The name of one was Ben Log, the other was known as ‘Shorty’. Both of them were bearded and had mops of ill-trimmed hair under caps of skin which had been shorn of the fur. They were dressed in green hunting shirts, with girdles of wampum and breeches and leggings of buckskin, the latter laced at the sides and gartered above the knee with deer sinews. Each had a knife and a small hatchet thrust through his girdle and, hanging from it, powder horns and pouches. The rifles they carried were very long and the barrels polished to mirror brightness.
They naturally wanted to know why the Brooks wished to go north, and Roger produced a story he had thought up in New York. Knowing that they had no means of checking up his account of himself, he said he was a cartographer employed by the Government to make more accurate maps of the country south of the St. Lawrence. To support his story he had bought a theodolite, a number of maps and a big roll of paper suitable for making others. He added, before he could be asked why he was taking his wife into the wilds with him, that he, although an expert surveyor, was a poor hand at drawing, whereas Mary had a gift for it; so she was indispensable as his assistant.
By midday, the Brooks’ baggage and gear—including a bivouac that Roger bought at the local store, as they would have to camp at nights on shore—had been carried down to the canoe and, with the two Longhunters paddling in prow and stern, they set off up Lake George.
The scenery on either side was more beautiful than ever for, on the east, the Green Mountains, and on the west the Adirondacks, ran down to the shores of the long, narrow lake. For most people who normally lived in comfort the prospect of having to camp out in such bitter weather would have been highly disagreeable. But after the terrible weeks that Roger and Mary had spent in the icy wastes of Russia, they could face it without apprehension. There, for a great part of the time they had had to fend for themselves; here they had with them two strong men who would do all the chores. There, too, towards the end of their journey, they had been near starvation; now they had ample supplies of food with them.
For many months each year the Longhunters lived far from civilisation, so making camp was for them a long-perfected drill. With a practised eye they selected sites where canvas could be stretched between neighbouring trees at an angle that would screen the campers from the wind. The canoe had no sooner grounded than they threw out fishing lines. Jumping ashore, they swiftly collected rotten branches and, starting it with a small log soaked in resin, within a few minutes made a good fire. While Shorty set up the bivouac and brought furs, stores and cooking utensils from the canoe, Ben Log went off into the woods with his long rifle to see if he could sight a bird or game for the pot. So they ate heartily every evening while the Longhunters remained with them off a fresh-caught fish or savoury stews of venison, hare, or turkey.
At the northern end of Lake George lay the settlement of Ticonderoga. There they had to land and cross a narrow isthmus to reach the far larger Lake Champlain. A party of Indians from among those who lived in the settlement was hired to do the porterage. Four of them carried the big canoe, the others the tentage, baggage and equipment.
Roger noticed that none of them wore feathers in his hair, and Ben Log told him they were known as ‘naked foreheads’—men who had failed to pass the agonising ordeals by which an Indian became a ‘brave’. They were, he added, squirting out the juice of a tobacco plug he was chewing, men of the Oneides tribe, who with the Mohawks, Onondagas, Cayuga and Senecas made up the Five Nations.
As they advanced up the long lake, whenever they passed a small bay a part of which faced nearly northward, they noticed the ice there had not yet melted and fringed the shore. Further up it made a white line all along the coast, and the trees were still coated in snow. Several times they had to turn their fur collars up round their faces while passing through snow storms and, when they went ashore, flail their arms to warm themselves up until a fire could be got going. The Longhunters had brought a good supply of spruce—a fiery spirit—with them, and every night before settling down to sleep in their beaver robes, they all drank a good ration of it.
Occasionally they passed other canoes, manned either by befeathered Indians or bearded whites, and twice they were passed by small sailing barques carrying troops up to the front. But usually there were no other humans in sight, and nothing moved except, now and then, a fish-hawk diving on its unseen prey. For long spells the silence was broken only by the rhythmic splashing of the Longhunters’ paddles as they drove the canoe steadily forward.
Dusk still fell early; then, while they sat round the camp fire, the denizens of the forest awoke to go on their nightly prowl for food: coyotes barked, badgers screamed, owls hooted and wolves howled. One night a small pack of wolves, attracted by the fire, approached near enough for their yellow eyes to reflect the light. Mary gave a little cry of fright, and Roger quickly put his arm about her while, with his free hand, he pulled out one of his pistols. But the Longhunters did not even bother to pick up their rifles. Shorty plucked a burning brand from the fire, hurled it at the nearest wolf and chuckled when it hit its mark. The singed beast gave a high-pitched whine and bounded away, followed by the others.
At that date the head of Lake Champlain, and the Richelieu river, which connects it with the St. Lawrence, were in Canadian territory. Roger had been greatly tempted to offer the Longhunters a good sum to take Mary and himself as far as the border, but decided not to risk it. They were naturally posing as Americans, and as many New Yorkers had English accents, neither of the men had shown the least suspicion that they were not. But if they were given cause to think that their passengers meant to cross into Canada, they might very well guess the truth and cut up rough, which would be very awkward and dangerous.
In consequence the party landed at Plattsburg, which was about twenty miles below the frontier, and where Roger had originally hired them to take him. There was a considerable number of troops in the town, as it was the base for the northern front. In an open space a company of American troops was being drilled and, after watching for a few minutes, Roger took a very poor view of them. They were nearly all good specimens of manhood, strong-limbed and with healthy, bronzed faces; but their dress was slipshod, their movements had no snap and obviously they were recruits unused to discipline. Having spent much of his time for many years with both the French and British armies, he knew that one quarter of their number of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, the British Grenadiers or a regiment of the Line, would make mincemeat of the poor fellows.
Every foot of the original accommodation in the place was occupied, and many new huts had been built, but only as quarters for the military, so Roger and his party had to pitch camp on the edge of the town and sleep in their bivouacs. Normally the Longhunters would have gone off into the forest to shoot and trap game until they had collected as many pelts as they could carry back to the lake and take down to Fort George for sale, but Roger now made them a handsome offer to accompany him and Mary westward as far as the St. Lawrence.
Next morning Ben Log succeeded in hiring a covered wagon with a half-breed driver. That afternoon, having loaded their tentage and freshly-bought stores, they set off on their ninety-mile trek along a trail that had developed into a rough road after convoys and troops had so frequently used it.
The forest trees were still bare of leaves, but Shorty who, although uneducated, was by instinct a naturalist, told Mary that in the autumn the turning leaves made a sea of gold and pointed out to her the different barks on giant hickories, beeches, maples, black walnuts, pines and silver birches. Many of the tree trunks were overgrown with moss and others half-smothered in tangles of ivy. He warned her against the latter, as much of it was poison ivy, and a very nasty rash would have resulted from touching it. Shorty could also tell the species of a bird from its cry, and quite frequently they saw jays, ravens, hawks, crows and catbirds sailing overhead.
On the fourth evening they came to St. Regis, where the Sulpician Fathers had a mission which was part hospital and part
school to which Indian Chiefs sent their sons to acquire a smattering of the white man’s education. Two days later, Thursday, April 1st, they reached French Mills, now a fully-garrisoned American strongpoint within a short distance of the river. It had taken them nineteen days to get there from New York.
The Fort itself consisted of two square, two-storeyed block houses, with overhanging upper floors roofed with bark. These were connected by palisades made of high pointed and pitched stakes lashed securely together. The palisade enclosed a large area into which, in times of trouble, settlers with their families and livestock could take refuge. It was entered by a single sally port. Now that French Mills had become a frontier post during active warfare, the palisaded enclosure was nowhere near large enough to accommodate the garrison. In consequence, a cantonment had grown up round it, consisting of long hutments for barracks, storehouses and stables. Some of the troops were being drilled and others carrying out fatigues. Among the latter were a number of Indians and, at a cookhouse, Mary noticed with interest a number of fur-clad women collecting rations.
As Roger and his party approached the sally port his heart and Mary’s began to beat a little faster, for they both knew that this might prove the end of the road for them. By suffering considerable hardships and discomfort they had succeeded in getting to within a mile of the Canadian frontier. If they could now manage to get across it, they were as good as home.
But there can be many a slip ’twixt cup and lip. Roger had long since learned that Mary had a natural gift for calligraphy, and could even write in Elizabethan script: so a few days before they left New York he had bought a sheet of parchment and asked her to write on it in copperplate what appeared to be a letter of authority from the Department of Rivers and Forests stating that he was a surveyor.
When she had done so and he was about to sign it with a fictitious name, she stopped him and said:
‘Would it not be better if we could secure the Minister’s signature and I forged it?’
‘Forged it?’ he had repeated with a frown. ‘Are you really capable of doing that?’
‘Oh yes,’ she laughed. ‘When I was at my academy, on quite a number of occasions I earned a little money by writing essays for lazy rich girls in hands that were near enough to pass as theirs.’
‘It would certainly make the document appear valid, and so save us from dire trouble if anyone to whom we showed it chanced to know the Minister’s signature. But how could we get hold of it?’ He asked and she had replied.
‘You must recall that I bought an autograph book while we were in Stockholm, and that several members of the Royal family were gracious enough to sign it. I could add the signature of Mr. van Wyck, and copy from the draft he gave you last night that of Gouverneur Morris. I’d take my book to the Minister, get him to sign it, then copy his signature onto this document.’
Roger had agreed to Mary’s plan and the following day she had succeeded in carrying it out.
But the document’s acceptance by the Commanding Officer at French Mills still entailed one very nasty risk. If at his Headquarters there were trained mapmakers, it would soon be realised that Roger was entirely ignorant about such work. Suspicion of his bona-fides would be aroused, a careful watch kept on them, which would prevent their crossing into Canada, and a letter of enquiry about them dispatched to New York. It would emerge that the document was a forgery and further enquiries elicit the fact that they were English. They would then be arrested and charged with having come up to the war zone as spies.
Striving to hide their apprehensions under a calm, unconcerned manner, they walked towards the Fort, eager yet fearful to learn what Fate had in store for them.
7
Disaster
A Sentry, smoking a pipe, was lounging by the entrance to the sally port. Roger asked him where his commanding officer could be found. The man jerked his thumb toward the nearer of the blockhouses. ‘Colonel Jason be yonder.’
Leaving the Longhunters outside, Roger and Mary entered the stockade. After further enquiries they located the Colonel in one of the buildings, sitting with another officer at a rough, plank table in a back room. It had a dirt floor, was sour-smelling and dim, the only light coming from loopholes in two of the walls. The uniforms of the two officers were dark blue serge, with dull red facings, worn and grease-stained. They were sorting through a small pile of papers, but, greatly to Roger’s relief, there were no maps to be seen, or other evidence that this was a military headquarters similar to those he was accustomed to frequent in Europe.
Bowing politely, he took a paper from his pocket, handed it to the elder of the officers and said, ‘My name, Sir, is Roger Brook. Permit me to present my wife. These are my credentials.’
As Mary curtseyed, the two men stood up and bowed. The Colonel, who was grey-haired, with a lined face, took the paper.
At Roger’s dictation Mary had headed it, ‘To whom it may concern,’ then written:
‘Mr. Roger Brook of this city is a qualified surveyor in the employ of my department, and his wife is his assistant. This is to request that every assistance shall be given to them to carry out their work and, where possible, accommodation be provided for them.’
Beneath this she had forged the signature of Andrew Stapleton—the name of the Minister concerned—then had carefully printed underneath: DEPARTMENT OF RIVERS AND FORESTS.
For a long moment they waited in acute suspense while Colonel Jason read it. He then looked up and, to their immense relief, showed no suspicion that the document might be a forgery. ‘Well, Mr. Brook,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘As you must be aware, Sir,’ Roger replied, ‘the maps of this remote part of New York State are most indifferent. I have been sent here to make better ones. If you can provide my wife and me with accommodation we should be most grateful. And rations. For the latter I am, of course, quite willing to pay, as they will be charged to my department.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘That’s no great problem. The fort itself is fuller than a barrel of herrings; but, as you’ll have seen, we’ve built scores of shacks nearby. Long huts for the men and cabins for the officers and some of the wives who’ve been living here with them all winter. But now the fighting’ll soon start again, several of the ladies have already left.’
With a wave of his hand toward the other officer, he added, ‘This is Captain Dayho. He’ll take you along and allot you quarters.’
The Brooks exchanged bows with Dayho, then thanked the Colonel. All had gone smoothly and they could now hope that within a few days they would be across the river.
The Captain, a sprightly, youngish man with bushy side-whiskers, escorted them to the sally port, where Roger presented Ben Log and Shorty to him. Accompanied by the two Longhunters, they walked for some distance through dirty slush along a path to a large clearing in which there were a score or more of cabins. Most of them were still occupied, but several had been abandoned, the wives having left and their husbands having moved into one of the long huts reserved for officers. After looking into several, Mary chose one which had been left in a cleaner condition than the others. It was furnished only with a broad, leathermesh bed on which there was a thin palliasse stuffed with straw, a rough-hewn table, several empty packing cases that could be used either to sit on or keep spare clothes in, and an iron brazier.
Smiling at Mary, Dayho said, ‘Not much of a place for a lady like you, Ma’am, but it’s the best we can do. There’s a woodstack behind this row of cabins, from which you can collect logs for your fire, and any of the other ladies in the clearing will tell you where you can draw your rations. As you are from New York, I fear you will find social life here very dull. Colonel Jason takes the view that parties should be discouraged, as they distract his officers from their dooties.’
Turning to Roger, he went on, ‘You suggested paying for your rations, Sir, but that is quite unnecessary. And we shall be happy to make you an honorary member of our Mess whenever you care to come to it. Now, i
f you will excuse me, I must get back, as we are exceptionally hard at it preparing for the new campaign.’
When he had left them Shorty went round to the wood-stack, collected some logs and got a fire going in the brazier, while Ben Log went to fetch the covered wagon. They unloaded all their belongings, then Roger paid off the half-breed driver.
The Longhunters realised that now Roger and Mary had been installed in the camp they would no longer need their services so, after a drink of spruce all round, the good-byes were said. Roger offered them a bonus on the sum agreed, but smilingly they refused to take it, declaring that it had been a privilege and a pleasure to escort such a gay and uncomplaining little lady as Mary on a trek. Not to be outdone, she kissed them both on their bearded cheeks. Then, with their long, loping stride, these two of Nature’s gentlemen went on their way.
After distributing their things about the cabin and arranging it as comfortably as possible, Roger and Mary went out to make acquaintance with their nearest neighbours. The men were on duty with their troops and there were only a few, furclad women about. They were all of a type that Americans describe as very ‘ornary’, and a little over-awed by Mary’s ladylike appearance, which she could not disguise; but they were pleasant and helpful about telling of the life of the camp.
That evening Roger tactfully acted on Captain Dayho’s invitation to make use of the Officers’ Mess, and spent an hour or so drinking with several of the members to whom Dayho introduced him. As he had expected, only the few seniors were regulars, the others being Militia and mostly farmers or storekeepers from small up-country towns. Nearly all of them wished the war soon over, as their hearts were not in it, and Roger felt sorry for them because they obviously knew next to nothing about soldiering and could not hope to stand up against equal numbers of well-disciplined British troops.
The Irish Witch Page 9