“Hannah,” Darius said. He sounded less hostile than he had a moment ago. “Now there’s a woman who would understand all of this.”
He paused as if deep in thought. In the encroaching shadows, John thought he saw calm on Darius’ face and wondered if he was having a change of heart. He motioned all of the soldiers to gather around him, except for one. The lone, American soldier kept his gun pointed at Nathaniel who stood only a few feet away.
John strained to hear as the other seven soldiers leaned on their rifles and listened to Darius.
“Round up all of the villagers, except Hannah,” Darius said. “Tonight we rid ourselves of those who stand in the way of freedom.”
The men nodded. “I didn’t think this would work,” said one. Darius placed his hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to show the Brits how to run a country, if it’s the last thing…”
Before Darius could finish, men with long guns swarmed over the ridge of the mountain. They raised their rifles at the American soldiers. John felt a surge of excitement.
A platoon of British soldiers!
“Put down your weapons!” yelled one. “Now!” ordered another. The last man to appear, wearing his signature red coat, was Lieutenant Colonel Macpherson. The American soldiers realized they were outnumbered and outflanked by the British soldiers. All of the U.S. soldiers except for the one guarding Nathaniel, John, Moll and Lou quickly surrendered their weapons. “Colonel Macpherson!” John beamed.
Before one of the colonel’s soldiers could take action on the remaining U.S. soldier, the armed American swung his rifle toward the line of British infantrymen.
Chapter 23
Of Monsters and Men
Before the American gunman’s rifle could go off, a British soldier aimed and fired. The American grabbed the top of his shoulder where he had been grazed and fell to his knees. He looked up with a snarl and reached for his fallen weapon. Before he could pick it up, the massive boot of Nathaniel Pitman crushed his hand.
“Ahhhh!” The soldier’s scream was louder than when the bullet had hit him. Nathaniel reached down, snatched the rifle up, and handed it to the colonel.
Darius, strands of dark hair hanging about one side of his face, smiled in fierce spasms. “You’re too late, old man.” He turned to the colonel and grinned through blood-stained teeth.
“The word has already gone out. Soon this ghost village will be overrun by American soldiers.” He laughed and spit a wad of blood in front of the colonel’s feet.
The retired officer moved his moustache with his lips and stared down at Darius without flinching. “I assume you’re referring to the schooner you had waiting off Waupoos Island, on its way to Oswego?” John watched Darius’ face fall.
“It was intercepted about thirty miles from shore by a British sloop. Its small crew was taken prisoner. Just like you will be.”
Darius wilted further and fell silent. The colonel made sure John, Moll, Lou and George were safe and thanked Nathaniel for his intervention. He explained that their parents were staying at home until the area was secured. John told his uncle about the lake creature and how it had been an artificial creation of Darius Marshall’s to scare people away.
“But what I don’t understand is why would someone from here want to scare people away so American soldiers could attack?”
“He’s not from here,” said the colonel. “He’s an American citizen – from Kentucky – a decorated exsoldier who fought for the U.S. in the War of 1812. But he’s been on the run from the U.S. army ever since he shot and killed four British soldiers long after the Treaty of Ghent was signed. He never let go of the war and wasn’t following orders – not the mark of a good soldier, to say the least. But we knew he might still command loyalty of some of the men from his unit.”
“You told us we were working for President Adams!” said one of the American soldiers. “On a covert mission,” he added, straining against the arms of the two British soldiers who held him.
The colonel scoffed. “President Adams wouldn’t know him unless he was looking at a list of vigilantes.” Darius flipped his thinning, brown hair back that hung in front of his eyes. “My country lost sight of what was important. When President Madison was in power, during the war, he would have understood.”
The colonel wiped his brow and as John watched him he wondered how difficult this mission had been for his aging uncle to endure. “How did you know who he really was?” asked John.
“We didn’t have a description so it took me awhile to piece it together,” said his uncle. “It was a lot of discussions with neighbours. But once I learned the backgrounds of people here and stacked it up with pieces I learned from the U.S. government, it began to add up. The lake serpent threw me off. But learning from the U.S. that he was a renowned strategist and considered unorthodox in his battle methods… well, I wondered if they were connected.”
Darius spoke. “This whole continent should have been American by now. Only the British could have created this place in their arrogant, insufferable way.”
John watched his uncle give a lopsided grin. “You can pretend it’s all politics,” said the colonel, “but a lot of this was personal, too. Meaning your wife, of course.”
Darius raised his head. “We came here to make a new life,” he said in a whisper.
Moll looked at the colonel, confused. “Both of them came to Upper Canada?”
Her uncle nodded. “He and his wife, Sophia, learned to hide their accents well. They adapted – had to, since they fled to York once the U.S. Army came after him.” Darius spoke to the ground. “Only six months here and Sophia was already being taken from me by the Family Compact. By Edgar.” He looked up. “Do you see? The Tories took that away. They took Sophia away from me.”
“You can’t blame your failed marriage on the Tories,” said the colonel.
“And then I realized,” said Darius, “that the Family Compact took everything away from everyone. I realized it wasn’t about me. That I had to set the people here free.”
“I find it interesting that a man headed to prison is making a speech about freedom,” said the colonel.
Darius’ etched smile faded some as he studied his feet. Then he looked at the colonel. “Reformers are not alone, old man. There are people – like Mackenzie – who will carry on. You’ll see – change is coming.”
“Why does change have to happen all at once?” asked John. “Just because I’m a British subject – and I’ll die a British subject some day – doesn’t mean we can’t grow. Not everything happens overnight.” Darius shook his head. “I did the right thing.” “If you really want to do the right thing, you’ll tell them where Mr. Rightmyer and Constable Ogden are,” said John.
A soft, female voice rose from the edge of the lake. “Darius?”
Everyone turned and saw the slender outline of Hannah Pringle. The moon had risen above the tree line, cutting shards of light across her anxious face. “You’re responsible for all of this?”
“Hannah…” the ex-soldier began. His eyes softened as hers hardened.
“I believed in you…believed in what you stood for,” she said. “But I didn’t know you were capable of this.” She dabbed at her eyes with a white cloth.
“Did you believe in him enough to create The Stone Mills Reformer?” asked Moll. All eyes turned to Moll. “I saw her the other day with ink on her neck. I wasn’t sure that it was ink at the time. Then later I realized she was likely the only one in the village, other than farmers, who had the space to hold a printing press,” she said, referring to her large, back shed.
Hannah gave a shrug and a weak smile. “That old printing press...I figured it would be a good way to help along the reform effort. Reformers aren’t popular though now, are they? Thought I’d best keep that to myself. When you startled me that day out back,” she said to Mol
l, “I wondered if you’d figure it out.”
“It was you?” asked Darius. “You mean you did that for me?”
Hannah didn’t answer. Instead she turned and watched the small, lapping lake a few feet to her right. At the edge of the water, the broken creature’s neck washed ashore at her feet.
“I suppose I did do it for you. Of course, I didn’t know you were a monster – did I?”
***
The next morning word travelled like it always does. From family to family, friend to friend, business to business and every other possible combination of folks passing on the news. Stone Mills was back to normal, according to the official and unofficial word.
Anson Rightmyer and Constable Ogden were rescued from Darius Marshall’s hidden cabin, shaken but alive. Lieutenant Colonel Macpherson had gone back to Kingston the same night, with all the British soldiers and his nine, American prisoners in tow. Before he left he had quickly dropped off an injured sparrow they had found inside the cabin for Moll and Lou to look after.
Many people had approached John, George, Moll and Lou to thank them, congratulate them and to get them to retell the entire story. John was usually the one who took over at this part. It was George’s observation that John’s serpent in the story kept getting larger with every retelling, but few seemed to notice or mind.
Around the supper table that night, the talk was still about the events of the previous evening. But there was something John still didn’t understand. “So the colonel didn’t come because of the news sheet at all?” he asked his mother and father.
Helen shook her head while she sliced a loaf of bread. “I guess that was only an interesting coincidence. Who knew it could be Hannah Pringle involved in that?”
“Even though Donald’s retired I have to admit he knows this area well,” said Hugh. “I wondered how the other British soldiers got here. Turns out he spoke to the Kingston garrison commander who agreed to dispatch soldiers to the area to respond to any conflict if the colonel required. They were close enough to get here in time, but not so close to alert suspicion.”
“And Darius Marshall wasn’t even his real name?” asked Moll. “That’s what the colonel said when we left the top of the mountain last night.”
“Sure, he would have dropped his real name in order to hide out for as long as he did,” said Hugh. “Who knows what his real name is? Doesn’t matter much now – he’ll either be in jail for life or more likely be hanged back in the U.S.” John swallowed and exchanged glances with Moll and Lou.
By the time the day was over, John felt happy to crawl into his bed and blow out his oil lamp. He pulled his sheet up to his neck just as he heard a light rap at his door. “Come in,” said John.
His mother stood in his bedroom doorway holding one of the lit candles she and Moll often made together. Her great shadow behind her flickered and filled his room. “That was a courageous thing you did, going after your sister,” said Helen. “I know I wasn’t happy at first, with you taking off like that. But it was a brave thing.”
“Lou was the brave one,” said John. “She wanted to see for herself, whether or not there was a creature in the lake.” He paused. “I just didn’t want…”
“You didn’t want what?” Helen urged.
“I didn’t want to lose her in such a terrible way. Like James,” said John.
John watched his mother’s eyes well up. She reached out with her free hand and steadied the one that held the lit candle.
“One day…well, you just mark my words, John Macdonald. You’ll make more than an ordinary man.”
Chapter 24
A Matter of Perspective
John couldn’t believe it had only been three days since the man known as Darius Marshall was arrested and jailed in Kingston awaiting his trial. Stone Mills had returned to life. For three, straight days, there was a steady trickle of families moving back into the village, below and above the mountain, ready to start again.
He knew Hannah Pringle was devastated about the outcome. His mother had gone to the store more often than she needed to check up on her. While most people were displeased that she had supported the cause of reform, Helen had told her son she ran the only general store in town and would survive the extra scrutiny.
John and George exited the flour mill where they had been working and turned toward the forested mountain. They had helped Hugh Macdonald all morning at the mill and John had successfully negotiated some time off to spend with George. After all, in two days he would be headed back to Kingston with Cornelius for the fall and long winter.
Before they could disappear into the woods, John heard his name being called. He turned to see Anson Rightmyer and Constable Charles Ogden making their way toward them from the centre of the village. It was the first time John had seen them since he was told they had been found safe in the American vigilante’s cabin. “John Macdonald, I hope Anson and I aren’t keeping you from something important,” said the constable. The top of his bald head was wet with perspiration as he ambled over. Anson Rightmyer looked skinnier than usual, but wore a content smile.
“Not at all, it’s really great to see you both,” said John. Everyone shook hands and John felt his eyes drawn to the slim, farmer’s hand with the missing finger. John mentally kicked himself for sneaking a look.
“We can’t thank you enough for what you did up by the lake. Anson, here, he got the worst of those soldiers,” said Constable Ogden. “Of course, he was there longer, too.”
The lanky farmer looked at the ground and shrugged. “It wasn’t something I’d wish on anyone, that’s for sure,” said Anson. “But we’re both sure grateful for the way you and George – well, the whole Macdonald family, helped us out. Especially your uncle, of course.”
Constable Ogden wiped his head with his palm. “When we saw those British soldiers enter the cabin, after all those days stuck in there…it’s hard to describe how good that felt. I’ll go back to finding stray horses any day of the week after that much excitement.”
John and George laughed. They said their goodbyes and both men moved on toward the mill and John guessed they were going to see his father. Knowing his father, John figured they might be awhile as every detail was talked about.
They made their way into the forest behind the mill and John pulled out the treasure map. The two discussed possibilities, chatting excitedly. John led the way for twenty minutes as they walked around the forest. But nothing seemed to match the map’s lines.
“This way,” said George, pointing to a spot on the map and then at a large oak tree. “Could that tree be this line here?” he asked, pointing to the map.
John sighed and let George lead him to the oak tree. He looked around, looked at the map again, and then finally turned around and slumped against the oak. George joined him, letting his back slide down. The mid-day, August sun perforated the tree’s branches, creating laces of light on their arms.
“I don’t think this tree is the place, George. But I just can’t shake the feeling that the treasure is near here somewhere. The French admiral, who Jeremiah Thacker said he saw as a kid, was just down there along the water’s edge,” John said. He imagined the dying admiral on the shoreline and tried to picture Mr. Thacker as a boy not much older than himself.
“Oui, but that does not mean the treasure was near here. Maybe the admiral just got back from somewhere else and that is where he happened to collapse,” said George.
“Maybe. I just have a sense it’s nearby, otherwise he would have given him another clue as to where to start looking.
“Unless he could not say it because he was dying.” John sighed again. “It would help if I hadn’t soaked this map when I fell into the lake,” said John, disgusted. He tossed the map to the ground a few feet away and rubbed his eyes. When his vision cleared he stared at the upside down map. “No…could it be?” Li
ke a slingshot John left the sturdy oak and picked up the map, holding it upside down as he had just viewed it. “What?” asked George.
“Look at this. We keep thinking these lines coming down right here,” he said, pointing, “was the way he hastily drew trees. What if these aren’t trees at all. What if this is a waterfall?”
John felt a surge of excitement. Between the new perspective he was taking as he looked at the map, and the slightly smeared lines, it gave everything a fresh look.
George frowned. “You mean the waterfall behind the flour mill? But that does not look like the waterfall at all. The falls are long and narrow. This is far too wide.”
“Yes, but this was drawn sixty-nine years ago, before the falls were diverted for the mills. Old timers will tell you the falls used to be wider and more powerful!”
George stuck his face closer to the map. “Okay, mon ami, but how do you explain this? If these are not trees, the arrows point into the falls, then. How can that be? There is nothing but rocks behind the waterfall. You can even see them sticking out.”
John nodded. “I know. It’s odd.” He chewed his lip. “Come on.”
“And,” continued George chasing after him, “if the falls were wide like that sixty-nine years ago, why did Monsieur Thacker not look there?”
“Maybe he never thought this looked liked a waterfall? I didn’t either, until I noticed the map upside down. Then it seemed like those lines might look like moving water.”
As they moved diagonally up the mountain, George reached out for a thick tree root to help anchor himself. Before he could react, a hand grabbed George’s wrist.
A heavyset boy emerged from behind a maple tree.
“Gotcha,” said a familiar voice.
“John!” George shouted.
The Legends of Lake on the Mountain Page 11
