“Why have you never seen your father or your other brothers?”
“My father and Silas, my oldest brother, were away fighting the rebels when I was born. Ma said my father never knew about me. He joined Butler’s Rangers before she realized she had a baby on the way.”
“So your father and two of your brothers fought for King George against George Washington. That’s something you can be proud of. What about your youngest brother?”
“His name was Moses. Oneida Indians carried him off. I was told they adopted him. That’s all I know. Ma said he was a constant thwart and torment to her. But I’d like to find him, just the same.”
“How old was he when they captured him?”
“Not quite ten.”
“He likely was a thwart and torment. Boys that age usually are. But he’s a grown man now. If you find your brothers, they’ll be more like uncles to a child like you.”
“That would be fine. I like the idea of having uncles to look out for me.”
“Nonsense. A woman should take pride in looking out for herself.” She cleared her throat. “I’d like a cup of tea. The water bucket’s inside the door. You know how to make tea, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Hope thought she could figure it out.
The tea canister stood on a shelf supported by long pegs driven into cracks between the logs. The shelf also held a teapot, several tin cups and bowls and an earthenware mixing bowl.
Next to the shelf was the fireplace. It was equipped with a spit for roasting meat and a swing-out crane with two hooks, from one of which hung a large pot. A low fire burned. Steam rose from the copper kettle that rested on the hob.
Hope felt Mrs. Block’s eyes upon her as she lifted the kettle from the hob, poured hot water into the teapot and added a handful of tea leaves.
“Stupid girl!” said Mrs. Block. “Just as I expected.”
Hope flushed. “I’m not stupid.”
“What’s that? Impertinent, too? I don’t tolerate backtalk from anyone. Now pour that mess into the slop bucket under the shelf, rinse the pot with boiling water, then put in the tea leaves. Add the water last.”
After following these directions, Hope sat down on the bunk and looked around while the tea steeped. The cabin was constructed of notched logs laid one upon the other to a height of about seven feet. The logs of the front and back walls were fully twenty feet long. Gaps between the logs were filled with clay. There was a puncheon floor of split logs laid upon the earth, flat side up. A partition that extended from the back wall halfway to the front wall created a semi-separate space that held a bed covered by a patchwork quilt. Under this bed nestled a small trundle bed.
Having completed her inspection, Hope asked, “Do you think the tea is ready?”
“It should be. Pour me a cup. You’ll have to help me hold it.”
When Hope had poured the tea, she placed the cup in Mrs. Block’s hand, and then cupped her own hand around the old woman’s bony fingers. Together they raised the cup to Mrs. Block’s lips. When she nodded, Hope concluded that the tea was satisfactory.
Mrs. Block had finished her tea when her son came in carrying a pail of milk.
“Have you ever drunk fresh milk straight from the cow?” he asked Hope.
“No, sir.”
“Try it. Tomorrow the cow goes to the Andersons. Enjoy the benefit while you can.”
She took a cup from the shelf and scooped up enough milk to fill it.
“Thank you, Mr. Block.”
“Call him Ephraim,” snapped his mother. “My late husband was Mr. Block. We don’t want any confusion.”
Hope didn’t see what confusion there could be, since the original Mr. Block was no longer of this world.
A pained expression crossed the younger Mr. Block’s—Ephraim’s—face. Hope had the feeling that he did not enjoy his demotion. He continued speaking as if he had not heard. “That cow is the reason we’re still alive. Three years ago, in 1788—they call that the Hungry Year—Bossy’s milk was the only thing that kept us from starvation.”
“We Loyalists came here with nothing,” Mrs. Block said bitterly. “Because we opposed the Revolution, our own neighbours turned against us and drove us from our homes. And how did Britain reward us for our loyalty? She gave us a tract of wilderness to clear, a few tools and half a cow.”
Hope raised her head. “What do you mean, ‘half a cow?’”
Ephraim explained, “My mother means one cow for every two families. Britain also supplied the Loyalist refugees with rations for three years. After that, we were expected to raise our own food.” He gave a humourless laugh. “As if three years were long enough to clear the forest, dig out the rocks, plow fields and start producing crops. Yes, we owe our lives to Bossy.”
As Hope listened, she sipped the milk. “It’s very good.” She licked her lips to catch every drop.
“Enjoy it while you can,” said Ephraim. “Tomorrow the cow goes to the Andersons. It’s their turn to have her. The Andersons’ land is next to ours.”
“Is that where I saw a boy splitting logs?”
“Yes. Adam. He’s the oldest. They have eleven children.”
“Twelve,” his mother corrected him.
“What’s one more or less?” He shrugged. “We’ve a road half made to connect their place and ours. You can drive the cow there tomorrow. They keep the cow for five days and then bring her back to us for two days. We’ve worked out this arrangement because the Andersons have many more mouths to feed than we do.”
“I don’t know how to drive a cow,” said Hope.
Mrs. Block snorted. “It doesn’t sound as if you know how to do anything.”
Ephraim came to Hope’s rescue. “Don’t worry. Bossy knows the way. You just have to flick her rear end with a switch to keep her moving.”
They supped on pork and beans. As Hope spooned food into the old woman’s mouth, she began to feel sorry for her. It must be terrible to be as helpless as a baby.
“I hope you’re a tolerable cook,” Mrs. Block said at the end of the meal. “Pork and beans is the only thing Ephraim does well.”
Ephraim looked sheepish. “My split-pea soup isn’t so bad.”
“If you ignore the lumps.”
“I can’t cook at all,” said Hope, wanting to make Ephraim feel better.
“Then I’ll have to teach you. Any simpleton can learn to make soup without lumps.”
Hope wondered why Ephraim didn’t follow Barbara’s example. He must sometimes have been tempted to run away.
When evening came, Hope helped Mrs. Block get ready for bed. As she undid the many buttons of her gown, tugged it off over her head and struggled to get her into her nightgown, she wondered how poor Ephraim had coped with all these preparations.
After Mrs. Block was settled under her quilt, Hope pulled out the trundle bed. She took off her own gown and, having no nightgown, lay down in her undergarments.
She folded her arms under her head, stared up at the darkness and contemplated her situation. This had been a most eventful day. She had survived her first journey by canoe and her first taste of taking care of Mrs. Block. Although the old lady was a tyrant, Ephraim seemed pleasant. Tomorrow she would meet the friendly boy who had waved to her. Life was not so bad. Hope closed her eyes and was soon sound asleep.
CHAPTER 3
Woeful
Ephraim led Bossy from the lean-to shed that was built onto the cabin’s back wall. She was a brown cow with large, vacant eyes. “She’s a good cow,” said Ephraim, “but even for a cow, she’s not very bright. Every few steps you have to give her a switch on the rump to remind her to keep moving.” He gave Bossy’s rear end a flick with a slender willow wand to show how it was done. The cow took three steps forward.
“Now you try it.” He handed the switch to Hope. She gave a delicate flick. The cow walked two yards before she stopped. Hope gave another flick. It worked.
“Just keep at it,” Ephraim advised. “Let her know t
hat you’re the one in charge.”
The half-made road was easy to follow. Ephraim and his neighbour had cut down trees and removed brush to make a corridor twenty feet wide. They still had to dig out the stumps and level the ground. When that work was completed, they would have a road that would accommodate a wagon and a team of oxen. At present, Hope and the cow had to wend their way amongst the stumps.
With frequent applications of the switch to keep her moving, Bossy led the way. It was a sunny spring day. Although the trees had not yet budded into leaf, a carpet of trilliums covered the forest floor. A robin sang cheerfully.
Before long, Hope and Bossy emerged from the woods onto the open space where the cabin stood. There was the boy, splitting logs again. As soon as he noticed Hope, he lowered the axe, resting the axe head on the ground. Hope raised her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the morning sun. From under her palm she inspected the boy’s face. It wore an amused expression, lips twisted in a half-smile. He had hair the colour of straw, a big, sunburnt nose and green eyes. He did not move but simply waited for her to approach. Neither said anything until he was at the cow’s head, and she was at the other end.
“Adam?” she asked.
“That’s me. I know who you are. You’re the girl in the canoe.”
“Hope Cobman. I’ve come to work for the Blocks.”
“I wondered who they’d get this time.” He looked her up and down, from her limp mobcap to the scuffed toes of her shoes. “You look like an orphan. Are you an orphan?”
She stiffened. She had been prepared to like him, but now she wasn’t sure. “How does that matter to you?”
“Hey! I’ve nothing against orphans. In fact, I wish I were an orphan.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m fourteen years old. If I were an orphan, I’d be on my own. I could go wherever I liked. But I’m not an orphan, so I’m stuck here splitting wood.”
“Where would you like to be?”
“Montreal.”
“What’s so good about Montreal?”
“There are crowds of people and something different to do every day. Folks live in real houses, with iron stoves to heat them.”
“What’s a stove?”
“It’s a new American invention … Say, don’t you know anything? I’ll wager you’ve never been to school.”
Her silence must have made him feel guilty. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s not your fault if you haven’t been to school.”
His lips twisted in the half-smile she had noticed before. Since he looked as if he expected her to accept his apology and return his smile, that was exactly what she refused to do.
“You aren’t angry at me, are you?” He looked suddenly dejected.
“Of course I am.” As soon as she said it, she realized that she no longer was.
Just then a dog joined them, sidling up to Adam with an apologetic manner. Burrs were sticking in its ragged coat. One eye was missing, as well as half an ear. It was a female, black and white, thin, with bulging flanks.
Hope exclaimed at her appearance. “That dog looks terrible!”
“Woeful always looks terrible.”
“What kind of dog is she?”
“Welsh sheepdog. I don’t know why we keep her. We don’t have any sheep.”
Woeful looked up, head cocked, wagging her tail.
“When she’s in heat,” Adam continued, “we lock her in the shed. She usually manages to dig her way out. One time a bear must have mauled her. She always comes back pregnant. We have to drown the puppies.”
“That’s so cruel!”
“What else can we do? Most of her litters are half wolf. We’d let her keep one pup to comfort her if we thought we could find it a home.”
“Poor puppies! Poor Woeful!” Then the words spilled out without Hope even thinking. “I wish I had a puppy.”
He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for.” He bent down and scratched behind the dog’s torn ear. “We don’t drown her puppies in front of her. Woeful doesn’t know what happens to them. Six months later, she whelps again.”
He straightened up. “Come and meet my mother. She’s almost as fertile as Woeful, but we keep Ma’s pups.”
Hope gasped. What a sassy boy! She had never before met anyone like him.
“Mrs. Block says there are twelve of you.”
“That’s right. Three boys and nine girls. I was born first. Next came two girls, but they both died before they were a year old. Then Ma had the twins—both boys. After that, it’s been one baby girl after another for nine years. Pa’s fed up. He needs boys to build this farm.”
“Where are your brothers and sisters? I don’t see them anywhere about.”
“The ones old enough to hold a knife are out back with Pa, girdling trees. The little ones are in the cabin.”
Hope and Adam left Bossy munching green shoots that poked out of the soil. As they neared the cabin, the wails of a crying baby told Hope that all was not well within.
When Adam opened the door, the first thing Hope noticed was a squalling baby lying in a cradle that looked as if it had been carved from a tree trunk. A girl about four years old was rocking the cradle. Two more girls, little more than infants themselves, were rolling around on the floor, shrieking and pulling each other’s hair. When they saw that they had a visitor, they stopped fighting, sat up and stared at Hope.
Sitting on a stool was a woman mending a shirt. She looked up when Hope and Adam came in. She was a thin woman with pale skin. She wore a mobcap that was too big for her face, making her small features look pinched and her large grey eyes enormous. Something about the woman’s face made Hope think of a wounded animal.
She could hardly imagine how crowded the cabin must be with the whole family—fourteen people—in it at the same time.
“Mama,” said Adam, “this is Hope Cobman from the Blocks’ place. She’s brought us the cow.”
Mrs. Anderson laid down her needle and looked closely at Hope. “They’re lucky to have found somebody to help them. Ephraim’s been afraid of losing his land.”
“Lose his land? How could that happen?”
“He has two hundred acres. To get full title, he has to build a house, clear one acre each year and make a road to connect to the nearest neighbour on each side. If he doesn’t, the government will cancel his location ticket. But how can he do everything required while waiting on that old woman hand and foot?”
Mrs. Anderson took another stitch, sewing up a broken seam. “Truth to tell, I don’t know why Ephraim bothers. He has no children. It’s not as if he had anybody to inherit a farm after he dies.”
“He still might marry and have a family,” Hope suggested. “He’s not old.”
“Ephraim’s forty. But he can’t marry. He has a wife.”
“A wife? Where is she?”
“She left him.”
Hope now felt thoroughly confused. “Is that Barbara?”
“No. Barbara was a servant. His wife’s name is Philippa. Philippa from Philadelphia. A fine young lady. She ran off with an English officer. They went to England.”
The baby was still bawling. Mrs. Anderson rose from her stool, picked her up and patted her back. The baby belched loudly. The crying stopped.
“That’s my good girl,” said Mrs. Anderson, putting the baby back in the cradle.
“I must go,” said Hope. “Mrs. Block needs me.”
When they were outside, Hope said to Adam, “Do you suppose Mrs. Block drove both of them away, the servant and the wife?”
“I suppose so. Ma’s sure that’s the reason.”
This did not sound good.
CHAPTER 4
What’s in a Name?
During the next four days Hope learned how to make split-pea soup without lumps, cook rabbit stew and mould beeswax candles.
On the morning of her fifth day she was outdoors emptying a pan of dishwater when she saw Adam approaching with the cow. Bos
sy came to a halt at the corner of the cabin. Her tail moved a little, swishing slightly.
Adam’s big red nose was peeling. He ought to wear a hat, she thought, to keep off the sun.
“I can’t stay long,” he told her. “Pa and I are building a fence to keep animals out of our vegetable garden. He said one of the twins could bring the cow. But I told him I had something to tell you. I have a question to ask you, too.”
“First, what do you want to tell me?”
“Woeful whelped yesterday. Six puppies. Two looked like wolf cubs, and three like nothing in particular. But one looks pure sheep dog. Male. Black and white. That’s the one I saved for you.”
Hope didn’t know what to say. She had told Adam that she wished she had a puppy, but she was sure she hadn’t actually asked for one. What if she wasn’t allowed to keep it?
He frowned. “You don’t look happy. I hope you still want a puppy. If you won’t take it, I’ll have to drown it.”
Hope shuddered at the thought. “Of course I want it. How long before it’s old enough to leave its mother?”
“Eight weeks.”
“Fine.” Eight weeks gave plenty of time to convince Ephraim and Mrs. Block that they needed a dog. “Now, what’s the question you want to ask?”
“It’s about you, if you don’t mind. When I asked if you were an orphan, you didn’t give a straight answer. So I wondered.”
“I don’t mind telling you. The truth is, I’m not an orphan. My mother died last year, but my father is alive … so far as I know. He was a sergeant in Butler’s Rangers.”
“How did you lose touch with him?”
“We never were in touch. He doesn’t know I exist. But I hope he’ll find me someday.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He’s not going to look for you if he doesn’t know you exist.”
“It isn’t me he’d be searching for. He’d be trying to find my mother. The problem is, he wouldn’t know where to look. We lived in Canajoharie in the Mohawk Valley. My father had already gone off to war when rebels burned down our house. My mother fled with some other Loyalist families to the British fort on Carleton Island. Nobody in Canajoharie knows that. If he went there to ask about her, no one could tell him where she went. But since he fought for King George, he couldn’t go back to Canajoharie anyway.”
Hope's Journey Page 2
