escape
adventures of a loyalist family
escape
adventures of a loyalist family
Mary Beacock Fryer
Copyright © Mary Beacock Fryer, 2000
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.
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Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Friesens Corporation
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Fryer, Mary Beacock, 1929-
Escape: adventures of a Loyalist family
2nd ed.
ISBN 1-895681-17-0
1. United Empire loyalists — Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8561.R93E83 2000 C813’.54 C99-932273-7 PR9199.3.F68E82 2000
1 2 3 4 5 04 03 02 01 00
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Table of Contents
Foreword
Chapter One A Face from the Past
Chapter Two The Gap in the Stockade
Chapter Three Stealthily by Night
Chapter Four The First Haven
Chapter Five Enter James MacGregor
Chapter Six Foiling the Militiamen
Chapter Seven Farewell, James MacGregor
Chapter Eight Plots and Shots
Chapter Nine New Friends
Chapter Ten Crossing the Ridge
Chapter Eleven Through a Pleasant Valley
Chapter Twelve Fording the River
Chapter Thirteen Now by Raft
Chapter Fourteen Lost and Found
Chapter Fifteen All’s Well
FOREWORD
When the American Revolution ended, a new nation was born. The Thirteen Colonies, which had belonged to Britain, became the independent United States of America.
The first shots of the war were fired in 1775, and the struggle didn’t end until 1783. Many of the colonists opposed independence. They remained faithful to Britain and called themselves Loyalists. The rebels, who wanted to be free of British rule, called them Tories and treated them brutally.
All through the years of the war, Loyalist refugees made their way to Canada, where many of the men enlisted in regiments called Provincial Corps of the British Army. Some of the Loyalists who remained in the colonies joined the British forces in Florida or New York. There were many bloody battles, and life in the Colonies was hard. Bands of terrorists, both Loyalist and rebel, roamed the countryside burning houses and crops, kidnapping men, and mistreating women and children.
When the war finally ended, many of the Loyalists were still in their homes. They hoped that the victorious rebels would let bygones be bygones, but the persecution continued.
More Loyalists fled their homes, taking only the few possessions they could carry with them. Caleb Seaman was a Loyalist who escaped from New York State in 1789 with his wife Martha and their eight children.
Before I could tell the story of the Seamans’ journey, I had to retrace the route they followed and see that part of New York State for myself. Most of the Indian trail is now a highway, but the hills are still steep and the rivers are still hazardous with rapids and waterfalls. The dense forest is now rolling farmland, and some of the place names have changed. The Kahuago is the Black River. Fort Oswegatchie is Ogdensburg, Buell’s Bay is Brockville, Coleman’s Corners has become the village of Lyn.
Escape is a personal story. The house in Rockport where Caleb and Martha Seaman spent their last days is the one in which my grandfather, Thomas Seaman, was born. Caleb and Martha were my great-great-great grandparents.
Toronto, September 1976
Mary Beacock Fryer
Chapter One
A Face from the Past
Papa and I were carefree as we strolled in the marketplace that warm Saturday morning in June of 1789. I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone in the world. With seven brothers and sisters competing for his attention, I seldom had Papa to myself. Besides, it wasn’t often that he had an idle moment. Our town of Schenectady was growing fast now that settlers were flocking to this part of New York, and Papa could hardly keep up with all his orders. Most days, and sometimes in the evening too, he was hard at work in his blacksmith’s shop, but that sunny morning he was all mine.
Now and then we stopped to greet a neighbour or one of Papa’s customers from outside the town. Near the market shed there was a crowd, and we had to make our way around little groups of people laughing and talking in the sunshine. Although it was early in the season and there wasn’t much to trade, they were glad of any excuse to come to town. The winter had been long and lonely for them, and in the spring months the roads had been too muddy for travel.
As we moved away from the market shed, Papa was in the middle of one of his funny stories and I was almost doubled over with laughter, when suddenly his voice trailed off. Eyes fixed in an anxious stare, Papa was watching two well-dressed strangers coming towards us. One of them had features so much like Papa’s that I stared too.
The two men stopped when we came face to face, and a heavy frown wrinkled the forehead of the one who resembled Papa. After a searching look, he muttered, “Caleb Seaman?” Even his voice was like my father’s.
“Zebe!” Papa exclaimed. Then for a few moments no one spoke as the two men studied each other.
At last the man Papa called Zebe broke the silence. “I didn’t expect to meet you in Schenectady, Caleb,” he said, in a tone that implied my father had no right to be there.
“We’ve settled here,” Papa replied.
“We often wondered what had happened to you,” Zebe went on, “though we did hear once that you’d fled to Canada during the Revolution, with Martha and the children. Why didn’t you go?” The cold, hard words sent shivers up my spine. Zebe seemed to be threatening my father — my strong, capable father, who had always been my hero.
Zebe was elegant in breeches of broadcloth and a fine coat, with ruffles at his wrists and throat. On his feet were polished boots, which reached to his knees, and his head was covered with a tall, round hat of a type that I had never seen before. Beside him, Papa looked a little shabby in his deerskin breeches, worn homespun coat, woollen stockings, rough shoes, and that three-cornered hat he’d owned as long as I could remember.
Feeling as if the ground had caved in under me, I clutched Papa’s arm and whispered, “Papa, who is this man?” Before my father could reply, Zebe’s companion began to speak. Papa motioned to me to be silent.
“Zebe, I know this man.” He scowled and turned to Papa. “You are a Tory and a traitor!” There was no doubt about the menace in his stern accusation. Zebe trie
d to interrupt, but his companion ignored him.
“You had a blacksmith’s shop at Amenia during the war, didn’t you?”
Papa didn’t answer.
“One day, when I was passing through, you repaired my musket. Not an hour after I left your shop, I was seized and dragged into the woods by a band of Tories. How did they know where to find me?”
Papa shrugged his shoulders.
“You informed the Tory agents. I know you did,” the stranger insisted. “We’ve a score to settle, you and I. Those Tories marched me all the way to Montreal. I’ll never forget the miserable months I spent imprisoned there.”
At that Papa lifted his head high and squared his shoulders. “I was a prisoner of war too,” he said firmly. “I spent months in irons. You know that, Zebe. It was you who betrayed me to the rebels.”
Resentment flared in the faces of the two strangers, but Papa wasn’t going to be put off. “Irons that were too tight,” he went on, and he raised his sleeve to reveal a thick wrist ringed with deep, white scars. I had often wondered how Papa got those scars, but he never seemed to hear my questions about them.
Papa was quiet for a moment and then he tried again. “Come, sir, the war has been over for a long time. Old grudges should be forgotten. Back in 1776 I did what I thought was right, and so did you. When the rebels took up arms against King George, you joined them. I couldn’t. I just didn’t believe that the colonies should be independent. Instead, I swore an oath of allegiance to my king and enlisted in a Loyalist regiment. After that it was my duty to stop the rebels in any way I could.”
Once more I tried to speak, but again Papa shook his head. Would I never find out what they were talking about?
Papa went on trying to reason with the stranger. “We all have much to forgive and forget,” he said. “I know I could have gone to Canada and started a new life there. Many Loyalists did. But I was born in this country and I have the right to live here.” Papa’s voice grew stronger. “Loyalists were promised that right when the war ended.”
Nothing my father could say seemed to move the arrogant stranger. “You betrayed me to the Tories,” was his only answer. “Time can’t change that.”
Now that his friend was openly threatening Papa, Zebe relented a little and began to take my father’s part. “Captain Fonda, my cousin Caleb is right,” he said. “You can’t condemn him now for what he did during the Revolutionary War. In those days even families were divided, and brother sometimes fought against brother.”
“You’re right, Zebe,” Papa said. “What really counts is that since the war I’ve been loyal to the United States, and I’m bringing up my children to love this new nation.”
What Papa said was true. He and Mama never talked about the war, at least not when we were around, and they never criticized the government.
Captain Fonda wouldn’t be convinced. He went on arguing until finally Papa said, “We’ll never agree.” That seemed to end the matter for my father, and he turned to his cousin.
“Zebe, will you come home with me to visit Martha?”
Zebe hesitated, and Papa pressed him. “I know how happy she’d be to see you. She’s had no news of her family for many years.”
Zebe didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to commit himself without his companion’s approval.
“Please come, Zebe.” Papa was willing to plead for something that would make Mama happy. “Do you still live on Long Island?”
Zebe couldn’t resist that question and he answered with pride, “Yes, I do, and it’s as beautiful as ever.” Then he paused again.
Finally Captain Fonda nodded to him. “Zebe, go with your cousin,” he said curtly. “I’ll finish my business and meet you later at the inn.” He turned abruptly without looking at Papa, who politely raised his hat as the other man stamped away.
At last Papa had a moment for me. “Zebe, this is my third son, Nehemiah. We call him Ned.” Drawing me closer, he added, “Ned, this is our cousin, Zebulon Seaman. He lived near Mama and me on Long Island years ago.”
When I offered Cousin Zebe my hand, I was surprised to find his palm so smooth. Papa’s was rough from hard work. With his vengeful crony gone, Cousin Zebe relaxed. “How do you do, young Nehemiah,” he said. “So you’re named after your Papa’s brother who was lost at sea.”
“Am I, sir?” That was the first I’d heard of Papa’s brother, and I was eager to learn more.
Cousin Zebe studied me for a moment and then he asked, “How old are you, Ned?”
Drawing myself up to look as tall as I could, I answered firmly, “Twelve, sir.” How I hated being so small for my age.
“He’s like your mother, Caleb,” Cousin Zebe said, “but there’s a look of the handsome Jacksons about him too.”
Mama’s maiden name had been Jackson, and I knew he must be referring to her brothers. I’d heard very little about them either.
“I wonder if he’ll have their way with the ladies when he’s grown,” Cousin Zebe added slyly.
Clearly Papa disapproved of Zebe’s gossiping about Mama’s family. “Let’s go,” he mumbled, obviously in a hurry to change the subject. “Ned, we were on our way to the cobbler’s shop to pick up my boots. Will you fetch them? Remind the cobbler that he still owes me for shoeing his horse.”
Reluctantly I obeyed Papa. Deep in my bones I had a feeling that something terrible was going to happen and I wanted to be with him.
Outside the cobbler’s shop I met my sister Elizabeth, who was doing an errand for Mama. Elizabeth wasn’t quite a year older than I was and we were kindred spirits. We told each other all our troubles, all our dreams, things we didn’t want anyone else to know. I couldn’t wait to hear what she’d have to say about our meeting with the two strangers.
At first she laughed at my notion that Captain Fonda might do Papa some harm, and I began to feel a little better. But just as we were leaving the shop, I saw Captain Fonda hurrying along the street with the chief constable. Behind them marched two militiamen armed with muskets. Hastily I drew Elizabeth back into the shop.
“What’s the matter now?” she muttered. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.” I couldn’t answer her. Were those men on their way to arrest Papa? Suddenly I knew what we must do.
“Elizabeth, run home as fast as you can,” I ordered, pulling her out of the shop. “Tell Papa that Captain Fonda is with the chief constable.”
“Don’t be a blockhead,” she exclaimed impatiently. “What has that got to do with Papa?”
“Captain Fonda is dangerous,” I insisted. “I’d go myself, but I’m afraid he’d recognize me and stop me.”
Whether I convinced her, or whether she just decided to humour me, Elizabeth dashed up the street, her skirts lifted high, her long legs churning. When it suited her, Elizabeth could run like a deer.
Staying well behind Captain Fonda and the militiamen, I followed them, and they were making straight for our house. With my heart pounding in my chest, I reached the house just as the four men entered it. At the same moment I saw my oldest brother, Cade, come running from the blacksmith’s shop. Right on his heels I rushed into the house. Had Elizabeth been in time to warn Papa?
At first I couldn’t tell. In the middle of the room stood a determined Captain Fonda glaring at Cousin Zebe, who was pleading with him to go away and leave us in peace. Elizabeth was crouching with her arms around little Stephen and Smith, who were in tears. Mama, pale but resolute, was clutching baby Robert to her. My older brother, Sam, was shouting over and over, “What’s going on? What’s going on?” Only four-year-old Sarah seemed undismayed by all the hubbub. Arms akimbo, a mischievous glint in her eye, she watched as though this were some exciting new game.
Through the din came muffled thuds from above. The militiamen where shifting furniture in their search for Papa. Then the sounds ceased, and the men came trudging down the narrow stairway.
“He’s not up there,” one of them said.
“Try the shop,” Captain Fonda orde
red. Cade winced, and now I knew where Papa was hidden. If only I could have slipped out to warn him, but that was impossible. All I could do was pray that they wouldn’t find his hiding place.
Just as Cade and I stepped out of the door, the militiamen came from the shop, dragging Papa between them. They held him while the constable put irons on his wrists. Captain Fonda gave a grunt of satisfaction when he heard the constable say, “Caleb Seaman, you are under arrest, on the complaint of Captain Gilbert Fonda, late of General George Washington’s Continental Army.” Then they all set off down the road, Papa walking between the two militiamen with his head bowed.
Without thinking, I rushed after them and flung myself blindly at one of the militiamen. Cade, who was right behind me, tried to pull me away. “Don’t be a fool,” he shouted, but I broke away from him and pounded the militiaman on the back, dimly aware that Papa was begging me to stop.
“That cub is old enough to know better,” I heard Captain Fonda say. “Bring him along.”
I was scooped up, kicking wildly. Again and again Papa urged Captain Fonda to let me go free, but he might as well have saved his breath. When I stopped struggling, the militiaman set me down and pulled me along behind him. We were going so fast that I had to run to stay on my feet.
Slowly I came to my senses. What had I done? What was going to happen to me? I looked at my father, who had always been there to help me when I needed him. Not this time though. He was in irons, and we were both on our way to prison.
Chapter Two
The Gap in the Stockade
Most of the boys in Schenectady were fascinated by the jail, and I was no different. One of our favourite pastimes was to try to picture what it was like inside. Now, to my horror, I was going to find out, and I’d have given anything not to have to.
The jail was in the old fort near the banks of the Mohawk River. The fort had been built many years earlier to protect the town from French and Indian raiders, and the stockade that surrounded it was tumble-down in places. My friends and I sometimes played nearby, looking for loose timbers and joking about the wicked people inside. What a poor joke it seemed now. How many of those prisoners had been men like my father, good men, who didn’t deserve to be arrested?
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