Hope's Journey

by Baxter, Jean Rae;

  The third warrior, the one she had struck down, lay completely still, a trickle of blood running from his ear. Hope feared that she had killed him until she heard him groan.

  The bowman’s quiver and bow were lying on the ground. Elijah pulled an arrow from the quiver, inspected it and then set it down. Next he tried the bow, pulling back the string to test the tension. He was smiling. This was the first time Hope had seen him smile.

  “Hope,” he said, “roll this fellow onto his back. I want him to see what I can do with his bow.”

  Hope obeyed. The warrior stared up at Elijah. As he watched Elijah fit an arrow to the bowstring, he began to sing. His song was not like any music Hope had heard before. It was a chant intoned on the same two or three notes, a monotonous, doleful droning sound. Then the warrior whom Captain and Hope had defeated began to sing the same way.

  “Stop that din,” Elijah ordered. “Save your death songs for another day.”

  The bow’s former owner stopped singing. The other, who apparently did not understand English, kept on until he too realized that Elijah had no intention of killing them.

  As soon as they were quiet, Elijah notched the arrow. “Watch this,” he said. “See that squirrel?” With one swift, sure motion he raised the bow, aimed, pulled back the bowstring and let the arrow fly.

  The doomed squirrel was sitting high in an oak tree eating an acorn when its life came to a sudden end.

  “I never before saw a white man who could shoot like that,” said the warrior after the dead squirrel dropped, its body neatly skewered. He turned to look at Hope, “or any girl who could handle a war club.”

  Hope felt like laughing. A sense of triumph filled her. She had never before felt so alive.

  “Why did you want to capture us?” Elijah asked.

  “We planned to hold you hostage. White people pay much money to get you back.”

  “You picked the wrong quarry. Nobody would pay a shilling for either of us.”

  Elijah took possession of the bow and quiver of arrows, the tomahawk and the club. He pulled the arrow from the body of the squirrel and put it in the quiver. He tossed the squirrel to Captain, who shook it vigorously to make sure it was dead. They left the three warriors where they lay, two tied up and one half-unconscious. Captain carried the squirrel in his mouth.

  When they had walked some distance, Elijah threw the war club and the tomahawk into the bushes, but he kept the bow and quiver of arrows.

  “The warriors we tied up will be able to free themselves,” Elijah said, “but it will take them a while. The one you hit on the head won’t be going anywhere for the rest of the day. The others will stay with him until he’s feeling better.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll get their friends and come after us?”

  “No. We’ll have too much of a head start. And besides, we’ve earned their respect. Especially you. I never before realized how brave you are.”

  “I was terrified. I screamed.”

  “Being brave doesn’t mean you don’t feel fear. It means doing what you have to do even when you’re afraid.”

  “Captain was the real hero,” said Hope. “The way he came bowling along the trail, knocked that man over and then stood on his chest.” She glanced down at the dog. With the squirrel’s tail dangling from one side of his mouth, he had more of a comic than a heroic look.

  “I’ll give him credit for taking that man down,” said Elijah, “but I won’t call him a hero. The protective instinct won’t appear in him for another four or five months. For Captain, it was just a game.”

  Elijah laid his arm across Hope’s shoulder. “You’re the hero. You’re the one who saved my life.” She saw that his eyes were clear, and it seemed that the darkness had passed from them.

  CHAPTER 31

  What if …?

  If Elijah’s sickness had been of the body, Hope would have said that the fever broke that day. Growing up in the Fort Haldimand barracks, where soldiers and refugees shared the same quarters and the same illnesses, she had seen plenty of sickness. Sometimes the sick person died, sometimes he or she recovered. There was always a crisis, a turning point.

  She watched Elijah closely the next day and the next. He was quiet, silent for hours on end. Yet it did not seem to be a troubled silence. At night he slept soundly. Their meeting with the Mississaugas had turned out to be a double victory for Elijah. Finally, he had laid his ghosts to rest.

  In Hope’s eyes the journey was already a success, no matter what awaited them at Niagara. Even if Elijah failed to convince Pa that she was his child, she had found her brother, and her brother had found himself again. This was what she had wanted most, and now she had it.

  Elijah made good use of the captured bow and arrows. Each evening they feasted on wild turkey, rabbit or grouse. Black walnuts were plentiful. Elijah said that it was the best of time of year for being on a long trail. Although he had given up the idea of reaching Niagara in seven days, they kept going at a steady pace.

  The nights became chilly and the trees were changing colour. Overhead, the first skeins of wild geese were flying south in ragged arrowheads. On the ninth morning of their journey, Elijah pointed west and said, “Look that way. What do you see?”

  “A cloud bank.” She squinted. “Or is it a mountain?”

  “Neither. It’s an escarpment.”

  “What’s an escarpment?”

  “It’s a kind of cliff where the land above it is higher than the land below it. The one we’re looking at is hundreds of feet high and thousands of miles long. The Niagara River plunges over it; that’s where all the water from Lake Erie pours into Lake Ontario.”

  “You mean Niagara Falls! Will we reach Butlersburg before long?”

  “Not Butlersburg. I can’t go there. This trail will end at the Niagara River halfway between Queenston and Butlersburg.”

  “That’s not far from Pa’s cabin.”

  “Then we’ll be there tomorrow.”

  So this was to be their last full day on the trail. The thought made her melancholy, and it seemed that nature shared her feeling of gloom. As the day went on, the sky clouded over. A light drizzle was falling by the time they stopped for the night.

  Using his tomahawk as a hatchet, Elijah cut spruce boughs to make a canopy, and then he pinched off the tender tips to brew spruce tea. He claimed this tea to be a most healthful drink for keeping off chills. Although she found it sour to taste, Hope welcomed the warmth, for the mizzle of rain had chilled her through and through. They grilled the rabbit he had shot that day. After eating, Hope and Elijah sat companionably, each wrapped in a blanket, and watched the fire from under their canopy. The fire sizzled and popped as drop by drop the rain tried to put out the flames.

  Like her, Elijah was quiet and thoughtful. “Whatever happens,” he said, “I’m grateful for this journey. From now on, I’m going to live one day at a time and look no further back than yesterday.”

  It seemed to Hope that it was likely better for Elijah not to look back. But she had memories that she cherished, and even the bad times had taught her something. She said, “When I was growing up, I always liked hearing Ma talk about the old days in Canajoharie. Her stories made me wonder what our life would be like if the war had never happened.”

  “I can answer that question. We’d be living in Canajoharie. Pa and Silas would be working at the grist mill, because that was what they were doing before they joined Butler’s Rangers. I’d be a master carpenter by now, because I’d had plans to be apprenticed to that trade.”

  “What about Moses?”

  “Moses? I don’t know. He hated school. He didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. It’s hard to say how he would have turned out.”

  “And me? What would I be doing if there hadn’t been a war?”

  “You’re nearly fourteen, so you’d be done with school. If Ma were alive, you’d be helping her with the cooking and cleaning. She’d be teaching you to spin and weave and make quilts—all
those things girls have to learn. You might have a sweetheart.”

  “Ma wouldn’t have allowed that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sweethearts lead to marriage. She counted on me to stay single to look after her in her old age.”

  “Did she, now?” He looked at her oddly. “What did you think of that idea?”

  “It worried me. Not that I was interested in boys. I didn’t like them very much, not the ones in the barracks. But if I didn’t get married, there would be no one to look after me. That was my greatest fear. Pa and my brothers going away and not coming back—that’s what caused it.”

  “So you looked at a husband as somebody to take care of you. Do you still see it that way?”

  “Not any longer. I think a woman should be able to take care of herself.” As soon as this speech was out of her mouth, Hope remembered where she had heard almost those same words before. In her mind’s eye she saw Mrs. Block sitting in her bentwood chair, proclaiming in her powerful voice that a woman should take pride in looking out for herself. Maybe she had learned something important—besides how to cook—from that old tyrant. “On the other hand,” Hope added, “since then, I’ve met one or two boys I’ve liked. Perhaps I shall have a sweetheart someday.”

  “I think,” said Elijah, and Hope heard a note of admiration in his voice, “that you are going to make your way in the world very well.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Missing

  Hope opened her eyes on the daylight. Through the dripping trees she could see clear blue sky. It would be a good day for walking.

  They started out early. All day she and Elijah followed the bench of the escarpment. There were pretty waterfalls, some cascading over the brink, others springing from fissures in the rock face. The trail took them through woods of black walnut, maple and oak. In forest glades, wild grapevines draped themselves over sun-warmed boulders and green bushes.

  They walked east and further east. Then the trail came to an end. They had reached the wagon track that ran along the west bank of the Niagara River. Although empty now, it was a well-travelled road, rutted by wheels and pitted with hoof prints left by horses and oxen.

  Elijah crossed the road and stood at the edge of the gorge. Hope hung back.

  “Come see the view,” he called to her.

  She did not move. Even the idea of looking into the abyss produced a surge of fear. Ensign Dunn had called it vertigo: the dizzy feeling, the roaring in her ears and the terrifying urge to leap.

  “I’ll stay here. I’m afraid of heights.”

  He returned to her side. “Do you know where we are?”

  She looked around. “I don’t recognize any landmarks. We must be upriver from Pa’s place. If we follow the river, we’ll come to his cabin before long.”

  It was late in the day. Only one wagon came toward them as they walked. As soon as it was in view, they took cover on the side of the road further from the brink. The wagon driver did not notice them. He was an old man with a white beard, rounded shoulders and a broad-brimmed hat. He stared ahead, not looking to either side as his wagon bounced along. The horse and wagon also looked old, but the barrels with which the wagon was loaded were not. Their iron hoops were black and their staves had the creamy whiteness of new-sawn wood. The old man was probably trying to reach Queenston before dark.

  Hope, Elijah and the dog remained hidden until the wagon was a safe distance further along the road. Then they started walking again.

  The sun was setting when Hope halted. “Now I know where we are.” She pointed to a well, enclosed by a dry stone wall, beside a path that ran north from the road. “That’s where Pa has to go for water. His own well is bad. His land is just beyond.”

  In a few minutes they came to the path that ran from the road to Pa’s cabin. “That’s it,” she said. The cabin looked just as shabby as it had when she saw it the first time. The path was even more overgrown.

  Elijah scratched his head and frowned. “It doesn’t look good.”

  He walked ahead of her to the cabin. His hand hovered at the door, knuckles ready to knock. Although his hesitation lasted only for a moment, it was long enough for Hope to realize that he was as nervous as she was.

  Then he knocked. Hope listened for some sound on the other side of the door. A footstep. A creak. There was nothing. Elijah raised his fist and knocked again. No response.

  “There’s nobody here,” said Hope. A chill came over her. She thought about the old Squire. What if Pa …?

  “I’ll see.” Elijah pressed the latch. The door opened. He stepped into the gloom. She stayed outside, listening to his footsteps on the plank floor. Captain looked up at her anxiously and gave a low whimper.

  Elijah returned. “He’s not here.” At the relief in his voice, Hope realized that he too feared what he might find inside.

  She entered, followed by the dog. The dust and cobwebs made the cabin look deserted, but the reek of dirty clothes, stale sweat and sickness told a different story. Captain walked about, sniffing everything. Elijah knelt at the fireplace and held his hand over the ashes.

  “Still warm,” he announced. “Pa’s gone somewhere and not that long ago.”

  She looked around. The dirty dishes and the bed with its filthy blanket were just as before. But one thing was missing from the scene: the water bucket.

  “He’s gone for water,” Hope said. “He keeps the bucket under the shelf. It’s not there.”

  “If Pa went to that well we passed, we would have met him on the way.”

  “We would have,” Hope agreed,” if … unless …”

  Elijah stood up. “We’ll track him. I know how to read a trail, and Captain can use his nose. He took the blanket from the bed. “Come here, Captain. Smell this.”

  Captain buried his muzzle in the folds, and then he looked up, bright eyed, instinctively grasping what was expected of him.

  “He understands,” said Elijah. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 33

  No Other Way

  They left the cabin. Elijah paced back and forth, bent over, eyes examining the ground. Captain walked in circles, his nose searching for the scent.

  Hope waited on the doorstep until Elijah called, “This way! I’ve found his tracks. He’s headed toward the river.” She pushed her way through vines and bushes to Elijah. He pointed to the ground. “See those footprints? He’s staggering.” All that Hope saw were scuffed and trampled leaves.

  The trail turned right at the road, heading upriver. Although Pa had left no visible footprints on the wagon rack, Captain’s nose had no trouble following the scent.

  “He’s going toward his neighbour’s well,” said Hope. But suddenly the trail veered off the road and toward the gorge that yawned ahead of them, no more than ten feet away.

  “I see footprints in the grass,” said Elijah. “He’s weaving. His steps are uneven. He can’t walk a straight line. I don’t think he knows where he’s going.”

  “He must be delirious,” said Hope. “Fever can do that.”

  The tracks were barely a yard from the brink when Captain changed course again. His nose to the ground, he crossed the road to the other side—the safe side. Hope felt a surge of relief.

  The shadows were deepening. “I can’t see his footprints any longer,” said Elijah. “It’s up to Captain to track him now.”

  The trail zigged and zagged away from the gorge and into the woods. Hope and Elijah followed, stumbling over the uneven ground. Suddenly Captain stopped, sniffed at something. Lying in the undergrowth was the wooden bucket. Hope picked it up. She felt inside. It was dry.

  “Pa never made it to the well,” she said.

  “Then where did he go?” Elijah asked.

  “Maybe he’s wandering in the forest. I wish we had more light. If he’s fallen, it will be hard to find him in the dark.”

  “Captain will find him … if he’s in the forest,” said Elijah. “I just hope he is in the forest and not …” Elijah glanced to
ward the gorge.

  Hope, still carrying the bucket, pushed her way through a tangle of vines. Her foot caught on a tree root and she fell. Elijah hauled her to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” She picked up the bucket. Captain was waiting for them. He moved forward again, his nose to the ground as he led them this way and that until finally he left the woods and headed back toward the gorge.

  Hope’s heart filled with dread as the dog, his nose to the ground, moved closer and closer to the abyss. At the brink he stopped, looked back at them and whimpered. Elijah walked up to the edge. Numb with fear, Hope hung back. Setting down the bucket, she pressed her hands together and prayed. “Please, Lord. Spare my father. Don’t take him now.”

  Pointing to a patch of raw earth where a small bush had been half pulled from the soil, Elijah said, “This is where he went over.”

  She edged closer to the brink, clutched Elijah’s arm and looked own. A man lay motionless on a ledge twenty feet below. It was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead.

  “That’s Pa.” Hope felt as though a sliver of ice had entered her heart.

  “If he’s dead,” Elijah said calmly, “it won’t matter how long it takes to reach him. But if he’s alive …” No need to finish that sentence.

  “How can we get to him?” Hope asked. The rocks were jagged and steep. She saw no way to climb down.

  “There are no handholds.” Elijah looked around. “I’ll have to lower you to the ledge. I’ll make a rope from grapevines. It will hold your weight.”

  “My weight? You plan to lower me?” Hope pulled back.

  “You don’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. I can handle that.”

  He probably can, she thought. At least, I hope he can. Her brother was strong and tall and outweighed her by fifty pounds. Since there was no possibility that she could lower him on a rope, he would have to lower her. There was no other way.

  He had his tomahawk already pulled from his belt. Grapevines were everywhere, crawling up slopes and trailing from trees. The vines he chose had stems an inch or more thick, tough stems with ridged bark to give a good grip.