Beginning Again

by Mary Beacock Fryer

  BEGINNING AGAIN

  Further Adventures of a Loyalist Family

  by

  Mary Beacock Fryer

  Toronto and Oxford

  Dundurn Press

  1988

  Copyright © Mary Beacock Fryer, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press Limited.

  Design and Production:Andy Tong

  Printing and Binding:Gagné Printing Ltd., Louiseville, Quebec, Canada

  The writing of this manuscript and the publication of this book were made possible by support from several sources. The publisher wishes to acknowledge the generous assistance and ongoing support of The Canada Council, The Book Publishing Industry Development Programme of the Department of Communications and The Ontario Arts Council.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in the text (including the illustrations). The author and publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any reference or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, Publisher

  Cataloguing in Publication

  Fryer, Mary Beacock, 1929-

  Beginning again

  ISBN 1-55002-043-9

  1. United Empire loyalists - Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8561.R93B43 1988 jC813'.54 C88-094555-9

  PZ7.F79Be 1988

  Dundurn Press Limited

  2181 Queen Street East, Suite 301

  Toronto, Canada

  M4E 1E5 Dundurn Distribution Limited

  Athol Brose, School Hill,

  Wargrave, Reading

  England

  RG10 8DY

  BEGINNING AGAIN

  Further Adventures of a Loyalist Family

  by

  Mary Beacock Fryer

  Illustrations by Kenneth McNaught

  Maps by John C. Lamontagne

  Editor: Barbara Smith

  FOREWORD

  I have often discussed Escape, my first book on the Seaman family, with my readers. The question asked most often is, what happened to Caleb and Martha Seaman and their eight children after they settled in Canada? Here is another part of their story.

  Some place names have changed since the 1790s, the setting of the story. Buell's Bay has become Brockville; Coleman's Corners is now Lyn; Seaman's Landing is called Rockport; Fort Oswegatchie was on the site of the city of Ogdensburg, New York.

  I also want to thank my two artists, Kenneth McNaught and John C. Lamontagene. A special appreciation goes to my editor and lifelong friend, Barbara J. Smith. Many years ago we talked about doing a story together on some aspect of historical fiction for young readers. Now we have done so.

  To all

  young readers

  who enjoyed

  Escape

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Our “Estate”

  Chapter 2

  Farmer Ned

  Chapter 3

  Of Winter and Strange Goings On

  Chapter 4

  Stretched to the Limit

  Chapter 5

  Uncle William

  Chapter 6

  Apprentice Raftsmen

  Chapter 7

  Of Two Cities

  Chapter 8

  Tryst on the Hudson

  Chapter 9

  Two Homecomings

  Chapter 10

  Finishing Touches

  Chapter 11

  Our Great Raft

  Chapter 12

  Cold Iron

  Chapter 13

  Limelight for Elizabeth

  Chapter 1 Our “Estate”

  When I awoke that May morning of 1790 the sky was still grey. The sun had not begun to rise, but I was too excited to sleep any longer. Today was special. Today we were going to explore our very own land. Because my father, Caleb Seaman, had been loyal to King George the Third during the American revolution, he had been given 208 acres of land by the District Land Board here in Canada.

  Not quite a year had passed since the dreadful day when Papa and I had been arrested. We were thrown in jail in Schenectady, in New York State, after Papa had been recognised as a Loyalist. In dead of night, Papa, his friend Truelove Butler, and I broke out of the jail. We packed our wagon and fled to seek safety in Canada. In our party of fugitives were my mother, Martha, and my seven brothers and sisters—Cade, who was now sixteen, Sam, fifteen, Elizabeth, fourteen, Smith, six, Sarah, five, Stephen, four, and Robert, eighteen months. I was the third son, at thirteen not quite a year younger than Elizabeth.

  The sun had begun to stream across my face when Papa's shout called us to breakfast. As soon as we had eaten, Papa could hardly contain his impatience.

  “Hurry up, everyone!” he called. “So we'll be there before the light's gone.”

  “Remember, you're going to have to row against the current,” Sam roared, at the top of his lungs as usual..

  “Ned,” Mama called to me. “Smith and Stephen have vanished. Find them, please.”

  I raced about outside our cabin and caught my two younger brothers who had escaped despite Mama's orders to stay inside. I could hardly wait to get started. At last we were all lined up and ready to walk the three miles to Buell's Bay, where the merchant and landowner, Mr. William Buell, was lending us his bateau. A journey of eighteen miles up the St. Lawrence would bring us to our land.

  Anticipation made light of the hike along the rutted track hardly fit for a wagon—Papa and Mama in the lead, arm in arm, each with a basket of supplies. Behind them marched Cade, the eldest, carrying blankets and shepherding Smith, Sarah and Stephen. Elizabeth and I were in the rear, ready to catch anyone who eluded Cade. Around us capered our black and white dog Goggie, named by Robert, our youngest. Elizabeth had named him Samson when we first got him, but when we called him, my brother Sam answered. “Goggie” was really Robert's attempt to say “Doggie”, but soon everyone was using the name. Elizabeth and I took turns carrying Robert, who at eighteen months wanted to go on his own legs. He was not easy to hold either, he squirmed so.

  “Walk! Me walk!” he shouted.

  “No,” retorted Elizabeth. “If we have to wait for you, it'll be dark before we get to Buell's Bay.”

  The only one not along was Sam, who had stayed home to take care of the horses—our much prized bay stallion, the bay mare, and the filly she had dropped in March. That filly was a gift, for at the time of our escape from the summer before, we did not know she had been bred. I wondered that Sam should be willing to miss out on the adventure of going to our land, but he was probably pleased to have the cabin all to himself. It stood near the centre of our village of Coleman's Corners, which lay inland by a waterfall. There, the father of Elijah Coleman, one of my friends, had built grist and sawmills. When we first arrived, Coleman's Corners already had a dozen houses, more than Buell's Bay. It seemed to us the best place to open our blacksmith's shop. People liked to combine a visit to the mills and other business.

  We took scarcely an hour to reach Mr. Buell's store, exchange greetings, and carry our belongings to the small bateau tied to the jetty in the sheltered bay. The bateau was about half the size of those built by the government for use on the St. Lawrence. Government bateaux travelled in groups of about a dozen each that were called brigades. When a brigade arrived at a set of rapids that lay down the river from us, the crews of all the bateaux combined to haul each one upstream. The smaller boat we were borrowing, however, was plenty big enough for our needs.

  Mr. William Buell was a small, neat man with laughin
g eyes and a person of standing in our community. A former officer, he was better off than most of our neighbours, and as a magistrate he dispensed justice and sat at Courts of Quarter Sessions. At first we stood in awe of him but he quickly took a fancy to Papa and Mama. They were Long Islanders, and Mr. Buell had been raised nearby in Connecticut. He thought New Yorkers were boring, except for Long Islanders. Since the first Seamans and the first Buells had come from England to the New World at the same time, he decided we must be related.

  As we boarded the bateau we found that we were in luck. The wind was from the northeast and we would not have to row. Papa hoisted the lateen sail and we scudded up the bateau channel along the north side of the sparkling blue St. Lawrence and soon found ourselves passing through the Narrows, formed by a row of pine, oak and maple-clad islands from which pink granite poked. Now we had time and the breath to talk. Robert was no longer fretful, busying himself running on the flat floor of the bateau. Occasionally one of us would put a hand out to stop him climbing on the seat and trying to fall overboard. Then the sail began to flop and Papa showed Cade how to trim it.

  “This is the life!” Papa fairly crowed. “A mere tub, not my father's schooner Whitewings, but it's nice to be sailing again.”

  “You never told us about any ship, Papa,” Cade said, surprised.

  “Hush, Cade,” Mama interrupted him. “You'll stir up sad memories.”

  Papa shook his head. “Those memories have mellowed with time. I'd like to talk about it, Martha.”

  “Was it something to do with your brother, Nehemiah, Papa?” I piped up, trying to conceal my eagerness to learn something about the man for whom I was named. “Who drowned at sea?”

  At that Papa nodded. “Yes, Ned. He slipped on the deck and fell into Long Island Sound. We never found his body. Until we lost Nehemiah, I wanted to become the ship's master. Afterwards I hated the sea and decided to train as a blacksmith.”

  “But he lives again in you, Ned. You're a lot like him,” Mama added.

  For a few minutes no one spoke, but we were too full of our plans for this summer of 1790 to remain subdued for long. Mama's dearest wish was to start a school in her limited spare time, to teach our younger ones and the other children of Coleman's Corners. Even Mrs. Coleman, the miller's wife, could not read and write. Mama had agreed to become the teacher in return for flour and other foods. Papa had arranged for Cade and me to work for a farmer, Mr. Joseph McNish, to learn how to pioneer on our own land. The McNish farm was just outside Coleman's Corners, and we would be able to walk home to spend Sunday with the family. Papa himself had agreed to work for Captain Justus Sherwood, who for some years had been building timber rafts and sailing them to Quebec.

  The captain was also the chairman of the land board, and he had helped Papa select a grant that had fine timber on it, right on the shore of the St. Lawrence. Hauling logs through a bush where there were no roads would be nearly impossible. Our brother Sam would stay at Coleman's Corners, taking care of what little work came to the blacksmith's shop, caring for the horses, and helping Mama and Elizabeth enlarge the garden. I knew why I had been chosen over Sam to go to Mr. McNish's. Cade and I got along well, while neither of us could avoid fighting with Sam.

  “Selling timber is the best way to put us back on our feet,” Papa was saying.

  “Let's hope so,” Cade agreed. “With the shop not doing well.”

  Papa sighed, and I did not need to ask why. When we first arrived in Canada he expected to earn his living at his own trade. But he had found that he could hardly support us. Other blacksmiths had taken up land and were farming it. They did ironwork part time for their neighbours, and we had too much competition. Not only that, iron was scarce as hen's teeth and expensive. It came from the forges at Three Rivers, and the bateaumen who delivered it charged too much for carrying it. Besides, hardly anyone had any money—hard cash,—Papa called it. We got along by trading something we could make for something we needed. Papa was usually paid for his work in kind, sometimes food others could spare, or cloth or deerskin.

  “Once I learn how to build rafts strong enough to survive the rapids downstream,” Papa continued. “We'll build our own, and then, when we've enough land cleared, we'll grow more food and have a proper farm.”

  “And when we have good grass we can breed the horses everyone needs so badly,” Cade said.

  “For the time being one foal a year is all we can feed, but I trust, by the time the filly's old enough to be bred, we'll have enough grass,” Papa said.

  “And we'll need a small plot for some flax,” Mama added. “I do want to see all of you in new shirts, and Elizabeth, Sarah and myself with aprons and kerchiefs that are not so ragged.”

  “And an orchard,” Elizabeth chimed in. “I long for our own apples again.”

  Although we were as poor as church mice, we had felt at home in Canada since our flight from Schenectady in New York's Mohawk Valley. Like ourselves, most of the settlers in the Township of Elizabethtown, where Coleman's Corners lay, had been Loyalists during the American Revolution. Some of our neighbours had been living in Elizabethtown since the war ended. Most of the men had served in the Loyal Rangers. That was a regiment formed near Montreal from among refugee Loyalists. Such had fled their homes in the American colonies during the war. Others, like ourselves, had come to Canada later because former rebels kept molesting them. Our own troubles began in June 1789 when Papa and I were walking near the market in Schenectady. Zebe Seaman, a cousin from Long Island, where Papa and Mama had lived before the war, recognized him.

  With Zebe was the villain of our story, one Captain Gilbert Fonda. Both men knew that Papa had been loyal to the King during the revolution. Zebe thought bygones should be bygones, but Captain Fonda wanted revenge and had us arrested. Recalling the danger and hardship that had followed our escape, I shuddered and tried to put the memory from my mind.

  We had found our new neighbours friendly and willing to share what little they had. Like Mr. Buell, many of the settlers in Elizabethtown, and Augusta, just east of it, were Loyalists from Connecticut. They generally quarrelled with New York Loyalists but, like Mr. Buell, they warmed to Papa and Mama because of their Long Island background. Often the Connecticut men would gather in Papa's shop or Mr. Buell's store to argue and complain. They wanted to govern themselves, but Canada was ruled by a British governor, Lord Dorchester, and an appointed council.

  Mama did not feel that way. She was relieved to be living in a country where politics were just so much hot air. With no elections and no fisticuffs around the hustings, she said she never had to worry about Papa coming home with a broken head. Home since our arrival had been the cabin we built for shelter as soon as we reached Coleman's Corners after being dropped at Buell's Bay. We had come from Johnstown, the Luneburg District seat, in a boat belonging to Captain Meyers, who had known Papa during the war. Captain Meyers lived on a farm by the Bay of Quinte, farther west. We had first seen Johnstown from the New York side of the St. Lawrence, before we crossed into Canada.

  Until the cabin was ready we had stayed in a tent loaned us by the main landowner at Coleman's Corners, Mr. Joseph Jessup. Papa arranged to lease ten acres from him, and that season we also started the garden, where we planted seed potatoes given us by our neighbours. Before the cold descended, we had built a stable to protect the horses. We had dug a respectable crop of potatoes to help feed ourselves through the winter, and a root cellar in which to store them. We had also learned to brew spruce beer to ward off scurvy. With the odd deer shot by Papa or Sam, and fish caught with hook and line through holes we chopped in the ice near Buell's Bay, we did not go hungry though we tired of the same fare every day.

  Our neighbours often told us we were lucky to have missed The Hungry Year. During the summer of 1787 no rain fell and the crops failed. Thus the winter of 1787–1788 had been a time of great famine along our part of the St. Lawrence. People ate all the seeds they had been saving to plant. They killed the few animal
s they had brought from the United States or near Montreal. Some they killed for food, others because they had nothing to feed them. The government came to the rescue, providing seeds to plant in the spring of 1788, but people still had few animals. A whole generation would never stop telling stories about that time of near starvation.

  Now my remembering was interrupted when the boat picked up speed. We had passed the Narrows. Here the river, free of islands for a bit, seemed much wider. On we went and into the bateau channel along the north side of Grenadier Island, seven miles long and with farmhouses and cabins dotting its shore. We were getting close now. Papa had a paper on which Captain Sherwood had described the landmarks to watch for. His eyes were still moving between the notes and the shore when we heard a shout from behind and turned to see a canoe moving towards us.

  “How convenient,” Papa said, smiling. “Captain Sherwood. Now he can show us exactly where our boundaries are. He surveyed this township.”

  “I thought you said he built timber rafts,” Cade spoke up.

  “By trade he's a surveyor, but like most people here he can turn his hand to anything. And so must we,” Papa replied.

  “You mentioned township,” Mama said. “Is our land not in Elizabethtown?”

  “No, dearest, in the next one west of it.”

  “What's it called, Papa?” I asked.

  “Township Number Nine,” he replied.

  “Maybe we can name it after us. How about Seaman Township?” I added.

  Papa thought this a huge joke, and we all joined in his laughter. “If Elizabethtown was named for Princess Elizabeth, and Augusta where Captain Sherwood lives, after Princess Augusta, do you think the government would allow a township to be named for nobodies such as us?”

  “Why not?” Mama said, pretending to be indignant. “Once they run out of children of the King.”

  By this time Captain Sherwood's canoe was drawing close. He was a tall and thin man with fair colouring sitting in the stern and dipping his paddle with long graceful strokes. Two boys were paddling at bow and centre thwart.