by Janet Lunn
“I have a knife.” Phoebe turned away and reached under her skirt to bring the wooden-handled paring knife from her pocket.
Peter looked at it, and then at her, in astonishment. “You … you mean to defend yourself against assault with that?”
Phoebe looked at the knife. Suddenly she felt ignorant and small. “I … I thought—”
He did not let her finish. “Little Bird, it will not do. There are desperate men in these forests. Some are wounded, they are all, doubtless, hungry, and all have been without women for weeks. There cannot be one among them who would be stopped by your little kitchen knife.”
Peter’s mother spoke up. “Ro’nikonhri:io is right, daughter of my son’s teacher. It is not good for you to be away from your home, out in these bad times, where you do not understand the ways of the forest. It is not good.”
“We are none of us safe,” said Peter. “My father was killed in July at the battle at Hubbardton, by Lake Bomaseen, across the mountains. My mother’s brother has been scouting for the British in those hills along the Upper Connecticut River. When my mother and sister are safely in his care, I will join my brothers to fight with the British. Now, will you tell me what brings you out into this danger?”
Keeping Gideon’s story to herself no longer seemed so important to Phoebe. Peter had been so concerned about her that he had spent precious time looking for her when his family needed him. And, too, he had made her see how much she needed his help. So, in as few words as possible, she told him about finding Gideon in her house in Hanover and everything that had happened afterwards.
She drew a deep breath. “So you see, Peter, I must do this for Gideon. You must see that.”
“I do see, Little Bird, how you feel, but the danger is very great. Furthermore, you will not travel as swiftly as your cousin would have done, and you may not get this message to Fort Ticonderoga in time to be of use to General Powell. No, I think you must turn back.”
Phoebe said nothing for a time. She had not considered that she might get Gideon’s message to the fort too late. There was a sudden weight in her chest. But there were those Loyalist families needing help. She had to get word of them to the General.
“No, Peter, I must not turn back.” She put her hand on his arm and looked intently into his face. “I must take Gideon’s message to Fort Ticonderoga. My father was killed fighting for the rebels in Boston. Gideon was killed because he was a soldier for the King. I don’t know which one of them was right, and I can’t do anything for my father, but I can do this one thing, this one last thing, for Gideon and maybe save those poor families from what happened to Deborah Williams. I must try, Peter.” She sat back and put her hands in her lap. “And I don’t understand, Peter Sauk, why you care who wins this terrible war.”
Peter drew long on his pipe, then blew out the smoke, all the time watching her gravely. “I think it will not matter to the Mohawk who wins this war. Whoever wins, the Mohawk will not win. But our greatest warrior, Thayendanegea, and his sister Konwatsi’tsiaiénni, who leads an important society of matrons of the Six Nations, both tell us it will be better if we stay with our old allies, the British. In return for our help, the British have promised to defend our land against encroaching settlers. I believe we have no choice but to trust them and, without our help, I do not think they can win this war. Konwatsi’tsiaiénni was wife to Sir William Johnson, the British agent in the Mohawk Valley, and she has power with the British. So has Thayendanegea. My chief has decided to follow their leadership. He has sent our warriors to fight as allies to the British general Guy Carleton in Montreal. I will follow my chief as I follow Thayendanegea, who was, like I, a student of Dr. Wheelock’s, but it grieves me, Little Bird, to turn from the path of my old teacher, Jonathan Olcott, for I honoured him greatly.” He reached out and touched Phoebe’s hand. Neither of them said anything, but Phoebe felt that there was understanding between them.
Shakoti’nisténha stood up. “Now it is time to sleep. No more talk,” she reproved Peter.
Phoebe was very tired. She settled for the night between Peter’s mother and sister, wrapped in her shawl and her cloak, her feet warmed by the embers of the fire. Her last thoughts before she fell asleep were about Peter’s mother and her kindness.
But her first thought on waking was that she could not let Peter Sauk, for all his kindness, tell her what she should do. Then there was breakfast of corn-meal samp that tasted so like the samp she had so often cooked over her own fire at home that she felt a sharp stab of homesickness. For one second she almost said to Peter that she would go back to the Connecticut River with him. And when he asked her if Uncle Josiah and Aunt Rachael knew where she had gone, she almost cried.
“N-no,” she stammered, “ I just came away.”
“Did you not think they would worry?”
Phoebe didn’t know what to say. With the shock of Gideon’s death, Anne’s turning against her in such fury, finding the message in the hollow tree, and at last making up her mind to carry it for Gideon, not once had the thought entered her mind that her uncle and aunt might worry.
“I will get word to them,” said Peter, and Phoebe knew he would no longer try to persuade her to go home.
“I must not tarry here. Nor can I take the message to General Powell. My errand is too pressing. The rebels do not deal kindly with their Mohawk neighbours and I cannot risk the safety of my mother and sister. And, Phoebe Olcott, I will not carry you prisoner to the Robinson family. While you are truly a gentle little grey bird, I know you to be as stubborn as Ohkwá:ri, the bear. I would need to watch your every move and I have no time for that. So you must listen closely to what I tell you, and frequently consult the map I will give you.”
All the time he had been speaking to her, Peter had first peeled a deep section of bark from a large birch tree, and then drawn on it with a pencil he had on a cord around his neck.
He instructed her, pointing often to his map, to follow Kaniatarà:ken — in English, the White River, he said — beside which they were camped. He told her the river kept south of the high mountains, and so there was an ancient Abenaki path that followed it. He showed her where to turn south from the river when it turned north, and from there to keep to the lower hills. He indicated the old paths along the smaller waterways and the village of Rutland, where she would come upon the military road. Phoebe remembered the military road from the torn map Gideon had used to write his letter to Polly Grantham on.
“The military road will take you through settlements. Strangers are not made welcome in frontier communities these days. Furthermore, there are zealous rebels who actively hunt Loyalists to kill or imprison them, so you must not walk on the road. They will not stop to check if your father was indeed a rebel, and, what is more important, that message would betray you as a Loyalist. Stay in the forest, but always keep the road in view. When you come to the village of Shoreham, you leave the military road. Here, leading south, is an old Abenaki trail. Follow it to Shaw’s Landing at the narrows of Lake Champlain, where you can see Fort Ticonderoga high above the shore on the New York side of the lake. Do not mistake it. After you leave the White River there are only brooks and small streams until you reach the lake. At the narrows the lake looks like a river. You will have to find a boatman to take you across the lake. You must be very careful!”
Phoebe nodded, concentrating intently on Peter’s instructions. She was afraid to speak. The warning tone in Peter’s voice and the careful outlining of the journey frightened her more than his talk of deserting soldiers had done.
Peter handed her the map. “If you mean to be as stubborn as I fear …” He paused. When Phoebe said nothing, he continued. “My mother and I have decided you must exchange clothes with Katsi’tsiénhawe. You are much of a size, I believe, so it will not be difficult. You will not be so noticeable in my sister’s clothes; the danger may not be as great. And you may need to roost in trees.” He grinned and Phoebe knew he was remembering her adventure the day before wit
h the young bear. “There will be streams to leap,” he went on. “You may find caves to sleep in, and all the ohkwa:ri you may meet may not be as timid as yesterday’s cub. Your encumbering skirt will not serve as well as the ionthsinohrókstha and akia:tawi my sister wears. He turned to Katsi’tsiénhawe, who smiled hopefully back at him. “Katsi’tsiénhawe greatly admires your many-coloured coat. She would be happy to exchange it for her blanket.”
Phoebe glanced down at her mother’s tartan cloak wrapped around her. It was old, it had moth holes, its fur lining was worn to a smooth finish, but parting with it would be like parting for ever with all she held dear. She took a step back, her mouth opened to refuse to give up the cloak, but then she looked at Peter, at his sister, at his mother. How could she be so ungrateful? Katsi’tsiénhawe’s father had died in the war, as hers had, and soon her brother was going to leave to fight in that war, and maybe die. And maybe someone she had loved had made her embroidered tunic. Swiftly, before she had time to reconsider, she unhooked the silver fastener at her neck, took the cloak from her shoulders, and thrust it into the girl’s hands. Katsi’tsiénhawe smiled shyly at her and handed her the red blanket. Then Peter walked along the river to give the girls privacy and they exchanged the rest of their clothes. The only thing Phoebe did not give away was the pocket she had worn on the string around her waist under her skirt. She tucked it, with its message inside, into one sleeve of the tunic she put on.
How strange the leggings felt. The soft leather was like having another skin on her legs and she felt not quite dressed. The long tunic did not seem quite so strange, even though it, too, was deerskin. It was more like the blouses and shifts she was used to wearing, but warmer. And it was beautiful, with its intricate bead trimming around the neck opening, and its fringe on the shoulders and along the sleeves and the hem. She did not mind seeing her gown on Katsi’tsiénhawe, although it was a little like seeing herself in a looking-glass that was skewed. She and Katsi’tsiénhawe both smiled self-consciously when they looked at each other in their unaccustomed clothes. She minded, though, when the other girl stroked the tartan cloak admiringly — but saw too her small, sad frown when she herself fingered the supple skin of the tunic. She turned, relieved, when Peter’s mother spoke to her. Shakoti’nisténha was holding out a bit of ground, parched white corn in a little birchbark wallet.
“If you find yourself by a stream where the fish will not come to you and the trees will not yield you their nuts, you have only to mix this with water to keep you from starving,” said Peter.
“No.” Phoebe shook her head vehemently. “No. You will need it yourselves.”
“When we are feeling the pangs of hunger, Little Bird, we will know that you are feeling them, too, but not one moment before us. And, soon, I fear, you will not be such a round little bird.” He grinned ruefully.
There was a lump in Phoebe’s throat as she accepted the corn from Peter’s mother. It was easier, sometimes, she thought, to hold back tears of grief than those that came of unexpected kindness. She bowed to Peter’s mother and sister. She bowed to Peter. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He hugged her back.
With the wallet of dried corn stowed in her pocket together with the message for the General at Fort Ticonderoga, her map held tightly in her hand, Phoebe set off towards the west, along the old Indian path beside the White River. She liked the river. It wasn’t as wide as the Connecticut, but it flowed as swiftly and splashed as exuberantly over the rocks in its path as did Trout Brook. There wasn’t much wind, the day was bright and cold, the sky was blue, and the sun made ever-changing patterns of light and shadow on the moving water. It was the kind of day to raise the darkest spirits. She walked easily in Katsi’tsiénhawe’s unconfining leggings.
She did not travel alone. She hadn’t passed the first bend in the river when she heard a familiar meow at her heels, and there was George, weaving himself around her ankles, sniffing at the unfamiliar scent of Katsi’tsiénhawe’s leggings. They were tramping along companionably, with George coming and going but never straying far, when Phoebe heard the sound of an animal snuffling somewhere near. She stopped walking and looked around her. A young black bear was scratching its back against a pine tree about two yards from where she stood. “Dear Father in heaven,” she breathed, “another bear.”
The bear looked up and saw her. It stopped scratching and ambled towards her. She backed away. Not George. George ran right up to the bear and rubbed himself against its legs.
“No, George! Oh no!” Phoebe cried. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t rescue him, she couldn’t run. She waited for his agonized scream. It didn’t come. Slowly she opened her eyes. The bear was standing still, and George was rolling around at its feet, ecstatically. Realization hit. “You’re not another bear,” she said. “I know you. We spent all that time in the tree together.” It occurred to her, then, that because this was the same bear and because it was young was no reason to ignore the fact that it was a bear, a bear that could be dangerous. Cautiously she began to back away again.
“Come on, George,” she whispered, “Come on,” but she didn’t wait for him. She turned around and began walking, very slowly at first, then faster and faster until she was almost running. She heard grunting close behind her. She knew it was the bear. She stopped and turned. The bear stopped.
“Go away!” she gasped. She pointed back towards the pine tree with a shaking hand. The bear did not move.
“Please go away,” Phoebe pleaded. Still the bear did not move. He looked at her expectantly.
“Please. I don’t want you here. George,” Phoebe begged, “will you please tell the bear to go away?” Suddenly it occurred to her that she was asking a cat to talk to a bear because the bear wouldn’t pay any attention to her. Forgetting her fright and the need to be quiet and cautious in the forest, she laughed right out loud. It was the first time she had laughed, she realized, in a very long while.
At last she caught her breath. What did it matter if the bear wanted to follow along for a while. He did not seem to mean her harm and he was clearly company — if odd company — for George. Maybe he would scare off other big animals — and dangerous people, too. She decided, since they would be travelling together, she would have to give him a name. Because he made her think of an old woman in Orland Village, she called him Bartlett. “Mistress Bartlett always looks hopeful like you,” she told him, “and she’s bottom-heavy, too.”
And so the long, difficult journey was resumed. Phoebe grew braver with every passing day. She no longer jumped with terror every time she heard the whirring of owls’ wings overhead or a partridge suddenly flew up in front of her. She walked carefully but briskly. There didn’t seem to be much point in being especially quiet, not with a blundering young bear at her side and a complaining cat at her heels. And George did complain. He demanded to be carried when he got tired and he yowled when they would not stop for him to drink, or to stalk prey.
They spent one day scrambling up the side of a mountain, then sliding down its steep, rocky slope on the other side, other days slogging through swamps in the rain. They crossed streams and they crossed meadows. The snow that had been on the ground when Phoebe had left Orland Village had melted in a few warm days, but it was growing colder again and she could see snow on the higher hills. The days were shorter. There was ice edging the ponds and streams. The fish swam deeper and were harder to catch. There were fewer and fewer ducks and geese flying south, and almost no leaves on the elm, oak, and maple trees. Only the golden tamaracks still brightened the pine and cedar swamps and forests. Sometimes, Phoebe walked all day with Katsi’tsiénhawe’s blanket around her against the wind and snow. And how glad she was of it at night. So were George and Bartlett. They curled up beside her, near the fire, and would not be budged. Bartlett stank. Phoebe tried to keep a space between them, but every time she pushed him away, he rolled over to be beside her again. Wherever they slept — by streams, protected from the wind by rocks or little hills
, in mountainside caves — they slept in a tight ball of warmth, until Phoebe got so used to Bartlett’s rough fur and rank bear smell she no longer minded either one.
Phoebe — and Bartlett — ate fish and what few huckleberries, blackberries, or raspberries could be found on bushes; they ate butternuts, hazelnuts, and hickory nuts from the ground under the trees, and whatever purslane, peppermint, chicory, or other edible plants had survived the frost in warm, sheltered places. George did his own hunting.
They saw no one. They followed the route Peter Sauk had laid out, keeping to the White River, then branching off to the southwest along the old trails by the brooks and smaller rivers through the deep valleys between the mountain ranges. Phoebe’s heart was full of gratitude to Peter for his careful map. She knew she could never, ever, have made her way through the dense forests and around these great mountains without it. Finally she reached the military road, a rough road but wide enough, not only for marching soldiers but for wagons and carts. Carrying George much of the way, with Bartlett grunting and snuffling nervously beside her, Phoebe skirted the road and the settlements of Rutland, Pittsford, and Brandon but nearly went into Shoreham just because she so longed for the sight of another human being.
One cold evening spitting with the kind of thick, slushy rain that is almost snow, Phoebe camped early. For once she was planning to have a real supper. She had found a blackberry bush, hidden between a sumac and a blackthorn, amazingly untouched by birds or bears. She had gathered the berries quickly before Bartlett could eat them all, had held them in her tunic while she’d made a small leaf basket, then carried them in that.
