Hope's Journey

by Jean Rae Baxter

  Next she came to a small white building with a bell mounted on the roof. There was a sign above the door: SCHYLER SCHOOL. The door was not just closed, it was padlocked. There were two windows at the front, one on each side of the door, and four more along the side wall. All were shut. Hope stepped up to one of the windows. Through the glass she saw four rows of double desks. The desks faced a table, behind which a blackboard was attached to the wall. There was no teacher in the schoolroom, nor were there any scholars. Dead flies lay on the windowsill.

  She should have known that in June the school would be closed. Every boy would be out in the fields, hoeing or haying, and every girl would be at home, learning to cook, spin and weave.

  She stepped back from the window. Next to the school was a small white house with black shutters. An apple tree stood in the front yard. Her head up and her shoulders squared, Hope walked briskly along the short path that led from the school to the house. She stepped onto the low porch, her heart beating fast, and rapped on the door.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Letter

  The smiling woman who came to the door wore a slightly askew mobcap from which a strand of curly black hair had escaped. Hope recognized Charlotte at once, for she had changed little since the last time Hope had seen her. Through the open doorway Hope saw a cradle and also three children, two boys and a girl, playing with alphabet blocks on a braided rug. They looked up at Hope, their expressions friendly and curious.

  Charlotte’s smile faded and a frown creased her brow. She looked puzzled. Maybe she was wondering who this girl on her doorstep was and where she had seen her before.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Schyler. I’m Hope Cobman.”

  That was all it took. “Of course you are! But you mustn’t call me Mrs. Schyler. I’m Charlotte.” The smile had returned, and Hope felt herself being dragged indoors. “You were just a little girl last time I saw you. When was that? Six years ago? Still, I should have recognized you.” Placing her hands on Hope’s shoulders, she took a steady look. “You have the eyes, the ears and the snub nose. Yes, you’re a Cobman through and through.”

  Then Charlotte introduced her children. That was baby Joan asleep in the cradle. The little ones playing on the rug were Isaac, Martha and Jack. After Hope had told the children that she was happy to meet them, and they had replied that they were likewise happy to meet her, they went back to playing with their blocks.

  “You had only one baby the last time I saw you,” Hope said.

  “That was Isaac. But he isn’t a baby any longer. Isaac is eight years old. Martha is five and Jack is three. Joan’s my only baby now. She arrived six months ago.” Charlotte paused. “But you didn’t come here to meet my children. What about you? I’ve lost track of you since Nick and I settled in Milltown.”

  “After the peace treaty gave Carleton Island to the United States, the Loyalists living there had to be evacuated. My mother and I were moved to Kingston.” Hope hesitated. “Ma died a little over a year ago.”

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.” Charlotte took Hope’s hand. Although Hope tried not to cry, tears filled her eyes. “That must have been terrible for you,” said Charlotte. There were tears in her eyes, too.

  Hope wiped her eyes. “For a year I lived in the orphanage. But after I passed my thirteenth birthday and they could keep me no longer, I became indentured to a man named Ephraim Block to take care of his invalid mother.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Charlotte. “Don’t he and his mother live a few miles east of Milltown?”

  “That’s so. Ephraim brought me here to find you. I need some help, and you seem the best person to ask.”

  “Me?” said Charlotte. “Well, why don’t you sit down? We’ll have a cup of tea while you explain what I can do.” She took cups, saucers and a teapot from a shelf.

  Hope sat down at the table. It was a long table, and it looked new, the pine boards as white as if they had just come from the sawmill.

  “I’m trying to find my father and my brother Silas,” said Hope.

  Charlotte lifted the kettle from the fireplace hob. “I don’t see how I can help with that.”

  “I think you can. I need someone to help me write a very important letter. Since your husband is the schoolmaster, I thought you might ask him if he would.”

  “You’d better start at the beginning,” said Charlotte as she made the tea. “I never met your father or Silas. They’d already gone off to war when your mother hid my parents and me in her root cellar.”

  When the tea was ready, she sat down across from Hope. Charlotte poured the tea, and Hope began her story. She described everything that had happened to her in the past six years, pausing only to take the occasional sip of tea. Finally, she told Charlotte about the discovery that her father and Silas were probably living at Niagara. “And so,” she concluded, “I want to write to Colonel Butler, the commanding officer of the Nassau Militia at Niagara, to ask if he can tell me where my father and Silas are settled.”

  “That’s quite a story,” said Charlotte. “I’m sure Nick would want to help you, but he’s a schoolmaster only from October to April. From spring planting until harvest time, my husband is a farm labourer. He won’t be home until after sunset.”

  “Oh, dear! I can’t stay that long,” said Hope. “Mrs. Block can’t be left alone all day.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  “Could you?”

  Charlotte laughed. “I’m not a scholar like Nick, but I had seven years of schooling, and I write a fair hand. I have paper, pens and sealing wax.”

  Hope’s spirits brightened. “I’d be so grateful!”

  Charlotte rose from the table. The room had shelves on both sides of the fireplace. The shelves on one side held dishes, bowls and canisters of various kinds. Those on the other side were loaded with books as well as a tray of quills and an array of tiny boxes and pots. While Charlotte mixed ink powder from one of the boxes with water, Hope explained what she wanted to say. Then Charlotte took paper and a quill pen, sat again at the table and wrote it down.

  Dear Colonel Butler,

  I am searching for my father Sergeant John Cobman and my brother Private Silas Cobman. They served in your regiment. If you can tell me where they are and how to reach them, you will have my sincere and undying gratitude.

  Please write to me care of Lawyer Henry McIsaac in Kingston.

  Your obedient servant,

  After Hope had signed her name, Charlotte asked, “How shall I address it?”

  Remembering what Adam’s father had told her, Hope said, “To Colonel John Butler, Nassau Militia, Butlersburg, West Niagara.”

  Hope watched, fascinated, while Charlotte folded the paper, addressed it, melted sealing wax in a spoon over a candle and poured the crimson blob to seal the letter shut.

  “Milltown has a post office,” said Charlotte. “If you wish, I’ll take your letter to be stamped by the postmaster. Then it will go on board the next packet boat with the mail bound for Niagara. It’s due here in three days. After that, all you’ll have to do is wait.” She paused. “That sounds easy, though I know from experience that waiting is the hardest part.”

  “I have a shilling to pay for the letter to be stamped,” said Hope, and she took the coin from her pocket and placed it on the table.

  “Thank you. I wasn’t going to mention money,” said Charlotte, “not after all the help your mother gave my family.” She picked up the coin. “A shilling should cover the postage. I haven’t sent many letters, but I know that the cost depends on distance and the number of sheets of paper.”

  Hope rose to her feet. “Now I must go. Ephraim may already be waiting for me at the landing place. He came to Milltown to buy chickens. He’s probably had more than enough time to do that.”

  “Come visit me again,” said Charlotte as she pulled back her chair from the table. “We have more to talk about. I can tell you things that your mother never knew.” Her voice grew solemn. “Especially about
Elijah.”

  “He’s the only one of my brothers I’ve ever seen,” said Hope. “I was four when he visited Ma and me on Carleton Island. I’m not sure whether I have a real memory of him or just something made up from things she told me.”

  Charlotte and Hope stood facing each other. “My earliest memory of Elijah is as clear as if I first met him yesterday,” said Charlotte. “I was fifteen; he was thirteen. My parents and I were refugees from the Mohawk Valley, travelling north to Canada through the bush. Papa tripped on a tree root and sprained his ankle. He couldn’t walk. We had to find a safe house for a few days while he rested. I set out for Canajoharie, which was a mile away. When I reached it, I peeped in people’s windows, trying to find a place where Loyalists would be welcome.”

  “How could you tell that,” Hope asked, “from looking in people’s windows?”

  “I was hoping to see a portrait of King George, or anything that would show allegiance to England. So there I was peering through a window when something hard jabbed me in the back and a voice called out, ‘Halt! Or I’ll drive this pitchfork through your kidneys.’ That was Elijah. He marched me into the house, thinking he’d caught a spy. After I explained who I was and why my parents and I needed shelter, your mother let us stay in the root cellar. That’s when my friendship with Elijah began. It’s curious how often our paths crossed over the next few years. On Carleton Island. In Charleston. In a South Carolina swamp.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know. Last time I saw him, he was heading for Cherokee country. Maybe that’s where he’s living now. He can never come back.”

  Hope nodded. “I know. When we were living in the barracks on Carleton Island, a mean boy taunted me. He said Elijah was a deserter and he’d be shot if they caught him. I asked Ma if this was true, and she started to cry.”

  “It’s true.” Charlotte sighed. “I talked with Elijah before he deserted. The state he was in nearly broke my heart. He’d been through more in the war than he could bear.”

  Baby Joan awoke with a cry. The other children, tired of their game, began to crowd around Charlotte, demanding her attention. Hope and Charlotte rose from their chairs. Charlotte gave Hope a hug and walked her to the door.

  When Hope reached the street, she turned to wave. Charlotte, standing in the open doorway with the baby in her arms, called, “Let me know when you have any news.”

  A feeling of intense loneliness came over Hope after the door closed. On one side of that door was Charlotte with her children. On the other side was Hope, who had no one.

  She straightened her shoulders as she set off down the street, back to the landing place. She had done her part. In three days her letter would be on its way to Niagara. The rest would follow. When she found her father, she would never be lonely again.

  CHAPTER 8

  Snowflake

  When Hope returned, Ephraim was sitting on a limestone ledge smoking his pipe. The bottom of Ephraim’s canoe was covered with snow-white chickens lying on their backs, scaly yellow legs straight in the air. Each chicken had its hook-nailed feet lashed together with twine.

  “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” said Hope.

  “I haven’t been waiting long.” He knocked his pipe against the rock to empty the bowl and then stood up. “The poulterer’s boy helped me carry the chickens to the canoe. Did you write your letter?”

  “Mrs. Schyler wrote it for me. She’ll make sure it goes to Niagara on the next packet boat.”

  “How will Colonel Butler reach you with his answer?”

  “I’ve asked him to write to me in care of Lawyer McIsaac in Kingston.”

  “Good idea. Henry McIsaac is looking after my case. I see him in Kingston once a month. If there’s a letter for you, I can pick it up.”

  Ephraim’s case? Hope figured it wasn’t her business to ask what that meant. She turned her attention to the chickens. They were not struggling, but lay quietly in the bottom of the canoe, apparently resigned to whatever fate awaited them.

  “Seven pullets and a rooster,” said Ephraim. “The pullets aren’t laying yet, but they will in a few weeks.”

  “They look half-dead.”

  “They’ll be lively as soon as we get them home and free their feet.”

  Hope climbed into the canoe and took her place in the bow, kneeling on the only spot not covered by chickens.

  From Milltown to the Blocks’ land was an easy paddle. Hope and Ephraim were back at the cabin by midday. When they had reached shore and climbed out of the canoe, he lifted a hen by its feet. “Carry this bird into the shed. Set it on the floor.”

  Hope took the chicken from his outstretched hand and held it at arm’s length in case it suddenly revived and started pecking her with its beak. The hen made a weak clucking sound. Ephraim followed her to the shed, carrying two more.

  When the chickens were all in the shed and the door was closed, he severed the cords that tied their feet. Within seconds, the chickens came to life, as Ephraim had said they would. The rooster crowed. The hens clucked. All the birds rustled their feathers and stretched their wings.

  All but one.

  A single pullet, the smallest of the seven, lay limp on the shed’s dirt floor.

  “The poulterer threw that one in for half price,” said Ephraim. “It won’t be much of a layer. We’ll have it in the stew pot before long.”

  Hope picked up the runt. It huddled against her chest, settling into her arms like a kitten. Cluck cluck, it said, nestling softly. Its feathers were white as snow, and its down was softer than rabbit fur.

  “That’s right,” said Ephraim. “By keeping it warm you improve its chance to thrive. But don’t treat it like a pet. You know the farmer’s rule.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never give a name to anything you expect to eat.”

  He left the shed and closed the door.

  Hope pushed her face into the bird’s feathers. As she felt its heart beating, a warm feeling of pure affection flowed through her.

  “Your name is Snowflake. You’re a runt. But that’s all right. I was a runt for a long time before I started to grow. You will, too. As soon as you’re old enough, you’re going to lay an egg every day. Then you won’t have to go into the stew pot.”

  Cluck cluck. The pullet snuggled in her arms.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mysteries of the Old Indian Trail

  Three days later, Hope was down at the shore filling the water bucket when the packet boat appeared in the east, its sails dazzling white against the blue sky.

  Her letter to Colonel Butler was on that ship. It must have made its stop to pick up passengers and mail at Milltown that very morning. How long would it take to reach Niagara? And when it got there, what would happen? The Colonel must be a very busy man. Would he find time to write to her? If he did, how long would it take for his answer to reach her?

  She followed the ship with her eyes until it disappeared in the west. Then she carried the bucket back to the cabin. Her next task was to let the chickens out of the shed so that they could scratch in the dirt to pick up beetles and other tasty morsels. Snowflake, a blur of white, flew out the shed door. Although the smallest, she had become the liveliest of the flock.

  Hope checked the nesting boxes. No eggs yet. She left the shed and was watching the chickens bob about when she heard Mrs. Block bellow, “Hope! What’s keeping you? I want a cup of tea.”

  “Coming!” Hope hurried inside. As she prepared the tea, she waited for the first “Stupid girl” of the day. But Mrs. Block had something else on her mind.

  “I happen to be partial to raspberries,” she announced. “There must be some ripe by now.”

  “I noticed some raspberry bushes when I was taking Bossy back to the Andersons’ yesterday,” said Hope, “but there weren’t many ripe berries.”

  “I suppose you ate all that you found?”

  Hope did not answer. Of course she had eaten them! What els
e were raspberries for?

  “There’s better picking along that old Indian trail,” said Mrs. Block. “When you have your work done, you can take a basket to gather any you find.”

  “What old Indian trail?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? It starts at the shore a couple of hundred feet west of our cabin and leads back north into the bush. I suppose it’s overgrown by now. Three years have gone by since the last time I went berry picking.”

  Hope made the tea, cut up a rabbit that Ephraim had shot and put it into the stew pot to simmer. She rounded up the chickens, who clucked their protest at being locked up again after so short a spell of freedom. As soon as she had them shut in the shed, she started out.

  The beginning of the Indian trail was obscured by undergrowth, but once she had found it, the path was easy to follow. Even if no one used the trail now, nature had not yet taken it back completely.

  Mrs. Block was right about the berries. More raspberry bushes grew along this trail than along the way to the Anderson place. But few berries were ripe. Hope walked half a mile before she had gathered enough to cover the bottom of her basket. She might as well give up, she thought, and return in two or three days when the berries had had more time to ripen.

  Hope was just about to turn back when suddenly she heard a strange sound. DUM, doom, DUM, doom DUM. Drumming. Where was it coming from? Hope stood listening, held in its spell.

  On Carleton Island she had heard Mohawk drums many times, the sound rising from the Indian camp outside the Fort Haldimand palisade. This drumming was different, though she could not have said exactly how. Come closer, the rhythmic throbbing seemed to say.