The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  The canoe glided onto the beach and came to rest. Two warriors jumped out and pulled it further up on the soft sand. Somewhat shakily, everyone climbed out — everyone but Charlotte. When she tried to rise, she found that one leg, bent under her, had gone to sleep. Her foot tingled. Pins and needles ran up and down her nerves. She was reaching out her hands to unbend her knee, when someone grasped her arm.

  “Papa, my leg has …” But before she could finish the sentence, she knew that it wasn’t Papa. Okwaho was the man helping her out of the canoe. It was Okwaho’s firm hand that steadied her as she stood on the sand, Okwaho’s shoulder that she leaned against. For a moment she did not move, did not want to move. She wished that the moment could last. But no, that must not happen. As soon as normal sensation returned to her leg, she gently pulled away.

  “Thank you.” She could not bring herself to meet his gaze.

  All that evening Charlotte was silent. She was, in fact, afraid — not of Okwaho but of the feelings he stirred in her. She had liked the touch of his hand. It had been a long time since a young man had taken her arm. I must not be foolish, she told herself. I am not a Mohawk maiden. I have no idea how to conduct myself with a Mohawk man. We can barely talk to each other. Besides, I already have a sweetheart.

  The thought of Nick brought a pang. Feelings of guilt and anger came over her. She stared into the fire and cursed the war. She cursed Nick for being a Whig, and she cursed herself for having walked away when he said, “I’ll always love you.”

  She did not curse Okwaho, although his presence threw her feelings into confusion. His dark eyes no longer looked cruel; now she saw nobility in the high curve of his cheekbones and warmth in the burnished copper of his skin.

  Through the long evening he sat only a few feet from her, staring into the fire just as she was doing. What was he thinking about? Was he sorry or glad that they would part the next day?

  She wished that she had not been so cold and hostile. Why hadn’t she followed Axe Carrier’s advice and given him a present? “With us, one gift calls for another,” Axe Carrier had told her. Her behaviour had been ignorant and rude. Yet it was not too late to make amends. Right now, tonight, she could give him something, and then he would remember her as a friend.

  Charlotte knew just the thing. Sewn into her petticoats was a brooch that she had bought on a family visit to Albany when she was thirteen. The brooch was silver, set with a large gemstone that looked like yellow sunshine trapped in clear water. Mama had called it a cairngorm.

  Where exactly had she sewn it? Charlotte ran her hands over the skirt of her gown, trying to feel its shape. There it was, quilted into her double petticoat just above the hem. Good. She could easily get it out.

  Charlotte felt nervous as she approached Okwaho and knelt beside him. He turned his grim face towards her. A bit of her old fear returned when she pointed to the scalping knife he wore in his belt.

  “Please. Give me your knife.”

  He looked puzzled as he pulled it from his belt and handed it to her. She remembered Elijah’s words, “He’s taken ten scalps.” This very knife with its razor-sharp blade had sliced hair and skin from the heads of ten human beings. Forcing herself not to think about that, she freed the brooch with one slash.

  “Atatawi,” she said, and held it upon her open palm. The gemstone glowed in the firelight. When she put the brooch into his hand, she did not allow her fingers to touch his.

  “Good present,” he said. “Nya weh. Okwaho thanks his friend.”

  The fire flared up, and the light fell not only upon her face but also upon his, so that they saw each other clearly despite the darkness all around.

  The next morning Charlotte settled herself upon her folded blanket in the bottom of the long canoe and looked about. A scattering of islands interrupted the vastness of the lake as they neared its eastern end. Some were large and forested, some not much bigger than a rock surmounted by a single stunted tree.

  One of the larger islands was their destination. Charlotte peered into the distance, watching for the British flag. Just after midday she saw it — red, white and blue against the grey sky — and her heart gave a lift. Carleton Island at last!

  A tower came next into view, and then the top of a blockhouse peeping over ramparts. As the long canoe came closer, she saw a score of bark-covered huts outside the fort’s walls, and birchbark canoes pulled up along the water’s edge. There was a shipyard, too, with a half-built ship lying in the slips. How strange to build a ship on an island in the wilderness!

  A broad limestone shelf at the water’s edge served as a dock. As the canoe came alongside, two warriors jumped out and held it steady for the passengers to disembark.

  “Well, here we are,” said Papa as he helped Mama and then Charlotte out of the canoe. Charlotte stamped her feet and stretched her arms to get rid of her stiffness from sitting so long. What now? she wondered.

  Axe Carrier stood with Mama and Papa near the bow while the other warriors unloaded the canoe.

  “Am I now to address you as Mr. Smart,” Papa was asking, “since we are entering an English fort?”

  The corners of Axe Carrier’s mouth turned up, though his eyes remained grave.

  “That name has no power for me. Let me be Axe Carrier until the day you see me sitting at a desk with a pen in my hand.”

  He walked with them through the open stockade gate. Inside the fort, he pointed out the blockhouse, the soldiers’ barracks, officers’ quarters, infirmary, gunpowder magazine, even the latrines. Beyond lay the parade square, and beyond that the Loyalist refugee camp, where dozens of white tents stood in rows.

  “That’s where you’ll live.”

  “In a tent!” Mama gasped.

  “It will be fine, Martha,” said Papa. “We shall manage.”

  At the blockhouse door Axe Carrier left them. “You register here,” he said. “I shall join the other warriors. We’ll spend the night on Carleton Island, then leave at dawn.”

  “Where will your travels take you next?” asked Papa.

  “To Lachine to spend the winter with my family.” His eyes brightened. “I haven’t seen my wife and children since April. I left Lachine when the ice broke up.”

  “I hope you’ll find them well.” Papa held out his hand. “Thank you for bringing us safely here.”

  “Nya weh,” said Charlotte. “Thank you.”

  Axe Carrier looked at her hard. “Nya weh? Ho! Young woman of two worlds. You learn fast, and you will travel far.”

  Chapter nine

  Papa pulled open the heavy plank door, and the Hooper family entered a large, square room. A wide wooden counter ran the length of one wall. Behind the counter a red-coated soldier with a long, melancholy face was scooping flour onto the pan of a set of scales. In front of the counter waited a queue of ragged men and women. Mrs. Cobman and Mrs. Platto, with their children, were already standing in the line.

  Across the room, an officer sat at a table with a record book open in front of him. “Over here!” he called. “New arrivals must register.”

  Mama leaned wearily on Papa’s arm as they walked across the room. Papa told the officer their names.

  “Where was your home?”

  “Fort Hunter.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Fort Hunter.”

  “All of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Papa spoke for the whole family, although Charlotte could perfectly well have spoken for herself. When the officer had written everything down, he sent them over to the counter, where they joined the line-up waiting for supplies.

  The melancholy soldier was giving out flour, dried peas and salt pork. Charlotte overheard several complaints about the lack of rice and corn meal. At each complaint the soldier sighed, “There should be some on the next bateau.” He looked so mournful that even his moustache drooped.

  When Charlotte and her parent
s reached the head of the line, he introduced himself. “I am Sergeant Major Clark, clerk and naval storekeeper. You’ll draw your rations every week. Bring back your bags to be refilled. We don’t have extra.”

  He issued them a canvas army tent, a small sack of flour, a bag of split peas and a chunk of salt pork.

  Mama took charge of the rations, while Charlotte and Papa carried the tent to the Loyalist encampment. When they had it set up, Papa held open the flap for Mama and Charlotte to step inside. Charlotte looked around. There was no window, but the white canvas admitted enough light for her to see clearly. “It’s not a bad tent,” she said cheerfully. “It will keep out the wind and rain. And there’s plenty of room.”

  “This is a six-man tent,” Papa said. “We’re lucky to have it to ourselves. I was afraid they’d stick us in with another family.” He shrugged the rucksack from his back and set it on the ground. “Since there’s no floor, I can dig a hole to bury those valuables you two have been dragging around in your petticoats.” He spoke with enthusiasm, as if the lack of a floor were a real advantage.

  “We can bury our paper money in the tea tin,” said Mama. She sounded optimistic, but Charlotte wondered what she really thought.

  Papa built a cooking fire outside the tent and made a tripod of stout, green sticks from which to hang the camp kettle. While Mama rested, Charlotte stewed up a mash of salt pork and split peas. It was a good supper, considering that she hadn’t had time to soak the peas.

  Next morning Charlotte woke up early. Without waking Mama and Papa, she opened the tent flap and stepped outside. The Loyalists’ tents were so white in the dim light that they made her think of ghosts — an army of giant ghosts standing row on row.

  If she hurried, she thought, she would be in time to say goodbye to the Mohawks. Looking between the rows of tents, she saw Elijah ahead of her, walking toward the stockade gate.

  “Wait for me!” she called.

  He waited. But when she caught up to him and saw his glum face, she realized that he was not eager for company. Without talking, they walked side by side down to the shore.

  When they reached the long canoe, the warriors were loading bales of furs. Okwaho saw them, put his bale into the canoe, and joined them. A shadow passed over the young warrior’s face when he saw Elijah’s scowl.

  “Little brother,” he said, “do not look at Okwaho with angry eyes.”

  He took from his own neck a tiny bag suspended on a leather thong and lowered it over Elijah’s head. The bag was brightly painted with many signs. Curiosity broke through Elijah’s cloud of gloom.

  “What is it?” When Elijah lifted the bag to inspect it, a look of awe crossed his face, as if he understood that something wondrous had been bestowed.

  “It is medicine bag. In it is powerful medicine. There is a stone the colour of blood and a dust made from the skin of a rattlesnake and the beak of an eagle. Make you good hunter. Make you strong in war.” He looked intently at the boy. “Never open medicine bag. If you open, power turn against you. Bring bad luck.”

  “I swear not to open it. I’ll never take it off.”

  Okwaho put his hands on Elijah’s shoulders. “Your hair is colour of the beaver and your eyes are colour of the sky, but you are my brother.”

  “Then take me with you. If we are brothers, we should stay together.”

  Okwaho looked hard at the boy, and then shook his head. “My path not good path for you.” He dropped his hands from Elijah’s shoulders. “Ska-noh!” he said. And then in English, “Be strong!”

  “Ska-noh,” said Elijah.

  Now the long canoe was afloat, and the other Mohawks were calling. Okwaho turned towards Charlotte.

  “Ska-noh!” she said.

  Okwaho’s stern face relaxed into a smile. He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Ska-noh.” Then he raced to the water’s edge, placed his hands on the gunwale and vaulted into the canoe.

  As the canoe entered the channel and began its journey, Charlotte hoped that Okwaho would find a Mohawk girl to love, one who could bake him double ball biscuit loaves. And she hoped that someday their paths would cross again.

  Laundry day. Charlotte had no washtub, no scrubbing board, no soap. But she did have hot water in the camp kettle and a washerwoman’s pummel that Papa had whittled from a basswood sapling.

  She felt like singing as she pounded out the dirt. Chemises, underdrawers, stockings — the kettle wouldn’t hold much, but at least it was a start. Thump! Thump! Thump! She pummeled the clothes until the wash water turned grey, then forked them out with a stick, wrung them, and carried them into the tent.

  Charlotte was draping the wet clothes over a rope strung between two tent poles when she heard someone shout: “Bateau! Bateau coming up the channel!”

  Pushing open the tent flap, she saw men, women and children streaming towards the fort gate. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and joined the rush.

  Hurry was unnecessary, as Charlotte knew as soon as she caught sight of the bateau creeping up the channel from the east. It had a mast with a crossbar intended for a square sail, but the mast was empty. Driven by manpower alone — six oarsmen along the sides and two men with poles at the stern — the bateau lurched like a crippled turtle toward the landing.

  When the bateau finally bumped up against the limestone shelf at the water’s edge, the Fort Haldimand regiment helped to unload the cargo, soldiers and bateau men hoisting it onto the shore. The soldiers worked silently, but the bateau men never stopped laughing and talking. What were they saying? It was all in French. The only word Charlotte recognized was rhum.

  Well, she thought, there was plenty of rhum on board — dozens of barrels, each so large it took two men to roll it up the hill into the fort. There were also casks of brandy, hogsheads of salt pork, and innumerable sacks with their contents stamped in red letters: flour, peas, beans, rice.

  Four soldiers struggled with a four-poster bed, complete with rods for bed curtains. That must be for an officer. Following the bed came two soldiers carrying a bathtub — a tin hipbath like the one Papa used to set up Saturday nights in front of the kitchen fire. What luxury — a real bath!

  The bateau’s single passenger, an English officer, was hardly out of the boat before the crowd began to question him about the trip.

  “It took twelve days,” he said. “Worse for the men than for me. When we were ascending the rapids, half of them stayed on board and pushed with poles, whilst the others had to get out and tow with ropes. They waded in water up to their thighs.”

  “Mighty cold, this time of year,” said a by-stander.

  “That’s why there won’t be another boat until spring. Tonight the men will have a party. Tomorrow they’ll be gone. They say they’ll be back in Montreal in three days.”

  “Twelve to get here and three to go back?”

  “Apparently that’s normal,” the officer said as he excused himself to report to the Commander.

  The bateau men spent most of the night singing, dancing and drinking rum. Charlotte was happy to be kept awake, for the sound of fiddle music coming from the barracks reminded her of jigs and reels at country-dances back home.

  “Are they going to keep it up all night?” Mama groaned.

  “Only until they pass out,” Papa said.

  Charlotte did not know when the party ended. She was groggy with sleep when Papa roused her in the morning.

  “Wake up!” he said. “You’re missing the excitement.”

  Charlotte half opened her eyes. “I heard enough excitement last night.”

  “I don’t mean that excitement. On the midnight watch, a sentry spotted a campfire on the south shore. Half a dozen people are over there, waiting to come across. There’s a cow with them.”

  Charlotte opened her eyes the rest of the way. “Bessie!”

  “That’s right. I recognized Snelgrove and the cow. He’s a lucky man. If he’d arrived two days later, the bateau would be halfway to Montreal, and there’d
be no way he could ferry his cow across the channel.”

  “Has the bateau gone to get them?”

  “Not yet. The bateau men are moving mighty slow this morning.”

  “I want to see this.” Charlotte threw off her blanket and stood up.

  “Not I,” said Mama. “Tell me about it later. I’m going back to sleep.” As Charlotte closed the tent flap, she heard her mother cough.

  When Charlotte and Papa reached the shore, six groggy-looking bateau men were climbing into the boat. Slowly it lurched towards the opposite shore, where a cluster of people and a brown cow stood watching.

  “Now we’ll see how they get Bessie on board,” said Papa.

  As soon as they landed, the bateau men hauled a plank out of the boat and set it up as a gangway. But the cow must have guessed what was up and wanted no part of it. She allowed Snelgrove to lead her right up to the base of the plank, but that was as far as she was willing to go. Planting her forelegs, Bessie lowered her head and bellowed.

  Charlotte laughed. “She’s behaving more like a mule than a cow.”

  Now the bateau men joined forces with Snelgrove. They tied a cable around her body. Snelgrove pulled; they pushed — seven men against one cow.

  Bessie surrendered with style. Tossing her head nonchalantly, she ambled up the gangway. For a moment she hesitated at the top. After that, Charlotte was not sure whether she jumped or she was pushed. At any rate, Bessie landed in the boat. With a few prods, the men positioned her near the centre. Raising her head regally, the cow gazed about and then, lifting her tail away from her body, released a flood of dung.

  The human passengers went aboard, giving the cow a wide berth.

  The bateau was halfway back when Papa exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be blasted! Do you see who else is on that boat?”

  Charlotte, who had not been paying attention to the human beings on board, took a good look. “Aren’t those the Vroomans?”

  “The very same. I never expected to see them again. Peter swore he’d never give up his farm.”

  But there he was, the Hoopers’ friend from half a mile down the road, a beefy-looking man with a red face, standing at the bow. At his side, her elbows resting on the gunwale, was his wife Louisa. Flanking them were two little girls and two little boys.