John didn’t say anything but he wondered how difficult it could be when the Cloutier’s had several farm workers to help them out. They were country squires from Montreal, looking to have a quieter lifestyle in the Stone Mills area.
John instinctively felt his inside vest pocket now and then to make sure the bulge of map was still there. Looking over at the looming saw mill, he turned to George. “Let’s go around to the other side of the lake. This is where we were before when Mr. Pitman came up beside us.”
George whirled around. “Not the tree!” George said. “Yes, of course the tree,” said John.
Lou smiled at George. “I’ll look after you, George.”
“Stop saying that! Now why must we go to the tree?” George asked.
There was one tree on the lake that was an obvious favourite for young people who liked a bit of risk and danger. John knew George Cloutier was not one of those young people, but he would drag him there nonetheless.
“Come on, George – you don’t have to actually be on the tree. Follow me.”
A twisted oak, magnificent in size, arced over the water at an impossible angle. It was so bent and half uprooted that it allowed someone to climb far out onto the lake with an impressive number of tributary branches, too. As they walked along, John realized he wasn’t seeing anything specific related to the map, as far as he could tell. He stopped abruptly.
“Do you hear something?”
“No – what is it?” asked Lou.
“I don’t know.” He looked behind them. “I thought I heard footsteps.”
John shrugged and they kept going. Sullen oak and maple trees competed with one another for space in a wide circle around the mysterious lake. Twilight had just begun to purple the lake and forest around it, creating an eerie sheen. Even though the days were longer now, the area around Lake on the Mountain was heavily treed and sheltered which muted the light. Now and then a clearing appeared where a farmer had painstakingly sawed trees and dug enough stumps to create lake access.
Arriving at the great oak, John balanced his way out over the lake beginning with its misshapen trunk. Lou followed closely behind while George stood at the base of the tree and folded his arms across his chest.
“Come on, George,” said John without turning around. He knew his friend was waiting to be convinced. “Just a little ways out – the view is much better.”
George kicked at a stone and watched it plunk in the water. “Fine. But not for long, right?”
“Of course not,” said John.
They could see deep shadows further out, where the sprawling branches created a natural canopy over the water. George was nearly as far out as John and Lou.
“Be careful, John – you nearly slipped,” said George. “If you drown you will just ruin the whole summer – do you not you remember the terrible drowning?”
John rolled his eyes. “No – and neither do you, George. It was before our time.”
The tragedy happened where the Macdonald’s had formerly lived, near Adolphustown across the water’s reach. On August 29, 1819, ten years ago, eighteen people – most of them youth – had set out in a boat to attend church at the old Adolphustown Methodist Church. They had to cross Hay Bay from the west, about a mile-and-a-half wide on a clear morning.
When the boat started leaking, many people panicked which caused the boat to capsize. Only those people who could swim well or had the sense enough to hold onto the edge of the boat survived. Ten of the eighteen drowned. It was a local tragedy that everyone knew. Parents used it to warn their children to be careful near the water – like choosing not to walk on a bent tree hanging over a deep lake, for instance. “Let’s all sing the song,” said Lou.
“No – not that dreadful song!” said George.
Most houses in the district still had copies of a song one of the pastors had written to remember the tragic day. Ignoring George, Lou picked out a verse.
“The boat being leaky, the water came in To bale with their hats, they too late did begin.
They looked at each other and began for to weep.
The boat filled with water and sank in the deep.”
“Hush up now, Lou,” said John. He slowed and then came to a stop. Lou swayed but righted herself before crashing into John. George barely stopped in time before hitting Lou.
“What’s going on?” asked George.
“Why did you stop?” asked Lou.
John squinted in the shadows where the long tree branches hung in the water, a natural haven for fish and fishermen. “I thought I saw something in the lake.” George peered around their shoulders. “You are just kidding me, right? If you are joking, tell me now.”
John resumed his careful movement along the bent oak. “Are you still worried about lake monsters?” asked John. “I told you it’s Whisky Wilson’s drinking and… Lou – stop shaking the tree!”
“It’s not me!”
Raucous, familiar laughter prompted John to look back near the base of the tree. Owen Boggart.
The hefty boy was shoving the tree as hard as he could at its base, making it difficult for the three to keep their balance. Not getting the result he was after, Owen edged his way closer up the length of the tree and began stomping with his full weight.
“Three of you at once – too good to be true,” said Owen. He snickered and wheezed at the same time. It was all John, George and Lou could do to hang on. As Owen looked up again to see if he was getting close to toppling them, John noticed the boy’s pieshaped face had quickly drained of all colour. Owen hastily turned around, jumped from the tree, and fled. It was this last action – his weight leaving the tree so suddenly – that caused George to tumble over the side. John reached over Lou to try and grab him and then fell off the tree himself. Lou crouched down and hung on, avoiding them both.
Crying out the two boys hit the surface of the water at the same time. John surfaced first, sputtering and grasping one of the aged oak’s drooping branches. As he held on, George broke through the lake water near him and John extended his hand. George grabbed it as John helped him kick his way to his own nearby branch. Lou’s laughter could be heard above. “John, if you drown do I get your room?”
“Not funny Lou! Just...oh no, the map!” John thrust his hand inside his inside vest pocket and held the map, which was wrapped in cloth, above the water. “Take it, Lou. Unwrap it and dry it on your dress, hurry!”
Lou bent down to take the map. She swiftly unwrapped the dripping cloth and pat-dried the old paper on the frill of her dress. “It’s just a little smeared – but I think it’s okay!”
“Good,” said John. “What happened, anyway?”
“We fell,” said George, still gasping.
“We didn’t,” said John, also breathing hard while floating in the cool lake. “You did and then I tried to save you and that made me fall!”
“But – ”
“Never mind that,” John said, “why did Owen leave so fast?”
“I don’t know. I saw him look that way and…” George looked over John’s shoulder, out into the lake. “What…what is that?” George began.
John’s eyes adjusted and stared out toward the middle of the water. The sun was low and the shadows were thick. But in the subdued light of the lake there was no mistaking it. A huge, curved hump emerged from the water. As it moved the hump dipped below the surface of the lake. In its place, a long serpent-like neck emerged. The creature was swimming toward them. “Go! Go!” John yelled.
Both boys sloshed and swam their way to the shore while Lou moved as quickly as possible down the oak toward its base. John chanced a look behind him, even as he arrived on shore. The long neck of the creature bent down, completely submerging in water. As it did, a hump rose up behind it at the same time. It was still coming.
“Faster!” yel
led John.
“Come on, hurry!” yelled Lou who had already made it to shore.
As John and George reached land they looked back. The lake creature had also changed direction. It turned, as if to follow the boys. It moved toward them in the water while John, George and Lou ran on land.
With firm land beneath their feet, the three of them blurred across the edge of the lake until they reached the lip of the mountain. Without a backward glance, they slipped over the great forested hill in descent.
Chapter 10
The Admiral
September 22, 1759
(69 years ago)
The French admiral stood straight as an arrow on the bow of his ship, peering onto the shoreline of Lake Ontario. Now, just as the day’s light ascended, was when he felt most at home on his vessel. His men knew to leave him alone while he gathered his thoughts. Usually he would make his way to his cabin now to write. But not this evening. He did not want to lose the setting before him. The admiral sat down and picked up his quill and began to write.
Dear Annette,
I am sorry for this distance between letters, but circumstances have intervened more than once.
The British choke off our trading channels at every opportunity. It is a maddening war. I told you in an earlier letter that we lost Fort Niagara this summer to the British and abandoned Fort Rouillé at Toronto.
A few weeks ago, in port, I was made an admiral. There was little formality, not like it would have been in France, had I been home. I would like to think of this as a show of confidence and yet I know how many men we have lost to battle, disease and despair. I fear I am but the latest choice and I have no illusions about being divinely different from those who have come before me. However, I do harbour hope that I shall outlast this war and be with you soon.
How lovely the land is here! As I write this, we have been lying low along the shore of Lake Ontario between Kingston and York in a land of bays the British have dubbed Prince Edward County. For now, I have directed most of the fleet further into Lake Ontario while we explore here.
I have a French map created just two years ago and it has been some help. Although, realistically, this is Indian country after all, no matter what either we or the British say.
I am astonished by the bay we have sailed into.
Rising up before me as I pen these words is a magnificent hill, heavily wooded and green with promise. From the hill, a wide waterfall careens over the side and makes its way to the bay down a crooked stream.
For the moment, we are in a holding position and I feel that I must explore it, provided it appears safe to do so. I do not think the British have any real numbers of men here. As much as I love the open water, it will be good to feel the land beneath my feet for awhile.
I think of you often and I hope each day that I will be home with you soon.
With all my love,
Joseph Fortin
Chapter 11
Devil’s Lake
Supper was awkward. Before splitting up to go home, John, George and Lou had agreed to remain silent about what they had seen. Instead, John had said they had simply fallen in the lake after having gotten into a good natured shoving match with one another. John took the mild scolding compared to the alternative of being banned from the lake.
But why would he ever want to go back anyway? He tried to focus on dinner. What he had seen less than an hour ago would not leave his mind. Anxious sweat trickled down his right temple and he brushed it away. He tried to tune in to the conversation.
“How are you faring these days?” asked Helen.
“Oh, the ague knocks me down sometimes,” said the colonel, “but I just keep getting up again.” “What’s ague?” asked Lou.
“Chills and sometimes fever,” said Helen. “I imagine it’s not pleasant.”
The colonel waved his hand to dismiss any more talk about his health. “Never mind me. Kingston’s in a fine mess right now.”
Helen nodded. “It’s the typhoid, isn’t it? We heard from Cornelius.”
He nodded grimly. “Seems like it’s everywhere. So far we’ve been untouched. I’m glad to see you’re all doing well here.”
John knew typhoid was a terrible disease, which often began with high fevers and diarrhoea so severe it often resulted in death.
“How’s Allan these days?” Helen asked, referring to the colonel’s grown son.
Colonel Macpherson shook his head in disbelief. “You know Allan – he’s the social point for the whole clan up there in Napanee – ever since he built that big home. He’s doing mighty well for himself.”
A long silence occurred and John sensed they were no longer thinking about typhoid or the colonel’s son. When the colonel and Hugh Macdonald sat at the same table, supper was bound to end up being tense. They always had to get through the same conversation they had been having for years.
“How’s the flour-milling business, Hugh?” asked the colonel. He was an intimidating figure in his full uniform, sitting stiffly and cutting his last piece of venison with precision. His trim, silver moustache moved with his chewing.
“Couldn’t be better,” said Hugh. He dug into his last bite of boiled potato.
More silence. John concentrated on the three bunches of onions and herbs drying from the ceiling beams as he chewed, not fully there. He was nearly finished anyway. “You know, I don’t know why you ever left good old Kingston,” said Lieutenant Colonel Macpherson. “It has what anyone needs.”
“I remember – except for customers,” said Hugh.
“Maybe that had to do with how things were run.”
Hugh, who had changed careers several times, including as a shopkeeper in Kingston, put his fork down and looked at the colonel. Helen got up to get the teapot from the trivet on the counter, bustling more than usual as if to put distance between her and the conversation. “Why are you here, Donald?” asked Hugh. “The news sheet? There’s no printer in Stone Mills so I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
The colonel raised an eyebrow. “This goes beyond a news sheet. Other things are happening – things which I’m not at liberty to talk about. Let’s just say there’s good reason to be vigilant.”
John watched his father stab a green bean. “I’m not even saying I agree with the things we’re reading in the news, Donald, but you have to admit the Reformers have come up with a big win in the election earlier this year. There’s a clear majority of them in the Assembly now in York – including Mackenzie.”
The colonel bristled. “Poppycock. That fool won’t last, mark my words. What sort of man wants the chaos of American-style democracy?”
“The same sort who are tired of being treated unfairly, I suppose Donald,” said Hugh.
John cleared his throat. “Mrs. Pringle...er, Miss Pringle says that if the Family Compact doesn’t like a decision made by the elected Assembly, they can just overrule it. She said that’s why some people want a change. Is that true, Colonel?”
The colonel wiped his moustache. “Miss Pringle... isn’t she the widow at the general store?” John nodded.
“Well, that’s true my boy. But those rules are there for a reason. It’s a dangerous thing to let just any common man have enough power to make decisions without a sober, educated voice of reason. Sometimes the common man doesn’t always know what’s good for him.”
The colonel chewed more aggressively. “Let me be clear about William Lyon Mackenzie,” he continued. “This is the greatest fool Scotland has ever produced. In fact, I’m even sorry that he is a Scot.”
John exchanged glances with Moll. Mackenzie was considered a huge thorn in the ruling party’s side. There wasn’t a Tory alive who didn’t wish he would just disappear. Some people believed he might one day incite a rebellion if he didn’t stop.
Three years ago, M
ackenzie published a newspaper called the Colonial Advocate which talked openly about changing the way government worked and breaking up the monopoly of power the Tories held. Mackenzie even wanted to unite the British colonies, which John thought was unlikely.
John remembered hearing that Mackenzie once attacked the Tories so strongly in his newspaper that two years ago, young members of the Tories smashed his printing press. Since then, it seemed as if he was more famous than ever.
Hugh devoured another boiled potato and smiled in edgy amusement at the table talk. He allowed a brief grin at John before he looked at the colonel again.
“You know what Mackenzie says – “every free government must have two parties, a governing party and a party in check. What do you think of that Donald?”
The colonel wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You can call me Colonel.”
A shout outside caught everyone’s attention. Hugh cocked his head and partially stood. More hollering from other voices could be heard.
“What the devil…?” said Hugh. Wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, he strode to the front window and looked outside. He was followed by the colonel and Helen. John, Moll and Lou filled the viewing crevices left between the leaning, grown-ups’ bodies.
John could see Peter and Charlotte Goslin, a farming couple from the top of Lake on the Mountain. They were both speaking loudly and other men and women from the village were gathering around them.
The Macdonald’s and the colonel all rushed outside into the dusk. Nearly half the village was already there. Big Solomon Brook’s red hair and beard could be seen standing high amongst the crowd. The smiling farmer, Darius Marshall, was just walking up to the crowd and stood near Hannah Pringle. John also noticed five or six farmers he recognized from both below and above the mountain.
“What’s going on?” Hugh demanded. A chorus of voices continued to talk at once.
“Silence!” yelled the colonel. The retired officer stepped forward. The round smudge of evening sun set his uniform’s gold buttons alight. Within seconds the crowd had hushed.
The Legends of Lake on the Mountain Page 6
