“There is no road,” Father growled back. It didn’t sound like him at all. “Just a miserable track, crossed with rivers that would be difficult for us to ford by ourselves. Besides,” he added, “it’s too late in the year. It would take us weeks to reach Sorel, maybe months, and we would not be able to make it before the winter snows set in.”
“But we can’t just leave everything here!” Mother cried.
“I’ll sell it all for the best price I can get. The fare for the boat is so exorbitant, we will need the extra money to meet it,” Father answered. And before she could get in another word he said, “There’s no discussing it further, Fiona,” and he turned his back on her! I’ve never before in my life seen him do that.
Mother is furious and sad and desperate all at the same time. Even Grannie is keeping out of her way.
I couldn’t bear to watch Father leading old Blue and Bess away. They’ve been a part of my life for almost as long as I can remember. To think that they are going to be sold to a stranger! Oh, what if he doesn’t treat them well?
Later
Father came back late tonight. He looked sick. I saw Mother look at him and he just shook his head.
“They hate us here,” he muttered, so low that I could hardly hear him. “They gave me as low a price as they could get away with.”
“Even for Blue and Bess?” she asked. It was not much more than a whisper.
Father didn’t answer. He just nodded.
Hannah came by after our supper. She looked stricken, not at all like the smiling girl I met yesterday. Her father has sold their wagon and oxen too, and most of their possessions. The person who bought their loom paid little more than a pittance for it. Hannah said when the man who bought Buck and Bright drove them off she is sure she saw tears in her father’s eyes. That is hard to imagine — Mr. Ross was so jovial and friendly yesterday. Hannah says her father said that the man who bought the oxen gloated over the fact that he had given Mr. Ross the lowest price possible.
When she told me this, Hannah began to cry. I reached out to her and then I started to cry too. I couldn’t help myself. I haven’t cried hardly at all up to now, but suddenly it was all more than I could bear and I just hung onto Hannah and she hung onto me and we cried and cried and cried.
October 26th, 1783
There is a minister here and he held church services this morning. Grannie is much mollified but it hasn’t made us feel any better. Still, he prayed for the safety of those of us about to embark on our “perilous journey.” I was glad of that. I think we will need all the prayers we can get.
October 27th, 1783
We leave today. We have bundled everything up and are waiting for Father to fetch us. Mother is pacing back and forth with baby Margaret, but Grannie is just sitting like a stone. Jamie is running wild, but she has not said one word to him.
October 29th, 1783
Somewhere along the shore of Lake Champlain
I have not been able to write in my journal for two days because I have been so sick. Everyone is sick except for Father. He almost seems to be enjoying the sail in spite of everything.
I was right to worry about the waves. The lake is huge and the waves are enormous and the boat we are sailing in is so very small! It is a kind of boat called a bateau, pointed at both ends with rows of seats for us to sit on. There is no roof or shelter of any kind, so we are praying that it does not rain. We are four families in the boat and we are very squished, sitting three or four to a seat. There is no room to get up or move around at all.
There are five sailors manning the boat: four to row and one to steer, but the sailors are happy because the wind is so strong that they can run with the sail up and do not have to row. We stop on the shore each night, but only long enough to make a fire and eat — that is where we are as I write this — and then it is back into the boat again. It is very uncomfortable sleeping all squashed up, but the sailors prefer to keep going at night as long as there is a good wind. I do not know when they sleep.
Even though the sailors make up a good stew for us each night, or else fry up fish that they have caught in the lake, I have not been able to force the slightest morsel down. Even the smell of it makes me ill. Perhaps I will die.
Hannah is as sick as I am; so are all her family. At this rate her father will be much less fat by the time we reach Canada. He already looks different. He is sick, as we all are, but it’s more than that. He looks smaller, somehow. As if the air had been let out of him. Even his voice has shrunk.
One of the other families in the boat is the Denny family. They are going to settle in a big town in Québec called Montréal. They are very grand and are travelling with their own slaves! (Who they make sit at the very back of the boat.) Of course they don’t call them slaves any more, just servants. Father says that that’s hypocrisy, though. They’re just as much slaves as they ever were. The only Negroes that are really free are the escaped American slaves who fought with the British armies, Father says.
The Dennys have three little children, but Mrs. Denny won’t let them talk with us. The Negro family is composed of the parents, Obediah and Lisa, and a little girl named Tam. Tam is a quiet little mouse of a thing, but very sweet. She is peeping at me from behind Lisa’s skirts right now as I am writing this.
They are calling for us to get back on the boat. I am going to be sick again.
October 30th, 1783
The strangest thing. I awoke this morning and felt as well as if I had never been ill at all. The boat was skimming along and the wind just seemed to be blowing right through me. I felt fresh and new and alive again. And hungry! We just had johnnycake and cheese that Father had purchased at Chimney Point, but it tasted wonderful. Mrs. Ross dug into a bundle she had at her feet and pulled out a jar of blackberry jam.
‘The last of my preserves,” she said. “I left dozens of jars in our wagon. I suppose someone else is enjoying them now,” she added, then she shrugged. “Oh, well, I’m sure there’ll be blackberries aplenty in Canada.”
She does seem to be able to “put a good face on things,” as Grannie says, although it is obvious that she is making an effort. Hannah tells me she will not speak of the loss of her loom. I wish Mother could be as brave. Mrs. Ross tries to be friendly, but Mother just sits and broods. She definitely does not like the boat.
Now that we are both feeling better, Hannah and I are beginning to enjoy the sailing. Hannah is back to her usual self and talking ceaselessly. Her mother puts her hands over her ears in desperation, but I enjoy Hannah’s talk. It is so good to have a friend again!
It is a lovely feeling to be sailing over the water so freely, and the waves are not quite so frightening. I just hang on tightly and let the water spray over my face. It is refreshing. In fact, Hannah and I were actually leaning over the edge to catch even more spray until Grannie put a stop to it. We were both drenched.
“You look like drowned rats,” Grannie said with a sniff.
I suppose she does not think Hannah is any more ladylike than I am. And she’s not. And I’m very glad of it.
October 31st, 1783
The wind died down today and the sailors were not happy because they had to row, but I quite liked it. The waves calmed considerably and the boat moved along in a much more relaxing manner. The lake stretched ahead for as far as I could see and the mountains rose up high on both sides of us, right down to the shore on the western side. I just sat back and drank in the sight.
We are camped now on a long, wide beach. Hannah and I tore off our boots as soon as we got out of the boat and just raced along it. The cool sand felt glorious between my toes. It was just a short respite before we were both called back to help with chores and minding babies, but it was enough. Best of all, we do not have to get back on the boat tonight! Now that they must row, the sailors prefer to spend the night on land. They have distributed tarpaulins for shelter and we have made ourselves quite comfortable. It will be lovely to sleep on land again, with a blazing fire
going outside our shelter.
We had fresh fish that the sailors caught for supper, rolled in flour and fried in lard in a skillet over the fire. To go with it we had johnnycake and boiled turnips. I am sitting by the campfire well bundled up in a blanket and I feel very full and satisfied. Laddie is happy too. He was more ill than any of us but was delighted to get a piece of my well-toasted fish skin. At the moment he is running around in circles like a mad thing, chasing his tail. Grannie is trying to look disapproving, but not very successfully. I think she is as pleased as we are to be camped here so comfortably. She has been just miserable on the boat. Not that she complains, but I can tell.
Now I can write more of what has been happening these past days. There is so much to say!
George and Hugh were a veritable nuisance on the boat today. It was much quieter when they were sick.
“A right pair of imps they are,” Grannie says. I think she’s right, as I pulled George away from the railing of the boat several times and no sooner had we come ashore than I found Hugh trying to braid Laddie’s tail. It’s fortunate indeed that Laddie is such a good-natured dog.
I don’t know what Hannah’s mother would do without Molly, as her bossiness comes in very handy for controlling those two little boys. They are a handful.
Hannah has an Uncle Allan who is also with Sir John Johnson’s Royal Yorkers, which is why her family is going to Sorel too. They hope to meet up with him there, as we are hoping to meet up with Angus. I wonder if her uncle knows Angus?
Now Mother is calling me to go to bed. Father has just walked by and put his hand on my shoulder. He saw that I was writing in my journal and gave me a smile. That pleases him.
It is nice to see him smile again.
I gave Mother an especially big hug before crawling into my shelter and she gave me a squeeze back.
“You’ve been such a help, Mary,” she said to me. Then Margaret started grizzling and she went to soothe her, but I didn’t mind.
Goodnight, Journal. There is a small little spot in my heart that feels almost warm again. Almost happy.
November 1783
November 1st, 1783
Still on Lake Champlain
A good southerly breeze has sprung up again and we’re fairly flying along. Father was sitting beside me today and he was humming under his breath. Our song. The one about the sea. So I joined in, very softly at first, but gradually we both got louder and louder until we were sitting there with the wind blowing all around us and the smell of the water in our noses and singing at the tops of our voices.
He sank into the Lowland, Lowland, Low,
He sank into the Lowland Sea.
Hannah was sitting on the other side of me and I taught her the words. She’s a grand singer and soon the three of us were just roaring the song out. Father had his arm around me, and Hannah and I had our arms around each other. Mrs. Denny was shocked, I think, but Mrs. Ross, who was sitting with Mother, just smiled. Then George and Hugh started playing war with Jamie and Jamie — who is younger and smaller than they are — fell off his seat trying to get away from them, and Laddie started jumping all over George and Hugh, trying to protect Jamie, and the helmsman yelled at them all to sit still and not rock the boat, and soon all three were crying.
Quite a commotion in a very small boat.
November 3rd, 1783
Canada!
We have reached the top of Lake Champlain and are in Québec. It doesn’t look one bit different from America, but the land is not as mountainous as it was at the southern end of the lake. I can see forests stretching out on both sides of us, but no hills to speak of.
We are not getting off our boat yet, though. We are going to continue up a river that flows out of Lake Champlain, the Richelieu River, as far as we can to a place called Fort St. Jean. Every name is French because this all used to be New France before the British won it.
Hannah and I have become fast friends. She is by far the nicest person I have ever known. And the prettiest. But she doesn’t even seem to know or care how pretty she is. Not like Lizzie Crane who was always on about how fair her skin was, and how she didn’t freckle the way I do.
I do hope we will be able to stay together.
I’m beginning to worry again. These days on the boat have almost seemed like a piece out of time. Nothing seemed really real. But now we’re back to real with a thump. I wonder what we will find when we reach Sorel?
November 4th, 1783
Fort St. Jean
A near disaster today! Tam fell overboard! This is how it happened:
Our boat was drawing up to the docking place at Fort St. Jean and Tam got so excited she leaned too far over the railing. Her poor mother was busy trying to round up Mrs. Denny’s three little treasures and could not keep an eye on her. I was the only one to see her go over as everyone else was busy getting ready to get off the boat. I happened to be watching her and was just about to reach out and pull her back when splash — over she went! I didn’t even stop to think, but jumped right in after her. It was only when I landed in the water that I remembered that I couldn’t swim! Thank goodness it was shallow and I found my footing immediately. Tam was not so fortunate, however. She is quite small and the water was over her head. She was thrashing and sputtering about like a hooked fish and I had a dreadful time getting hold of her. Finally I did, and managed to hand her back up to her father.
Lisa and Obediah came over to where I am sitting now by our fire, in dry clothes with a blanket wrapped around me, drinking catnip tea that Grannie brewed for me. Lisa was almost crying and she just kept saying, “Thank you, oh thank you so much for saving my baby,” over and over. Obediah shook my hand most formally.
Grannie, however, has not stopped upbraiding me since it happened. I suppose she doesn’t consider that kind of behaviour proper for a young girl. But what was I supposed to do — let Tam drown?
The weather is very cold and I truly thought I would never stop shivering, but the tea is warming me up and I finally have.
I feel sorry for Obediah and Lisa, having to work for such an unpleasant family. Mr. Denny is a dour, unfriendly man. In all this time he has barely spoken to Father or to Mr. Ross. Considers himself much above them, I suppose, because he is wealthy and managed to come away with most of his wealth intact. (I heard Father say that to Mother one evening. I’m not quite certain what “intact” means, but I imagine it means he’s still got his money. He wears a fat money belt around his waist. Maybe that’s where it all is.)
It must be horrible to be their slaves. Poor little Tam. It must be horrible to be anybody’s slave! They are all leaving us here, though. They have made arrangements to hire a wagon and will go west to Montréal. We will set out with the Rosses for Sorel. On foot. With no wagon. Our wealth is not intact.
It is going to be difficult.
November 5th, 1783
Québec
We are following alongside the Richelieu River. The going is very hard even though there are no hills to speak of, thank goodness. We are all loaded down like pack horses. Grannie has insisted on carrying her lilac bush, even though I offered, and it is looking very bedraggled. Most of its leaves have fallen off and I’m afraid it might be dead. There’s no saying that to Grannie, though.
Hannah and I walk together, but we are both so encumbered that we can hardly speak. Baby Margaret was very sick the whole time on the boat and does not seem to be getting over it. She vomited all over me and even though I tried to wash it off in the river when we finally stopped, I can still smell it. Father has rigged up a kind of sling for me to carry her in and that helps, but now it stinks, too. I was very glad to hand her back to Mother to be fed this evening.
Salt pork and turnips for supper.
I am too tired to write more.
November 10th, 1783
I am almost too weary at night to write in this journal, but I will make myself add a bit to it before I sleep. We walk all day with only a brief stop for a cold meal. It has been
raining for the past two days and by the time we stop for the night we are all soaking wet and shivering with the cold. We attempt to dry our clothes out by the fire, but they are still damp in the morning. I try to keep baby Margaret as dry as I can, but she cries constantly. She doesn’t seem to be nursing very well and Mother is fretting. I wish we had Bess — then we could make Margaret some sops with johnnycake and cow’s milk. She is too little to eat anything else.
Hannah is such a good friend. She carries her own load and tries to lighten mine when I am carrying the baby. There are times when I truly feel I cannot put one foot in front of the other and I am so grateful for her help. She would never act the way Lizzie Crane did.
November 12th, 1783
The rain has stopped but we are still damp and dripping. I saw something very unusual this morning. Almost frightening. When I went down through the trees to the river’s edge to wash, the morning mist was just beginning to clear. I looked up across the river to the other side and there, looming out of the fog, I saw a hill — a mountain, really, but such a mountain as I have never seen before. It sat in the middle of a flat plain, all alone, with a cloud covering its top and mist swirling down its sides. The slopes were covered with trees, scarred here and there with steep, bare rocks. There were no other mountains or hills around at all, just that one. It looked so mysterious — so gloomy and ominous. I felt a shiver go right through me.
For some reason I could not speak of it to anyone, not even Hannah. I hope it was not a bad omen.
November 13th, 1783
With Nothing But Our Courage Page 4
