San Josef: A Novel

By Harold Macy

A powerful novel of redemption and revenge inspired by a real American Civil War mystery.

For Clayton Monroe, the last hope for refuge is a struggling settlement at the far northwest corner of Vancouver Island. San Josef is his sanctuary from the imagined demons and real enemies who have pursued him for three decades, from the Civil War battlefields of Virginia and across the plains of Kansas to the gold rush gateway of Seattle.

For Anika Frederickson, San Josef is her new home and her dream, a now failing community built on the promises of provincial government officials. The future of her colony, carved from the coastal wilderness by the tenacity of her fellow Danish idealists, is as uncertain as the storms that batter their farms.

A man like Monroe leaves a burning trail behind him, and the autumn winds of 1899 bring a new arrival to Cape Scott, sparking an inevitable challenge to Clayton's safety and Anika's family.

At San Josef, the rainforest and the river will bear witness.

This powerful novel of redemption and revenge was inspired by a real American Civil War mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tidewater Press
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781775165996

Harold Macy

Harold Macy is the author of The Four Storey Forest (Poplar Publishing, 2011) and San Josef (Tidewater Books, 2020), and has been published in various literary journals. He has worked for the BC Forest Service Research Branch, been a silviculture contractor for a local forestry company, fought wildfires, had rain in his lunch pail heli-logging up in the mid-coast inlets, and for many years was the forester at the UBC Oyster River Research Farm, where he wrote and delivered online and weekend courses in small-scale forestry and agroforestry. He studied writing with the UBC Mentorship Program, Victoria (BC) School of Writing, Sage Hills (SK), and North Island College.

Book preview

North Vancouver Island, British Columbia

map of northwest Vancouver Island

1887 – 1899

"We were not as terrible as they made out, though... Of course we killed numbers. It was war, and people get killed in war. I might as well tell

you about it."

victoria daily colonist, august 9, 1907

Chapter One: San Josef, October 1898

The tide rose, a confused surge of swirling backwater and troubled currents. It was a twice-daily conflict—the might of the Pacific against the sodden runoff from the forested hills and swamps of this north end of Vancouver Island. Clayton Monroe hunched in the battered rowboat and flailed with the oars as he rounded the last bend from his cabin on the bay to the upriver store. He could have walked the half mile but he hated the sucking muddy trail even more than he distrusted the capricious river. Though he had been at San Josef for nearly two months, his skill with a boat had not improved. He skittered across the current like a Jesus Bug, swinging back and forth with each heave on the oars.

Elbows resting on his bony knees, he stopped rowing for a moment and peered at the dense coastal forest of cedar, hemlock and spruce—searching one bank then the other for any sign of watchers, the feeling of eyes in the trees so fierce. Monroe twisted his old body around and glared up the river alert for that still to come, then back downstream to what lay behind him. Old habits were hard to break. At one time, he would have seen or feared something vengeful behind each tree. Now he simply thought: this is no place for a horseman. But some refuge. Good enough.

His lean face was sheltered by a wide-brimmed hat sagging in the drizzle, a tattered eagle feather stuck in the leather band. A blue neckerchief knotted around his neck collected the seeping trickles. Under his long oilskin coat he wore a grey woollen shirt tucked into threadbare corduroy pants a size too big hitched around his waist by a belt, the tongue dangling. Another hand-me-down.

He passed a marshy area covered in reeds nodding in the sea breeze. There was only a narrow fringe between the sedges and the cedars’ shadow where the land grew drier, giving way to a sliver of grass—nothing he could call a prairie or meadow. But beyond the trees was the green glint of the pasturelands reclaimed from the estuary. He saw the small figures of men toiling on the protective dyke and the floodgate.

Looking out over the tall grey-green salt hay growing on the mudflats, up the side sloughs better known to muskrat and heron, he glimpsed the scattered cabins of the colonists. Only a few showed signs of life—a faded curtain, a worn axe leaning against a woodpile. Most stood abandoned, black windows blown in like half-shut eyes squinting against the rain, the wind, the inevitable. Roofs sagging under the accumulation of moss.

Must’ve been lively when everyone was still here and believed in what they was doing, he thought. Coming this far, doing so much, getting so little. What do they call it? Utopia? A perfect society? Not likely if mankind has anything to do with it. Only ones left now are the diehards. There’s another funny word. Diehard. Nothing hard about dying. It’s the living that takes the effort. Just ask the missus and her family, or the handful still trusting in what they do. Huh—who am I to say what’s sensible. Look at me, sopping wet in this damned chip of wood on a river that don’t stay still.

He drifted and pulled past orchards gone feral, taken over by the patient tangle of salmonberry. Gardens made fertile by seaweed and manure then forsaken and forgotten. Rail fences no longer kept anything in or out, turning grey with tendrils of lichen spreading out like plates serving up a dinner of decay.

The only sound was the hissing of the rain on the river and the rumble of waves breaking on the distant beach. Overhanging branches dripped onto glossy green salal and feathery arcs of fern. When the wind from the open sea parted the mist briefly, all Monroe saw were more dark hillsides, more shards of orphaned cloud like wet smoke snaring the dead spike tops of the cedars, rising like a soul’s last breath.

Bracing his feet on the boat’s floorboard, he stretched his aching back and shoulders then grabbed the oars for a last lurch to the small wharf. At the end of the boardwalk was a building adorned with a neat red and white sign, the only blaze of colour in this grey and green valley: General Store and Post Office, Colony of Cooperative Adherents, San Josef, British Columbia. Anika and Rolf Frederickson Proprietors, Est. 1892. It didn’t seem right to him, having a woman’s name up on a sign for everyone to see unless it was a boarding house or brothel. And why wasn’t his name first? Adherents? To what? Strongest survive, the others fall by the wayside. Cooperation may’ve worked in that country they came from, but he never saw the likes of it in his life. Drops fell from his hat as Monroe shook his head.

In the cabin he had inherited on the bay, there was a small book, The Cooperative Commonwealth by Laurence Gronlund, a Dane who had immigrated to America in 1867. Monroe glanced through it but found little to hold his interest. Still, he realized the book outlined what kept the people at San Josef.

The boat bumped against the landing and he stumbled onto the rain-slickened boards to tie the frayed rope with fingers stiff from the oars. Straightening with a groan, by habit he glanced around again for any movement in the mist, but there was none, except for the listless rise of smoke from the store chimney. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing to arouse wariness. Safe for another day to add to his sixty-some years. The thought pleased him and brought a slight smile to his face.

Satisfied, he walked up the wobbling gangplank and stepped through the door. Water ran off his oilskin coat and made dark puddles on the floor as he stopped to look around the interior. The store was small, dimly lit by the flickering yellow flames of several coal-oil lamps burning even now at this late afternoon in October.

Three men lounging on ladderback wooden chairs around the stove glanced up and gave cautious nods in his direction then returned to their conversation, Danish words singing between them. The lanky red-haired storekeeper stood to greet the newcomer.

"Ja, Mr. Monroe. You have a good trip up the river?" He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed outside with the well-chewed stem.

Monroe did not reply immediately, distracted by the conversation of the other men. They should speak English here in America, he thought. And then remembered where he was and the damp haven it provided.

How do, Mr. Frederickson. Came for grub, whiskey and bullets.

His drawl was strong and as noticeable as the red sign on the storefront.

Frederickson stuffed his pipe in the pocket of his shirt and turned to the shadows lying deep behind barrels of dried food. Above them were shelves reaching to the high tin ceiling. Most were empty, but some held a few goods—sacks of sugar, cinnamon tins, cornstarch, laundry soap, glycerin, gunpowder and shotgun shells, rye whiskey, pouches of tobacco, boxes of nails, dark bottles of stove polish and brown wrapping paper—things the settlers could not fashion for themselves. Many of the labels were faded and peeling.

Maybe you want a little warm-up first? Maybe I join you.

Monroe nodded and moved to a table near the welcome heat of the stove. Yeah, I need something for these old bones. Seems like the whole sky is down my neck. How do you ever get used to this rain?

Frederickson smiled. Skin is waterproof. He bent under the counter to fetch a bottle of rye and two glasses that he carried to the table. Monroe reached out a mottled hand, filled his glass, tossed it back with a practised shudder and poured another. He felt the liquor slip down his throat and nuzzle into his belly. He watched Frederickson throw a quick look toward the back of the store, then take his own glass and move to the window, seemingly fascinated by the torrent of rain pouring from the eaves and bouncing off the boardwalk.

Frederickson sighed and then turned to gather the few items Monroe had requested. He moved as if time was of no consequence and he had little to occupy himself other than a glance now and then at the rain.

Monroe sat staring at the amber liquid. His sodden clothes began to steam from the stove’s heat and he felt prickly. On the table he noticed some month-old newspapers. Ever hopeful, he wondered if they contained any news of his old comrades: did they suffer the same nightmares or had any found their own San Josef sanctuary?

He reached into his jacket for a small leather-bound notebook wrapped in oilcloth and opened it to a dog-eared page with a list of names.

Frank Bartholomew, Sedalia, Missouri. Deceased

Jesse W. King, Flat Rock, Tennessee. Unknown

Lucas Fisher, Hartsburg, Missouri. Federal Prison

Carter J. Osborne, somewhere in Texas. Hanged by the neck

Allan Heatherington, Rooks County, Kansas. Diphtheria

On it went: dead, disappeared, lynched, shot, whereabouts unknown. One by one, drifting away like the debris carried by the currents of the river. He pulled a stubby pencil from his pocket and began to scratch a line through those he knew were gone. Each man left his memory as the pencil scored out his name.

Some had been young men, others boys barely shaving when the Civil War swept through the red-dirt farms and low hills of the South, gathering these tough lads into a grand adventure. Born into a life of disorder, living apart from the mighty of the land, they followed waving flags and the thrilling music of bugle and drum. Young and naïve, they scribbled their mark on the enlistment papers and then strutted off for one last attempt with their sweethearts.

Don’t suppose I got any mail?

Frederickson snorted and shook his head.

The pigeonholes labelled with small brass nameplates under the sign ROYAL MAIL were mostly empty black hollows filled with dust and cobwebs—M no exception.

Mail? Some joke. Who would write him here? Damn. He slammed his notebook down on the counter.

Anika Frederickson, emerging from the living quarters in the back rooms of the store, frowned at the swearing. Tall like her husband, she stooped a bit, as if bearing a heavy burden. Carrying a bundle of order forms, shipping bills and account ledgers, she glanced at Rolf, then at Monroe who met her eyes and touched a finger to the brim of his hat giving a small nod.

Mr. Monroe, is everything all right? Can I help? Do you need…?

He looked at her blankly for a moment and then finished his drink.

Everything is just as it should be, ma’am. He carefully wrapped his notebook back into its oilcloth and slipped it down his shirtfront.

Reckon I’d best get my supplies and head back down. Tide’ll be turning shortly, so they tell me, though I still don’t understand water when it don’t stay in one place like it ought to. He had yet to comprehend the way the moon invited the water to enter the land then, like a fickle lover, drove it away again.

Her husband packed Monroe’s provisions, unvarying from week to week—flour, salt, beans, tinned bacon and beef, coffee, some cans of fruit, sugar and several bottles of whiskey—into several parcels.

And bullets. Did you get the bullets I ordered?

Frederickson nodded and lifted a cardboard box of stubby cartridges from a drawer. It was an unusual calibre—for a handgun, not the locals’ customary hunting rifles. Monroe put the parcels and bullets in his canvas packsack, listed his purchases in the open ledger on the store’s countertop and turned for the door.

Will you stay for a meal, Mr. Monroe? Anika asked, ever curious to learn more about this blunt Southern immigrant.

Please stay. You can even spend the night and…

No, I got to go. Back to his cabin and his memories and his whiskey. Under his shirt, the notebook itched at his skin like a rash.

I have just made a cake. Stay at least for a coffee. Just a little while longer? Anika insisted.

Forgive her, Mr. Monroe, said Rolf. You must to remember my wife takes charge of the store and as much of the Colony as needs her management, or will submit to it.

Anika looked sharply at her husband. Her smile lacked conviction or warmth enough to attract a fluttering moth. Someone has to lead, and no one else seems willing or able.

Rolf looked away, fumbled to refill his pipe and concentrated on tamping it.

Monroe spoke to fill the awkward silence.

Leaders come naturally. Once I had a job driving cattle from Texas north to the railhead in Kansas. Worst job I ever had, pushing a couple hundred head where they didn’t want to go. But once we were on the trail, one old cow’d take the lead and the rest would follow her judgement. Except there was always the stupid and homesick wandering off, keeping us cowboys busy. And when the lead cow got tired or lame, one other would step up. No commotion, no ruckus. Just walk on by and take control.

Do you think I am like that old cow, Mr. Monroe? Taking the lead from one who grows weary of the role?

Monroe ducked his head, embarrassed. No, ma’am. Didn’t mean it to come out that way. Guess I don’t watch my words enough. Too much time alone down in the Einersons’ old cabin talking to ravens and rats.

Was it always a cow to lead, never a bull?

Wasn’t any bulls. Too much trouble. Always fighting and brawling to see who’s boss. No, they left their balls south of Pecos, on home range.

Anika stifled a giggle.

Oh, there I go again. Not minding my manners.

Such a tale, Mr. Monroe. You have certainly earned a slice of cake.

Thank you, Mrs. Frederickson, but I’d best move on. Take a rain check. He looked out the door at the everlasting drizzle. Another little smile. Another sad joke. Maybe next time. He paused. Supposing there will be a next time.

Anika met his eyes and her reassuring smile was warm. God willing, yes.

Maybe He knows something, but His answer got washed away in this rain that don’t never come to an end. Monroe nodded again and turned away, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the wet weather.

He walked carefully down the slippery wharf and bent to arrange his pack on the boat’s raised floorboard to keep it out of the water accumulating in the bilge. He lifted a new bottle of whiskey from the sack and pulled out the cork to take several large swallows. It eased his mind somewhat. He stared for a moment into the swirls around his boat and the dock pilings before looking up to the store where Tomas, the Frederickson’s son, stood in a window waving goodbye.

A good boy. Monroe wondered what it would be like to grow up in this rain and deep forest. Could it be worse than living in Missouri, poor as mud rats? He had been about the same age as Tomas when his Pa came home mean from drinking on the riverboats. He could still remember the smell of Ma’s flesh burning as Pa beat her up against the wood stove. He had run at his Pa then and hit him in the balls as hard as his twelve-year-old self could. Pa had grabbed his shirtfront and with a drunkard’s roar, pulled him out across the dog-trot porch, clenched him under his arm, slapping his head hard, and carried him to the well by the hog trough. Sweet Jesus, Clayton had thought, he’s gonna drown me.

Pa had tied his arms with the draw rope. Threw him down the cold wet limestone walls and cinched him dangling just above the water. He recalled Pa’s face looking down at him, then spitting and pulling back from that small blue circle of sky. He heard the whipping start up again in the shack. Hours later Ma crawled out through the mud and somehow found the strength to pull him up. No, growing up under these big trees wouldn’t be so bad. Got two good parents. That’s something.

Turning back to his boat, he carefully stowed the bottle close at hand, loosened the knots and shoved the oars into the water. The river seemed anxious to purge the taint of saltwater and built choppy waves to harass the retreating tide as it swung the boat downstream. Monroe, the horseman, could not read the river’s message. He let the boat drift and reached again for the known comfort of the bottle. Swirling this way and that, Monroe idly watched the back eddies and drank, now and then raising a hand to feel the notebook under his shirt. It was real and not his addled imagination, not the whiskey phantoms from a bygone prairie war. But this deluge could not wash away the remembered smell of barns ablaze, nor could one drink following another eliminate the metallic taste of gunpowder and gut-clenching fear. Monroe drifted around several bends, the boat’s bow facing upstream then pirouetting to point toward the ocean, a dance with no caller. He watched befuddled and dizzy as one oar slipped from his hand and fell into the brown tannic flow.

The skiff bucked into a larger wave as the river turned the last corner before the sandy finger of beach at the bay. Monroe dropped the nearly empty bottle and roused from his stupor to flail with the remaining oar. The boat veered sharply, cold water sloshing over the side. His terror grew as the boom and thunder of the nearing surf became echoes of heavy cannon, the pounding of steel-shod hooves throwing hunks of sod in a mad charge into battle. The waves hit the beach and clawed back the pebbles, rattling like the volley of a thousand Yankee rifles as fathers and brothers fell like scythed grass.

Monroe leapt to his feet and struggled to find balance in the teetering boat.

Frank, where are you? Lucas! This way, boys. I’m safe. Thisaway. Rally to me. To me, to me! He grasped the notebook under his shirt with a desperate clench. Ghosts chuckled as the current gurgled around the keel. The river humped its wide wet back and capsized the skiff.

Chapter Two: San Josef, October 1898

Anika started when the door to the store banged open. Tomas stumbled in, sodden and struggling to support the equally drenched Monroe.

"Mama, help. Hjælp mig."

She leapt to her feet and guided the shivering man to a chair by the wood stove; dirty water pooled on the scrubbed floor. She pulled a red blanket from the shelf, draped it over Monroe and bent to unbutton his sopping coat. Without opening his eyes, he pulled away, wrapping his arms about himself. Anika stepped back and looked at her staring, trembling son, her worried eyes demanding an explanation.

Ma, I… he… his boat… the river.

She raised a hand. You go change into dry clothes before you get the cold. I will take care of Mr. Monroe. Then you tell me.

The boy reluctantly left the warmth of the stove and climbed the stairs to his room. Before tending to Monroe, she watched her only child stumble toward his room. Tomas coming home sodden was not unusual. He was a child of the Cape—not wild or feral, but as at home in the forest and on the river as she had been in the hedge-bordered lanes and schoolyards of Denmark.

Monroe groaned and coughed up some river water.

Got any whiskey to warm me up, missus? A little drink? Monroe slurred through chattering teeth.

"No. And if I did that is not what you need. Tomas tells me when you drink you speak of many, well, unlikely things. Some of them sound terrible. If they are true, that is. So, maybe now we get you warm and dry and let the whiskey voices wait for another time. Ja? Some hot tea?"

She had had enough of false-talking men. Coming halfway around the world on the promise of government men, she was bold in her speech and had little patience for an old drunk.

You got no booze? You never take a drink? Not like your mister. He’s some more sociable.

Rolf has his ways and I have mine. We have some rum for Christmas, but not everyday drinking. Just special occasions.

Monroe squinted out the window. Huh. I figure every day I make it through alive is a special occasion. Sometimes it seems like an accident I’m still breathing.

He looked at the offered steaming cup of tea with suspicion and slumped back in his chair.

Tomas had come quietly into the room wearing fresh clothes. "I came around the bend where the path drops to the riverbank and saw Mr. Monroe’s rowboat. It was turned over and being carried out toward the sea. I ran across the muck, but it was like a nightmare. You know when your feet cannot move fast enough?