Hope's Journey

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. That was our understanding.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Besides, I no longer need a dog for company.”

  Hope glanced toward the cabin. She saw a quick movement at the window. Philippa must be watching.

  “Why did she run back into the cabin when she saw me?” Hope asked.

  “Embarrassment. Panic. Philippa has been through a terrible time. I suppose you’ve heard the story? From the way people looked at me and said nothing, I figured everyone knew that my wife had run away.”

  “I did hear about her,” Hope admitted.

  “Her relatives in Philadelphia turned their backs on her when they learned of her disgrace. I didn’t know that she had been abandoned in Montreal. She was working for a laundress who paid her two shillings a week. I was taking my frock coat to be pressed, and there she was, standing at an ironing board pressing a gentleman’s cravat. When she saw me, she stood rooted to the spot, her hot iron resting on the cravat. We stared at each other. The smell of scorching brought the laundress running. I paid for the cravat and took Philippa away.

  “I won my case for compensation. Now Philippa and I are going to make a fresh start. She’s forgiven me for not looking after her better.” A dark look passed over Ephraim’s face. “As you know, my mother could be very demanding.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Now what about you? When I saw you last, you were on your way to Niagara. What happened there?”

  “I talked with Colonel Butler. I visited my father. Now I’m going back to Niagara … with my dog.” Hope was flustered. She was not lying, yet these half-truths felt like lies. She suspected that they sounded like lies.

  Nothing in Ephraim’s expression changed. “It sounds like a lot of travel, coming back here just to fetch your dog.”

  Hope had already said as much as she wanted to say. She had no desire to admit that her father had rejected her. Nor would she divulge to Ephraim or to anyone else that the Milltown schoolmaster had been hiding a deserter. Remembering Ephraim’s sympathy for Elijah, she was tempted to tell him that she had found her brother, but she did not dare.

  Ephraim broke the silence. “I must get back to Philippa. She’s not strong. I mean, physically she’s strong, but not in some other ways.”

  “I’m happy you found Philippa.” Hope spoke what she truly felt. “Happy for her. Happy for you. You know what people say, ‘All’s well that ends well.’”

  Ephraim gave a quiet smile. “You are indeed a wise girl.”

  He reached down to scratch Captain’s ear. The dog was now sitting on his haunches, panting, his tongue hanging out. “When he gains some sense, this will be a fine dog,” said Ephraim. “I’ll miss him. But I’m sure that Adam will save another one for me.”

  “Is Woeful pregnant again?”

  “Woeful is usually pregnant, according to Adam. He tells me that their neighbour on the other side has a hound that’s been sniffing around. He expects that the next litter will be half hound. Good hunting dogs. That’s really what I need.” He gave a slight bow, turned toward the cabin, and at the door he waved goodbye.

  “C’mon Captain!” said Hope. “We have a long way to go.”

  When they returned to the Squire’s cabin, Hope did not see Elijah anywhere about. It was not until Captain bounded inside that Hope realized her brother was there. He was sitting against the back wall with tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked up. His shirt had dried, and he was wearing it again. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve.

  “Elijah, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  In an instant his expression changed to one of anger. He leapt to his feet. “Why did you come sneaking up on me?”

  She recoiled. “But … but … I didn’t!”

  He raised his fist. “Don’t. You. Ever. Do. That. Again.”

  Was this her brother, who had been so friendly when she left him an hour ago? Weeping. Raging. And now she was to travel with him on a long journey through the wilderness.

  Captain placed himself between Hope’s legs and peered out from under her skirt. He whimpered.

  CHAPTER 26

  On the Trail

  Elijah led the way. Hope followed. Captain roamed about everywhere. On the path. Off the path. Ahead of them. Behind them. He was clearly enjoying this adventure.

  For Elijah it was not an adventure. He was constantly looking around. He started at every caw of a crow. The pace was too fast for Hope, forcing her to strain to keep up. She wished she could ask him to walk more slowly, but she did not want to risk another outburst.

  It was midday when a sharp pain finally forced her to cry out, “Elijah, I need to stop!” He whirled about as if her words were an attack. One hand went to the tomahawk at his belt. She flinched at his sudden motion. “I have a stitch in my side from walking too fast.”

  He shook his head as if waking up. “What! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You seemed in such a hurry,” she gasped, clutching her side.

  “We are in a hurry. I want to get to Niagara in seven days.”

  “Two hundred miles in seven days?”

  “A warrior in good condition can do that.”

  “But I’m not a warrior in good condition.” She eased herself to the ground under a big maple tree and leaned back against its trunk. Captain trotted to her, cocked his head and stared questioningly. “Don’t worry, Captain,” Hope said, “I’ll be fine.” She took deep slow breaths until the pain eased.

  Elijah looked over his left shoulder and then over his right before sitting down, also against a tree. He never, she noticed, left his back exposed.

  Assured that Hope needed no further attention, Captain was sniffing in the long grass beside the trail. He made a stiff-legged jump. Something squeaked. Captain lifted his head. The long tail of the small creature between his jaws hung limply. He cocked his head, looking surprised at his success.

  Elijah gave a short laugh, “Maybe he can catch something for you and me. We must be nearly out of food.”

  “We have two apples left.” She took them from the satchel that Charlotte had packed. They were juicy, crisp delicious apples from the tree in her front yard. Hope began to feel better.

  Elijah chewed steadily, not speaking until his was half finished. Finally he said, “I was worse before. What you saw back at that cabin was a weak echo of the rages I used to have. A bad memory would strike me, and I’d explode. At night I couldn’t sleep. It was so bad I wanted to end my life. That’s how sick I was when the Cherokees took me in. They held a healing ceremony. Masks, dancing, drumming, prayers … It helped. Now Swims Deep takes good care of me.”

  “Swims Deep?”

  “My wife.”

  Hope thought Swims Deep was a strange name. She asked simply, “What’s she like?”

  “Wise. Very kind. We live in a log cabin that her father and brothers helped me to build.”

  “Ma kept me away from the Mohawk camp outside the fort on Carleton Island,” said Hope. “I can’t imagine what living with Indians would be like.”

  “In some ways it’s different, but not in others.”

  “But what is it like? Tell me about the village where you live.”

  “I’m not good at describing things. Some families have built log cabins, like white settlers. Others live in lodges that have a framework of poles covered with bark slabs. There’s a council house where we hold meetings and ceremonies and festivals. Lots of festivals. Cherokees have a big get-together to celebrate almost everything. They’re very sociable.”

  “I thought all Indians were fierce and warlike.”

  “Is that what Ma told you?”

  “She said their souls were black as pitch, though she did allow there might be two or three good ones. She admitted that we owed our lives to the Mohawks who took us in their canoe to Carleton Island.”

  “Yes. They saved our lives.” Elijah threw his apple core into the bushes. “It’s likely that you’ll meet
one of those same Mohawks before today is over.”

  She looked around. “Where? On this trail?”

  “We’ll stop at their village on the Bay of Quinte. It’s called Tyendinaga. I have a friend living there. His name is Okwaho. It means Wolf. He was my hero when I was thirteen. Okwaho was eighteen. He taught me to hunt with the bow and arrow.” Elijah smiled. “Those were the best days of my life. When the Mohawks had delivered us safely to the fort on Carleton Island, I begged Okwaho to take me with him on his travels. He refused. But he called me his brother and gave me a medicine bag.”

  “A what?”

  Elijah slipped one hand inside his shirt and pulled out the tiny leather bag that Hope had seen him wearing when they were at the Squire’s cabin.

  “You carry medicines in that?” She imagined pills, salves, syrups and tinctures.

  “Medicine doesn’t always mean the same thing. Okwaho told me that this bag contains a stone the colour of blood and a dust made from the skin of a rattlesnake and the beak of an eagle. Okwaho said that as long as I didn’t open the bag, the medicine would make me a good hunter and strong warrior.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Not strong enough, as it turned out.”

  He tucked the medicine bag back inside his shirt. “I haven’t seen Okwaho since the day he gave me the medicine bag. I never expected to see him again. But Charlotte told me where he and his wife are living. Our trail runs through that land.” He stood up. “We’ll be there before sunset if you can walk another ten miles.”

  Hope was not sure that she could, but the stitch in her side was gone. She stood up cautiously. There were more questions that she wanted to ask, but Elijah seemed to have run out of words. Talking about Okwaho had brought him to life, but after that outpouring of enthusiasm, he sank into silence again.

  CHAPTER 27

  Tyendinaga

  Tyendinaga was not like any town that Hope had seen before, with streets and shops. Here there were log cabins that appeared to have been set down randomly, scattered about in no special way. Roughly in the centre stood a long, low building where something seemed to be happening.

  A crowd had gathered. People were seated on blankets in the open air, men on one side and women on the other, in a semi-circle. All were looking at the warrior who stood outside the building’s entrance, holding an eagle feather in his hand. He was a man of middle age and middle height. His head had been shaved, except for his scalp lock, which was covered with a decoration made up of feathers, fur and beads.

  “What’s happening?” Hope asked. “Is it a festival?”

  “No. It seems to be something serious. The warrior holding the feather is making a speech. He’s John Deserontyon, their chief.”

  Elijah led her close enough for them to hear what was going on but not close enough to attract attention. Although Hope did not know what the chief was saying, she heard the passion in his voice. From time to time people nodded, murmuring their approval.

  “What’s he talking about?” Hope asked.

  “I don’t know the Mohawk language, except for a few words Okwaho taught me. But I did catch a name I recognize. Thayendanegea. That’s Joseph Brant.”

  “The chief sounds angry,” said Hope. She stood in silence, wondering whether he was inciting the Mohawks to go on the warpath. She remembered her mother’s stories about Indian uprisings and slaughtered settlers.

  Hope looked anxiously at her brother. “Maybe we should leave before anybody notices us.”

  “Shh!” Elijah’s expression bore no sign of alarm. He was not even looking at the speaker but was studying the faces of the warriors who sat listening, his eyes moving from one to another.

  Suddenly he whispered, “There’s Okwaho.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the feather on his cap.” The warrior Elijah was pointing to had bold cheekbones and a hawk’s beak of a nose. His cap was shaped like a dome, from the top of which rose a single feather. Around the base of the quill, bands of small feathers were sewn to the cap. His eyes were on the speaker.

  When Deserontyon finished his speech and set down the eagle feather, people rose from the blankets where they had been sitting and broke into little groups, talking earnestly.

  “Are you going to speak to Okwaho?” Hope asked.

  “Yes. Come along.”

  As they approached, Okwaho turned his head toward them, as if he suddenly realized that he was being watched. His eyes were dark, observant, intense. As he fixed his gaze on Elijah, his brows knit in a frown.

  Elijah raised his hand to shoulder height and took two steps forward. “Okwaho!”

  “Ho!” The warrior returned the salute.

  “I’m Elijah Cobman.”

  Okwaho’s frown vanished. After a few words to his companions, he walked straight to Elijah. “I remember you. You’re the boy who worked so hard to learn to hunt with the bow and arrow. You’re taller now, and you’ve added some muscle.”

  “I’ve had plenty of time to finish growing,” said Elijah. “The time you speak of was many years ago.”

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” said Okwaho. He glanced at Hope. “Who is this?”

  “My sister Hope.”

  “She was a newborn baby last time I saw her. You’re right. That was many winters ago. What brings you to our village now?”

  “Hope and I are on our way to Niagara to see our father. It happens that our trail runs through your lands.”

  “I am glad that you have stopped to visit us.” He took Elijah’s arm. “Come to my home. My wife will give us something to eat.”

  As they followed Okwaho, the yellow Indian dogs eyed Captain suspiciously, for his black and white coat made him distinctly different from them. They sniffed him, and one gave a tentative growl. Captain wagged his tail and showed no inclination to run or to fight. Not yet five months old, he was about as large as the Indian dogs, but he still had that puppy gawkiness that showed he was no threat.

  Okwaho took Elijah and Hope to his log cabin, which had no furniture and no floor. Storage baskets and piles of furs lay against one wall. Okwaho placed beaver pelts on the ground for them to sit upon.

  Okwaho’s wife, whom he introduced as Drooping Flower, brought them bowls of fish and chunks of soft, moist cornbread. She was a tall, beautiful woman wearing a deerskin tunic over red cotton trousers. After bringing the food, she left Okwaho and his guests to eat undisturbed.

  “What’s going on?” was Elijah’s first question. “I heard Thayendanegea’s name.”

  “I’ll explain the situation,” said Okwaho. “We built this village on the original tract of land on the Bay of Quinte that the British gave us to compensate for our lost home in the Mohawk Valley. As well as land, the British promised us a church, a school, a mill and tools for farming. Most of us were satisfied with this.

  “But not Thayendanegea. He wanted to be closer to the Six Nations people who live in the United States. So he persuaded Governor Haldimand to arrange for the additional grant of a great tract of land, six miles on each side of the Grand River for its entire length. The church, school, mill and tools that were supposed to be for our village all went to the Grand River. When that happened, about four hundred Mohawks left Tyendinaga and moved there.”

  “How many stayed here?” asked Elijah.

  “About one hundred. Thayendanegea wants the rest of us to leave the Bay of Quinte to join the others. But Chief Deserontyon is determined to stay here.”

  “Why doesn’t he want to join the others?”

  “Here, he’s the chief. If we move to the Grand River, Thayendanegea will be the one in charge. Deserontyon doesn’t like that idea. Thayendanegea has offered generous gifts. That’s what the meeting today was about. Deserontyon was urging us to resist Brant’s smooth talk and bribes. He reminded us that we’ve started our own school and we’re building our own church. The Reverend John Stuart comes from Kingston to conduct church services. There’s nothing we need that we don’t have here.”

>   This reluctance to move made perfect sense to Hope. Why should these people want to be uprooted a second time?

  “But I’ve talked enough about us,” Okwaho said to Elijah. “I want to hear about you. Where has the path of your life taken you? Are you a man of peace or a man of war?”

  Hope lowered her face and inspected the toes of her shoes. What would Elijah say? How much of his story would he tell?

  “I was in the army,” Elijah answered. “The King’s Royal Regiment of New York.”

  “Did you fight many battles?”

  “More than I can count.”

  “How many enemies did you kill?”

  Elijah’s face hardened, becoming as rigid as a block of wood.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen! That makes you a great warrior. What’s your favourite weapon? Sword? Musket? Bayonet?”

  “Rifle. I was what they call a sharpshooter.” Hope heard a quaver in his voice.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Remember how I taught you to use the bow?”

  Elijah seemed to relax a little. “You tied a dead squirrel to a high branch of a pine tree and made me keep trying until my arrow pierced it through.”

  “That is so. I saw that you had a keen eye and with practice would develop a deadly aim.”

  “Too deadly,” Elijah muttered, but Okwaho did not hear him.

  “Soon after that,” said Okwaho, “your little brother ran away.”

  “His name was Moses. He was carried off by Oneidas,” said Elijah. “They adopted him.”

  “Around our council fires there is much talk about a warrior they call the White Oneida.”

  “That’s my brother. The Oneidas gave him the name Broken Trail. He’s the only famous person our family ever produced. He seems to travel everywhere, negotiating treaties, making speeches.”

  “The White Oneida works for Thayendanegea.” Okwaho almost spat the words.

  “I don’t take sides,” said Elijah. “None of this is my concern.”

  Okwaho nodded. “No politics, then.”