Escape

by Mary Beacock Fryer

  All too soon we reached the gate. Captain Fonda pounded on it, and it ground slowly open. As the militiamen pushed us into the guardroom, the gate closed with a thud and my heart sank. It wasn’t a dream: I was behind bleak prison walls.

  Inside, the first thing I noticed was the smell. The jail reeked like a filthy stable. Papa wouldn’t even have kept a horse in it. Before I could get a good look at the guardroom, the constable removed Papa’s irons and pushed us through a stout wooden door into a cell. There was a small iron grating in the door, but it was too high for me to see through it. The only light in the cell came from a barred window in the wall opposite the door.

  In the dimness we stumbled through straw piled deep on the floor. As my eyes grew used to the gloom, I realized that Papa and I were not alone. In one corner lay a figure huddled on a pile of dirty blankets. I could tell from his steady breathing that the poor devil, whoever he was, was asleep.

  In despair, I sank to the straw. Papa sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. When I lifted my head, he was smiling at me. That was Papa. He knew when to scold and when to comfort.

  “Don’t be downhearted, Ned,” he whispered. “We’ll find a way out, but I’ll need your help.”

  “Escape?” I breathed, hardly daring to hope. “Can we?”

  “I escaped once before when I was a prisoner of war,” he assured me.

  That was the opening I’d been waiting for. “Papa, why were you a prisoner of war?” I asked him. “Why did Captain Fonda call you a traitor and have you arrested? What has Cousin Zebe got to with it?”

  Papa smiled again. “That’s more like it,” he whispered, but he still didn’t answer my questions. Then he must have decided that it was time for me to know something about those bygone days. He began to speak, slowly at first, but soon the whole story came pouring out.

  When Papa was a young blacksmith on Long Island, he and Cousin Zebe were both courting Mama. Zebe was a rich man, very sure of himself, never dreaming that any girl would turn him down. But Mama loved Papa and wouldn’t marry anyone else. Zebe never forgave Papa for winning her away from him.

  For a few years after they were married, Mama and Papa were happy and comfortable. Papa had a good business and they lived in a big house, much finer than our house in Schenectady. They were even happier when my oldest brother was born. They named him Caleb after my father, but Sam, who came along about a year later, couldn’t say Caleb when he was learning to talk. The closest he could come was Cade, and that name stuck.

  Then the Revolutionary War broke out, and my parents’ whole world crumbled. There were many colonists who wanted to be free of the rule of the British king, but as Papa had told Captain Fonda, he wasn’t one of them. Eager to help the British cause, Papa secretly enlisted in a Loyalist regiment. Zebe, who was on the other side and an officer in the rebel militia, found out. Glad of a chance to pay Papa back, he reported him. Papa was arrested and taken to a prison camp at a place called Fishkill on the Hudson River.

  When Papa reached that point in his story, he paused. I prodded him eagerly. “What happened to Mama and Cade and Sam?”

  Papa laughed softly. “Mama was very brave. She found out where I was and followed me with the boys. They were little more than babies.”

  Papa’s story grew more and more exciting. The dirty jail cell faded away, and I was back there with Mama and Papa and my brothers.

  Mama rented rooms near the prison so that she could visit Papa. When he saw her, he vowed that he’d escape somehow so that he could take care of her and my brothers. One day his chance came. He was in a working party that was sent to cut firewood in the forest outside the prison walls. Sneaking away from the other prisoners, he hid until nightfall. Then he stole through the dark streets to Mama’s rooms. They gathered up their few belongings and slipped out of Fishkill. They had to go north, though Papa knew that Long Island was in the hands of the British by now and they would be safe back at home. The trouble was that they couldn’t get back. There were rebel troops all along the Hudson River.

  A few days later they reached a small town called Amenia, where Papa found an abandoned blacksmith’s shop. Someone told him that the Loyalists who owned it had fled to Quebec. Mama and Papa decided to settle there. Elizabeth was born in Amenia and so was I.

  When Papa told me that, I couldn’t help interrupting him again. “Now I am part of the story too,” I said eagerly. “Go on, Papa.”

  In Amenia Papa tried to ignore the war, but his conscience wouldn’t let him. If he believed in the Loyalist cause, he should be fighting for it. When some Loyalists working as secret agents for the British approached him about carrying messages for them, he agreed at once.

  “And it is true that I told the agents where to find Captain Fonda,” Papa said.

  Just then the ragged bundle in the corner stirred and rolled over. A rugged man in a bush shirt and buckskin leggings rose to his feet, stared at Papa, and whispered, “Caleb Seaman!”

  Papa stared back. “Truelove Butler,” he said at last. “Yours is the third face from my past that has come back to haunt me today. Unlike the others, you are a welcome ghost.”

  The two men gripped hands while Papa introduced me. Mr. Butler sighed and said, “My past caught up with me too.”

  “What happened?” Papa asked.

  “It’s a nightmare,” Mr. Butler replied. “For nine years I’ve been living in Canada, hardly ever thinking about my old life. Then a few months ago I received word that my father had died in Amenia and left me some money. I decided to come and collect it. I was sure I’d be safe, but I was wrong. The other day I stopped to have a meal at the inn. As luck would have it, there was a lawyer from Amenia at the same table. He knew I’d been a secret agent for the British and he slipped away and went straight to report me. Before I’d finished eating, the constable arrived to arrest me. Now no one will tell me what’s going to happen. My poor wife and children in Canada don’t even know where I am.”

  While the two men talked, I stared at the barred window, my head crammed with grisly pictures. What was the punishment for striking a militiaman? Would I be put in the pillory and pelted with rotten eggs? Would I be flogged at the whipping post? Was there an even worse fate in store for me? I just had to know.

  “What’s going to happen to us, Papa?” I cried.

  Papa didn’t reply at once, but at last he murmured in a weary tone, “I don’t know, but I’m sure no harm will come to you. Cousin Zebe is an important man. For your mother’s sake, he’ll help you.”

  “But what about you?” I insisted, fighting visions of Papa with a noose around his neck, hanging from a scaffold. Before he could answer me, I went on firmly, “We’ll just have to find a way to escape.”

  “Amen to that,” Papa replied, but his face was grim.

  Mr. Butler chuckled softly and went to the window. Cautioning us with his finger to be silent, he carefully removed one of the bars and held it up for us to see. “I’ve freed one bar,” he whispered, “and loosened two others. We should be able to crawl through the window, but how would we get over the stockade without being caught?”

  “We don’t have to get over it,” I broke in eagerly. “I know where there are some loose timbers — at the north end, not far from the river bank.”

  “Aha,” Mr. Butler began, but just then there was the sound of a key in the lock. As the cell door began to creak, he slipped the bar back in place and went quickly to sit in his corner.

  A guard kicked the door wide and lurched into the cell, carrying a tray with three bowls on it. Papa took the tray from him, for the man was swaying so much that he could hardly stand. The guard turned and stumbled out.

  “Is he drunk?” I asked.

  Papa nodded, disgusted. Then he sniffed the bowls. “Porridge,” he muttered, “and burnt at that.” He handed Mr. Butler a bowl with a large pewter spoon in it and then gave me one. I couldn’t choke the porridge down. Papa set his bowl aside too, but Mr. Butler wolfed
down the unsavoury mess.

  Soon he reached for my bowl and then took Papa’s portion as well. “I’ve been here nearly a week and I’m hungry enough to eat anything,” he apologized.

  “We’re not going to be here a week,” Papa said in a determined voice.

  A sound at the door put a stop to our talk. The guard entered, drunker than ever. Papa lifted the tray and placed it in the guard’s unsteady hands. He even pushed the cell door shut as the lout swayed out. The tray fell with a clatter on the other side of the door, and then the key was turned. The guard still had wit enough to lock the door, but Papa, undismayed, moved away from it with a smile on his face — and in his upraised hand one of the pewter spoons.

  Mr. Butler whistled softly. “It should be easy enough for a blacksmith like you to fashion that into a key. Then we won’t have to struggle through the window.”

  Luckily no one had searched us before we were locked up. From his pocket Papa took a small knife that he always carried. In a few minutes he had scraped the handle of the spoon into a long, thin point, and he went to examine the lock.

  “It’s a simple lock,” he whispered, “but pewter is very soft. I’ll have to work carefully, tonight when all is quiet. If that guard goes on drinking, he’s sure to fall asleep and then only a cannon will wake him.”

  Their confidence was contagious. For a short time my fears were lulled, until I was struck by the thought that escape from the jail was just the beginning. “What will we do once we’re out, Papa?” I asked.

  It was Mr. Butler who answered. “Caleb, the only thing you can do is come to Canada with me. You and your family won’t be safe in New York after this.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Papa answered. “We should have gone long ago. I see now that it was senseless to think we could stay here. Sooner or later someone was bound to want revenge.”

  At that time of year darkness came late. The longer we waited, the more I brooded. Was it only this morning that Papa and I had strolled in the marketplace — so carefree and happy? Now, even if we managed to escape from the jail, my life was going to change in a way that I couldn’t even imagine.

  “It’s dark,” Mr. Butler whispered at last. We listened carefully. No hum of voices from the guardroom, no sound of footsteps. Papa went to the door and bent over the lock. There was a soft scraping, and then he began to edge the door open, beckoning to us to come closer to him.

  Suddenly we were caught in a shaft of light from the guardroom. In an instant our brave dream of escape was shattered. We were looking right into the barrel of a musket — poised in the hands of a guard we hadn’t seen before, a sober one. Papa grabbed for the firearm and struggled with the guard, shouting, “Run, Ned!”

  Too bewildered to move, I stood rooted to the straw, but Mr. Butler gave me a shove. I tripped and rolled between the guard’s outspread legs. Stumbling to my feet, I ran from the guardroom, making straight for the gap in the stockade. As I crawled between the loose timbers, I prayed that Papa and Mr. Butler would be able to find them.

  I sped along the river bank until I reached a dark street, where I paused for a second. What should I do? Useless to wait for Papa and Mr. Butler. I didn’t know which way they would come, or whether they would escape at all. There was only one clear thought in my head. Papa had said we must leave Schenectady. I had to alert Mama.

  Terrified of being seized by the watch, I slunk through the streets. The moment I reached our path, Goliath came bounding out to meet me. Before he could yelp joyfully as he usually did when one of us came home, I cuffed him hard. Poor dog. He wasn’t used to that kind of treatment, but he seemed to understand that I didn’t want him to bark and he followed me into the house.

  Chapter Three

  Stealthily by Night

  I was with Mama in her bedroom, telling her about Papa’s plan, when suddenly she put her hand over my mouth and whispered, “Sh. There’s someone down below.”

  “It must be Papa,” I said, pushing her fingers away.

  “Pray God,” Mama murmured, and she picked up the lamp and moved towards the stairway.

  At the foot of the stairs stood my father and Mr. Butler. Before they could move, Mama handed me the lamp and went straight to Papa’s arms. He hugged her fiercely but turned to me almost at once. “We must be away from here before our escape is discovered,” he said, urging me towards the stairs. “Fetch Cade and Sam and Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth woke at once when I prodded her. She got right out of bed and began to dress, but I had to shake Cade and Sam. They kept mumbling, “Ned? How did you escape? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I answered. “Papa wants us downstairs right away.” That was enough to get Cade moving. He reached for his clothes and gave Sam a push to hurry him up.

  Downstairs we found Mama and Papa and Mr. Butler squatting around a single candle placed in the middle of the floor. Papa took the lamp from me and blew it out. Then he began to give orders.

  “Martha, you and Elizabeth gather up some food and clothing — and blankets, lots of blankets. Sam, you’re in charge of loading the wagon in the stableyard. Ned, feed the livestock and harness the horses. But mind, no jingling or neighing to wake our neighbours.”

  “I’ll get the rifles and the musket first,” Sam said. This was exactly the kind of excitement he liked. Without stopping to ask any questions, he dashed out of the room. Just as he reached the door, Papa warned him sharply, “Be sure to keep that dratted dog quiet.”

  Then he turned to Cade. “Come with me to collect my tools,” he said. From force of habit, Cade moved at once when Papa spoke, but he had to know what was happening. “Papa, where are we going in the middle of the night?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “With Mr. Butler to Canada, to the Loyalist settlement at Johnstown. That’s the only safe place for us. Hurry.”

  Shivering and shaking, more from fear of discovery than from the chill of the night air, we all set about our tasks. A waning moon gave us just enough light to see what we were doing. Mama and Elizabeth carried out armloads of clothes, blankets, and food — bread, potatoes, hams, turnips, and strings of dried apples. Soon there was a heap of goods piled beside the wagon. Mr. Butler appeared with a barrel of flour, which Sam helped him heave aboard. Then Mama and Elizabeth came back, each of them carrying a basket of pots and dishes and our few pieces of cutlery. Mama went to get her spinning wheel, a pretty sewing basket that was her only treasure from her mother’s house, and last of all the family Bible. Sam wrapped everything in blankets and packed the bundles into the wagon.

  Meanwhile I went out to the barn. There was no need to worry about our two pigs: they ran loose in the town. The chickens and the cow might wake our neighbours though, and that wouldn’t do. The later our neighbours found out that we had fled, the better our chance of putting some distance between us and Captain Fonda.

  I set out feed for the chickens to keep them quiet at dawn. Then I took the calf from his pen and put him in the stall with the cow. As long as the calf suckled, the cow wouldn’t bawl to be milked. Every now and then I went out to the road to make sure that no one was coming.

  Cade carried out the tongs, the bellows, and the hammer. Then Papa struggled from the shop with the smallest anvil. Mr. Butler urged him to pack all the iron he could. “It’s hard to get in Canada,” he said, “and it costs the earth.”

  At last Papa poked his head around the stable door and whispered to me, “We’re ready for the horses, Ned.”

  Mr. Butler slipped past him with some rags in his hands. Together we wrapped them around the loose bits of harness to muffle any jingling. Papa looked longingly at the cow and the calf, though he knew we must leave them behind. The calf was only a few days old and would never stand the journey. “What about the foal?” Papa said aloud.

  “Take him with you,” Mr. Butler replied. “There aren’t many horses in our Loyalist settlement.”

  I led the sturdy bay stallion out to the stableyard
. Mr. Butler followed with the black mare. Papa was viewing the high-piled wagon with alarm, and he and Mama argued for a moment.

  “Martha, that spinning wheel takes up half the wagon.”

  “I can’t help that,” Mama answered. “We have to have yarn. What about those two jugs of whisky? Why don’t you leave them behind?”

  “Leave them behind!” Papa answered indignantly. “We’ll need them if someone falls ill.” He firmly believed that whisky would cure anything. That seemed to settle the argument, and in the end nothing was removed from the wagon.

  Papa sent me with my brothers and sister to fetch the four little ones. Fortunately they had slept through all the coming and going. Scooping them up carefully, blankets and all, so as not to wake them, we carried them downstairs.

  As I left the house with Stephen in my arms, I turned for a last wistful look at the only home I could remember. Papa patted my arm encouragingly and pulled me towards the wagon, whispering, “Come on, Ned. No looking back.”

  After the children were settled, Mama and Elizabeth climbed into the wagon, but Papa didn’t mount. He was going to lead the stallion by the bridle to avoid noise.

  At the last moment Sam came from the barn with Goliath at his heels. He picked up the dog and tossed him on Elizabeth’s lap. Goliath sprawled across her legs, tail wagging, body quivering. She stroked him and whispered in his ear to keep him from barking. Although he was so big and woolly, he thought he was a lap dog. Nothing pleased him more than to have Elizabeth cuddle him.

  The rest of us fell in behind the wagon, except for Sam. He led the foal up ahead of the mare, where she could see her baby and wouldn’t whinny. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting Captain Fonda to loom out of the shadows and pounce on me.

  “It’s lucky that your house is on the south bank of the Mohawk and at the west end of Schenectady,” Mr. Butler told me. “We’ll be able to reach the road to Fort Hunter without having to go through the town or ford the river.”