Escape

by Mary Beacock Fryer

  Mama’s head snapped up indignantly, a sharp reply on her lips, but when she saw the tender glint in Papa’s eye she laughed too. “Away with you both,” she said, ducking her head and rubbing very hard at the shirt in her hands.

  Suddenly Papa’s face was serious. “I knew the day I met her how lucky I was,” he said, almost to himself, and he went over to Mama and drew her to her feet. Mama stood for a moment in the circle of his arms, smiling at him lovingly, and for the first time in days my world was bright again.

  Soon there were dripping shirts and petticoats hanging from every bush. Papa’s tools were spread out around him. Through the camp rang the squeals of the children, playing tag with Elizabeth. We seem to be making very free with the camp of the Oneidas, I thought to myself. I wonder if they mind. But it was clear from the beaming faces all around me that the Oneidas enjoyed having us there.

  Mr. Butler’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I have a job for you, Ned,” he called. “Come and help me gather some of these weeds.”

  They were green weeds that I didn’t recognize and they had a very sharp, unpleasant odour. When we had a small pile of them, we crushed them to a pulp in a big earthenware bowl of Mama’s. Then we strained the pulp through a cloth, and an oily liquid oozed out into a pan we’d placed under it. Once the pan was full, Mr. Butler poured the liquid into a jug. All I did was follow orders. I had no idea what we were doing or why we were doing it, and the only thing Mr. Butler would say was, “Horse balm. You’ll be glad of it later.”

  In the meantime Papa had taken some coals from the campfire and started a fire of his own on a flat rock. The Indians, who were friendly and interested, sat in a circle around him watching him work. When Papa had everything set out just as he wanted it, he turned to Lodlihont.

  “May we hunt in your lands?” he asked. “We need fresh meat.”

  “Take all the game you need,” Lodlihont answered. “For now there is still plenty, though we fear what tomorrow will bring. Each day the settlers come closer, and soon the game may disappear. When we complain to the governor of New York, he sends agents to talk to us, but they only tell us to raise cattle as the white man does.”

  “I thought you were raising cattle,” Papa said.

  “We have some in our large villages,” Lodlihom replied, “but the Oneidas are hunters — and venison tastes better to us.”

  When Sam appeared, Papa told him that we had been given permission to hunt. “Why don’t you go into the woods right now and see if you can get us some rabbits or a few pigeons for supper?” Papa added.

  Sam’s face lit up. He took the rifle from the wagon and whistled for Goliath, who started barking wildly as soon as he saw the firearm.

  By now Papa was checking the stallion’s shoes to find out whether they were loose. Suddenly some of the Oneidas got to their feet. Two Indians we hadn’t seen before were approaching the camp, leading a horse with a pack on his back and a string of trout trailing down his flank. It didn’t take Papa long to notice that the horse was favouring one rear foot. When the men greeted him in English, the first thing he said was, “What’s wrong with your horse?”

  “We’re not sure,” one of the men replied. “That’s why we’ve come back to camp. Maybe he was scratched by a thorn, or maybe he’s picked up a stone.”

  While they were talking, our stallion began to snort at the strange horse. Papa hastily finished securing a loose shoe and told me to take him away and tether him. As soon as I had the big horse tied up some distance away, I hurried back to the group around the fire.

  “I’m a blacksmith,” Papa was saying, “and I’ve had a lot of experience with lame horses. Will you let me take a look at him?”

  “Yes, we’ll be glad of your help,” one of the men replied.

  My father tried to coax the lame horse to lift his foot, but the horse didn’t know him. Papa had to dodge a few kicks before the Indians got a grip on him and held him still. Then grasping the foot firmly, Papa lifted it and turned it over so that he could see the underside.

  “I’m pretty sure there’s a stone in there,” Papa said, puffing hard.

  “We wondered about that,” one of the Indians repeated, “but the swelling’s on top. Maybe he was scratched by a thorn.”

  “You may be right,” Papa admitted, lowering the foot to the ground and jumping out of the way as the horse aimed another kick at him. “In any case, we have to get rid of that swelling. Will you let me put a poultice on it? If there’s a stone in there, it probably got into the soft frog of the foot and worked its way up. The poultice will burst the swelling, and the stone will come out.”

  The Indians agreed at once that a poultice was a good idea. Papa went to the wagon and began to rummage around, but he couldn’t seem to find what he wanted. “Martha, have we used up all the turnips?” he called out to Mama.

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “Look in the basket under the wagon seat.”

  Mama wasn’t really paying much attention to Papa. She was busy chopping up smartweed. When it was ready, she went into the bark shelter where Cade was resting. I heard a howl of protest from Cade and knew she had put the smartweed on his wound. It was her favourite remedy for cuts, but it was a painful one. The weed was well named.

  Papa looked up from the bowl of turnip scrapings he was mashing into a poultice. “Be brave, Cade,” he called out. “The smartweed will do you good.”

  When Papa had warmed the poultice, the two Indians grabbed their horse and held him still, while Papa tied it firmly over the swelling. The horse settled down almost as soon as he felt the heat.

  “I’ll put a fresh one on tonight,” Papa told the men in a satisfied tone, and he picked up his hammer to attack the wagon wheels again.

  A sudden shout from Elizabeth caught my attention. It was easy to see that the children were plaguing her, and suddenly I felt guilty. While I’d been wandering around the camp without a care, Elizabeth had been tied to those children. She seemed to spend most of her time with them.

  To try to make amends, I started to help her spoon mashed up potatoes into bowls. Then I took Stephen on my lap and fed him. They were good while they ate, even Sarah, but as soon as they had finished, they were off again. We just couldn’t get them to lie down for a nap. They were too excited. Finally Papa’s temper flared up when Sarah almost fell into the fire. “Take them for a walk,” he snapped at Elizabeth and me.

  In the middle of the afternoon we heard a great whoop — and Sam appeared in the clearing, brandishing a big turkey. My mouth began to water the moment my eyes lit on it. After I had helped Sam draw and pluck the bird, we took it to Mama. She beamed when Sam handed it to her, almost staggering under its weight. Sam was so pleased with himself that he agreed to look after the children for a while.

  That was what Elizabeth and I had been waiting for, a chance to get away by ourselves. It was a hot afternoon and the river was very tempting. Very quietly, so that no one would notice, we stole away from the camp and walked along the bank.

  Elizabeth and I loved to swim, but she had to do it secretly so that Mama wouldn’t find out. We were certain Mama would frown on swimming as a most improper pastime for girls. If she’d only known, Elizabeth was the best swimmer in the family. She could hold her breath much longer than I could, or even Sam and Cade, and she was like a fish under water.

  When we thought we were a safe distance from the camp we took off our clothes and plunged into the river. Cool and refreshing, the water rippled over our itchy skin, soothing our mosquito bites. I could have stayed there for hours, but Elizabeth was always conscious of the fact that she was doing something she shouldn’t. Besides, her hair was thick and curly and took forever to dry. If it wasn’t dry when we went back, Mama would suspect something at once. The other thing was that we didn’t want to leave Sam with the children too long. His patience would soon run out.

  Reluctantly, about an hour later, we started back. As we approached the camp, the enticing smell of roasti
ng turkey drifted towards us, lending wings to our feet. The bird was stretched on a spit over the fire that Papa had made. Mama was kneeling beside the fire making scones. Papa was talking to Lodlihont, who wanted us to share their meal. My father was equally determined that the Indians would come to our feast. In the end we all ate together, their food and ours as well.

  While we seated ourselves in a circle on the ground, Papa carved the turkey and Mama heaped a pewter plate with scones. In the place of honour in the middle of the circle was a bright red mound of juicy strawberries, which Sam and the children had picked. Smiling broadly, Lodlihont and the Indian woman, whose name was Kahawit, placed a large iron kettle of stew and a wooden platter of golden-brown trout beside the strawberries.

  The fish and the scones disappeared quickly, but the Indians didn’t seem to think much of our roast turkey. When I peered into their iron kettle, I felt the same way about their stew. There was a muskrat head floating right on top. For a second I felt a little queasy, and Mama looked rather doubtful too, but we both took a little of the unfamiliar fare. The only one of us who really enjoyed it though was Mr. Butler, who kept dipping a wooden ladle into the kettle. Obviously he’d eaten that kind of stew before and liked it.

  After supper, while Mama was packing away the leftover turkey, Papa and I went to change the poultice on the lame horse. The animal seemed to trust Papa now. I was able to hold him still while Papa peeled away the turnip scrapings, to reveal a swelling almost twice the size it had been earlier.

  “That’s about to burst,” Papa said. “Ned, can you get my knife out of my pocket?”

  By now the Indians had gathered around and they held the horse steady while Papa pricked the skin in the middle of the swelling. Immediately a thick, green fluid gushed from the wound and spilled over the ground.

  “Keep a good grip on him,” Papa told them, and he pressed the swelling between his thumbs. More of the foul liquid poured out. With a grunt of satisfaction, Papa began to probe the wound. In a moment he held up a tiny chip of stone. “I thought it might take longer,” he said, smiling. “The foot will heal quickly now.”

  For a moment the Indians looked at the chip and then they all began to laugh. As Papa walked away, Lodlihont called out to him, “You are a good medicine man,” and Papa chuckled too.

  It was a bright starry night, and Sam and I couldn’t bear to be cooped up in one of the bark shelters. We spread our blankets on the ground. Soon Papa and Mr. Butler joined us, but Mama made Elizabeth stay in the wagon with Stephen, Smith, and Sarah. She took the baby with her into the shelter where Cade was already asleep.

  Two or three times in the night Cade’s groans woke us, and we heard Mama soothing him. Once Kahawit went into the shelter with a handful of twigs, and then all was quiet for a few hours. Towards morning Cade cried out sharply. Papa persuaded him to take a few sips of whisky, and after that we all slept for another hour.

  In the soft sunshine of the early morning, we repacked the wagon. Mama was just settling her spinning wheel exactly where she wanted it when Kahawit shyly offered her a gift. It was a carved board about a foot wide and two feet long, rounded at the corners, with a small ledge at the bottom. From the sides dangled wide strips of deerskin decorated with bright beads. Neatly folded on top of it was a coloured blanket, and stretched across the end was a leather strap with thongs hanging from it. Mama was bewildered until Lodlihont explained. “It is a cradle for the baby,” he said.

  Mama wasn’t much wiser, but she smiled and said, “Please thank Kahawit for me and tell her we’ll never forget all her kindness.”

  Shy as she was, Kahawit had to make sure that Mama knew how to use the cradle. She wrapped Robert in the blanket and strapped him to the board. We watched fascinated. When she had secured the board to Mama’s back, Robert seemed to be hanging from a strap around Mama’s forehead. To our surprise he was cooing quite happily.

  Papa made a last check of the wagon, shook Lodlihont’s hand, climbed aboard, and murmured a gentle “Giddap.” The horses moved on and so did we, all of us on foot except Cade. Mama had insisted that he lie on the floor of the wagon, but before long he began to complain that the jolting was causing more pain than walking would. Papa stopped the wagon, and Cade climbed over the side before anyone could help him. Mama made a sling for his arm so that the weight wouldn’t drag at his shoulder.

  My feet plodded on and on, one after the other, but my mind was still back at the camp. “I wish we could have stayed there,” I said aloud.

  Mama knew what I meant. “The Indians were very kind to us and made us feel safe and at home in their camp,” she murmured.

  Elizabeth laughed. “What about the cradle, Mama? Do you like it? Will you carry Robert all the way to Canada in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mama answered. “He seems rather cramped. I wonder where Kahawit got it?”

  “I imagine she made it during the night,” Mr. Butler said. “Before we reach Oswegatchie, you’ll be grateful for it.”

  For the next few miles the going was easy. Even the children were walking without any trouble. But by mid-morning the trail was beginning to rise steeply, and the forest was closing in on us, blocking out the sun.

  “We’re climbing out of the Mohawk valley,” Mr. Butler told me.

  His words made home seem farther away than ever. Nothing but unknown wilderness all around us. I wondered how long it would be before we saw another person and what would have happened to us in the meantime.

  Chapter Ten

  Crossing the Ridge

  “Look at that!” Cade exclaimed, as we came out of the forest into a sunlit meadow. Ahead of us was a steep wooded ridge stretching east and west as far as we could see. The thin, grey line of the trail led straight up through the trees.

  “Do we have to climb that hill?” Papa gasped in dismay

  “I’m afraid so,” Mr. Butler replied. “If there were an easier route, the Oneidas would know about it, and their trail would follow It.” He stood musing for a moment and then went on very firmly, “Somehow we have to climb the hill, cross the crest, and work our way down the other side. After that we should be all right. The trail goes overland to the foot of a great waterfall the Oneidas call the High Falls.”

  “How far is that from here?” Papa asked.

  “About two days’ march on foot — maybe three or four with the wagon. That’s the obstacle. We’ll never get a loaded wagon up that hill “

  Shielding his eyes with his hand, Papa peered up the hillside, his troubled thoughts chasing each other across his face. But he liked a challenge, and finally he nodded, looking determined. “You’re right, Truelove,” he said, “but I’m sure the horses could manage with an empty wagon. We’ll have to carry the cargo, a little at a time.”

  Suddenly Papa was like a general planning a campaign. “Martha,” he said, “you and Cade and the children make yourselves as comfortable as you can here, while the rest of us deal with the first load. After we’ve made our first climb, we’ll have a better idea of what we face.”

  Papa’s determination was contagious. Sam unhitched the horses and hobbled them. Then with a flourish he shouldered the barrel of flour. Not to be outdone by Sam, I slung Mama’s spinning wheel on my back, balancing it with my right hand, and stooped to pick up Mr. Butler’s jug of horse balm in my left. Elizabeth, Papa, and Mr. Butler were soon burdened like pack horses too.

  For a while we mounted steadily and at a good pace, though the going was rough, but then we began to flag a little. About a mile up the hillside, the trail levelled off on a small plateau. Mr. Butler told us to drop our packs and have a short rest, and nobody argued with him.

  “The next climb will be easier,” he encouraged us. “The trail isn’t so steep, and I can see a clearing about two miles up.”

  Papa was studying the hillside again, obviously with some new plan in mind. At last he said, “I think the team could pull a small weight from here. Let’s go back and get the horses and the wagon.”


  Elizabeth and I were the first to reach the meadow at the foot of the ridge, and Mama jumped to her feet when she saw us back so soon. We were in the midst of explaining the new plan to her when Papa and Mr. Butler and Sam arrived. Fed up with being treated like an invalid, Cade said firmly, “I’m coming with you this time.” Mama protested, but Papa convinced her that Cade wouldn’t come to any harm.

  We emptied the wagon, and then Papa and Sam hitched up the horses and set off up the trail. Cade followed them with a block of wood in his good arm, ready to drop it behind one of the rear wheels if the wagon began to slide. Mr. Butler, Elizabeth, and I, bowed down with as much as we could carry, were not far behind them. This time we left Mama alone with the children. She was telling them a story, and for a change they were quiet.

  When we reached the plateau, Papa said to Cade, “That’s enough for now. You stay here with the horses. We won’t be long.

  On our third trip up the trail, Papa was lugging the anvil in his arms, and it was all he could do to hang on to it. Every few minutes he had to stop and set it down. Once I heard him mutter to himself, “I’ve got to do it. I’d be lost in Canada without the anvil.”

  Mr. Butler dropped his pack and said to Papa, “Maybe we can tie a rope around it and pull it.” Even dragging the anvil was hard enough. There were so many obstacles in the path. Several times we had to steer it around rocks or untangle it from the bushes.

  When we reached the plateau, there was no sign of Cade. The stallion was tied to a tree and hobbled, but he was restless and trying to break away. Papa rushed to soothe the big horse. Before he could utter a sound, we found out what the trouble was. Suddenly we were beset by a swarm of small black flies.

  I was used to mosquitoes, but I’d never seen anything like these pests. They even penetrated our clothes. Before long blood was trickling from the open wounds they left on my face.

  “Where’s the horse balm?” Mr. Butler shouted, rummaging among the bundles piled near the wagon. When he found the jug, he told us to cup our hands and began to pour the messy liquid into them.