Happy Christmas, Mr. Frost

This fictional short story is based on true events as recorded in John MacTaggart’s memoire Three Years In Canada. It is part of a collection first published in 2009.

In Dow's great swamp, one of the most dismal places in the wilderness, did [they], hold their merry Christmas of 1826, or rather forgot to hold it at all.

John MacTaggart,

Three Years In Canada

Jonathan Francis Frost buckled under the weight of the news. Pressing himself deep into the uncomfortable hardback desk chair, he stared out at nothing in particular until, finally, he was able to speak. 

“So then,” he said, “it’s to be the same team again, Sir?”

“Yes.” 

The response was abrupt. And the words that followed offered even less comfort.

“Given the circumstances, Frosty old man, you’re quite lucky to have been given a second chance at all.” 

Recent, harsh memories reemerged in Frost’s mind. The loss of reputation. The seeds of doubt in his own abilities that had been sown; all embodied in the oft-present voice that had once again returned.

‘Afraid you have lost it all, Old Man,’ it said.

He tried to drown out this inner voice with his own. “When do I leave, Sir?”

This time the news was delivered in a more upbeat fashion, though the substance was no better.

“Tomorrow morning,” the Superintendent of Works said. “Short notice, I grant you, but the clear weather is expected to last for the remainder of this week, and we must take advantage of it.” He paused before adding, “Shame you have to depart on Christmas Eve, Frost. But I’m afraid we really have no choice but to take what the weather gives us. We must complete the mapping now that the swamps are frozen.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It was a mechanical response. He was going back there again. And with the same group of misfits. The only difference being that this time the ground would be frozen, and not the waist-deep sludge through which the cavalier Etienne had led them, and where the theodolite was lost by that acerbic Yank. The young Scotsman would be joining again as well. Not a bad sort, Frost thought. A little overly cautious perhaps, and the youngster’s handwriting was so small as to be barely legible without reading glasses.

The theodolite had eventually been found after much searching, but in such a state of filth and wet that it had taken weeks to repair.

“Now, with any luck,” the superintendent continued, “you should be home in plenty of time to spend Christmas night with your family. It is all quite frozen now,” he added. “So the swamp shouldn’t take more than a few hours to survey.”

Reaching into his desk, he passed Frost an equipment list and pen, adding, “Sign here, please. You will bring extra provisions with you, of course … just in case.”

“So be it,” thought Frost, accepting the pen. At least the long wait was over.

Four months had passed since that nightmarish survey. Two of it spent in a frozen space of his own making, waiting on pins and needles for the results of the investigation, unsure if a chance at redemption would come at all. Days upon days spent enduring the silent treatment or, worse still, forced conversations with those with whom he worked. Withdrawing himself even from family and what remained of his circle of friends. Ultimately, news came that he would retain his position, albeit with a small written reprimand, and might even have the opportunity to put right what had been botched. He should be happy.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said finally. “If that’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all. Oh, and good luck, or should I say, better luck this time, Frost.”

Frost forced a smile and rose to leave, nodding a polite goodbye. One hollow gesture in exchange for another, he thought to himself, replacing his scarf and coat.

—————————

It was not quite noon, and McGuinty’s tavern was near empty. Payne was at the bar and on only his second sip when heard the door open and his name being called by a familiar voice.

“Frenchie! Come have a drink,” he said.

“Allo, Payne.” Etienne had already removed his fur hat, revealing his signature bald head as he approached the bar. 

“You hear the news?” Payne asked. He was not one for small talk and had a way of making even the most innocuous question sound intense.

“Uh huh, we’re going out exploring tomorrow, eh?” Etienne motioned to the bartender for a drink of his own. “I don’t know why we keep getting stuck with that guy.” 

Payne nodded, flashing a grin. “He better ease up is all I got to say.”

“He gives me a hard time again and I will leave him out there,” Etienne added, though he was not smiling. 

“Mmmhh.” Payne agreed. “You know how close I came to drowning? We’d probably still be in there if Wiseman hadn’t found us a way out. And then Frost gives it to him for taking too long to find it.”

Etienne nodded, accepting his drink before taking a second, closer look at Payne.

“You alright? You look pale.” 

The American took a long drink of his ale before answering. “Just a little bug, my friend. Nothing a pint or two won’t fix. But it’s going to be an early night for me, I’ll tell you that.”

—————————

Shortly after first light, a three-man assemblage was sitting quietly on their gear in front of the Commissariat building, closed together against the cold wind. The low sun illuminated a wispy cloud of breath that formed, dissipated and re-formed around them. But it was disrupted when they saw the approaching Frost.

“You have your orders.” Frost didn’t waste words. “We will be measuring ground elevations at Dow’s Swamp. We should be back here by end of day provided there are no foul-ups.” He paused, eyeing the group. Satisfied with the non-response, he concluded, “Alright, let’s go.”

They rode in silence, a horse-drawn cart delivering them to the tree line marking the edge of the swamp in less than a half hour. It was a luxury they would not be afforded on the way back. The driver could not wait all day, and the three miles back to town would be on foot.

Etienne took the lead. As scout and axeman, he was to navigate and, if required, cut a path through brush. Next came Payne, the porter, dressed in long-coat and thick scarf, the fingers of his woolen gloves cut off to allow him to grip the heavy equipment. Most obvious among his load was an eight-foot pole used for taking height measures. This he carried over his shoulder with no great effort.

“Hold tight to that theodolite, Mr. Payne.” Frost said, putting a hand on Payne’s shoulder, which made the man brace.

The theodolite was the most important and valuable piece of equipment they carried. A finely crafted survey instrument, it took over a year to construct and calibrate. Although to any porter it was little more than a thirty-five pound brick that they quickly learned to hate.

Taking up the rear, in behind Frost, was the junior surveyor — a Scotsman named Wiseman responsible for recording readings taken by Frost. Wiseman was the youngest of the four with little over six months in the Canadas, but his home in the Orkneys made him well suited to the cold. His clothes consisted of woollen layers of sweater upon sweater he’d worn as long as he could remember.

The landscape soon became reduced entirely to tall trees and deep snow. The foliage glistened in the early morning light, and the virgin snow that carpeted the ground had its own gentle sparkle.

Frost had developed an appreciation of nature’s beauty. Having received instruction in drawing and painting in watercolours as part of his training as a survey engineer many years ago, it had evolved into a passion rather than being simply a job. And it had been the one solace during his period of self-imposed isolation when he would escape the office and make sketches of the turning leaves which covered the surrounding hills. 

The autumn maples and spruce offered a vista the likes of which he had never seen. He’d done his best to capture the rich variety of colours and hues with the paints available, though with limited success. How different today, he thought to himself. Little more than a dab of black paint, or ink for that matter, was all that would be needed to depict the stark beauty which now surrounded him.

“Why are we doing this now, Mr. Frost? Can the survey not wait until spring?”

His artistic meditations fully disrupted, Frost shot back a harsh rebuke. “I will accept no whining from this group. Do you understand me, Mr Wiseman? Then, thinking better, he added, “Spring is for digging. We must keep things to schedule if we are to establish a functioning canal as quickly as possible. Very necessary should those bloody Yanks attempt once again to cut off the St. Lawrence River. Isn’t that right, Mr. Payne?”

“Uh huh, whatever you say, Mr. Frost, Sir,” Payne said. “Far as I’m concerned, I’m just helping my American brethren get at your lumber.” Payne looked back, flashing a broad grin.

The morning remained crisp and clear, and the group made good progress moving through the thick bush and mapping out points that had been previously impossible to reach. Every aspect of reading-taking went smoothly as the four quickly fell into routine. Frost, hunched over and squinting through the theodolite viewfinder, adjusting the various wheels to line up points on the rod held by Payne, shouting out numbers back at Wiseman, who repeated each one back before registering it. Though on occasion he was urged on by Frost, telling him to ‘Be quick now’ or ‘Quick as you can. There’s a good lad.’

Payne, to his credit, remained fully engaged, taking direction and quickly moving into position, all the while keeping the measuring rod rock-steady.

Though the air was chill, there was little wind to speak of. In fact, the sun’s warmth, combined with their constant movement, resulted in all save Payne being stripped to their shirts by mid-morning.

Even so, it soon became clear there was more work than could be accomplished with what little daylight remained. By mid-afternoon the forest had already begun to darken, and the decision was begrudgingly taken to set up camp.

Making the best of the situation, Frost took time out to find a spot where he could enjoy the short-lived winter sunset. It was lovely. The sort that is particular to those rare crisp, near-cloudless days when the sky’s rich pastels seemed to ignite unblemished snow — an all-too brief artistry on icy canvas. If only he’d brought his paints along.

“Fancy a cuppa, Mr. Frost?”

Frost returned to a roaring fire, which Wiseman and Etienne had prepared in his brief absence. All were soon settled round it, waiting on a large tin cup of hot water perched on a rock to one side.

“Ta,” Frost replied, accepting the steaming mug.

Etienne laughed. “Cuppa? Ta? What da hell language is dat?”

“You’re one to talk, Frenchie,” Payne shot back. “What the hell is a Tabernac anyway?” His smile was visible even in the flickering firelight now that the dusk had given way to darkness.

“What do you care, yank?”

“Don’t take offence, friend. But why use a swear word if you ain’t gonna tell people what it means?” Payne’s laugh was interrupted by a brief bout of coughing.

“Tabernack is a big church. Like a monastery. You happy now?”

Payne cocked his head slightly before answering. “A church? That’s it? Don’t sound all that rude to me.”

“Better to use body parts like you? Eh, asshole?”

This brought a laugh from the group. Not to be outdone, Payne answered.

“Hey, Frenchie! Church, church, church, church! Do you hear me? Church, church, church, church, church!”

They slept well after feasting on a hot meal of roasted salt pork with hard bread and awoke to a day as beautiful as the one before. But even as they were packing up and collecting their gear, the sky had begun to change. The bright sun soon became haloed in cloud and then disappeared entirely. Etienne had been the first to notice, pointing it out to Frost, who nodded but gave no other response.

“So close to finishing,” he had no doubt thought to himself. “There is no way that a little snow is going to stop that from happening.” 

Next came the wind. Gentle, almost soothing whispers were soon an angry whine, forcing a million tiny white beads into them, stinging their faces and stripping them of their vision. Tree branches were invisible until they were only inches from their eyes. Drifts of snow formed all around, making every step that much more difficult.

A sudden, severe drop in temperature made working with their instruments a challenge.

Frost struggled to manipulate the theodolite, battling numb fingers that he had to bare to adjust the tiny metal screws that seized in the cold. It took precious minutes as he was forced to stop and blow on his hands, or lick his fingers, in order to create the necessary warmth and friction to work the device.

“Get on with it! I can’t hold it much longer!” Payne was now battling wind gusts on top of his flu bug as he struggled with the long pole.

“Mr. Payne!” Frost hollered, “The device you refer to is The Ramsden Theodolite. It is arguably one of the greatest feats of engineering in this or any century!”

“Oh, for Chris’ sake,” Payne yelled. He had been able to keep his condition from getting the best of him, but now, with the piercing cold, it was clear he was getting weaker by the moment.

“Just get it over with!”

Etienne joined him, putting his arm around his friend, helping him steady the pole.

“You see? Now you curse like a Frenchman, too!”

Payne tried to manage a smile for his friend. Not that it would have mattered. Etienne’s eyes were all but frozen shut by now. Still, with Etienne’s help, the sighting pole was kept motionless long enough for Frost to exact his readings.

Finally, Frost stopped. Removing himself from the device, he led Wiseman to a large pine that afforded the only available shelter. They conferred, pouring over topographic readings. Then, he pulled the entire group together and, shouting over the wind, announced:

“Gentlemen! We are done! It is time to go home.” 

“And which way might that be?” Payne yelled.

All around there was nothing but white. Snowdrifts, up to their ankles only a few hours earlier, were now waist deep in places.

Frost turned to Etienne. “Can you lead us out?”

“I will try.” His voice was loud, though there was little confidence left in it.

It took less than an hour for Frost to realize that the exercise was fruitless and that it was again time to call the team together. He stopped and lifted his hand, waiting for Payne, who had by now fallen well behind.

“It will soon be dark, gentlemen,” he said.

“Oh, Church,” Payne said. “We’re gonna die here, ain’t we, Frenchie?”

“Well,” Etienne couldn’t resist, ”you might,” before giving Payne a reassuring nudge with his shoulder.

Frost surveyed the immediate area. There were sufficient trees to provide cover from the wind, and a small flat space in which to hunker down. Not far away, a narrow ice-covered stream wound past.

“We’ll make camp here. Quickly now,” he said. “Mr. Wiseman, you focus on the fire. Etienne, you come with me. Let’s get started on the shelter. Payne, can you manage to dig a hole in that ice and get some water?”

Payne nodded and set off hoping for the strength to cut through the ice and find water deep enough to fill his bucket.

Frost and Etienne worked chopping and collecting long cedar boughs, piling them five layers high onto a cross-beam that was long enough to provide cover for all four. Normally two layers would be sufficient, but more branches meant more warmth. Taking a break from cutting and piling, the two went inside to lay a cedar floor for additional comfort. Although it was still cold, the wind was not nearly as fierce, and they could talk without straining.

“What I wouldn’t give for a cup of mulled wine in a Quebec City pub,” mused Frost, thinking back to his previous posting. “I recall one place in particular on Rue St. Paul. There was an Inn there … just near to the docks. They served the most pleasant onion soup, and there was a large fireplace right in the centre. It seems a million miles away right now.”

“And the serving girls wear the prettiest yellow scarves,” Etienne added.

Frost looked at him, surprised. “You know it then?”

Etienne nodded. “It was near to my parents’ home,” he said, collecting another armful of cedars to spread out along the ground. “My family has been there for generations. I was a disappointment to them. I was expected to take over the business. I may still,” he added, sounding reflective, “but not now.”

“There was a special drink they served that I haven’t had since,” Frost said. “Maple whisky, I think?”

“Sortilege … would you like some?” Etienne pulled a wineskin from beneath his thick fur coat, which a happily surprised Frost gratefully accepted.

“Cheers!” he said, raising it to his lips. It took only a small mouthful for the sweetness and warmth to work through his frozen body.

“I have been giving Payne some sips,” Etienne added. “I think maybe it helped him a little.”

“I am certain it did,” Frost said. “Well done, Etienne.”

The four were soon reassembled in the hastily built, albeit comfortable lodging. They sat down to a modest dinner, sharing what remained of the salt pork. Using long wooden prongs to hold the meat over the fire, they did their best to ignore the conditions and focus only on the food, fire and companionship. Conversation between Etienne and Frost continued as they shared memories of Quebec City while Wiseman stoked the fire and listened to the wind. The wineskin continued to be passed round until it was empty.

A schedule was prepared that would see the remaining three taking turns on picket duty to keep the fire stoked. It was obvious to all that Payne’s condition was only worsening. Frost instructed him to rest, that he need not share in the duty of maintaining the fire. Frost then took the first watch, his tired mind reflecting on their plight. At least they had completed the work. Deep in thought, he was startled to see Payne emerge from the lean-to.

“Is it my turn yet?”

“Go back to sleep, Payne.”

“I wanna take my shift.”

“Payne, you’re sick. You need … to rest!” Frost said, raising his voice. Though he could see from his expression that Payne would not back down.

“Alright. But if you start to feel yourself getting tired, even in the slightest, you will awaken me. Do you understand?”

Payne nodded and was left alone to focus on the fire. It was better than trying to force a sleep that would not come. Lying on the ground, all he could think of were his aching joints and the cold penetrating through to his very core. At least on picket he could feel some warmth, and, even if he sometimes saw strange shapes in the fire, hallucinations no doubt, at least they were shapes bathed in warmth.

This is perhaps why he didn’t trust his eyes, and why he didn’t react immediately when the tree fell.

For hours the storm had been driving the snow sideways, screaming through branches, masking the sound of weak or dying trees being taken down by sheer force. One tree, a mere 30 feet away from the camp, was by all appearances a lush, healthy cedar. But the trunk had been invisibly weakened by disease and rot. Small oscillations grew wider as it lurched under the perfect cover of storm and night. So perfectly was it concealed by the storm that Payne did not register what had happened right away. The fire suddenly disappeared as the top of the tree crashed directly onto it, completely smothering it.

To his credit, Payne did react. With all the energy that remained, he lunged inside the shelter, rolling back and forth … prodding, shaking, pummelling hard on each motionless form, shouting with what little voice he had, knowing death was near if they were not jarred from sleep. First Etienne, then the others awoke to the smell of thick smoke, the resulting absence of light and warmth, and the sound of shrieking wind.

“Wake up, all of you!” he repeated. “We gotta get the tree off the fire!”

Like knights encased in icy armour they moved slowly at first, helping one another to their feet in smoke so thick they could barely see. Somehow they managed to feel for and find the side of the fallen tree, lining themselves up to push it off.

It took all four to wrestle away branches which seemed to fight back at every turn. They fought on, blood-starved hands grappling with icy needles. Faces stung by the lashing of strong limbs they struggled to force away.

“Heave on my count!” Frost yelled.

Finally, in unison, they budged and then shifted the green giant off the remnants of a once roaring fire. Wiseman and Etienne tried first to restart it by drawing together what remained of the fragile orange embers. But like little fire flies they grew brighter and then vanished until only a precious few dying nuggets of orange light remained. 

“It’s not working. We need to restart it.” Frost’s mouth was numb, and he pushed his face into Wiseman’s ear, hoping to be heard. “Mr. Wiseman, what do we have to ignite it?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Spare sheets of paper?” Frost demanded.

Wiseman shook his head. “No. We used them all.”

Frost was now frozen both inside and out.

“What should we do, Mr. Frost?” Wiseman yelled a second time. “Mr. Frost. What do you want to do!?”

Frost strained to see the two other men. He couldn’t tell for certain, but one appeared to be on his hands and knees, fully hunched over. Payne would not last, even if the others could. Not without warmth.

“Burn all the pages you have!” he yelled.

“Beg pardon, Sir?”

“Burn the records of our readings, Mr. Wiseman. You get that fire going, whatever it takes!”

Wiseman scrambled into the lean-to, grabbed his case from the corner and returned seconds later.  Frost turned away from the embers, focusing instead on the dark shapes huddled within the structure, which within moments reflected the glow of the fire with the warmest amber light.

The thick, dry papers provided excellent fuel, and within minutes the fire was once again roaring. There was no real heat as yet, but the light and even the smell of smoke brought comfort to all.

“Gentlemen, we are still cold, even with this fire, and there is no guarantee we will all make it,” Frost continued. “The only way in which we are going to survive is if we spoon up together.” There were no arguments, and the four squeezed together tightly, although awkwardly.

“No funny business.” It sounded like Payne.

“Good idea to keep talking.” Said Etienne. “We’ll take turns telling stories.”

“Christmas stories?” added Wiseman.

They spoke and sang through those critical few hours, interspersed with occasional curses as the fire’s warmth allowed fingers and toes to thaw and refill with blood. An uncomfortable, albeit reassuring sensation though it still felt not unlike the squeeze of an icy wrench. Though the wind continued to howl, the fire held until the first light of day brought relief.

—————————

Frost was up tending to the fire at dawn when Wiseman and Etienne stirred and climbed out of the shelter. Snow was still falling, but mercifully the wind had lessened.

“How is Payne?” Frost asked, prompting the men to look at each-other and then back toward the structure at the two motionless boots sticking out the front. 

The three rushed inside, seeing their friend lying still on his back, motionless.

“Payne. Payne, are you alright?” Frost sat beside Payne’s chest, which, happily, was still rising and falling. In a single motion, he leaned overtop, clutching both shoulders, and shook him fiercely. Instantly, Payne let out a howl like none had ever heard.

“He’s alive!”

“Stop it! Stop shaking me!” Payne yelled.

Frost let go and sat up, totally confused by the reaction. How could one so weak feel anything?

“What is it Payne? What’s wrong?” He asked.

Payne was panting hard, and it took time before he was able to fully catch his breath. Though there was panic in his eyes.

“Can’t move my head … I am paralyzed! What’s happened to me?!”

Frost examined the top and sides of Payne’s head, and was relieved to find the cause of the uncomfortable situation — for Payne’s hair was now completely encased in crystal snow. It could only be surmised that Payne had sweated out the fever, and that the ensuing heat had caused the snow beneath his head to melt and re-freeze, thereby encasing his long hair in ice. 

Despite playful suggestions by Etienne that he was best left in that state, Payne was quickly freed and able to rejoin his compatriots round the fire.

“Now you know why I keep mine like this, eh?” Etienne said to him, tapping his own bald head. But there was no food left, and no reason to tarry long. Seeing Payne had fully recovered from his most recent ordeal, Frost spoke.

“Time to go home,” he said.

The pace through the drifted snow was slow as they made their way out of the frozen swamp. Miraculously, Payne was now well enough to carry some of the weight, though Frost insisted on taking the theodolite, and Etienne the long pole. They were tired, quite cold, and hungry, but at least they would be home soon.

The sun was the only instrument Etienne needed, and it took little time before they were free of the trees and not long after that when they were able to make out the buildings of Bytown. It was barely dusk as the four tired men shuffled into the closest tavern.

Warm and waiting for their food and drinks to arrive, Frost took the opportunity to say a few words.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “It has been quite a harrowing experience. And in spite of our hardships and, perhaps, failure, which no doubt represents the proverbial final nail in the coffin of my once promising surveying career, I cannot think of a better team to have worked with on what will, no doubt, be my last assignment. I bid you all a Merry Christmas.”

Frost got up from the table and went outside to relieve himself. He would not stay long. His family, no doubt, would be quite worried by now. Returning a few moments later, he sat down, still wrapped in his own thoughts. Mostly, he was struck by how, in spite of everything that had happened and would undoubtedly happen, he did not feel the least tinge of unhappiness. Payne was well. The others too. And this thought alone gave him immense comfort.

So lost in his own imaginings was he that it took several moments for him to realize that no one else was speaking.

“Oh, don’t worry yourselves, lads,” he added, assuming they might be somewhat disappointed with the outcome of their task. He was about to continue, suggesting that someone else would soon finish the work, when he noted a wide grin on the faces of all three.

“I’m not sure I follow the humour, gentlemen,” he said.

Finally, Wiseman spoke.

“Sir, last night in the scramble and darkness as I fought to relight the fire, I neglected to mention to you that I was able to be creative in my use of our pages.”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Wiseman.”

“To be more precise, Mr. Frost, I was able to liberate sufficient blank bits to get the fire started without expending any of the records themselves. I was about to tell you earlier today, but Mr. Payne convinced me I should wait and share the news once we were all present.” 

”Did he now?” Frost looked across at Payne, who was now sporting by far his widest grin.

With that, Etienne, Payne and Wiseman all each reached into their outer layers of clothing and produced what appeared to be rolled sheets of paper, each tied with twine and bowed to resemble gift wrap. 

“So what’s this now?” Frost asked.

Taking one of the bundles, he fumbled with the cord until he was finally able to remove it, opening the roll to reveal one of the completed survey records, its edges roughly torn away but all written information, locations and height, still legible and intact. 

He motioned for and did the same with the other two bundles. It was hard to be certain, but it appeared that no detail was missing from any of the three sheets. By no small miracle Wiseman had managed to restart the life-saving fire using only those edges of paper that were blank.

Frost’s voice caught in his throat, and he quickly gave up trying to speak. No matter. There were no words to express his feelings adequately. It would be like trying to capture a magnificent sunset with only a grey pencil. 

“Eh bien,” Etienne was quick to change the subject. “Time to eat, eh?”

A server had appeared with full mugs of ale and two baskets of freshly baked bread still hot from the oven. 

The four brought their mugs together with a hearty clink, and Frost felt a friendly bump from Etienne, who was still chuckling to himself. Payne raised his mug a little higher, offering a toast of his own.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Frost.”