“Good,” the captain replied. “I'd like to leave with them at first light. Reuben's land is the west half of Lot Two, on the river a mile below Buell's Bay.”
“Sam and Ned may go,” Papa said, to my joy. “My eldest son's at Coleman's Corners and we don't have time to send for him.”
I could hardly contain myself, and Sam fairly roared with delight. Riding a timber raft promised the sort of excitement he craved. I knew he was dependable when he liked what he was doing, and I had no qualms about going with him. We were both in high spirits when we bid Mama and Uncle and the others goodbye the following dawn. Armed with food, warm clothing and blankets we joined Captain Sherwood in his canoe.
At first, Sam paddled in the bow, then I had a turn. I was surprised at what good time we made in the sleek craft., aided by wind from the southwest and the current of the St. Lawrence. We passed Buell's Bay in the late afternoon and soon spotted the huge raft tied to some trees that grew below a sandstone bluff. Since there was no beach, we tied the canoe to a jetty. On the raft I noticed a small log cabin for shelter, and a tall mast.
“Hallo, Reuben,” Captain Sherwood shouted. “Hallo!”
Before long a hefty young fellow with broad shoulders, a thatch of unruly fair hair over bright blue eyes, came down steps cut into the cliff and joined us on the jetty. “So, Cousin Justus,” he said. “You've brought me crew.”
“As I promised,” the captain rejoined. “Sam and Ned Seaman. Samuel and Levius will join you in good time tomorrow morning.”
This adventure was proving even better than I had hoped. We would have good companions, and I liked the look of Reuben, who seemed hardly older than Sam. Captain Sherwood waved as he slipped into his canoe to return to his farm in Augusta Township, a short distance farther downriver. Reuben had us stow our things in the cabin on the raft and invited us to supper. He led us up steps cut in the bluff to a humble cabin, not as big as the one on our land. He lived alone, he told us. His father, Ensign Thomas Sherwood, owned the next farm to the east,
“I was in the ranks of the Loyal Rangers when I was fourteen,” Reuben explained. “We moved here after the revolution. At first I lived with my parents and studied surveying with Cousin Justus, and helped build rafts. I only started pioneering on my own land last spring.”
His cabin delighted me. It was filled with the kind of clutter I longed to leave about, which Mama always insisted I tidy up. The meal was baked beans, swimming in pools of grease and chunks of pork, as sweet as sugar. Reuben must have put more molasses in his beans than Mama would allow. I thought them delicious, just right for my sweet tooth.
When we were ready to settle down for the night, we carried armfuls of cedar boughs to the raft, laid them on the logs inside the cabin, and spread blankets over them. The night was clear and dry, and we took our bedding outside and slept under the stars. The shrill call of a bluejay rocking on a weeping willow bough woke me. The sky was grey, but a tinge of light in the east showed that dawn was not far off. Before long sounds coming from the cabin atop the bluff told me that the rest of Reuben's crew had arrived. We tidied up our gear and climbed the steps in search of breakfast. Levius Sherwood was there, cooking bacon and eggs in a pan over a fire outdoors.
“Hello, Ned,” he called. “Glad you could come with us.”
Samuel Sherwood seemed pleased to see our Sam. Tagging after him was a lad of twelve. “Reuben's brother Adiel,” Samuel said. Then he called to a large black man who was arranging some of their belongings. “And this is Scipio, who came from Vermont when we did.”
“Scipio's come to keep us all in line,” Levius said with a wink. “Pa's sent him because he's sensible and Reuben's only twenty-two.”
“Young but experienced,” Reuben retorted. “Do you think my Pa would risk Adiel if he thought I wasn't dependable?”
We tidied up after breakfast, and Sam and I helped the Sherwoods stow their belongings in the raft's cabin. Next, Reuben showed us how to hoist the sail and cleat the sheets. Scipio shouted the orders that sent us to untie the various mooring lines. I knew he was a slave, but he acted as though he was accustomed to giving orders and to having them obeyed promptly.
Once we were under way we had little to do and I was able to study the shore. To my surprise I found a friend paddling a canoe as we swept along. It was Mr. Truelove Butler, who had accompanied us on our journey from Schenectady after we escaped from the jail.
“How are all the Seamans?” he called out.
“Very well indeed,” Sam replied. “When can you visit us?”
“One of these days I will,” he shouted back.
Soon Levius pointed to a large square-timbered house above the shore. “Our place,” he said, waving to a woman standing on a jetty. “That's Ma, come out to see us on our way.”
Before long we passed Fort Oswegatchie, on the south shore, with its memories of the British regular soldiers who had helped us cross into Canada. Next, on the north shore we saw Johnstown, the village of wooden houses that was our district seat. Our magistrates held court four times a year at St. John's Hall. A fleet of bateaux lay alongside the docks, and a tall sloop rode at anchor near the channel. I remembered our arrival here after our escape from Schenectady, and Mama's dismay when she caught her first glimpse of Johnstown. It did not look much different today. My thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Reuben.
“Galop Rapids ahead. Lower canvas!”
Scipio steered at the rudder while Reuben and Samuel Sherwood showed us how to loosen the halyard and keep it from tangling as the sail slid onto the log surface below. The drop down these rapids was gentle, eddies swirling along the sides of the raft. The sensation of speed was not alarming. Again at Rapide Plat the drop was gentle and we enjoyed the ride. As we were passing a large flat island I noticed we had slowed down. I helped hoist the sail again, and afterwards Reuben handed out chunks of bread and mugs of cider. Towards dusk the current was carrying us forward more rapidly Again we dropped the sail and for the second time Reuben shouted a warning.
“Long Sault ahead. We'll tie up here for the night.”
Scipio guided the raft gently alongside the bank in a sheltering bay. We crew members then had some busy moments, leaping ashore and finding suitable trees to which to tie the mooring lines. In the distance downstream we could hear the rumbling of the Long Sault. I already knew they were formidable, and dangerous.
For supper we caught some fish. Scipio made flat cakes of flour, eggs and water and fried them in a pan over glowing embers. I made a spit of green branches and skewered the fish before roasting them. That night we made our beds up round the fire and took turns keeping it going. The air had turned chilly.
Voices from the water roused us. A party of Indians in two long canoes was approaching our camp. Reuben was already up, which made me suspect he had been watching for our visitors. All of us rose to our feet, absorbed by the picture they made as they drew their canoes up on the flat shore.
Reuben nodded towards the newcomers. “Pilots for the trip down the rapids,” he explained.
“How did they know we'd be here?” I asked, bewildered.
“Scouts,” Reuben replied. “It's always the same. A raft arrives and there they are, Johnny on the spot. They're Mohawks from St. Regis, across the river. Sure footed as mountain cats. They like to earn hard cash guiding rafts through white water.”
We gave the Mohawks some tea, and they sat cross-legged in a circle, smoking their pipes while we had breakfast. Afterwards we helped them fell eight small trees and strip off the branches. Next they made a square crib, lashing the logs firmly together with withies. I watched carefully as they handled the long willow sinews. I would have to learn to twist them and tie firm knots myself before long. Then all the pilots began walking downstream along the shore. Sam and I followed until we could see the rapids, boiling and surging over the wide riverbed. Below us one of the Mohawks stopped, and the others kept on walking.
“We'd better go back,” I said
reluctantly, for I wanted to see what the Mohawks would do next. “In case Reuben has anything he wants us to do.”
I must have looked confused, for when he saw me Reuben laughed and thumped me on the back. “The Mohawks take up positions all along the shore,” he said, pointing towards the rapids. “After we release the crib, they watch were it goes. That's the safest path. Then they come aboard with us. Each pilots the raft through the stretch of white water he watched, following the path the crib took.”
We waited and waited, until one of the Mohawks came to tell us the others were in position and we should release the crib. Everyone helped lever it into the water. Slowly it floated in the direction of the rapids, leapt forward, and vanished. Another long wait followed, until all the Mohawks came back. Now even Sam was looking anxious as we released the mooring lines and the raft began to move.
The guides seemed very cool. “Don't worry,” the one holding the rudder said when we suddenly picked up speed. “We've never lost a raft.”
I was not reassured. The roar of the water soon drowned out all conversation. Rolling waves towered above our heads, and I was convinced the waters would engulf us. We rose and fell, swung and swerved, the noise deafening. I was so busy hanging on that I scarcely noticed the Mohawks calmly changing places at the rudder, others nimbly running about with poles. The nightmare seemed never ending, but it probably lasted twenty minutes at most.
Then the danger was past as suddenly as it had begun. The raft moved slowly over smooth water. The pilot steered for shore, and I swayed as I stepped on Mother Earth, a mooring line in my hand. Sam, coming to his senses first, bent and kissed the ground.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “Thank heaven that's over!”
Since he always appeared braver than me, I was glad the ride had unnerved him, too. After we tied up we all went to thank the pilots. Reuben went among them, shaking each man's hand and giving him some coins as he expressed his thanks.
“You bring the rafts,” one of the Mohawks said, head held high. “We'll get them through safely.” I thought he had every right to take pride in having such a useful skill.
The rest of the journey was fascinating, and I no longer had cause to fear the rapids. Each night we camped ashore or aboard the raft, fishing to add to our food supply. We floated across Lake St. Francis to the head of the Cedars Rapids. Again a crew of Indians built a crib and helped us steer the raft through them, and through the Cascades just below them. By that time the weather had turned piercingly cold on the water, and I bundled into all my extra clothes. We were now moving down Lake St Louis towards the Island of Montreal. At the Lachine Rapids yet another crew of Indians appeared on cue. Then we were sailing past Montreal itself, tumbledown stockade beside the shore, church spires in the distance, schooners and brigantines at anchor in the harbour.
“How I wish we could stop and see the city,” I said.
“We will on our way back,” said Reuben. “I've a list of things I must buy for myself and others. The timber merchants pay us in hard cash, and we always do our shopping in Montreal after we've sold a raft.”
Off Sorel, at the mouth of the Richelieu River, we had to be careful for a bit. A maze of low islands almost blocked the channel, and the water ran a little more swiftly. That spot was known as the Richelieu Rapids though they were nothing compared to the Long Sault, Cedars, Cascades, Lachine or even the gentler Galop and Rapide Plat. Ships were able to sail up the Richelieu Rapids to Montreal when the wind blew from the northeast. No one could take a ship upstream against any of the other rapids, no matter where the breeze came from. As we sailed, Reuben pointed out several important landmarks so we would find the right channel when the time came to sail our own raft. Below the Richelieu Rapids, as we entered Lake St. Pierre, several vessels were tacking about.
“They're waiting for the right wind to push them up the rapids,” Reuben said.
On this lake sail and current carried us slowly past flat farmlands, and on to a large town. “Trois Rivières,” said Samuel Sherwood.
“Three Rivers,” Levius added. “Samuel likes showing off his French.”
“That's where our iron comes from. From the forges of the St. Maurice,” said our Sam. “But it's awfully expensive.”
“Our Pa says there's lots of bog iron north of Elizabethtown and we ought to be mining it,” Levius remarked.
“That would be a godsend,” our Sam said.
We left Lake St. Pierre and soon walls of rock towered above us. Fortunately we always found a ledge with trees on it where we could secure the raft. “We're almost there,” Reuben called when we had been sailing eight days since leaving his farm. “That's Wolfe's Cove on the left. Plains of Abraham above. Quebec's just ahead.”
I looked up but nothing told me the city was at hand. The shore was steep, a vast mountain of rock that left us sailing in icy damp gloom. Without warning we rounded a bend and there lay a harbour lined with buildings and wharves. Ships with sails furled lay at anchor—big ones with many masts and yardarms, much larger than any that passed our land.
“What enormous ships,” I said to Reuben.
“First rate ships of the line, those big ones,” he said. “They're Royal Navy. Beauties, aren't they?”
The harbour front was alive with uniformed men, red-coated soldiers, sailors in blue with loose white trousers. Many bateaux lay alongside the wharves, but Reuben found space for the raft. I noticed some boats like bateaux but larger as we tied up. Durham boats, Levius told me.
“Rum for all hands,” Reuben called, beckoning to us. “Can't risk anyone coming down with pneumonia.”
The stinging stuff made me choke and burned my throat. It warmed me right to my toes, though. Adiel, too, spluttered over the fiery drink, but the blue tint left his face. He grinned at me. “My first trip. I've wanted to come for ages.”
“The nice part's the city,” Levius said, cradling his rum with both hands and breathing the fumes. “We'll have lots to do while Reuben and Scipio are busy with the timber merchants.”
“Tonight, we'll have warm beds at the London Coffee House,” Reuben announced. “We deserve some comfort after so many nights outdoors.”
He pointed to a vast stone building with white wood trim and a red tiled roof. It faced the wharf with its back against the rocky cliff. Once our raft was secure we gathered our belongings and hurried to the hostelry. Inside, when Reuben ordered beds, the landlord looked us over.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Room for six and a place in the stable for the slave.”
“No,” said Reuben. “Our servant must have as good a bed as you offer any of us.”
“As you wish, sir,” the landlord replied with a shrug. “A room for seven.”
We were shown into a large chamber that actually had four wide beds in it, enough space for eight. The next thing that caught my eye was a giant teacup complete with handle under one of the beds.
“What's this?” I enquired, drawing it out.
Sam laughed. “Oliver's skull! I haven't seen one in years.”
At my puzzled look Reuben took charge. “It saves going to the privy by the stables during the night. The servants empty it.”
“The correct word is chamber pot,” said Samuel Sherwood. “The nickname was an insult to Oliver Cromwell because he ordered King Charles the First's head chopped off.”
“I wondered how it got that name,” our Sam remarked.
After stowing our things we went to the dining room where a blazing fire from the hearth cast a cheery glow. The warmth was what we needed after days out in the cold. All around us people were speaking French, and we caught only the occasional bit of English. A good night's sleep followed, and we five lads were ready to explore Quebec. Samuel and Levius would serve as guides. Adiel was as keen as Sam and me to see the greatest city in the country.
Over breakfast, Reuben told us we need not hurry. “You'll have all day. The merchant we've chosen is a hard bargainer, isn't he, Scipio?”
“You
're a hard bargainer yourself, Mr. Reuben,” said the black man. “It's your Yankee roots.”
Breakfast over, we climbed the steep flight of stone steps that led from the Lower Town to the more opulent Upper Town. On top of the rock, the governor's residence and the finest houses and shops were to be found.
Chapter 7
Of Two Cities
The day was fine and warm for so late in the autumn. By the time we reached the Upper Town, my head was swimming over the busy scene. Too much vied for my attention. Houses crowded against the cliff face. Mobs of people swarmed by in all sorts of garb—men in loose shirts, leggings and bright knitted caps; women muffled in long cloaks; small children in homespun playing tag on the steps; black-robed priests; striding frontiersmen in buckskins; wealthy-looking people with powdered hair, clad in silks and velvets; men in tall round hats and tight-fitting pantaloons like Uncle William's.
Many buildings were of stone, others of brick. How splendid they seemed compared to our settlement with its square timbered dwellings and log cabins.
“That's the Chateau, the governor's residence, next to the citadel,” Samuel Sherwood said “Pa goes there when he brings a raft. He's on the council and has to see about affairs in our district.”
“Pa says Lord Dorchester's a good governor, but a cold fish,” Levius informed us. “He goes for a drive each afternoon. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of him.”
Close by a well-dressed man laughed—at Levius' enthusiasm, I assumed. Then he spoke to us. “If you hope to see His Excellency, you're too late. Lord Dorchester left in August for England on leave of absence.”
“Thank you for telling us, sir,” I said. “But it would have been fun to see the governor.”
The stranger eyed us, an amused look on his face. “Everyone's laughing over the reason he left.”
“We're all ears, sir,” said Samuel Sherwood.
Beginning Again Page 7
