With Nothing But Our Courage

by Karleen Bradford

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Albany County, Royal Province of New York, 1783

  October 1783

  November 1783

  December 1783

  January 1784

  February 1784

  March 1784

  April 1784

  May 1784

  June 1784

  July 1784

  August 1784

  September 1784

  October 1784

  November 1784

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Credits

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Albany County, Royal Province of New York, 1783

  October 1783

  October 6th, 1783

  They burned the schoolhouse down! A group of Patriots came just as Father was making ready for the new school year.

  “Traitor!” they called him. “Cowardly Tory!” All because he would not sign their Oath of Allegiance to the new United States of America.

  They seized Father and dragged him out of the school. In front of his very eyes they tossed torches in through the door and the windows. In seconds all was ablaze, Father said. They didn’t even allow him to salvage any of his books! What were they thinking? This was their schoolhouse as well as ours. This war has turned everyone insane. Lizzie Crane turned her back on me this morning and would not even give me the time of day. I couldn’t believe it. My own best friend. I’ve been friends with her since we were born!

  I cannot bear looking at Father. He is the kindest, gentlest man in the world. He always had a smile on his face and a laugh in his heart. Now he sits at the kitchen table and stares out the window. He will not even talk. Mother is distraught and that makes baby Margaret fussy. Grannie bustles around with her mouth set in that grim line I know so well. I’m not the cause of it now, though, and at least that’s a mercy. When Grannie gets mad at you, you’d better skedaddle out of there.

  Jamie’s the only one who’s acting normal. I suppose at five years old none of this means anything to him. He only misses Angus and keeps asking after him. When I told him Angus was off to fight with the British army he thought that a great lark, and went about for days with a stick over his shoulder, pretending to be a soldier.

  I don’t know what to do. There is no one to talk to. No one to tell me what is going to happen. In desperation I’ve picked up my old journal. Father gave it to me for my twelfth birthday and I’ve not written in it yet. Nothing to say, I thought, except news of the war, and I didn’t want to even think about that. But I have to now, don’t I?

  And I’m so frightened! The whole world has gone mad!

  October 7th, 1783

  I do not know how to write of this. It is so awful I cannot bear it, but I am so full of grief and anger and just plain disbelief that if I do not let it out I will die! How to begin?

  They came for Father this morning. A loud, rowdy bunch of so-called Patriots with cockades in their hats, all puffed up with righteousness and their own importance. We knew most of them. They were our neighbours. People we used to call friends. Lizzie Crane’s father was one of them. And Ned Bolton — his wife and Mother have known each other all their lives! They pulled Father out of the house and dragged him down the path. They just dragged him! And then …

  This is the part I cannot write. But I must.

  They lifted my dear father up and sat him on a mule — backwards! They tied his hands to the pommel and whipped the mule forward. They paraded Father through town that way, shouting vile oaths that I cannot repeat even to this journal. My father! He will die of the shame of this.

  Then they brought him back and threw him down in the dust.

  “Here’s a pass for you, Tory,” they shouted, tossing a piece of paper after him. He bent to pick it up, but stumbled and almost fell. Mother rushed forward to support him and snatched up the paper.

  “Get out of here!” she screamed at the men. Her face was all twisted up and she was crying. “Get out!”

  Then she put her arms around Father and he just kind of slumped against her. I started to run toward them but the sound of Ned Bolton’s voice stopped me as surely as if he had reached out and struck me.

  “Use that pass and be out of here by morning!” he cried. “All of you. We don’t want filthy Tories in this town!” Although the word they used was not “filthy.” Grannie turned crimson red and

  October 8th, 1783

  By the light from the campfire

  My hands are shaking so that I can hardly write and I’ve made so many blots I can hardly read what I have written. I feel like a feather bed that’s been shaken out, turned upside down and jumped on.

  I stopped writing yesterday because just as I was going to say “and put her hands over Jamie’s ears,” I smelled burning. It was our field! They set our cornfield on fire! And that wasn’t the worst of it.

  When they finally left, Father turned to us. I have never seen his face look like it did at that moment.

  “That is it, then,” he said. “There is nothing for it but to leave.” It seemed as if he had to force the words out through his lips — as if his mouth wouldn’t work. I could barely make out what he was saying.

  Mother just stood there. She looked as if she had been struck.

  We packed the wagon all night with everything that we could fit into it. And the smell of the burned out cornfield was in our noses the whole time.

  We packed Grannie’s spinning wheel, Mother and Father’s bed and feather tick, Mother’s quilting frame, a small chest of drawers, as many pots and kettles and dishes as we could, and a few other bits of furniture. Mother and Grannie packed bags and bags of food and provisions. Luckily we had a good supply of salt pork on hand as Father had butchered our hog last month. I expect we will be eating a lot of that.

  We each made a bundle of our clothes. I helped Jamie with his, but we still had to leave much behind. Father tied a cage, with as many of our chickens as could fit into it, to the back of the wagon, but we had to leave the geese.

  Grannie insisted on digging up a piece of the lilac bush that grows in our doorway. Granda planted that bush for her when they were married and she said she would not leave without at least a bit of it. It is a very small piece and she has it in a little pot, wrapped in burlap and soaking wet. I do not see how it can survive, but Grannie can be very stubborn when she wants.

  We were just getting ready to leave, after a quick breakfast, when those same men turned up again. They’d been into the whiskey, I could tell, never mind that it was first thing in the morning. They smelled of it and they were all red-faced and shouting. Maybe they needed it to get their courage up for what they did.

  What they did was rush into our house and push and shove us out. Out of our own home! Even Grannie! They actually knocked her down and not one of them stopped to help her up. I did that. Father had already harnessed old Blue to the wagon and we fled to it. Father climbed up and helped Mother and Grannie up beside him. I gave Grannie a good boost from behind and normally she would have had my scalp for that, but not that morning. Mother was holding Margaret, who began to wail. Jamie and I clambered up in the back and perched ourselves on top of all the things we had packed in there. We’d tied Bess onto the back and she was bellowing because we hadn’t milked her. Even the chickens in their cage were making a racket.

  And then … I don’t want to remember, but the pictures are all in my mind and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget them. Even as we watched, those men r
an into the house and began smashing things.

  Smashing! Smashing! Smashing!

  They smashed everything we had left behind — we could hear them doing it. And we could see them through the doorway. They even threw a bench through our glass window.

  Why would they do that?

  The chickens we’d left in the yard were all scattered and clucking and running around every which way in a frenzy. Then I saw a man running off with one of our geese under his arm and I recognized Jed Turner.

  My stomach heaved up and I thought I would be sick right then and there. Jed Turner used to be just as friendly as a next-door neighbour could be. Father turned as white as a haunt and without a word he cracked the whip down on Blue’s back. Poor old Blue, I don’t think he’s ever felt such a lash in his whole life. He gave a huge leap and the next thing I knew we were out the gate and down the road, Blue trotting faster than he’s ever trotted before and Jamie and me rattling around on top of the wagon like two broken teacups on their saucers. Thank goodness the feather tick was on top or we would have been jounced right off. Bess lolluped along behind us and bawled every step of the way with indignation.

  I stared and stared at our house and garden, trying to fix every single detail in my mind until we turned the bend in the road, and then it was gone.

  I saw Lizzie looking out her window as we passed her house. She didn’t wave. I didn’t wave either. We just sort of stared at each other.

  We’ve left our home behind us. Left everything I’ve ever known in my life. We’re escaping to British Canada, Father says. To the Province of Québec. Father told me that Loyalist families have been promised free land there in recompense for their loyalty to the King, but I can’t imagine he ever thought we’d be the ones leaving our homes.

  I have no idea at all where Québec is, only that it’s a long way away from Albany. I am so mixed up and confused and just plain desperate and my head aches so badly. I would give anything for one of Grannie’s hot teas right now and I wouldn’t even complain about how bitter it was, but I don’t dare ask her. Things are bad enough. Mother barely had time to cook porridge tonight over the fire that Father built, before it began to rain. We are in the woods with hardly any shelter. Now we are all huddled under tarpaulins and trying to keep dry.

  The rain has stopped but the trees are still dripping down on us and everything is so wet it’s hard to write without blotching and smearing the words all over the pages. I want to write, though. I need to write.

  Mother is feeding baby Margaret, but I can see from here that she is shaking so much that it’s making the baby fretful. She has hardly spoken to me at all since we fled and just keeps repeating over and over, “I cannot believe it. I just cannot believe it.”

  I know exactly how she feels.

  Jamie is snoring beside me. He was frightened at first, but now he thinks this is all just a great adventure. It is not any kind of adventure that I would ever have wished. Try as I might, I cannot make sense of all this. For over seven years — more than half my life — this war has been raging. Father has tried to explain it to me. Some colonists wanted independence from Britain. Those are the rebels, or Patriots as they call themselves. Some, such as us, wanted to remain British. For that we are called names and thrown out of our homes! Even Lizzie hissed the word “traitor” at me, but we are not traitors. We are Loyalists!

  Father admits that much of what the rebels claimed was just — the British were interfering too much in our affairs, and levying unreasonable taxes upon us. But he never thought rebellion was the answer. He believed so surely that matters could have been worked out, if only there had been enough good will on both sides.

  Even though Mother agreed with Father, it practically tore her apart when Angus went off to war. She tried her best to dissuade him, but off he would go.

  “Besides,” he’d said, “if I don’t fight for the British I’ll have to fight for the rebels, and that I will never do.”

  It was after that that our friends and neighbours began to shun us, but we never imagined things would come to this.

  I can write no more tonight, but I will tomorrow. It is important, this writing down of things.

  October 9th, 1783

  Grannie saw how bad I was feeling today. My head was hurting so much I felt dizzy. She made Father pause long enough at midday to brew me up one of her simples.

  “Here, lass, this will take the pain away,” she said and gave my forehead a rub.

  The tea did taste horrid but it made my head feel much better. So did the rub.

  Grannie is the only one of us born in Scotland, and she came here as a babe in her mother’s arms, but she still has a burr to her voice. It is very comforting — except when she is scolding me. It’s hard to believe she is Father’s mother; she is so tiny and wiry and Father is so tall. I suppose I get my size from Grannie — or lack of size, I should probably say. And Grannie’s so quick and neat about things, while Father is slow and careful. They are really quite different. Grannie can be awfully quick with the switch too but she’s always there to make you feel better when you’re sick. I guess that makes up for it. Tonight she saw how blistered my feet were from walking and rubbed them with goose grease. They still hurt, though, and I’m bruised all over from being jounced around so in the wagon when I couldn’t walk any more.

  There are so many trees around here where we’re camped that the dark comes early. And it is so dark! I have only a tarpaulin spread out over branches above me and I feel like I’m right out in the middle of the woods with no protection around me at all. I’ve never slept outside at night. I miss the safety of our snug little house. Our campfire gives such a small circle of light, I imagine all kinds of wild beasts just lurking at the edge of it, staring at us. I can hear all sorts of noises and scurrying sounds, too. I even thought I saw eyes gleaming out of the blackness. Grannie just snorted when I cried out, and I suppose it is just my imagination. But maybe it is not. In any case, I have a small tallow wick burning beside me in my shelter at the moment. It will not last the night, though.

  Perhaps writing in this journal will take my mind off the dangers out there, real or imagined. I am tired, after our long journeying, but it comforts me to write. It is the only familiar thing I have to hang on to. Thank Providence Father had a whole big bottle of ink at home that he had not yet got around to taking to the school, so I will be well supplied with that for quite some time. I tuck it carefully into a corner of the wagon each morning, well protected by my bundle of clothes.

  Jamie just sat up to ask me what I was doing. I had to tell him a story to settle him back down. I think he realized for the first time today that we’ve really left our home and we might never see it again. Mother won’t hear of anyone saying that. “Of course we’ll return,” she says. “You’ll see. When things settle down. We’ll be back.”

  But back to what? We don’t have a home any more.

  We’ve been on the move for two days now, heading north, and I am bone weary and sick to death. It is lucky we have that pass, though. We have been stopped twice by rebel patrols and forced to show it. That is very frightening. They point their muskets right at us and act as if they think we are criminals or spies! Without that paper to show that we are travelling by order of our local Committee of Safety, Father says, we would have been in a lot of trouble.

  It is so hard, travelling all day every day. Thank goodness the weather remains fine and cool. Jamie and I walk most of the time so that old Blue doesn’t have such a heavy load to pull, but we do get tired. Even Mother and Grannie get out when we come to hills. The wagon is heavy-laden and Blue is not used to such continuous work. The road is very rough — not much more than a track in some places. I wonder that Father knows where to go. I dare not ask him as he just sits on the wagon seat, silent, his face as set and stony as a rock. He and Mother hardly talk at all. It is all so different from what it used to be. Father and Mother used to sing and laugh together all the time. Grannie has always been
grumpy, but now she really glowers. I don’t dare speak to her, either.

  All this strangeness is definitely upsetting baby Margaret. At three months old she was just beginning to be a real little person, smiling at every face that bent down to her. Now she grizzles and cries most of the time. I think Mother is having trouble feeding her. Jamie’s excitement at this “great adventure” has worn off and he is getting more and more fretful as well. He whines from morning until night until sometimes it is all I can do not to slap him.

  We do not seem like the same family at all.

  October 10th, 1783

  Father sat me down last night and finally had a talk with me. If you could call it that. I didn’t have much of a chance to say anything. It’s hard to remember that Father and I used to talk every night after our evening supper. We talked about what had happened during the day, what I had learned at school, our farm — anything and everything that came to mind. Not all girls went to school, but Father insisted that I should and I was glad of it. I loved school. And I used to love those talks with him, but this one was very different.

  He told me that we’re going away up north to a place called Sorel, in Québec, on the St. Lawrence River. That’s where the families of soldiers in Sir John Johnson’s King’s Royal Regiment of New York — Angus’s regiment — are supposed to meet up. The Royal Yorkers, they call them. There Father hopes we will meet up with Angus, but he doesn’t seem to know what we will do after that. Even if we are given land, he has no idea where it would be, or what it would be like. Mother is so certain that we will return home, but if we settle there, would we?

  It is all very frightening and confusing.

  I tried to help Mother with baby Margaret today but it was no use. Margaret just won’t stop crying. I walked her and walked her, and patted her on the back the way Mother does, but nothing helped. Finally Mother reached out to take her back.