The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  But when Charlotte looked further up the river, she noticed that there was a smaller channel flowing from the left into the main channel a few hundred feet from where they were resting,

  “Look,” she said, pointing to it. “Where do you think that stream comes from?”

  Nick turned his head. “From above the rapids. It’s a side channel. The spot you’re pointing to is where it meets up with the main channel again.”

  “Could we tow the canoe up that channel? The current looks much weaker. Or would the water be too shallow?”

  “Not at this time of year, with the water running high. At worst, we might have to lighten the canoe of part of its load.” He hauled himself to his feet and joined Charlotte at the water’s edge. “Once we get above the rapids, we won’t have far to portage. The closer we get to Oneida Lake, the less current there is to fight.”

  “But first we’ll have to tow the canoe against this current until we reach the side channel.”

  “There’s no great danger if I hold the canoe close to the riverbank, where the current is weaker than in the middle.”

  “Even at the edge, it looks mighty strong.”

  “I can handle that.” He stretched. “Let’s be on our way.”

  After tossing the paddles into the canoe, he checked the bowline, giving it a sharp tug. “That should hold.”

  While Charlotte pushed the canoe into the water, Nick held the bowline with both hands. The rope sprang taut as soon as the current grabbed the canoe. Grasping the rope firmly, Nick walked backwards, knees slightly bent, looking like a fisherman trying to land an enormous fish that was putting up a tremendous fight. The canoe moved jerkily against the current, upright despite a slight wobble. Around the bow, white water foamed.

  The cords in Nick’s neck stood out as he pulled. His face was red, and his breath came in dull grunts.

  “Charlotte … uh … lend me a hand … uh …”

  She grasped the rope, her hands just below his, and together they towed the canoe the remaining fifty feet to the side channel and eased it into the quieter water.

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “That current was stronger than I expected.”

  “Do you want help here?”

  “In a channel this narrow, it’s easier for me to tow it alone.”

  Charlotte tramped ahead of him through the knee-deep ferns, feeling guilty because he was doing all the work.

  Dense bushes covered the narrow island that separated the side channel from the main channel. Through their foliage, Charlotte caught only glimpses of the rapids, yet their roar drowned out every other noise.

  Slowly, carefully, Nick manoeuvered the canoe up the side channel. About halfway to the main channel, when the canoe scraped bottom, Charlotte lifted out the rucksack, the spade and the rifle. That was enough reduction of weight to allow the canoe to float freely.

  As soon as they reached the top of the side channel, Charlotte saw ahead of them, on the main channel, a stretch of rock-free mud where the bank was low.

  “That’s where we’ll start the portage,” Nick said.

  The mud flat was upriver. To reach it, they would have to tow the canoe through fifty feet of fast moving water at the head of the rapids.

  “Shall I help?” Charlotte asked as she set down the rucksack, spade and rifle in the canoe.

  “Not for that short distance.”

  To make the turn from the narrow side channel into the main channel, it would be necessary to nose the bow of the canoe out into the main stream. Charlotte watched as Nick wound the bowline around his wrists and braced his feet, ready for the full force of the current to hit the canoe broadside.

  And suddenly the tow rope broke.

  Nick staggered backwards and fell while the canoe, rocketing stern first down the river, fled like a runaway horse.

  Not waiting for Nick, Charlotte tore after it. Seconds later, he passed her, his long legs unimpeded by the bracken. She kept running as she watched.

  The canoe was still upright when Nick came abreast of it and plunged into the rapids, arms outreached to seize the gunwale. White water eddied and foamed around the canoe. Charlotte could not see through the spray exactly what happened next.

  Nick disappeared. The canoe raced on, pitching and wallowing, but she did not try to follow its course.

  Where was Nick?

  Forty feet downstream, an arm appeared above the white foam. Nick’s head and shoulders emerged. For a few moments he clung to a rock, before the water tore him away, and swallowed him again. His body rose, but his face was below the surface. His hand beat feebly at the water.

  She raced along the riverbank, stumbling through ferns until she came abreast of him and flung herself into the water. Clinging to rocks wherever she could, swimming like a dog where the river ran clear, she reached him at the bottom of the rapids. When she grabbed his hand, his fingers closed on hers.

  Nick was half conscious when she pulled him out. He gasped and choked. A flood of water poured from his mouth. He did not speak, but lay on the crushed ferns with his eyes closed. He had a gash on his forehead from which blood oozed and trickled onto the ground.

  She lifted his head and shoulders onto her lap. As she bent her head to kiss his cheek, she heard his heart pounding. For a long time she sat there, cradling Nick and listening to the river. Gradually blood ceased to flow from Nick’s gash; it started to congeal. His heart no longer pounding, he breathed quietly, as if he were asleep.

  “Where’s the canoe?” His voice was low, yet it startled her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’d better look for it.” He lifted his head from her lap, rolled onto his side, and raised himself on one elbow.

  “I’ll go. You rest here,” she said.

  She felt the shock of fear as she headed downstream. If the canoe was gone, everything was gone. Had the river swept it away, carried it for miles? Or would she find it smashed upon the rocks? Charlotte prayed, “Please, Lord, spare the canoe!”

  And it was spared. She found it upside down but undamaged, with its bow jammed between a fallen tree and a boulder. The rucksack was bobbing in a pool, into which their bedrolls were slowly sinking. The sacks were caught on rocks. The spade, axe and rifle were underwater, resting on the riverbed. Duck-diving through the clear, green water, Charlotte retrieved all three.

  It took a long walk downstream before she located both paddles. When she had recovered everything, she stacked their gear and supplies in a pile and returned to Nick. He sat up as she approached.

  “I found everything,” she said. “When you’re rested, we can rescue the canoe. The way it’s stuck, it’s not going anywhere.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll portage. For today, we’ve had enough.”

  The sky clouded over. By the time Nick and Charlotte had dragged the canoe from the river, rain was falling. They made camp on a spot of level ground, where they could turn the canoe over and prop up one side with paddles to make a shelter. Charlotte piled their gear and supplies underneath. Crouching under the canoe, she examined everything to see what damage the water had done. Nick’s gunpowder and flax tinder were dry, but the parched corn, dried meat and smoked fish were wet. The maple sugar had simply dissolved — a total loss.

  A bolt of lightning ripped the sky, struck somewhere nearby with a bang like an explosion. The thunder was louder than the rapids’ roar.

  All night they clung to each other, wrapped in their wet blankets, jammed together in the narrow space under the canoe. Rain hammered on the birchbark, inches above their heads. Despite the cold, Nick soon fell asleep. Charlotte lay still, trying to stop shivering. Nick’s breath was warm against her cheek, and she felt the warmth of his body through their blankets. She yawned. She was tired too.

  When she woke up, the sun was shining, and she peered from under the canoe at water drops sparkling like diamonds on the ferns. She crawled out to have a look around.

  Nick was already busy setting out food. They ate deer meat for
breakfast. Softened by its dunking in the river, it was easier to chew — more like rubber than leather, and it tasted good.

  “The portage will warm us up,” said Nick. “Let’s get started.” He lashed the paddles to the thwarts. “I’ll carry the canoe. You take the rest.”

  He loaded her up with their blankets, the food pack, the spade, axe and rifle while she stood like a patient packhorse.

  “It’s a heavy load,” he said as he tied everything in place, “but the weight is well distributed.”

  “I can manage.” She hoped that this was true.

  Nick hoisted the canoe upon his shoulders and started off ahead of her. With wobbly legs she took a first step onto the trail, then a second. For a moment she faltered, but then found her stride.

  After the rapids were behind them, they returned to the river. They were deep in Oneida territory now. Each time they came to a bend, Charlotte held her breath, half expecting to see a war party up ahead. But beyond each bend, there was nothing except another stretch of river.

  “I’m surprised that we’ve met no one along the way,” she said when they stopped for the night.

  “Thank General Sullivan for that. He’s made a clean sweep of every Iroquois village in New York Province.”

  “There used to be a fishing village at the western end of Oneida Lake.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s anything left of it,” Nick said.

  Chapter nineteen

  Nothing was left of the Oneida fishing village. Grass and wild strawberry plants carpeted the ground between the piles of ashes that once had been bark huts.

  Charlotte paid them no attention as she walked by. What she wanted to find was the log where Moses’ clothes had been hidden. Nick watched her poking around in the bushes.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “This.” She dropped to her knees.

  “A rotting log?”

  “Look what’s underneath.” As she rolled the log over, chunks of decaying wood broke off in her hands. Nick, hands on his thighs, leaned forward to see. Pale fungus threads were growing from the small shirt and breeches.

  “A child’s clothes. Homespun. How did you know they were here?”

  “They belonged to a Canajoharie boy named Moses Cobman. He was with us when we camped beside Oneida Lake. He ran away. Later, we found his clothing under this log.”

  “So the Oneidas captured him. How old was he?”

  “Nine. By now he’s eleven if he’s still alive.”

  “If he is, they’ll do their best to keep him healthy. He’ll be valuable when the bargaining begins.”

  “What bargaining?” She rolled the log back.

  “The Oneidas backed the wrong side. Sullivan’s army has burned their villages, and they have nowhere to go. Their best chance is to make peace with the English.”

  “You think they’ll trade Moses for peace?”

  “Peace and territory. The English have promised to set aside land in Canada for their Iroquois allies.”

  “Well, that doesn’t include the Oneidas.”

  “Exactly. If they want to be included, their first step is to bury the hatchet with the other Iroquois nations. When they’ve done that, some go-between — most likely a Mohawk — will carry a message to an English fort to sue for peace. The Oneidas will hand over their hostage as a token of goodwill, and the negotiations will begin.”

  “But what if the Oneida have adopted Moses?”

  “That would be a different story. If they’ve adopted him, he is one of their own.”

  Darkness fell quickly. Just beyond the campfire’s circle of light lurked the ghosts of vanished warriors. In every rustling of the grass Charlotte heard the whisper of moccasined feet. When sleep overtook her, it was troubled by dreams. She saw Mrs. Cobman pleading for the return of her lost son. Then the image shifted, and it wasn’t Mrs. Cobman, but Mama standing with outstretched hands. Then Moses appeared. Charlotte knew it must be Moses, though older in her dream — a pale youth in fringed buckskin, gripping a scalping knife that dripped blood.

  Waking with a start, Charlotte reached instinctively for her own knife. It was still at her belt, safely sheathed. She raised herself on one elbow. On the other side of the fire Nick, rolled in his blanket, slept quietly. She lay back down and folded her arms under her head. The terrors of the night passed as the eastern sky changed from black to indigo.

  At sunrise she woke Nick; she was eager to be gone. As they chewed their morning meal of rubbery deer meat, she asked, “Where did the Oneidas go after the soldiers destroyed their villages? They must be somewhere.”

  “They’re living in scattered bands here and there. It takes only a day for Indians to set up a temporary village in a safe place, if they can find one.”

  When the canoe was packed, they pushed it into the water. As Nick settled in the stern, he said. “The worst part of our journey is behind us. Now that we’ve left the Oswego River, we’ll have an easy paddle across Oneida Lake.”

  “The eastern end of the lake was where we camped on our way to Carleton Island,” Charlotte said. “We stayed there more than a week, with two Mohawk warriors to protect us.”

  “You told me about that. One was named Axe Carrier. You seemed to admire him. But you didn’t say much about the other man.”

  “Okwaho? He was younger, about your age.” She realized that she had said little about Okwaho. Nick did not need to know that a Mohawk warrior had courted her. “He was very helpful too,” she added.

  As they paddled eastward, following the south shore of Oneida Lake, thoughts of her Mohawk friends, especially of Okwaho, rose in her mind. Where was he now? Had he found a girl of his own people to love?

  When they reached the eastern end of Oneida Lake, Charlotte looked for the landmarks from Papa’s map. The pink granite boulder was unchanged, but white lichens shaped like malformed ears now grew from the trunk of the fallen ash tree. Plants had sprouted in the ashes of the cooking fire, and the shelters had collapsed into heaps of bark and broken poles. Yet the abandoned Loyalist campsite felt friendly. If ghosts dwelt here, they would be friendly too.

  In the woods nearby, late afternoon sunshine slanted through the trees, bathing with soft light the trilliums, hepaticas and bloodroot that bloomed beside the path. Wild raspberry canes grew at the edge of the woods. There would be a good crop of berries this year, but they still had a month to go.

  Nick unloaded the canoe. While he lit a fire, she started to open the food pack. She sniffed. Something smelled horrible. Even before she had the food pack fully open, the stench made her gag. Charlotte pulled everything out. The parched corn, soaked in river water, had fermented. The smoked fish was rotten, and the deer meat was slimy and green.

  She groaned. How could they have been so stupid? They should have dried the food thoroughly after its dunking, not left it sitting in the rucksack on the bottom of the canoe, warmed by the sun.

  “Smell this,” she said to Nick.

  He grimaced. “It stinks.”

  “What are we going to eat?” Charlotte was almost in tears. “It’s too early for berries.”

  Nick frowned. “Indians eat beech leaves when they’re starving.”

  “We can’t live on beech leaves for nine days.”

  “When we reach some homesteader’s field, we’ll rob his potato patch at night.”

  “Nick! You wouldn’t!”

  “If I were starving …”

  “We’re not starving yet. And even if it weren’t stealing, I’d just as soon eat beech leaves as seed potatoes. Ugh! They’re so wizened and soft! Besides, if the homesteader saw trespassers scrabbling in his potato patch, he would get out his gun.”

  “Then how about frogs? We can catch a couple of dozen for supper tonight and breakfast tomorrow. By evening we’ll reach the first farms of the Mohawk Valley, where there’s sure to be someone who’ll let us work for food.”

  “Well …” Charlotte had practised being a boy, but could she really
fool anyone?

  “This time of year, there’s plenty of work for farm hands.” He gave Charlotte a quick hug. “Yes. That’s what we’ll do.”

  They speared the frogs with sharpened sticks and skewered them to roast over the fire. Most were bullfrogs, but a few green frogs and leopard frogs were among them. Their legs had a disagreeable way of jerking as they toasted, as if the creatures were still trying to jump away. But the result was delicious.

  “A bit like chicken,” Charlotte said. “And there are millions more along the riverbanks all the way to Fort Hunter and back. As long as we can catch frogs, we don’t need to look for work.”

  He shook his head. “We can’t risk a fire.”

  “Is there danger from the Sons of Liberty?”

  “No. Nothing to do with politics. In the backwoods, some men would kill to get a rifle and a canoe. There’ll be plenty of frogs to catch, but you’ll have to eat them raw.”

  Now came the Oneida Carry — the long portage that led from Oneida Lake to the Mohawk River’s western branch. Beside the portage trail flowed Wood Creek, too shallow for a canoe. But it deepened as other streams flowed into it. By midday it was deep enough to float the canoe. At first they towed it empty, Nick carrying their gear while Charlotte pulled the canoe along by what was left of the bow rope. Bit by bit, they were able to put their gear on board without allowing the canoe to scrape bottom. Late in the afternoon, when the water was deep enough for them to add their own weight, they climbed in. Paddling was easy, now that they were going with the current.

  By dusk the creek had joined up with the Mohawk River, and soon they passed the first woodcutters’ shanties and scattered backwoods farms. They put ashore in a wooded area.

  Nick asked, “Do you want to catch some frogs?”

  “Beech leaves will do.”

  They picked a few handfuls. After they had nibbled their way through two or three leaves, Nick said, “We’d better look for work at one of those farms.”

  “I agree.” She tossed away the rest of her beech leaves. “First, we must decide on our story.”

  “We’re two brothers, Tom and Joe, willing to work for food.”