to fantastical places, mountains of incredible scale, raging rivers winding through colossal stretches of heavy untouched wood, and immense open plains. Game and harvest while still presenting an effort, come with much greater reward than those of the green tumbled slopes of my dearest loves home Highlands. Everything appears to be more impressive in scale here, including the tooth and claw of those wild tenants wishing to impress their territorial claims upon us. Still we are well loved by the Lord upon this patch of land. Others certainly have not faired so well.
We were fortunate to secure passage from the old world on a transport called the Hector. I have been on the water before that, but the effort we were forced to make just waiting and surviving on board during that voyage have left my opinions of such travel largely scarred and unwilling. Without a landmark or gravel in the trail passing below, it could well have been floating aimlessly in one spot for months and I would never have known the difference. Once again blessed by our Lord, we were not scourged with loss as were other families we travelled with on that wretched drifting prison. As the days passed it soon became apparent that sanity was more of an option than we had previously assumed. And it was also abundantly clear that we were not welcome to remain long in the settlement being arranged for us. I am unclear on how things started going wrong on board. Maybe it was the alias names we used to sign the manifest. I suspect there may have been a ancestral feud between the family names we selected and some branch of the others aboard the Hector, however it never fully came to light. But there was something...amiss.
We landed at the Proctor Settlement on September 15, 1773 and spent the first winter of our new lives thereabouts. Several attempts were made to expand or establish new settlements. Some were successful, some not so much. Others were just discussions in the wind in the end. The promised financial support of the benefactors who had so energetically promoted the journey to so many uprooted during the Fuadachnan Gaidheal was so not surprisingly imaginary. The tactics of those profiteers will surely lead them directly to hell once their worldly gain has run dry. It is a fresh wound on our hearts every time we discover how far men will go to take from others.
Still our welcome wore thin when the ice began to take its leave. We had spoken discreetly to any stranger passing through about travel further inland. Fortunate positioning of the settlement afforded us a steady supply of passers-by to draw from. We were introduced to the option of another settlement to attempt. Siorrachd Gleanna Garadh, or Glengarry County as it became known outside of the Gaelic circles, while still in French occupation promised those more friendly to our requirements. Sadly it proved to be just a larger chapter of the Proctor group. With my own children at a mid age it became clear that more threatened us than just the possibility of pursuit of the English interests and those concerned about our Jacobite connection.
Glengarry did provide for us the introduction to a wondrous guide however. One Anthony Henday had travelled West to the open plains, past Ruperts Land and out into the unclaimed, uncharted territory. To hear him tell it, he had been wildly mistreated by those employers he entertained with wealth and profit with his journeys. They apparently failed to show him any recognition for his work. I suspect he may have wanted to be titled or immortalized in some way and this led to dispute with others who laid the same claim to the success.
Whatever the truth be, Mr. Henday graciously agreed to navigate for us to what promised to be the far reaches of this land. And safe travel he did provide. We were able to learn the keys to working with the locals and keeping our hair attached to our heads by traveling with him. The journey took several months, and we suffered some indecision when it came to determining the exact spot to settle ourselves. But eventually the summer getting long in the tooth forced us to begin establishing our location and putting up walls with which to hold our new roof.
We haven't seen Mr. Henday again in all this time. He stayed with us for several weeks and proved to be a workhorse of a man in his progressive years as it was. Digging the well and thatching the roof would have been much more difficult had we not been the benefactors of his local knowledge and experience. But one lonely day in late August, he mounted his horse and took only meager supplies with him, leaving us with what I considered to be his best instruments. He indicated to us that he intended to cross the great mountains to the West of us and that the burden of all the balance of his items would be too much for the road he intended to carve. With promises to return to us one day, my family and I watched him ride off early in the morning. While not being actually tied to our family, his departure left us with a longing solitude. It brought up feelings we secretly still harbored for our long lost days back in the highlands. Festivals, trades, celebrations of mass, all gone. We now stood alone in the world. Our last connection fading off through the clearing and out of sight. I don’t think fear qualifies as a descriptor for what we encountered that day. Nor really for many days since. But just looking into the eyes of reality, our situation was finally our own and no one more. Uncertainty maybe. I am unsure.
Our uninterrupted travel from Proctor allowed us fortunately to miss the turbulence of the Independence War which had erupted South of Glengarry. The colonies were divided and sought to throw off the cloak of mother England. While the idea appealed to me greatly, I am thankful that this fight never found me. I understand that the blood spilt is beyond anything we have imagined with even the French incursions. However I was at the Battle of Culloden with Bonny Prince Charlie and I have seen the price of blood being spread across a field in waves. Where is my place in this world now? I used to know. Or at least I thought I knew.
The war to the South and East is far enough away. I am told on the wind about the status of things and to the wind I let my thoughts remain silent. To make our existence known to those voices on the wind would certainly spell suicide for us all. The roar of battle attempts to drown all else, but I have studied the ways and I know how to listen. I can hear them searching. I know they yearn to find us and end it all. We hold the key to something for them. What I am not yet sure but until then I will listen. Eventually I will learn the secrets and how to unlock the freedom they promise.
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