The Hollow Tree

by Janet Lunn

  Soon afterwards they had crossed a little stream. Phoebe had taken her vine and her hook and, at first try, caught a trout that was almost eight inches long. Holding it — and the berries — high over her head with one hand so that neither the cat nor the bear could get them, she was attempting to gather sticks for a fire with the other hand when Bartlett began to growl. She growled back at him. She had discovered that it always stopped him when she did that. She went on with her work. Then she heard voices approaching. She dropped the sticks. She dropped the fish. She dropped the berries. She grabbed George and swung up in the nearest tree. Bartlett was right behind her.

  Within minutes two men came into view. They had muskets over their shoulders and they were dressed in the fringed cloth shirts and deerskin leggings of rough woodsmen. Paralysed with fear, Phoebe peered down through the bare branches of the tree to watch them. They stopped directly below her. One of them took the pack from his back, and reached into it to bring out a dead duck. The other one bent over and picked up Phoebe’s fish. He grunted. “Looks like someone’s been here, Abel.”

  “Yup. And they ain’t stayed long. What’s more, they left us a trout. You git the fire a-goin’, Jake, ’n’ I’ll pluck the duck. This ’n’ that fish’ll be a mighty-fine extry. I got a hunger on me says I could eat a whole hog.” He hunkered down and started plucking the feathers from the duck.

  His companion was not as easy in his mind. He prowled around, nosing behind bushes, walking a few feet this way, a few feet that. Once he looked up, but not straight up, and by some miracle the shadows of the surrounding trees, and the sleety rain, which had begun again, obscured the dark shapes of Bartlett, Phoebe, and George.

  “I smell bear, Abel, I swear I do,” he insisted.

  “Wal, it wan’t no bear what piled them sticks, ‘n’, what’s more, no bear I ever heard tell of woulda left his fish a-lyin’ around fer us to pick up. Come on, Jake, git the fire a-goin’ afore these sticks is too wet to burn.”

  Up in the tree, George sniffed. Phoebe grabbed him and he bit her arm. She jumped. He wriggled free, fell, and landed on Bartlett. With a roar of terror, Bartlett fell off his branch and landed on the man called Jake.

  With one powerful heave, Jake threw the bear from his back and took off. Swearing a long string of oaths, Abel grabbed his gun and tore after him. Bartlett huddled at the foot of the tree, whimpering. Phoebe scrambled down the tree trunk.

  She ran and ran until her terror abated enough for her to stop to catch her breath and to think what to do. She knew only that she had gone in the direction opposite to the one those men had taken, but she had no idea what direction it was. George and Bartlett were nowhere in sight, the rain had definitely turned to snow and the night was very dark. She was lost. She tugged her blanket up over her head. She was afraid to move lest she head in the wrong direction, but she was so sure the two men were only over the next hill, ready to jump out at her, that she was afraid to stay where she was. So she set out, praying that an angel of God would protect her, lead her aright, and keep Bartlett and George safe.

  The last part of her prayer was answered just before dawn. It had stopped snowing and she had sat down in the lee of a low hill to rest and fallen asleep. She woke when Bartlett rolled over to lie almost on top of her. She pulled herself up and looked around her. The sky was clear and pink with the dawning of a bright day, but, glad as she was to see her two companions, she was hungry, tired, footsore, and miserable. It was the first morning of the whole journey that she didn’t bother to splash her face with cold water or rebraid her hair. She wished, with all her heart, that she had gone home to Orland Village with Peter Sauk and his mother and sister.

  Bartlett found butternuts under the trees for himself. Phoebe had to settle for a bit of watercress from the edge of the stream. She drank a lot of water to keep from feeling the hunger too keenly. She resented Bartlett and George, too, for the nuts and for the unmistakable odour of fish they bore. “I expect you ate the duck, too,” she said crossly.

  She plodded along without offering a word to either animal, stopping only to check the trees for direction signs, then pushing one foot in front of the other up hill, down hill, over a stream, two streams, maybe three, until, bone-weary and discouraged, she slumped down with her back against a huge boulder on a hill that sloped down to a wide river. She put her head back and closed her eyes. She listened to the high-pitched scree-scree of the gulls, barely starting at the shotgun slap of a beaver’s tail. The cat came and rubbed against her.

  “Don’t vex me, George. Go find yourself a fish in that river. I can smell the fish from here.” She opened her eyes. Gulls! She was listening to gulls by a river. The river! After you leave the White River, there are only brooks and small streams until you reach the lake … Hadn’t Peter said, Be careful — down where Lake Champlain narrows, it looks like a river — you may not know it at once for the lake?

  Her heart began to pound. Under the afternoon sun, water gleamed through the branches of the hardwood trees. “Let it be the lake. Dear Father in heaven, let it be the lake,” she whispered. Slowly she walked towards it through the trees, hardly noticing the bushes and saplings she pushed aside in her path. She came to the edge of the water. There, across its shining surface, high on a cliff, where Peter had said it would be, she could see the ramparts of a fort.

  Below the cliff was a boat landing, but she could see no boats either there or on the water. Everything looked deserted. She looked around, feeling that, somehow, some means of getting across to the fort would present itself. And it did. Not three feet from where she stood, a rowboat, half buried by leaves and small tree boughs, was anchored to a willow sapling that hung over the water. Phoebe gazed down at it in wonder. She leaned over, lifted the boughs, and swept away the leaves. She touched one of the oarlocks.

  “An angel is surely guarding over me,” she breathed. “Gideon, I will get your message to your general at Fort Ticonderoga.”

  There’s Nobody There

  “Here!” Phoebe heard a hoarse shout. “What’re you doin’ with our boat?” A man came barrelling down the slope at her. She turned to run but he was too quick for her. He grabbed her by the arm and she would have fallen if he hadn’t had such a tight hold.

  “Oh, please!” Desperately she tried to pull free. “I only meant to borrow the boat. I have to get across the lake to the fort. Please! I’ll bring it back.” She forced herself to look up at him, then the frantic beating of her heart slowed as she realized that her captor was a boy, probably not much older than she was. He was tall, as tall as a man, he had a man’s deep voice, but he had a boy’s angular thinness, and the face glaring down at her from under a coonskin cap was beardless.

  The boy tightened his hold on her arm. She winced. “I don’t aim t’let go of you until I know what you’re doin’ here,” he said. “Why d’you want to git to the fort? It ain’t gonna do you no good on accounta there ain’t a body over there.”

  Phoebe was stunned. “What do you mean there’s nobody there? Where is General Powell? Where are the British soldiers? Oh, there must be someone there!”

  At the mention of General Powell and the British soldiers, the boy loosened his grip. “Well, there ain’t,” he said, “not a livin’ soul. They’ve gone, every man jack of ’em. How we’re gonna lick the goddam rebels with General Burgoyne and the like in charge is a thing I sure can’t figure. Our Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne’s gone and pulled Powell and his soldiers out of Fort Ti with the same kind of good sense he had when he lost us them battles at Freeman’s Farm and Bemis Heights over on the Hudson River; same as when he lost us the ones here at Bennington and Hubbardton. He just up and left you thievin’, murderin’ rebels to do whatever you dang well please.”

  “I am not a rebel! And I’m not a thief! Please, will you let go of me? I won’t run, I promise, I won’t, and I can’t think with you holding me like this. Please, you’re hurting me.”

  The boy gave Phoebe a long, suspicious look. Slowl
y he took his hand away. Backing up a step, rubbing her arm to get the blood running in it again, Phoebe tried to digest his news. What was she to do? If what the boy said was true, who could she give Gideon’s coded message to? And who would help those Loyalist families?

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” The boy shifted his weight from one long, skinny leg to the other. The anger had faded from his eyes, eyes that were a startling bright blue in a face that was otherwise very ordinary looking. He had a wide mouth and a blunt nose, and those eyes set in a square face almost completely covered with freckles. Tufts of reddish-blond hair poked out from under the fur cap pulled low over his forehead.

  “Anyways” — he frowned at Phoebe — “you ain’t said what you’re doin’ here dressed in them Indian clothes, tryin’ to steal a boat to get to a place that’s as cleaned out as a chicken coop after the fox has been. There ain’t likely to be none of us Loyalists left in these parts, neither — we’re all gone. So there’s nought fer a spy to do.”

  “Gone? All the Loyalists are gone? Where?”

  “I can’t say fer all of us, but the rebels come to our place two nights since. Middle of the night. Neighbours, they was, and they booted us out of our beds and said we had to git. Tried to take me along with ’em to fight in their consarn army, but I got away and hid in the woods ’til last night. I snuck back to get our boat, and rowed up here to catch up with Ma ’n’ the little ones. I ain’t got time to stand here all day gab-bin’, but I ain’t leavin’ until I find out what you’re up to.” With an impatient gesture he pushed his cap back from his forehead, revealing the frayed edges of a dirty bandage.

  “Oh, what happened to you?” Instinctively Phoebe stretched her hand towards him.

  “Aw, I got into a tussle with the varmint who was fixin’ to cart me off.” He tugged the cap back down over his forehead. Unexpectedly he grinned. His whole face lit up, and Phoebe wondered, suddenly, why she had thought him so ordinary-looking. Then he frowned again. “I ain’t settin’ one foot afore the other until you tell me what you’re doin’ here,” he said stubbornly.

  Phoebe didn’t know what to say. What could she tell him? She couldn’t tell him about Gideon or trust him with either the coded message or the names of the Loyalist families. For all she knew he might be lying to her, he might be a rebel spy. “I’m on a mission,” she said finally, “or I was on a mission — to Fort Ticonderoga — but, if it’s true that there’s nobody there, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  He stared at her, not believing or not taking in what she had said, Phoebe wasn’t sure which. Then he shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and looked up at the sky, where dark clouds were gathering in the east. “I got to head out,” he said. “It looks like rain — or snow, more like — and I got to find Ma. She set out north for the Iroquois River up in Canaday. And, if I was you, I’d head right on back to where I come from.”

  Back to where I come from. Everything the boy had been saying suddenly struck Phoebe like a physical blow. The breath went out of her, her shoulders sagged. Back. Back over those mountains. She couldn’t. And she knew, with a shiver of horror, that she could not go back to Orland Village. She had carried Gideon’s message, had done the work of a Loyalist scout. These men who had hanged Gideon would hang her, too. She saw a long canoe gliding on the lake towards the south near the opposite shore and a flock of ducks fly into the air in alarm. They did not seem real. Nothing seemed real.

  “You can’t just stand there,” the boy said impatiently. “There’s wild animals hereabouts ’n’ there’s soldiers in the rebel fort up top of that mountain only a mile back. Get yourself on home. I’m settin’ off to find Ma and Miz Anderson.”

  Anderson. Phoebe stiffened in surprise. Anderson was one of the names in Gideon’s message. She knew those names by heart, she had read them over so often. Could this be the same family? “Are you related to the Andersons?” she asked. “I mean the family of Septimus Anderson who lives near Skenesborough, New York.”

  “Not me, I’m Jem Morrissay. Andersons live a couple of miles up the road from us.”

  Morrissay, another of the names. They must be the families on her list. And they were not safe. She had come too late, just as Peter Sauk had feared.

  “Jem Morrissay,” she began. She was going to ask about the Colliver family, but he interrupted her.

  “See here, how do you know … Oh, Jehosaphat!” In one swift movement, he grabbed Phoebe by the arm and shoved her towards the boat.

  She heard a low growl, and Bartlett emerged from the underbrush, his snout stained a deep red.

  “He’s bleeding,” gasped Jem. “Sure as shootin’ his ma’s gonna be right behind him, set to kill. If you can run, you’d better start, COME ON!”

  Phoebe yanked her arm free. She dropped to her knees beside the bear. “Bartlett, I forgot all about you, I’m sorry.” She stroked his rough fur. “I’m sorry. Wherever did you find berries with enough juice for this much red?”

  “Jehosaphat!” Jem’s voice was shaking. “You must be addled!”

  Phoebe looked up. “He won’t hurt you and he has no mother. His name is Bartlett.”

  “Bartlett? Bartlett? Where’d he get a name like that?” Jem’s face was flushed with embarrassment.

  “I gave him the name. He made me think of Old Mistress Bartlett back in Orland Village. You see, her hair is the colour of bear fur, and she eats as much as her pig, so she’s big, not tall, mind, but, well, my cousin Gideon says three axe handles across the beam. I think maybe only one and a half, but she does look a bit like a bear.”

  Jem looked at Phoebe as if he really did think she was mad. “Where’d you get him?”

  Phoebe stood up. Bartlett whined. She leaned down and stroked his head, again murmuring soft encouragements to him. She felt better. Bartlett’s berry-stained snout and Jem Morrissay’s discomfort at having been so scared seemed so ridiculous that they had restored her balance. “In a tree,” she said. “I found him in a tree.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Over the mountains by the Connecticut River.”

  “You never did! A little gal like you, rigged out in squaw clothes? You and … and that bear to see a general at Fort Ti who ain’t even there? I don’t believe you.” He crossed his arms and glowered at Phoebe.

  “I didn’t know he wasn’t there.”

  “How come you wanted to see the General anyways?” Jem seemed to have forgotten that he was in a hurry to find his mother.

  “It was because of the mission to the General I was entrusted with,” Phoebe answered stiffly.

  “Well, there ain’t a British general to see until you get to Fort St. John’s, up on the Iroquois River, the one that runs north from the lake up to the St. Lawrence. That fort’s near a hundred miles from here, in Canaday. And the forts south of here is all took by the rebels. I’m off now.” He turned away, then, an instant later, he swung back. “And, if you’re minded to get up to Fort St. John’s, you can get yourself — and that bear — up there howsomever you come here. You ain’t comin’ along with me. I got enough to look after.” He climbed purposefully up the slope to the path. When he reached it, he set off towards the north. He had only gone a few paces when he slowed, stopped, then turned around.

  “I can’t just leave you here, blast it! Come on. Ma’ll know what to do with you. But God save you if you turn out to be a rebel spy.” Suddenly he grabbed Phoebe’s arm. “Don’t say nothin’,” he whispered; “there’s a whole passel of men out there on the lake. They’re paddlin’ this way, and there’s no sayin’ who they are or what they’re up to. Come on!”

  Dragging Phoebe after him, Jem started along the path, crouching low and running as fast as he could, with Bartlett right behind. Phoebe did not utter a sound, did not try to free herself, although her wrist, where Jem held her, was beginning to hurt — she was working too hard just to keep from hitting her head on low tree branches and stumbling on the rocks and roots in the narrow path.
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  When they had gone a good distance north of the men on the lake and Jem had slowed down, Phoebe pulled herself free of his grip. “Thank you,” she said primly. “I can manage without your holding onto me.”

  “Don’t you worry. I don’t figure to look after you, and I’ll tell you right out, I ain’t takin’ that bear to Canaday. No matter what you say, I ain’t takin’ no bear up to Canaday.”

  “You don’t need to.” Phoebe was equally indignant. “If you’re going to Fort St. John’s in Canada, march yourself right along. You don’t need to look after me or the bear. We can find our own way, just as we’ve been doing for at least three weeks now.” She meant it. At least, she meant to mean it. She was not willing to become indebted to this cross boy who distrusted her.

  “Well, you can do as you please, but this ain’t the best time in the world to be traipsin’ through the woods on yer own.” Jem turned his back to her and, as she’d bidden him, marched off.

  Phoebe was tired and hungry and she had never felt so alone in her life. Not when her father died, not when Gideon died and Anne turned on her. Not when she reached the source of Trout Brook and thought she was lost for ever. The only direction life had at this moment seemed to be to follow this irritating boy. And if she were to follow him to where his mother and the Anderson woman were, there might be comfort and kindness with them. And she had no will to start out again on her own. So she followed him. Bartlett followed her.

  They hadn’t gone more than a few yards when a dark shape leapt from a tree onto Phoebe’s shoulder. Claws dug through her tunic into her skin. She jumped. And she screeched. Jem spun around.

  “Where’d that cat come from?” he bellowed.

  Phoebe looked nervously around to see if their noise had attracted attention. Jem lowered his voice to an enraged whisper. “I ain’t takin’ no cat. Ain’t it enough you got that blasted bear? You didn’t say there was a cat.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Where’d he come from?”