“Fort Oswegatchie?” Mr. Butler asked eagerly.
“Oui, Oswegatchie,” the man replied, and he pointed downstream. “La. Huit milles.” He held up his hands and counted off eight fingers.
“Eight miles?” Mr. Butler asked, holding up eight fingers too.
The man nodded, looking at Sarah cuddled in Elizabeth’s arms. He understood that Sarah belonged to us and he gave us a big grin when Mr. Butler thanked him for taking care of her.
None of us dared speak of it, but I knew that my brothers and sister shared my dread. Something had happened to Mama and Papa. As he untied the raft, Mr. Butler tried to reassure us. “I’m sure they’re all right,” he said. “The worst that can have happened is that they’re lost. The soldiers at Fort Oswegatchie will soon help us find them.”
We wanted to believe Mr. Butler, but I don’t think any of us did. Without speaking, we paddled hard, intent on getting to Fort Oswegatchie. Luckily the current was strong and we moved very swiftly, and yet it seemed an age before we sighted a wooden stockade. Then as we got closer a mill came into view, with piles of lumber stacked beside it, and we heard the whining of a saw.
Cade poled us swiftly to the small jetty, and Sam leaped ashore and tied up the raft. We all ran up the path towards the open gate of the stockade. Even in his anxiety Mr. Butler stopped once and pointed proudly, calling to us, “The St. Lawrence.” There it flowed, our hard-won goal, wide and blue and welcoming. If only Mama and Papa and the boys had been with us.
At the gate we gasped out our story to the red-coated sentry. He waved us towards the guardroom and the officer on duty. Just as we entered the parade ground, we stopped dead. There were our mare and stallion tethered to stakes. At the same moment we heard joyful shouts. Smith and Stephen were running towards us, with Mama close behind them.
“Sarah,” she shrieked as though the rest of us weren’t there. Grabbing her little girl from Elizabeth’s arms, Mama buried her face in Sarah’s hair. When she could speak again, she turned to Cade. “But where is Papa?” she asked him anxiously.
Cade looked stunned. “Isn’t he here?”
“No,” Mama answered. “He brought us to the fort and left again right away with some of the soldiers to look for Sarah. Where did you find her?”
“A woodsman who has a cabin farther up the river found her two days ago in the forest,” Mr. Butler replied. “What happened?”
“Sarah wandered away from our fireside three evenings ago,” Mama answered in a broken voice. “Papa was hunting and I was busy with the baby. As soon as my back was turned, she ran off. Smith came to tell me that she’d gone, but by then she’d disappeared. At first I thought she was just playing a trick on me and I called and called, but she didn’t come back.”
Poor Mama. I knew how she must have felt when I remembered the time that Sarah had tried to run away from Cade and me.
“Papa hunted for her all night,” Mama went on. “We were frantic, but in the morning Papa decided that the only thing to do was bring me and the boys to the fort and get some help to search for Sarah.”
“How far were you from the fort when Sarah wandered away?” Mr. Butler asked.
“It can’t have been very far,” Mama answered. “We got here within a few hours.”
“Never mind, Martha. All’s well now,” Mr. Butler said. “I’ll go up the trail to find Caleb and the soldiers and tell them that Sarah’s safe. Do you want to come with me, Sam?”
When they had gone, Elizabeth spoke for the first time, looking very puzzled. “Couldn’t Goliath find Sarah?” she asked Mama.
Mama didn’t answer at once. Then she forced herself to speak. “We lost Goliath on the second day of our journey. Papa thinks he wandered off to look for you and Sam.”
Elizabeth didn’t utter a sound, but two large tears pushed out from under her lowered eyelids and trickled down her cheeks. Mama handed Sarah to me and put her arms around Elizabeth.
“If only I’d gone with you, Mama,” Elizabeth sobbed. “Goliath wouldn’t have wandered away if I’d been there.”
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Mama murmured. “I know how much you’ll miss him.”
We were still standing there when a soldier came to tell us that there was food for us in the kitchen. “I couldn’t eat a thing,” I said to Mama out of a tight throat.
“You need something,” Mama answered. “Just try.” I didn’t really have to try after all. In the middle of the kitchen table we found a heaping plate of fragrant brown bread, fresh from the oven. Even Elizabeth managed to choke down a slice.
Mama didn’t eat. She held Sarah, kissing her and crooning to her softly. For once Sarah seemed content to be imprisoned by loving arms. When we had finished, Mama took Sarah away to bathe her and change her clothes. Cade was looking after the boys, and I went over to Elizabeth, who was sitting alone, still with tears in her eyes. Somehow I had to get her mind off Goliath.
“Let’s explore the fort,” I said to her, and reluctantly she followed me outside.
In the parade ground a soldier stopped us. “How did you find the little girl?” he asked. I told him about the woodsman in deerskins.
“That must have been Antoine St. Martin,” the soldier replied. “He’s a trapper and he has a cabin on the shore of the Indian River just where it meets the Oswegatchie. There’s another fellow there too, a trapper called Pierre.”
I wasn’t interested in trappers just then. “Indian River” had caught my attention. “That must be the river we came down.”
“I thought you came down the Oswegatchie on a raft,” the soldier replied, looking puzzled.
“We came down a river on a raft all right,” I said, “but it wasn’t the Oswegatchie.”
“That’s hard to believe,” the soldier exclaimed. “The Oswegatchie is difficult enough to navigate, but the Indian River is even more treacherous. Angels must have been watching over you on that journey.”
“Yes, I think they must have been,” I answered with a heartfelt sigh. Then I asked him about the fort, and he offered to show us around.
“The fort was built by the French,” he told us. “They lost it to the British in 1760, in spite of a valiant stand to defend it.”
“How many soldiers are there here now?” I asked him when we’d walked all the way around the stockade.
“It’s a small garrison,” he replied, “about forty men.” That seemed to remind him that he was on duty and he left us at once.
Elizabeth was a little more cheerful now, and we went back to the barracks to wait with Mama. She was with the children in a room the commanding officer, Captain O’Neil, had set aside for her. The afternoon dragged on and on, and still there was no sign of Papa. Then just at dusk we heard the sentry call, “Men approaching.” We ran to the gate to see Papa struggling up the path with his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Right behind him were six soldiers and, to my surprise, Antoine St. Martin. Mr. Butler brought up the rear.
It was a noisy, joyous reunion, which the soldiers seemed to relish as much as we did. Captain O’Neil appeared and ordered rum for all the men. Then he invited us to dine with him once the children were asleep. “You’ll stay too, won’t you?” he said to Antoine St. Martin.
As we were walking towards the barracks, Papa spoke to the trapper. “I have no words to thank you,” he said. “I thought I had lost my little daughter forever.” Antoine St. Martin seemed to understand, for he smiled and patted Papa’s arm.
Never before had we dined in such luxury and with such ceremony as we did that evening. With Mama on his arm, Captain O’Neil led the way into the dining room. Papa followed with Elizabeth. Next came Mr. Butler and Antoine St. Martin, chatting affably as though no language barrier existed between them. Cade and Sam and I were at the end of the line, shabby and self-conscious, but doing our best to live up to the occasion.
The table was covered with a snowy linen cloth and laid with gleaming silver and sparkling glass. At either end stood tall candelabra, and I counte
d sixteen candles all aglow. Captain O’Neil sat at the head, with Mama on his right and Papa on his left. The rest of us were spread around the big table. A soldier served us, and Cade and I, and even Sam, sat in awkward silence, sipping the wine he had poured for us. The food was good, but the conversation was even better.
“Mistress Seaman told me about Captain Fonda,” Captain O’Neil said to Papa. “A most unpleasant rogue.”
“Do you know him, Captain?” Papa asked.
“Fortunately, only by reputation,” the Captain replied, “but I was intrigued to learn that you had a hand in his capture during the war.”
Papa didn’t say anything, but it was easy to see that he was enjoying the attention of the elegantly dressed officer.
Then Captain O’Neil changed the subject. “I suppose you are eager to cross to Johnstown as soon as possible.”
“Indeed we are,” Mama replied. “We’re very anxious to be settled.”
“There’s no boat here just now,” the Captain went on. “We’re expecting a brigade of bateaux from Kingston, but that may not be for another week. Antoine has a boat though. Perhaps you can strike a bargain with him.”
“I have very little money,” Papa replied.
Captain O’Neil had a conversation in French with the trapper and then he turned to Papa again. “Antoine will take you across in return for your wagon,” he said. “I can’t imagine why he wants it; he hasn’t any horses. Still, that’s his bargain.”
“A bargain I accept gladly,” Papa replied, smiling at Antoine St. Martin. “Tell him that I’ll put the wagon back together for him in the morning. That leaves me with only one problem — how to get the horses across the river.”
Captain O’Neil smiled at Mama as though they shared a secret and then he spoke to Papa. “It was dark when you arrived, so you didn’t see your horses, but you’ll find that they’re looking much fresher. My men have been feeding them oats for the past few days. I’m sure they’re strong enough now to swim behind the boat.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Papa replied.
It was late when we rose from the table, and the wine had made us all very sleepy. We went straight to bed — in quarters that were barren enough, though they seemed luxurious to us after weeks of sleeping on the ground.
In the soft sunshine of the early morning, we all trooped down to the shore, eager and excited about the final step of our journey. Papa and Mr. Butler were already there, busy reassembling the wagon. Before long Antoine St. Martin rowed up to the jetty.
“He must have walked back to his cabin to get his boat while we slept,” I said to Sam. Then I noticed Mama. She was gazing doubtfully at the trapper’s craft. It was something like the boats on the Mohawk — but a miniature version — a small, flat-bottomed boat with a shaky mast. As far as I could see, there was only one pair of oars, and I began to wonder whether we wouldn’t be safer on our raft.
Papa obviously had the same doubts. He came over to the jetty, shaking his head. “It’s too small,” he said to Antoine St. Martin, pointing to all our belongings piled on the shore.
Almost at the same moment we heard a shout. Coming down the Oswegatchie was a huge bark canoe, responding swiftly to the rhythmic strokes of a powerful man in deerskins, to whom Antoine shouted, “Allo, Pierre.”
Now Papa looked even less confident, and he expressed his doubts to Captain O’Neil, who had joined us at the jetty. “Those boats won’t hold all of us and our belongings too. Besides, they don’t look safe.”
Captain O’Neil wasn’t in the least perturbed. “The canoe will hold a lot more than you think,” he said, “and both craft are perfectly safe as long as there isn’t a strong wind.” Papa had to be satisfied with that.
My father and I stood silently for a moment, gazing in wonder at the St. Lawrence. The river was calm, with a ghostly mist rising from its surface. “Well, Ned, we made it, didn’t we?” Papa said. “If we can live out our lives in peace beside this great river, I’ll be content.” Suddenly he shook his shoulders and got back to the present. “To work,” he said.
It didn’t take us long to pack the boats. Then Sam and I began to argue about where we would ride. Papa settled that question in a hurry. “Cade, Sam, and Elizabeth, into the canoe,” he said. That was just what Sam wanted. He was hoping that Pierre would let him paddle.
In Antoine St. Martin’s boat, Mr. Butler and I settled ourselves in the stern, each of us holding one of the horses’ leads. Papa was helping man the oars. In the bow, Mama, with Robert in her arms, was surrounded by the chattering children.
It was an exciting moment. Papa called his last thanks to Captain O’Neil, while what seemed like all the soldiers of the garrison waved and cheered.
The first pull of the powerful current filled me with awe. We had always thought of ourselves as river folk, for we’d spent most of our lives beside the Mohawk, but it was just a stream compared to the mighty St. Lawrence.
Chapter Fifteen
All’s Well
“There it is — Canada!” Cade shouted, pointing triumphantly to the north shore. Then in great excitement we all began to shout, “Canada,” all but Papa. His confidence and eagerness of the early morning seemed to have deserted him.
“What’s the matter, Papa?” I asked him.
“For weeks I’ve thought of nothing but reaching this haven, but what are we going to do now?” he answered, “We’re penniless in a new country.”
Mr. Butler refused to let him be downcast. “Since you enlisted in a Loyalist regiment, you’re entitled to a grant of land, free of all charges. That’s a good beginning.”
“What do I know about farming?” Papa muttered. “I’ve been a blacksmith all my life.”
“You have three strong sons to help you clear the land and plant crops,” Mr. Butler replied in a bracing tone. “Your neighbours will help you too, and you may be able to draw rations from the military stores for a while. By next year you should be able to feed yourselves. All the settlers grow their own food, enough to last them through the winter.”
“I thought I might be able to trade my services for food,” Papa said.
“Not yet,” Mr. Butler replied, “except for a little grain perhaps. Most families are able to grow only enough for their own needs. It takes time to clear the land.”
“So be it,” Papa answered, determined and more cheerful again. “I’ll claim my grant of land, but as soon as ever I can I’ll go back to working as a blacksmith.”
“You needn’t worry,” Mr. Butler said, “not with children as resourceful as yours. You should have seen them on the raft; nothing daunted them. They’ll make fine pioneers.”
Papa smiled proudly. “You’re right,” he said. “We can do it together.”
Suddenly Mama spoke. “Is that Johnstown?”
“I know it doesn’t look like much yet, Martha,” Mr. Butler reassured her, “but I’m sure you’ll be happy here.”
On the shore we could see a jetty with a large, open boat moored to it. Behind the jetty were several cabins, almost hidden in the trees. All around the forest loomed, and I wondered if the sun ever penetrated it. But if the forest was gloomy, our welcome was not. The moment our boats touched the shore, people came running from the cabins to greet us.
On the big boat moored to the jetty I noticed a stout, fair man, who was staring at Papa. Suddenly his face broke into a broad smile. “Caleb Seaman!” he shouted, leaping over the side of the boat and striding towards my father.
Papa was thunderstruck, but almost at once he grinned and held out his hand. “Captain Meyers. I’m surprised that you recognize me after all these years.”
“You haven’t changed much,” the fair man answered, “a few more grey hairs perhaps. What brings you to Canada now?”
“Our old friend Captain Fonda,” Papa replied, making a sour face.
“Aha,” Captain Meyers answered, “seeking revenge, I’ll wager. Tell me about it.”
Watching the reunion, I
couldn’t believe that this jolly man was the mysterious spy of long ago, but I liked him at once. He seemed to lift Papa’s spirits.
Slapping Mr. Butler on the back, Captain Meyers said, “You were optimistic to risk going into New York, Truelove. I’m glad to see you back safe and sound.” Then he turned to Mama. “Welcome, Mistress Seaman,” he said. “We’ve never met, but I used to admire you from a distance when I hid in your loft in Schenectady.”
Mama smiled and held out her hand to him. Captain Meyers went on, “Which is the bold son who was arrested with you, Caleb?”
Papa introduced us all. Captain Meyers laughed when he shook my hand. “You’re a bit young to attack a militiaman, aren’t you?” he asked.
My ears grew hot and I couldn’t think of anything to say. That day in the Schenectady jail seemed so far away and so long ago.
Suddenly Captain Meyers grew serious, and all at once I caught a glimpse of the daring spy of years gone by. He almost seemed to grow taller.
“What can we do for you?” he asked Papa. “Where do you plan to settle?”
It was Mama who replied. “As close to Johnstown as possible.”
“You’d like the settlement where I live,” Captain Meyers told her, “and I could take you there.” He pointed to the boat tied up at the jetty. “It’s mine. I still farm but I do a little transport business now too. We’re on our way home from Montreal with a cargo of rum, but there’s plenty of room for you.”
“Where is your settlement?” Papa asked.
“About a hundred miles west on the Bay of Quinte.”
“No,” Mama interrupted, “it’s too far away.” She was speaking as much for Papa’s benefit as for the Captain’s. “We’ve been journeying for weeks. It’s a miracle that we’ve got this far.”
My father and Captain Meyers looked at Mama as though wondering how best to persuade her. Suddenly a man standing at the end of the jetty, who had been listening to the conversation, pointed to Papa’s anvil. “Are you a blacksmith?” he asked.
“Indeed I am,” Papa answered.
The man held out his hand to Papa. “I’m William Clow,” he said, “and I can tell you that a blacksmith would be welcome at Coleman’s Corners. It’s only eighteen miles from here. There’s a mill at the village, and it will soon be an important town.”
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