“Thank you for trying, Mary,” she said to me, “but you’d better give her back. I’ll see if I can get her to feed.”
But she couldn’t. Then Jamie sassed Grannie and she switched him and now he’s gone all grumpy.
Everything is just as horrible as it can be.
October 11th, 1783
We are stopped now for our noon meal. I am going to take this opportunity to write more.
We have reached the Hudson River and Father says we will follow its valley north from here on. It is a very wide river — bigger than any stream I have ever seen, and the water just seems to rush along in all sorts of ripples and swirls and currents. We are following a track through the trees that runs along the river’s edge. Walking is a little easier as there are not so many hills, but watching the river flow back to the land we’ve left, while we are trudging along in the opposite direction, fills me with sadness. How quickly we are leaving behind all we’ve ever known and loved!
Mother is calling me. Our meal is ready. It will not be much of a meal, I’m afraid. We have finished up all the bread we brought with us, and Father didn’t want to take the time to light a fire so we are just going to have stale johnnycake. At least we have Bess for milk and butter. Grannie puts cream in the churn in the morning and by evening the jolting of the wagon has turned it into butter. That used to be my daily chore. I suppose I should be grateful that I do not have to do it any more. I’m not, though. I would be very happy to be home churning butter right now and I wouldn’t complain a bit. Not even to myself.
I am very hungry.
Later
We’re camped for the night now. Father shot two partridges and they are roasting on a spit over the fire. That will be a welcome change from salt pork. We can’t kill any of the chickens, of course. We will need them for breeding. They have stopped laying, though, and are acting very nervous. One gave Jamie a terrible peck when he was putting their feed into the cage and now he won’t go near them again. Mother is boiling up a pot of turnips and potatoes to go with the partridges, but she is not behaving like my dear mother at all. At first, when we stopped here for the night, she just sat in the wagon holding Margaret and staring back the way we had come and didn’t make a move to get out.
“Get yourself down from there, Fiona, lass. There’s supper to be made,” Grannie chided her. Grannie, of course, was bustling around in her usual way and already setting to, getting things ready for the evening meal.
I think Grannie is getting provoked at Mother. Grannie has no patience with what she calls “foolishness.” I’m not usually too quick to be helpful, but I was tonight. It is my job to collect wood for the fire and I got to it right smartly. I know what it’s like to have Grannie mad at you, and I don’t think Mother needs that on top of everything else that has happened.
It’s strange — Mother has always taken care of me but now I almost feel as if I must take care of her. She is so distraught and her eyes look so empty.
Later still
The meal was delicious. It is a wonder how a good meal and a full stomach can make a body feel so much better. I’m curled up by the fire now. The night is clear and the stars are so bright the darkness here below doesn’t seem quite so dangerous. Sometimes, if I stare up at the stars hard enough, it seems almost as if the world has turned topsy turvy and I am about to fall down into them.
The weather was sunny today and any other time I would have enjoyed it enormously. It would have been like when we used to go on outings to visit neighbours or to picnic by the river.
Jamie and I have made a sort of nest in the wagon, padded with the feather bed. We manage to avoid most of the sharp corners and edges of the furniture piled in there and it is quite comfortable. Grannie’s little bit of lilac bush waves its leaves above us. Grannie waters it every day and it drips down on us, but I don’t mind. Mother passed Margaret back to us, to give her a rest, she said, and the baby slept between us for most of the afternoon. I do love cuddling her when she’s not screaming or stinking.
What spoiled the day for me was being stopped by yet another rebel patrol and then passing by two burned-out farms. We hurry through settlements and towns as quickly as possible. There is no telling who would be friendly to us and who would not. As we made our way along the road today, we realized that we were passing through country that had been fought over. The devastation was dreadful! There was nothing left of the houses but blackened stone chimneys, and the fields around them were trampled and all torn up. Even the sheds and the barns were destroyed. Bits of wood and litter were strewn all over the place. It looked like the worst storm in the world had hit here. It made me realize how lucky we were that there were no battles too near where we lived, although one day I did hear gunfire and cannons booming. That was terrifying enough.
Jamie has just come over to nudge me and get my attention. There is a dog sitting at the edge of our campsite, staring at us. He’s quite big and has long grey fur, but it’s all matted and dirty. I wonder if he is from one of the homesteads we passed by today? I might just sneak a piece of johnnycake to him after everyone has gone to bed. He doesn’t look vicious — just sad.
October 12th, 1783
The dog is a hero! I did sneak a tiny bit of johnnycake to him last night. I snuck out of the shelter I’m sharing with Jamie after everyone had gone to sleep. No one saw me at all, not even Jamie, who was snoring away. Mother and Father were sleeping under a tarpaulin with baby Margaret, and Grannie was tucked away in a kind of tent that Father sets up for her. He cuts balsam fir boughs for her every night to spread under her tarpaulin and make her more comfortable because, as she says, her “bones are old and sharp.” We just make do with blankets spread over tarpaulins laid right on the ground. Not too bad if it doesn’t rain, and the weather is not too cold yet.
But back to the dog.
He was frightened and wouldn’t let me near him, so I just tossed the johnnycake to him. He was on it in a split second and wolfed it down. He must have been starving. Then I went back and crawled in beside Jamie, thinking that maybe I could give the dog something else in the morning.
I had just fallen asleep when suddenly the dog started barking and howling and making enough racket to “raise the dead,” as Grannie says. Mother and Father burst out from under their tarpaulin and Jamie and I jumped up so fast we knocked our tarpaulin cover right off. Even Grannie poked her head out of her tent. What did we see in the light of the dying fire but three men untying Bess and old Blue! They were going to steal them! The dog was barking at them and charging at them and nipping at their heels. The men seemed quite terrified of him, although one of them landed a good kick on the poor animal’s side. Anyway, as soon as we all erupted out of our shelters they took off. You should have heard the cursing and the yelling.
But we still have Bess and Blue. And it seems we might have a dog, too.
It is Sunday today. How strange not to be going to church. I wonder if they will miss us at the service? I wonder if they will talk about what happened? How can they call themselves Christians and do such a thing to us? Our preacher, Mr. Howard, would never condone it, I’m sure of that. But he couldn’t do anything to stop it, could he?
Grannie did not want to travel today because it is the Lord’s Day, but Father said we had to keep going. She has not spoken to him since.
October 13th, 1783
Jamie is besotted with the dog. He wouldn’t ride in the wagon at all today, but walked almost the whole way. The dog followed along, although he still won’t come near us. Jamie has named him Laddie and keeps calling and calling him, but the dog doesn’t trust us enough to get within kicking range.
Walking was more pleasant today. I am toughening up, I think, and do not get so tired. My blisters have almost all healed, thanks to Grannie’s goose grease. The weather is fine and that seemed to lift my spirits a little. Perhaps if I could get Mother to walk a bit more she might feel better, too. I would be glad to carry baby Margaret for her. Mother hardly ta
lks, and looks so sad and troubled that it just tears at my heart. I know it worries Father, as he goes about with his eyebrows all squinched up and his mouth turned down. Not like his old cheerful self at all. Grannie is the only one who doesn’t seem to have changed a whit. She is still Grannie. This may sound strange, but that’s actually a comfort, even if she does scold me ten times a day for things I really can’t help. She used to say I was far too boisterous for her liking and I should have been born a boy. I certainly haven’t been very boisterous lately, but I do seem to get in her way a lot.
Still, at least there’s one person in this family who is the same as before.
Father says that for now we are heading for a place called Chimney Point. It’s on a big lake north of here called Lake Champlain. He figures that at the pace we’re going we should be there in not much more than another week. Then, if we’re lucky, we will be able to get a boat and continue our way up to Québec. We’ll make much better time sailing on the lake than walking around it, he says. But how will they get our wagon and Bess and Blue on a boat, I wonder?
Canada must certainly be a long way away. I wonder what it’s like?
October 14th, 1783
It does seem to make me feel better to write in this journal. I can say anything I want here and not be chided. Whenever I complain out loud about anything, Grannie is quick to jump on me. “Things could be worse,” she says. “You could be dead.”
That doesn’t cheer me up one bit.
Mother is beginning to talk more, but now she is worrying about Angus. We haven’t had a word from him in months, but we know he was right in the thick of it all. I won’t let myself believe that anything could have happened to him. I’ve already lost one brother — William died of the fever just last year. If he hadn’t, he would have been off to war too, even though he was only fifteen years old. William’s death nearly broke Mother’s heart. She couldn’t bear to lose Angus as well, I’m sure, and neither could I, although when he was home he used to tease me to death and was always at me for being so clumsy. I used to get so angry at him. He taught me to whistle though. I’m rather proud of that, although it drives Grannie wild. “Whistling girls and cackling hens,” she says, “always come to some bad ends.”
Who would ever have thought I would miss Angus so?
The path we’re on dwindles down to almost nothing in places and it is very hard to make it out. It does not always follow close to the river and sometimes we have to stop while Father forces his way through the underbrush to make certain that we haven’t veered too far away from it. We are thankful, though, that there has not been more rain, as otherwise we would be in ruts and mud right up to the wagon’s axles, and the streams we have to cross now and then would be flooding. The leaves are beginning to change colour. The trees are all red and yellow and orange and just glorious. The air is so fresh and crisp I can taste it. Oh, how I used to love this time of year!
My goodness! An Indian has just walked into our campsite! The dog is barking up a storm.
October 15th, 1783
What a scare! When that Indian appeared last night, I leaped up, totally without care for my journal, and it nearly fell into the fire. It’s all ashy now and smudged. I was about to run, but didn’t know where to. For all I knew we were surrounded!
I’ve seen Indians around our village in Albany, of course, and am quite used to that, but seeing this one just suddenly standing there in the firelight scared the wits out of me. Mother must have been just as surprised because she leapt to her feet as well. Grannie had already gone to her tent and so had Jamie. Father knew what to do, however. He just stood up and held out his hand to the Indian as calmly as if he had been our parson back home.
“Good evening,” Father said.
“Good evening,” the Indian replied. Then he said a few words in his own language that sounded like a question.
Father answered him right away in the same language — he had learned a little of it back in Albany from the Indians who traded there, I know. He spoke slowly and haltingly, but the Indian seemed to understand him. Before I knew what was happening, the Indian had settled himself down by the fire and Father had offered him some leftover tea. It was barely warm, I’m sure, but the Indian didn’t seem to mind.
I must admit I just stood there staring, frozen, until Mother grabbed me by the hand and pulled me back to my shelter. By this time Jamie had figured out what was going on and he was kneeling under the tarpaulin and looking out, his eyes as big as I’ve ever seen them.
“Go to sleep, both of you,” Mother ordered. Her voice was angry. She sounded as if she had been frightened worse than I. Too much is going on for her to bear, I think.
Before I could say a thing she wheeled about and disappeared into her own shelter.
Neither Jamie nor I had any intention of obeying her, of course. We knelt side by side, watching Father and the Indian. They talked for a long time, in English and in the Indian’s own language. I could not understand the half of it, but the Indian’s voice sounded very bitter and angry. Finally, he stood up and left. Only when Father had gone to join Mother did I remember this poor journal. I dashed out and picked it up, then ran right back to Jamie. I was certain a hundred Indians were watching my every move.
This morning I felt quite ashamed of myself when Father explained it all. The Indian, whose English name is John, is one of a party of Mohawks who are also travelling to Canada, and he has good cause to be angry and bitter. It seems that he and his people have been driven from their lands, too, because they fought on the British side, just the way Angus and the other Loyalists did. Their village, which was big enough to be a regular town, was burned, and their homes destroyed during the war. The British had promised to restore their lands to them after the war’s end, but instead they gave them to the Americans. Now, in desperation, John and his family are going to join their chief, Joseph Brant, at a place called Fort Niagara. Father told me he has heard a lot about this Chief Brant. His Indian name is Thayendanegea. (Father told me how to spell it.) He is a great leader, Father says.
Anyway, John has asked if he and his band could travel with us for a while. They have had trouble with the rebel patrols and hope that if they are journeying with us things might go a little easier for them. Father was delighted to have them do so. He admits now that he has been very worried as to whether we were on the right track or not, and John knows this country. John says we are all right so far, but that the way gets more difficult, farther ahead. Jamie, of course, can hardly speak for excitement.
Later
I must just add this one bit, although I am now snuggled down under my blanket and can barely see to write.
When I made my way here to bed, I stumbled over something. There was just enough firelight left to allow me to see the dog, Laddie, curled up beside Jamie. He’s been letting us feed him by hand today, and I guess he’s finally decided we’re friends. He looked up at me but didn’t growl, so I just crawled into my bed as quickly as I could and tried not to lie too close to him. Jamie is asleep with a big smile on his face. The dog has just let out an enormous groan of what sounds like relief and satisfaction.
He certainly does smell, though.
October 16th, 1783
We’ve been travelling through deep woods today and Father says he’s relieved beyond words that John and the other Indians are with us. They followed behind us and we didn’t see them, but John walked with us. When we stopped for the day he and Father went fishing together and Father brought us back three lovely big shad for dinner. John showed us how to clean them, then cook them by burying them in the ashes of our fire until the flesh separated off the bones. They were delicious. I was much more enthusiastic about saying grace tonight!
I find that I’m not getting tired at all now. In fact, it’s very peaceful to walk along the track and listen to the birds singing and twittering in the trees high above us. There are just as many squirrels around here as there were back home. Father managed to shoot two
of them today for the evening pot. Early this morning Jamie and I went down to the small stream that we were camped beside and Laddie surprised a raccoon washing something in the water. He started to chase after it, but Jamie whistled him off. The dog has adopted Jamie as completely as Jamie has adopted him, and the ungrateful animal has totally forgotten that it was I who first fed him.
Oh, I saw a skunk, too. Thank goodness Laddie did not see it. That dog smells ripe enough without skunk smell added to it.
There are other animals about that are not so harmless. Wolves and bears. And wildcats. The thought of them unnerves me, I have to admit. I lie awake at night sometimes and hear the rustlings and noises in the bush around me and I cannot help but be afraid, even though Father keeps the fire going throughout the night. Last night I heard a cry and I couldn’t help but imagine what had happened to some poor small creature.
It’s getting colder at night. I wrap myself up in the cosy woolen shawl that Grannie knitted for me, and when Jamie and I go to bed at night I almost appreciate the warmth of that smelly dog. The Indians are camped out of sight, but near us. I can see the smoke from their fire rising above the trees close by, and that makes me feel safer. John and Father talked together for hours last night after the rest of us went to bed. Tonight John brought his son with him to visit our camp. The boy is just Jamie’s age. They took to each other right away and soon were playing some sort of game with sticks and stones. Father and John were watching them and it surprised me to see that they both had the same sort of proud, fatherly smile on their faces.
We’ve been travelling now for more than a week. It seems much longer.
With Nothing But Our Courage Page 2
