The Legends of Lake on the Mountain

by Roderick Benns

  Although he boarded in a rooming house while he attended grammar school during the long, winter months in Kingston, the Macpherson’s house was a second home to John. His uncle and Aunt Anna were always there for him.

  John often felt like he lived two completely different lives. One was full of the kind of excitement that can only be found in a larger city. On Kingston’s busy streets all manner of people could be found. On a Friday night John could go about the town and watch men and women from high society move about the city in their expensive clothes. Yet all around them were the desperate poor, and homeless, living like animals between taverns and shops.

  Recent immigrants from England, Scotland and Ireland – as the Macdonald’s had once been – mixed with officers and soldiers from Kingston’s great military presence. It was a diverse blend of people, trying to live their lives in many different ways.

  John remembered some of the trip across the Atlantic Ocean in the ship, ‘Earl of Buckinghamshire,’ when he was just five years old. It wasn’t an easy voyage, being stuck in the cargo hold area with other poor immigrants looking for a new life in a new land.

  His other life, here in Stone Mills, was another world. This summer was even more remarkable than usual, given that he had a treasure map in his pocket and rumours of a lake creature in his head – all in the same summer. John’s only wish was that he had more time. As he looked across the water, John couldn’t see anything other than the ferryman, Jacob Adams, taking someone across the reach to Adolphustown. The ferry service – which was a flat-bottom boat called a bateau – constantly made the brief trip back and forth, like an aquatic road for travellers.

  Adolphustown was less than a mile away on the other side by ferry and was one of the first settlements in Prince Edward County. It was where John had previously attended school.

  A couple of years ago, the Macdonald’s had lived in Hay Bay, which was also across the water’s reach. Back then, John walked to school from Hay Bay to Adolphustown every morning and night, a distance of three miles, one way. The small, wooden schoolhouse where he attended had been built by the original settlers, the United Empire Loyalists, who had fled the American Revolution. They sacrificed everything in order to remain part of Great Britain.

  John watched the ferryman and now two other men fishing at the edge of the bay. He still didn’t see anything else. This area of Upper Canada had so many inlets it was difficult to see in a straight line. One moment, a person could see a vessel and then the next, it would be gone as it steered around a sharp corner of the bay.

  While he waited, John walked down the shoreline to Solomon Brook’s shipbuilding and repair business. He could see Solomon shaping a piece of oak as he drew closer. John eyed the half-of-a-ship being built while resting on large blocks along the sandy shore. He wondered where this new vessel might be headed. Perhaps Kingston, Montreal or even overseas to England?

  The burly, red-headed man nodded to John as he approached. There probably wasn’t a larger, stronger man in Stone Mills, except for maybe Nathaniel Pitman.

  “John, lad – how are you faring this morning?” asked Solomon. He leaned the great plank of oak he was working on against the fledgling ship. “I’m well, thank you, Mr. Brook.”

  “Waiting for your uncle, I presume?”

  “How did you know?”

  Solomon used his forearm to wipe his face. “It’s not hard to figure out what goes on in a village this size, lad” he laughed. “The colonel’s a good man. I’ve met him a couple of times.”

  “He’s coming with Cornelius,” John said. “Maybe he had a delayed load.”

  Solomon scoffed. “Cornelius Larue has always been delayed. I can’t understand why your uncle would travel with that character – a man of his stature deserves better.”

  John grinned. “The colonel likes to help people out – he likely wanted to give Cornelius the extra work.”

  “Sure,” said Solomon, “as long as the poor colonel doesn’t have to pay with his life. He’s a braver man than me.”

  Cornelius’ bateau was a thirty-footer, pointed at both ends. It was larger than the local ferryman’s, but was on the older side. For years Solomon had been trying to sell Cornelius a new one.

  The boat was a common sight between Stone Mills and Kingston, as he made his living moving goods from place to place in what was becoming a busy trade area. Bateau operators like Cornelius made it possible for businesses like the Macdonald’s mill to find a market for its flour. Hugh Macdonald sold most of his flour into the larger Kingston and Montreal markets. And it was also how finished goods like sugar, spices and cloth came to tiny Stone Mills.

  Even though there was a rough road called the ‘Danforth’ which crept along Lake Ontario between Kingston and Ancaster, people still preferred travel by water given the torturous quality of the road. The waterways, lakes, rivers and inlets provided reliable fourseason roads and became pathways for people and goods in everything from canoes, skiffs, scows and bateaux.

  “Did you hear about Anson Rightmyer?” asked Solomon.

  John shook his head. He knew of Mr. Rightmyer, a farmer on top of Lake on the Mountain. Whenever John saw him at the mill he couldn’t help but stare at the man’s four-fingered hand, even though he knew it was rude.

  “Looks like he disappeared. He was supposed to help the Goslin’s with their crop, since they were taking turns helping each other out – you know how it works,” he said.

  John nodded. Farming wasn’t an easy life and neighbours always helped each other at harvest time.

  “He better not have skipped town, that’s all I can say,” said Solomon. “Why would he do that?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t be spreading this around, but the man owed me a crop share for some work I helped him with. I’m still waiting for it, and now he’s disappeared. Hmmph,” added Solomon.

  “It hasn’t been too long, though, right?” asked John. “Maybe he went hunting?”

  “Yeah, likely he got lost somewhere while hunting, more like it. That man hasn’t been right in the head since Mary Ann died anyway.”

  John didn’t know what to think about Mr. Rightmyer’s state of mind. He barely knew the man.

  “Well, look along there, lad. That’s them now,” said Solomon, scratching his red beard and nodding at the bay. “I’m surprised they’re still afloat.”

  John followed Solomon’s gaze out onto the bay. Having rounded an inlet, the bateau was now visible. Cornelius, lanky, with blonde, dishevelled hair, was only partly visible to John’s line of sight. That’s because his uncle was standing on the bow of the small bateau as if his were the lead ship in a great armada in some grand military manoeuvre. John waved and danced around.

  ***

  He moved unseen and unheard. Among the thick shrubs and long grass, Darius Marshall watched the open water of the Bay of Quinte from his elevated hiding place.

  As he scrutinized the great bay, he stole glances toward the general store. Darius couldn’t help but picture Hannah Pringle. She was so different from Sophia, and he thanked his lucky stars for that. Hannah would never run off with another man. His face darkened. Least of all a member of the Family Compact.

  Darius squinted. He could see a bateau approaching on the open water. Normally this was not surprising. Stone Mills had its fair share of visitors and traders. But this time, the approaching vessel concerned him. He took cover to watch until the bateau grew closer. His keen eyes spotted a smudge of red in the flat-bottomed boat. British red. The colour of oppression. The colour he had voluntarily fought against as a member of the U.S. army, earning his reputation under Colonel Richard Johnson as a mounted rifleman. He remembered the clash of bayonets along the Thames River, east of Detroit, against the 41st Regiment of Foot.

  The Brits had surrendered there with their Indian allies as they would in the near future once
his own plan was complete. The biggest mistake his country had ever made was signing the Treaty of Ghent to end the War of 1812. They had given up too soon. They had not committed to the war the way he had personally committed to it.

  He was grateful to have the support of some of the top men from his old unit here in the village. They trusted him completely – even his eccentric approaches to battle.

  The bateau drew nearer and he began to recognize the small vessel and its operator, Cornelius Larue. But the red uniform moved to the front of the bateau and perched there, like a bloated hawk. Yes, he was a Brit all right. An officer of some kind. But he looked old. Washed up. Probably should be retired if he’s not already. Odd – but not a threat.

  A movement caught his eye. He could see the burly red-headed shipbuilder. But it was the young Macdonald boy on shore who was moving, jumping up and down and waving warmly to the Brit as if he knew him well. Perhaps he was even a relative.

  Too bad. He knew the Macdonald’s were Brits but he didn’t know their connection to the British military. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. He would have to consider them all hostile now. People like the Macdonald’s didn’t know what democracy looked like. Living like this, under foreign rule, they were a malignant presence.

  He wondered what President Adams would say once he handed him Stone Mills, the perfect point from which to lead troops to Kingston and York. He wondered if Hannah would marry him for the great man that he was about to become.

  Chapter 8

  Macpherson

  As the bateau drew closer, Lieutenant Colonel Donald Macpherson’s posture heightened. He was wearing his full British military uniform, his own eccentricity considering he was a retired officer. John remembered his father saying the colonel was the kind of person who could never really retire. He saluted John in mock greeting while standing on the bow. John smartly saluted back the way his uncle had taught him years ago. Cornelius Larue didn’t operate the largest bateau in the Bay of Quinte-Kingston area but he rarely had an empty one, either. It was partly thanks to his reasonable rates but also because of his personality. He had the kind of intelligence that worked well in dealing with people, even though he had little formal schooling. Cornelius plied his trade along Lake Ontario and its many bays, carrying goods back and forth between Kingston and the small communities to the west. The bateau – which he had dubbed Morning Bloom – shifted abruptly and the officer lost his stance. Cornelius, slope-shouldered and wiry, gripped the long pole used in the operation of the bateau and suppressed a smile.

  “Can you handle this no-good, floating death trap?” asked the colonel. He was red-faced at having lost his regal stance.

  “My apologies, Colonel,” said Cornelius. He hopped out of the boat onto the shore. The boatman dragged one foot behind him, leaving single footprints and a streak of sand. Despite his pronounced limp, he could move quickly.

  “Do you need any help, Mr. Larue?” asked John.

  “No, no thank you, John.” As he moved to tie up his boat he caught John looking at his leg.

  “This old thing? Not too graceful on land, is it?” he said, patting his leg. It’s probably why I prefer the open water, where a man’s legs don’t matter much.”

  John smiled. The colonel grumbled as he warily climbed out.

  “That’s better – land. Not so many variables now.” John approached the colonel and shook his uncle’s hand. “It’s good to see you sir,” said John. “How is everything in Kingston?”

  “All the duller without your company, but otherwise just fine my boy.” John laughed. As he studied the colonel’s face he decided his father was probably right. This was no ordinary visit.

  Solomon Brook approached, wiping off wood shavings from his shirt. John noticed that he carried a paper in one hand. He shook the colonel’s hand and exchanged pleasantries. John surmised that working along the bay ensured Solomon got to know most everyone who arrived by water. The shipbuilder handed the colonel the paper, then wandered over to Cornelius’ bateau and knocked on the wood. “Cornelius – I see you’re still using this tiny death-trap with its leaky planks.”

  “It’s not tiny, it’s manoeuvrable,” said Cornelius, patting the boat like a child while he secured it. “And she has a name, you know – it’s Morning Bloom. Or you may simply call her The Bloom if you’d like.”

  “The shipbuilder in me thinks of her more as The Doom,” said Solomon.

  Cornelius sighed while John smothered a smirk. “I’m surprised you sell any ships with your personality,” said the bateau operator.

  “I’m surprised you’re not my best customer,” said Solomon. “My men can build you something that will last a lifetime, if you should change your mind.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Cornelius, “although she shows no signs of fatigue.” He banged on the boat to demonstrate and a splinter of wood flew off and stuck to Solomon’s shirt.

  “Here,” said Solomon, handing it back to him. “You might need this to get back home.” Cornelius mumbled something under his breath. Solomon turned his attention toward the British officer, who was absorbed in the news sheet. “The latest one just appeared a couple of days ago.”

  John realized the shipbuilder had handed the colonel a copy of The Stone Mills Reformer, the news sheet his father had been talking about earlier. Colonel Macpherson shook his head as he read the headlines.

  “John, my boy, you better let me get settled in,” said the colonel. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter 9

  The Lake Serpent

  Deep into the forest John, George and Lou wandered, as brooding elms extended their arms to slow their progress. Pulling branches aside, John stopped and listened. Only the deceiving sounds of crickets filled the evening air and he paid them little heed. “Well, do you see anything?” John asked. George looked around. “Yes, oui my friend.” “What?”

  “Trees – lots of trees,” said George. He tried to suppress a smile and John slugged him in the arm. “Ow!”

  “Don’t hit George,” said Lou. She tried to pat his head but George shrunk away.

  John squatted and unrolled the treasure map again. The colonel was now settled in and John had gone back to the mill to help his father for the rest of the afternoon. But he was now free and supper with the colonel wouldn’t be until later in the evening. John regretted that Lou had to be included. Little sisters were so intrusive.

  “Let’s look again. I thought that perhaps this large tree stump here is near the treasure,” said John.

  George scowled. “You think that is a tree stump? I thought it was the stone pile where we made that hideout up by the lake,” he said, squinting at the sketches on the map.

  John sighed. “No wonder Mr. Thacker had so much trouble.” He stood suddenly. “Let’s head for the stone pile, then. We’re halfway there anyway.”

  A few minutes later, out of breath from their climb, the three sat at the edge of Lake on the Mountain. The large pile of stones sat in silence on the north side of the lake. Settlers had stacked the rocks when they had cleared their fields years ago. From where they sat, they could see fields on either side and Nathaniel Pitman’s saw mill on their left, to the south. But as John looked at the mound of stones there was no obvious place on top of the mountain where someone would have left treasure.

  “I just realized there’s one problem with your stonepile theory,” said John. “The French admiral who drew this map did it in...what...1759, according to Mr. Thacker. That’s sixty-nine years ago! Probably a lot on the mountain has changed.”

  George looked at him and then it hit him too. “These stones weren’t here sixty-nine years ago!”

  “Exactly,” said John. “Or at least they weren’t all in one pile like this – they were all over the fields before the farmers cleared them.”

  They looked out
onto the quiet lake, where deep shadows were already thrown across its edges as the sun dropped further in the sky.

  “Do you think we’ll see what Whisky Wilson saw, John?” asked Lou.

  John shrugged. “I’d love for the Mohawk legends to be true.”

  “Well, Monsieur Wilson said he saw a strange shape in the lake,” said George.

  “Whisky Wilson,” said John.

  “That’s rude,” said Lou.

  “It’s true,” said John.

  “Still rude.”

  “Still true.”

  George sighed. John shrugged and leaned in to speak more quietly. “All I’m saying is that you can’t put much faith in what a drinker says.”

  John selected a small, smooth stone and executed a four-bounce skip across the lake.

  “Why do you think your uncle is here?” George asked, switching topics.

  “Partly that news sheet,” said John. “I think they’re worried that those kinds of attitudes about the govern ment will reach Kingston.”

  Squatting low for his next throw, John miscalculated and plunged it into the evening water on first contact. “Also,” John added, “I know the colonel is upset Father ever left Kingston. They always argue about that.”

  “Why would he care?” asked George, raising a bushy eyebrow.

  “He hasn’t exactly made it a secret that he believes Father made a mistake leaving Kingston years ago,” said John. “He thinks he should have made a better go of it in ‘civilization’ as he calls it. And never mind repeating any of this, Lou, or I won’t bring you up here anymore.”

  Lou stuck her tongue out at John and then quickly retreated when John glared at her. She smiled sweetly at George who ignored her and fingered a smooth stone he found. “My parents sometimes miss Montreal,” he conceded. “Running a farm is a lot…different here,” said George, searching for the right word in English.