The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “I have a strongbox for our papers and our family Bible, and a piece of canvas to wrap the silver tea set my parents brought from England. I’ll bury everything down by the rock pile the boys made when we cleared the back acre for potatoes. Anyone going by will think I’m just spading the last of the potatoes. After the war is over, Isaac and I will come back to dig up the box and the silver. Even if we lose the farm, we’ll find a way to recover things buried in the earth.”

  The next day was blustery, with cold rain lashing the windows. Charlotte laid a fire in the parlour so that she and Mama would be warm while they sewed. After moving the big family Bible from the parlor table to clear some space, she pulled up two chairs.

  Charlotte and her mother each took two petticoats and, placing one inside the other, quilted them together. Coins and pound notes, rings, brooches and buckles, silver spoons, Papa’s gold watch and chain — all were stitched into place between the two layers of fabric. There was a silver locket too, which Nick had given her months ago, before “Tory” meant Loyalist and friend, and “Whig” meant Rebel and foe.

  Through the long, rainy morning Charlotte and her mother sewed. From time to time Charlotte stood up and, holding the double petticoat by its waistband, tested the weight. Finally she said, “This is enough. I shan’t be able to walk if my petticoats are weighted with one more thing.”

  Mama went to the window. She looked out over the orchard and the pasture, all the way to the dark forest beyond. She’s thinking about Isaac, Charlotte supposed. She’s wondering if he is out there in the bush, trying to make his way home.

  Charlotte took her mother’s arm and gently drew her away from the window. “He’ll find us, Mama, wherever we go.”

  Mama shook her head. Without a word, she put her thimble, her pincushion and her spools of thread back into her sewing box.

  While Charlotte and Mama were sewing, Papa had buried his strongbox and the silver. Then he came back to the house and changed his clothes.

  “I’m going to call on Reverend Stuart,” he said. “I hope he’ll want to buy my horse.”

  Papa was gone the rest of the day. When he returned, he was on foot. He took a handful of coins from his pocket.

  “Three guineas,” he said. “That’s a fair price. And see what else he gave me.” From another pocket he drew out a folded sheet of paper. “A map.”

  Papa spread it on the table. It was crudely hand-drawn — more a sketch than a map. Charlotte and her mother stood beside him as he traced the route that they would follow. Here was their home. There, the Mohawk River with its western branch leading towards Oneida Lake. They must cross Oneida Lake and then follow the Oswego River to its mouth. He rested his finger on the spot where Lake Ontario flows into the St. Lawrence River. “Carleton Island lies here. It is well fortified, with a strong garrison and good provision for refugees. We shall stay the winter there.”

  “There are no towns along the way!” exclaimed Mama. “Only wilderness!”

  “Martha, do you think it would be safer for us to go through towns? The Sons of Liberty are everywhere. You don’t know the things they have done to Loyalists in the last few months. Men tarred and feathered. Women subjected to the most terrible, unspeakable insult.”

  Charlotte knew what that meant. In 1777 a Loyalist girl was fair game for any Liberty man. She didn’t want to think about that. Yet if they had to make their way through the woods, there would be other problems. “How can Mama and I walk through the bush in long gowns?” she asked.

  “We’ll follow Indian trails,” he said. “One of Reverend Stuart’s Mohawk friends marked them on this map. When we reach Oneida Lake, Mohawk guides will meet us with a long canoe. They’ll take us the rest of the way. It is all arranged.”

  Mama clasped her hands together. She looked up at Papa. “Henry, wait a little longer. Three or four days cannot make much difference. Isaac may still come home.”

  Charlotte wanted to cover her ears. She could not bear to hear those words one more time. They broke her heart.

  We might as well go, she thought. Canada couldn’t be worse than this. Here we are prisoners in our own home, surrounded by enemies who only two years ago were our friends.

  Papa took Mama’s hands and held them in his own. “We’re ready now. In ten days the Mohawks will be at Oneida Lake waiting for us. We must leave tomorrow.”

  When Charlotte woke the next morning, the room was still dark. She snuggled deep into the feather mattress and pulled the warm quilts over her head. How long would it be before she slept in a bed again? She thought about Nick and wondered how often he thought about her. Once there had been sweet kisses. She remembered the first time he had said, “I love you.” That was the day he had carved their initials into the bark of the sycamore tree.

  She could hear Mama already busy downstairs. The aroma of frying bacon rose through the framed hole in the floor. It was time to get up, time for the day of departure to begin.

  When Charlotte came down the stairs, Papa had already settled himself to the table. Mama was serving up a feast. There was sweet corn mush, rashers of bacon, fried eggs, bread slathered with butter and strawberry jam.

  Papa looked up from his plate. “Eat your fill, daughter. This is the last good meal we’ll have for a long time.”

  After breakfast, as Papa pushed his chair away from the table, he said, “Charlotte, I want you to take the cattle out to the pasture. Don’t fodder them. They’ll manage on grass till somebody notices we’ve left them there.”

  With a willow switch in her hand, Charlotte drove the cows along the path through the orchard, between two rows of apple trees. The grass was wet, although the rain had stopped. Charlotte walked slowly, letting the cattle pick up windfalls on their way. She pushed open the pasture gate and then flicked Daisy’s rump with her switch to get the herd moving inside.

  At that instant, she heard the crack of a rifle from the direction of the ravine. She froze, the switch still raised in her hand. Who was there? A hunter? A soldier? A Liberty man? She looked back toward the house to see whether her father was coming. She waited, but he did not appear. Should she fetch him? Maybe Papa had not heard the shot. He was in the house packing his rucksack, with the windows closed, and his hearing was not keen.

  Somebody had to investigate. If she went back to the house to ask Papa to go with her, Mama would think of Isaac and take alarm. I reckon I’d better go alone, Charlotte thought. It’s up to me.

  She passed the rock pile, where spade marks and boot marks were still visible in the soft soil. She climbed over the snake fence and struck into the woods, picking up the familiar path that led to the great sycamore on the crest of the ravine. When she reached it, she stood listening. She heard no sound of men in the forest below. The only noise was the screech of a jay.

  On the sycamore tree was the heart that Nick had carved in the grey bark, with their initials C.H. and N.S. entwined. Dearest Nick. She would never sit with him again under this tree, looking out over the lovely valley.

  Below, down the steep slope, were cedars and hemlocks, white birches and dark pines. At the bottom of the ravine a little brown snake of a creek wound its way. Under the overcast sky, everything was shadowed and dim.

  Then she saw the splash of red among the trees below. It looked like a daub of scarlet paint, brighter than blood.

  Charlotte could not take her eyes from the red. Fear stopped her breath. She stood with her back braced against the sycamore, her open palms pressed against the smooth bark. Then, slowly, her legs began to move, and she scrambled down the steep slope faster and faster, grasping at roots, stems, branches.

  Trees hid the red from her sight; then she saw it again. Near the bottom she ran and fell, then ran again. She pushed through bushes, brambles catching at her clothes and twigs at her hair. At the edge of the tree line she paused, too afraid for a moment to face what might lie ahead. She had to force herself to take the last few steps.

  When she entered the clearing the
re was no sound, no motion — only the body of a soldier sprawled with one arm flung out on the carpet of pine needles and damp leaves. Above the scarlet coat was her brother’s pale, freckled face, and on his face an expression of faint surprise. His hair was soaked with blood. Charlotte knelt beside him and touched his cheek. It was not yet cold. With her fingertips she separated the sticky strands of his matted hair and saw the small, round hole where the bullet had entered. Then she closed his eyes.

  Anguish welled up inside her. She could not stop it, did not try to stop it. She took Isaac’s limp hand in hers and sobbed. So close, she thought. Home was so close. Dear Isaac, you almost made it back.

  What a fine target his red coat must have been for any Rebel skulking in these woods! A cold feeling ran through her. One of our neighbours killed him, she thought. Someone we know took Isaac’s life. Tears of grief and despair and rage ran down her cheeks. Charlotte stood up. Still looking at Isaac, she slowly backed away and returned to the shelter of the trees. Once there, she looked around, half expecting to see a shadowy figure disappear behind a tree. But no evidence of the rifleman remained, apart from Isaac’s body on the forest floor.

  Her eyes were almost blinded with tears as she struggled up the hill. How could she tell Mama and Papa? What words could she say? She could think of none. Charlotte climbed over the snake fence and trudged across the fields to the farmhouse. She paused in front of the door, then pressed the latch and went in.

  Mama turned pale when she saw Charlotte’s face. “What happened to you?” Her voice trembled. Papa said nothing. His eyes met Charlotte’s above Mama’s head.

  Charlotte opened her mouth. “Isaac,” she said. “I found him.” No further words would come, only the sobbing that she could not control.

  Reaching out her arms, she ran to Mama and Papa from across the room. They clung to one another, all three weeping. Mama was shaking so hard that she might have fallen to the floor if Charlotte and Papa had not held her tightly.

  They went together to the ravine. Papa carried Isaac home across his shoulders. He dug a grave for him in the orchard. Mama brought her best quilt to wrap his body. Charlotte nailed two sticks together to make a cross. Then they went back to the house.

  “I’m ready to leave now,” Mama said. “Isaac has come home.”

  Chapter two

  Moonlight filtering through a veil of cloud transformed the forest, making it strange and hostile. Overhead, bare branches tossed in the wind. On a night like this, it was easy to imagine a man with a gun hiding behind every tree.

  “I’m not afraid,” Charlotte told herself again and again.

  But there was plenty to fear. The Sons of Liberty could be anywhere: coming after them on the path, lurking in the undergrowth, waiting in ambush around the next bend.

  Papa led the way. On his back was the rucksack containing their supplies, with the camp kettle tied on top. Mama came next, then Charlotte.

  They had been walking for hours — Charlotte had no idea how long — and her whole body felt heavy with tiredness. Her very clothes weighed her down: her thick wool shawl under her cloak, two gowns, three petticoats (including the two that held her share of the family’s portable wealth), three chemises, three pairs of underdrawers and three of stockings. On her feet were Charlie’s old boots. With every step an ache came up through the earth into the heel of her foot.

  Gradually the eastern sky lightened. Bushes took on definite shapes, shadows retreated from between the trees, and through rising mist Charlotte saw the gleam of water.

  Papa halted and pulled out the map that Reverend Stuart had given him. He held it close to his eyes to study it in the dim light. “There should be a duck blind around here. It might be a good place to stop for a rest.”

  Charlotte stood on the riverbank and peered around. In the lea of a bend, the water had spread to form a pool. At the edge was a palisade of poles. “I think it’s just ahead,” she said.

  The duck blind was a fence of roughly trimmed saplings with their ends buried in the earth. As soon as they reached the blind, Charlotte sank gratefully to the ground. When she leaned back, the poles felt bumpy but solid. “Ah!” she sighed, glad to have something to rest against.

  “We can’t stay long,” said Papa. “Duck hunters may come along. We don’t want men with guns to find us here.” He took the canteen from his belt, undid the stopper, and passed it to Mama. “Just a sip of brandy to revive you.”

  “Not for me.” She gave it back.

  Papa handed the canteen to Charlotte.

  She sniffed the fumes. Sweet and fiery, they tickled her nose. If brandy tasted as good as it smelled, she certainly would like to try it. Charlotte tilted the canteen. But before she had tasted a drop, Mama’s protest reached her ears.

  “Henry! She’s too young.”

  “A nip does no harm on a cold night.”

  “No!”

  Charlotte frowned as she gave back the canteen. Too young — when for a year she’d been doing a woman’s work, and a man’s work too!

  Papa took a sip, stoppered the canteen and put it back on his belt.

  A blue jay screamed, breaking the silence. Nothing remained of the shadows of the night. The jay called again. Then there was another sound. From far behind them on the trail came men’s voices.

  “Listen,” Charlotte whispered.

  “I hear nothing,” said Papa.

  Mama turned her head in the direction of the sound. “I do.”

  After a moment, Papa heard them. “Damnation!” he muttered. “We’ve stayed too long.” He stood up and hoisted his rucksack onto his back.

  As Charlotte scrambled to her feet, a branch stub on one of the poles hooked the hem of her gown where it hung below her cloak. With a tug, she jerked it free and followed her parents back to the trail.

  They headed west, away from the river, pushing their way through heavy brush along an overgrown track. Wild grape vines festooned the trees, their withered leaves rattling in the wind. Gnarled roots crossed the path. Charlotte stepped carefully, holding her skirts in a bundle against her stomach to keep them from catching on the bushes that crowded in upon the trail. Soon she could no longer hear the men’s voices.

  At a fork in the path, Papa pulled out the map. He pointed to the right. “In a mile or so we’ll come to a hut that Iroquois hunters use for shelter. We can rest there.”

  A hut in this dense forest? A bear’s den or wolf’s lair was more likely. But the map was right. About one mile further on, the trees parted and there it was: a bark-covered hut beside a stream. The bark was weathered, green with moss and scabbed with lichen. All around were the tumbled remains of other huts, decaying slabs of bark and broken poles sticking up through the grass.

  “Long ago, this was a Huron village,” said Papa, “or so I was told.”

  “I wonder why this hut didn’t fall down like the others,” said Charlotte.

  “I reckon it’s worth the hunters’ efforts to keep it in repair.”

  Mama hung back. “Henry, it will be full of spiders.”

  Charlotte expected this. Mama’s fear of spiders was well known. “If it is, I’ll get rid of them.” Stooping, she entered the hut and looked around.

  Despite the smell of humus and slow decay, the hut was in good shape — better than appeared from the outside. The roof was tight, its bark slabs lashed to a framework of poles.

  Mama was right about the spiders. They were everywhere. Stretched between the poles, their webs looked like fine lace in the morning light that poured through the open entry. Charlotte swatted down the webs with her hands and stamped on the fleeing spiders. As she wiped the spider silk from her cheeks and pulled it from her hair, she called out, “It’s safe now.”

  Papa led Mama into the hut, took off his greatcoat and spread it on the ground. He gently took her arm and helped her to lie down. With a sigh, Mama closed her eyes. Freed from her bonnet, her hair fanned out like tongues of flame upon the dark wool. How delicate she look
ed! The translucence of her skin, the blue veins traced upon her temples, the dark shadows under her eyes — all were exposed in the morning light. Mama breathed softly. She was soon asleep.

  Charlotte pulled out her shawl from inside her cloak, folded it to make a pillow, and lay down. The ground was hard. Worse still, all those spoons and things quilted into her petticoats made it impossible to get comfortable. Whichever way she turned, something lumpy was underneath. After lying in various positions, she found that flat on her back was best. Fortunately, a thick layer of New York pound notes in the back of her petticoats provided a bit of padding between her bottom and the ground.

  Even after she had made herself relatively comfortable, sleep did not come easily. When she closed her eyes, she saw Isaac’s body on the forest floor. There was a hot, sore lump in Charlotte’s throat when she fell asleep. And then she dreamed.

  She was back in the farmhouse kitchen. Charlie and James were playing cards at the long table in front of the fire. They wore work clothes, as if they had just come in from the fields. There was no sound as they slapped the cards down. Their mouths laughed noiselessly.

  Suddenly Isaac was there too, wearing the scarlet coat of his regiment. Where had he come from? Not through the door. How had he got into the room? Isaac stood watching his brothers, who played on as if he were not there. Charlotte called out voicelessly to warn Isaac of danger. He looked straight at her, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes furious. His mouth opened and his lips moved in a silent shout. What had she done to anger him so? What was the word that his lips hurled at her? He shouted again, and this time she heard the word, “Traitor!”

  “Traitor!”

  That wasn’t Isaac’s voice. Charlotte opened her eyes. A man was standing over Papa with his musket pointed at Papa’s chest.

  “Trapped like rats in a barrel! Three loyal subjects of the King.”

  “Be damned!” said Papa.

  The hut was crowded with men. One was staring at Charlotte. He was a young man, heavy set, with sloping shoulders and a bull neck. From his fingers dangled a scrap of dark blue ribbon.