“Great things are happening,” Mr. Seaman,” was his greeting.
“Will you stay the night, Captain?” Cade asked him.
“The very thought I had,” Papa said. “You're rather late to try for home.”
“I was hoping you'd invite us. Yes, thank you. We would like a warm spot to sleep.”
“You've grown a lot, Ned,” was Levius' greeting for me.
“And not a bit too soon either,” said I.
During the night heavy snow fell. We asked the Sherwoods to stay as long as they liked, but they set out anyway. “We may not get all the way home in this but I'd like to try,” said the captain.
Once we finished the snowshoes, we had to learn to walk on them. They were awkward until we learned to keep our feet wide apart. Sam's first effort was fun to watch, for he disliked spreading his legs out. He kept setting one shoe on the edge of the other and falling down. I wanted to burst out laughing, but his scarlet face warned me to watch my step. For the first few days I found the muscles of my inner thighs very sore, before I got used to stretching so far.
On the 23rd of December the Mallorys departed for their farm, and we left on our snowshoes for Coleman's Corners soon afterwards. The temperature had fallen, and we decided not to risk the bateau getting frozen into the ice at an inconvenient spot. We shovelled the snow out of it, pulled it well up on the beach, and with much heaving turned it over so it would not get full of snow again. Well bundled, carrying some food, we waved to the deserted cabin and followed the shore.
I shuddered as we passed the La Rue cabin, and I think Cade did, too, but we avoided each other's eyes. It was dark by the time we walked into Buell's Bay, and I wondered how I would ever cover the last three miles. After a bit of rest at Buell's store I felt better and was ready to continue. By now the moon that had shone the night we went treasure hunting had waned, and we could hardly see the road.
“Thank goodness we're nearly there,” Papa said as he almost fell when a snowshoe tipped sideways into a rut.
“Amen to that,” Cade agreed. “I'm bone weary.”
“When we go back, we'll be bringing the stallion and can take turns riding him,” Sam said.
Mama seemed to sense when to expect us, for she opened the door before we could remove the snowshoes. She emerged, moccasins on her feet, wrapped in a shawl, unable to wait till we were inside. The young ones flowed out after her, Elizabeth calling them to come back out of the cold. Finally we were all within, amidst some hubbub removing coats and warming our chilled bodies at the hearth. When the excitement died down, Mama took the floor.
“I have some news,” she announced as Elizabeth nodded.
“We've got a letter!” Sarah chanted, dancing around before Mama could tell us herself. “We've got a letter!”
Trust her to spoil Mama's surprise, thought I.
Papa ignored Sarah. “From whom, my dearest?” he said.
Mama hesitated, gazing at Papa. “My brother William. He wants to visit us next summer.”
“All the way from Long Island?” Sam broke in. “Some journey!”
Papa paid no more attention to Sam than he had to Sarah. “You should write immediately, Martha. Tell William we'll be happy to receive him.”
Mama smiled, less tense. “I hoped you'd feel that way. It's time we healed the breach the revolution made in our families.”
“Is anyone coming with him?” Papa enquired. “He may have a wife and children by now.”
“He'll be alone,” Mama replied. “He says he has never married.”
“Did he say how he found out where we were?” I asked her.
“Zebe told him about seeing us in Schenectady and of how we disappeared in the night. A friend who comes to Montreal on business suggested we might be near Johnstown,” Mama replied. “William sent his letter to our district postmaster in the hope that someone would know us and deliver it. Thank goodness Papa left some money with me, for I had to give Mr. Buell sixpence. He paid the postage and brought the letter from Johnstown.”
“When your reply is ready, Cade may ride to Johnstown and leave it at St. John's Hall, the inn,” Papa said. “The sooner it reaches there the better. Who knows how long it will be before a reliable person is found to carry letters to Albany.”
Thus far Cade had been a mute observer. “I could take the letter straight to the postmaster, Captain Munro,” he suggested. “Samuel Sherwood said his farm's only five miles east of Johnstown.”
“I should have thought of that myself,” Papa said.
Mama's face brightened. “I'd feel easier in my mind if Cade put the letter in the postmaster's own hands.”
“I'll give you some cash, Cade,” Papa said. “You'll have to spend a night somewhere. There and back would be too long a ride for the stallion.”
“Not to mention my tail end after bouncing on his backbone,” Cade rejoined. “When our ship—er, raft—comes in, let's order a saddle.”
Mama found some paper, purchased for the school she kept each afternoon for Smith, Sarah, Stephen and some village children. Papa slipped out and borrowed a piece of sealing wax from Mr. Abel Coleman, the miller and my friend Elijah's father. After Mama folded her letter and addressed it, Papa melted the tip of the wax over a glowing brand. He dropped a little on the edge of the paper and pressed it with his ring, engraved with the letter S.
“I'll go at first light,” Cade promised Mama.
She scarcely heard him. “This place!” she moaned, looking about her in dismay. “Where on earth can we put a guest?”
Papa rose and strode back and forth as he liked to do when he made a plan. “It's high time we had more room. We've lots of our own timber. The boys and I will fetch logs from our land for an addition, and I've enough cash to pay to have the timbers squared at Coleman's mill. We ought to be able to put up a two-room wing before the summer work. One will be a parlour, the other a bedroom for visitors.”
Mama put her arms around him, shaking her head. “You haven't time. We've new orders for the shop, and what about your plans for the raft?”
Now it was Papa's turn to shake his head. “We'll make time, my love. I won't have William going back to Long Island saying I'm not able to provide you with a decent home.”
Still Mama had doubts. “Suppose we do finish an addition. Will we have time to make more furniture?”
Of course,” Papa said cheerfully. “I wish we could hire a cabinet maker but I'd have to borrow money to pay him.”
“We mustn't go into debt,” Mama said in alarm. Then she had an idea of her own. “Sam, do you think you could turn out some nice pieces?”
“I'd like to try,” Sam replied. “I know I can go to Mr. Buell if I get stuck. He's a cooper by trade.”
Mama sighed happily. “More room and the thought of William's visit will make this winter fly by. It's lovely to have something special to look forward to.”
Cade was gone overnight taking the letter to Postmaster Munro's house. When he returned he proudly handed Papa some coins. “I didn't need much,” he said. “I bumped into Samuel Sherwood and he invited me to spend the night at his house after I'd been to the postmaster's.”
“How's Levius?” I asked.
“Groaning over his Latin. The schoolmaster at Kingston ordered him to work on it during the holidays for he's way behind in it.”
“Poor fellow,” said I. Being not so well off had its bright side. If Papa could have afforded it, he might have sent me to school, as he had done in Schenectady.
On Christmas day we held a special service in Coleman's barn, which was warmer than Boyce's field. I was less enthusiastic about our feast that followed. Before he left for our land, Papa had butchered the pig the McNishes had given Cade. We had made a pet of it, and I thought we had lost a friend.
“I feel like a cannibal,” I whispered to Cade as Papa began carving the roast that reposed on a wooden platter he had made.
“You're too tender-hearted, Ned,” he scolded softly, hoping no one
would notice us. “Papa had to kill it for we don't have enough scraps from the table. We never leave anything on our trenchers, and we've nothing else for feed. We'll be lucky if the chickens, ducks and horses don't starve before spring.”
The work party that returned to our land was comprised of Papa, Sam and myself. Cade was to have a turn looking after the shop and helping Mama. With Papa there, Sam and I wouldn't get into many fights. We were delayed by heavy snowfalls early in January. When we finally did set out Papa was leading the stallion, our supplies packed on his back. We would not be riding him, to Sam's disgust. The snow lay so deep that even with snowshoes we sank down and found the going tough.
Now, joined by the two Mallorys, we began felling the trees in earnest. Each had to be chopped down with axes, then stripped of branches with our saws. Afterwards, driving the stallion, often with most of us pulling to help him, we moved each huge log close to the river shore. From there we would in time move the logs into the water a few at a time, and bind them together securely with long, pliant willow strips the Mallorys called “withies”.
February was bitterly cold and my toes got frostbitten. I had to stay inside for a few days, and Papa set me to brewing batches of spruce beer. We had trekked some potatoes and carrots from Coleman's Corners, but to save weight we had brought molasses and yeast, traded with Mr. Buell. The recipe was the one Mama had used to prevent scurvy during our first winter in Canada.
I heated about two pounds of spruce tips and two gallons of water in a cooking kettle. After it boiled I removed the spruce, added molasses and yeast to the liquid, and set the kettle near the hearth to ferment. The beer was a time-honoured method of warding off scurvy, learned from the Indians, and was every bit as good as fresh vegetables. I didn't care for the taste, but making it gave me something to do till my feet got better.
Early in March, a silly accident put an end to my life in the woods for some weeks. I, who had done very well with an axe cutting down huge white pines, let it slip while splitting kindling. The blade gashed my right foot, and a frantic Papa left Sam working with the Mallorys to take me home. After wrapping the foot to stop the bleeding he set me on the stallion and led him towards Coleman's Corners where Mama could give me the care I needed. I crossed my right knee and propped my injured foot in front of me. If the leg hung down it throbbed and Papa was afraid it would bleed again.
I felt about spent by the time we reached home. Mama, to my surprise, seemed to be watching for us though we were not expected. In jig time I was lying on my parents' bed, my wounded foot stripped of Papa's bandage and propped on two pillows. Mama squinted at it, brow furrowed. Beside her Elizabeth was looking all sympathy.
“Fetch my sewing basket,” she said. “This needs stitches.”
At that I could not keep from shuddering!
Chapter 4
Stretched to the Limit
I'd rather not remember the stitching. I suppose it did not hurt too much. After Mama washed the wound carefully, she drew linen thread through her needle and gently pushed it in and out till she had made seven stitches. Papa held me, his face the colour of a white sheet, and I wondered which of us might faint first.
“It's a gaping wound,” Mama told us. “It'll heal much faster with the stitches.”
The next day Papa returned to our land. Soon after, Elizabeth came in and told Mama that Dr. Jones, the only physician for many miles around, was in the village. “Would you like him to see Ned's wound, Mama?” she enquired.
“Yes,” she said. “And I want to see him about another matter.”
“I think I know why,” Elizabeth said softly.
Dr. Solomon Jones, who had been the surgeon to the Loyal Rangers, was tall and plump. Dressed in a black suit, he carried a black leather bag. He unwrapped my foot with surprising gentleness and studied Mama's handiwork. Then he replaced the bandage and straightened up.
“That looks clean, Mrs. Seaman. And there's no swelling to suggest it's septic. You did a fine job. Keep this young fellow in bed a few days. When he can walk on it without pain, take out those stitches and he can do whatever he feels up to in the shop.”
I determined to be back on my feet as soon as I could stand. With so much work facing us, I was angry at myself for being so careless with that axe. Elizabeth and Mama had put my straw mattress before the hearth so I would not have to climb the ladder to the loft. I spent comfortable nights, but during the day I thought I would go mad. Being in the midst of the chaos my younger brothers and Sarah created was nerve wracking.
Robert cried, Smith teased Stephen, and Sarah stubbornly refused to do anything when Mama or Elizabeth asked her to help. Once, in desperation, Mama chased Stephen to the loft, sent Smith to clean the stable, and paddled Sarah with a wooden spoon. Elizabeth was working at a new loom, expertly weaving linsey woollsey, ignoring the bubbub. Some village women had given Mama the flax and wool in return for teaching their children reading and writing. Elizabeh had strung the spun linen thread the length of the loom and was working a shuttle wound with wool.
“I don't know how you stand the confusion,” I complained.
She raised her head in wonderment. “I don't even hear it,” she said and resumed passing the shuttle back and forth.
“Isn't Mama a bit short-tempered?” I asked Elizabeth then. “She's usually more patient with Sarah.”
“True,” my sister replied. “There's a reason. It's the way she's feeling. Can't you guess why?”
“She did want to talk with Dr. Jones,” I recalled, a light dawning. “Another baby?”
“Yes,” she said. “In July, Dr. Jones thinks.”
“For your sake I hope it's a girl,” said I.
“I don't know,” she murmured. “She might turn out like Sarah.”
How glad I was when I felt able to escape to the shop. We had orders for nails, a very popular item with the customers. My shoulders were growing broad, and I liked flexing my muscles, bashing the hot iron with a hammer. For a while each day the foot did not feel too bad as I worked. When it began to throb I would give up and return to my mattress. One night Mama examined the wound and pronounced it much better. Again she called for her sewing basket and I began to quail.
“This won't hurt nearly as much as putting them in,” she said.
Actually it did not, though feeling the linen threads being pulled out was wierd. Now I was counting the days before I could leave for our land. Mama did not want me to go alone, and I must wait until Papa, Cade or Sam came to travel back with me.
In the end I stayed until well into the summer for so many other things had to be done before we could resume work for the raft. We would be planting crops amongst the stumps on our land, but again we enlarged the garden at Coleman's Corners. We needed every bit of ground we could clear if we hoped to feed all our animals through the next winter.
We had had barely enough for them through the past one. Our filly was very thin for we had given more grain to the mare because she was carring a foal. Our chickens and ducks were both pairs, and would soon nest. We added two kittens to our livestock, to deal with mice in the stable and to make sure none took up residence in the cabin. Smith made valiant efforts to help me, but he was still only seven and a light weight. We also had an order for some andirons, which kept me busy for days. I had never made any on my own before, and I was pleased at how well they turned out.
By mid-April our mare's time was drawing close, and I looked in on her the last thing before I turned in each night. I prayed that Papa, or even Sam who knew more about horses than I, would come home. I was out of luck. One night I could tell that things were happening, and I began my vigil by the mare, who had lain down, her sides heaving. Elizabeth came bringing blankets and hot tea, and settled herself to wait with me.
“She had an easy time last spring with the filly,” Elizabeth said. “Let's pray she does as well this year.”
Later, when the mare seemed in distress, I sent Elizabeth for Mr. Coleman in the hope that he wou
ld know what to do. Then, to my great relief the mare seemed to be managing on her own. She groaned and I saw two tiny hooves, then a nose, and without much more ado the entire foal slipped out, its head encased in a slimy film. The mare staggered to her feet and at once began licking the film to remove it. I found I had only to watch, for she was doing everything she should. By the time Elizabeth and Mr. Coleman came into the stable, the foal was standing on waving legs like long sticks, the mare still licking its coat to clean it.
“A colt,” Mr. Coleman said. “This is good news. A future breeding stallion. And standing so soon! He's a strong one.”
“It is a colt!” I exclaimed. I had been so absorbed watching the mare care for him that I had not thought to look earlier.
Papa returned with the stallion a few days later from our land. “I'm in a hurry,” he said. “Have to meet the boys along the creek with the cart. They're bringing two small rafts of logs for the new addition. We're going to run the rafts as far up the creek as we can, then take them apart and bring the logs, a few at a time, in the cart. Ned, I'll need your help.”
I could feel his eyes on my back as I went towards the cabin to tell Mama. Proudly I showed that I did not need to limp. The foot no longer hurt, but it did feel numb most of the time, which puzzled me. When I came out there was no sign of Papa, but I knew where to look. He was in the stable admiring the new colt, talking softly, stroking the mare's mane with one hand while the filly nuzzled his other. I knew he loved us more than his horses, but sometimes I wondered just how much more. Giving the colt a pat, he followed me outside and we hitched the stallion to our cart. A rough track followed the creek for a bit as it wound its way out to the St. Lawrence about ten miles west of Buell's Bay. We had gone perhaps halfway when we heard Sam's “Haloo” from the water.
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