by Robin Moore
She knew she wanted one, sooner or later. But just as Frenchgirl had said, once she had been a Seneca woman. She wasn't interested in becoming someone's toilslave.
It was while she was thinking these thoughts, while walking south along the Allegheny river trail, that Jake remarked, "We'll be comin' up on Garvin's place any time now. I believe his cabin sets right around that river bend up there. What say we stop and get ourselves cleaned up a bit?"
Maggie furrowed her brow. "Cleaned up?" she asked, "Since when did you ever worry about groomin' yourself?"
"Well," Jake said awkwardly, "what I mean is—Well, what I meant to say was—maybe you would like to just wash yer face and maybe comb them briars out of yer hair—"
"Jake, "Maggie said, a smile playing at her lips, "don't push."
"I ain't pushin' nuthin'. All I said was—"
"I know what you said and yes, thank you, I would like to take a moment."
Jake lowered his pack to the ground by a big rock which jutted out into the river. He made a great show of washing his face and smoothing back his hair. But Maggie knew that this stop was not for him, but for her.
She laid Hoot Owl down against a tree stump. She knelt on a big rock and peered down into a still pool of water. For the first time in weeks, she saw her reflection.
She was shocked. Her face looked thin and weary. Her cheeks were sunken and she was covered with charcoal smears and briar scratches. Her long red hair was filthy, pulled back in a long, lumpy braid that trailed down her back. She had never considered herself a great beauty, but she had always delighted in the feel of her hair, rising and falling in the wind. But now it now was clotted with grease and dirt. She hadn't had a proper bath all winter.
She cupped her hands and splashed the cold Allegheny water up into her face, scrubbing away at her skin.
"What am I doin' all this for?" Maggie asked herself, "I'm actin' like a girl at a barn dance. I'm a mother-I'm a widow in fact."
But still, she did her best to scrub away the grease and dirt of the trail, wanting to look womanly again.
Jake said nothing, he just wiped his hands dry on the front of his buckskin shirt.
"What do you say? Are we ready to shove ahead?" He said at last.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
Maggie swung Hoot Owl up onto her hip and they walked the trail up around the river and into the clearing by Rory's cabin. Somewhere up in the woods, they heard the sound of someone chopping wood.
Chapter Twelve
Rory set down his axe and reached for his horse pistol. He had heard something down by the river. This time of year, he was always wary. He knew the Seneca war parties would be traveling soon and he knew his cabin was right along one of the main warpaths.
Rory knelt down behind a tree and peered down through the forest. His eyes were fine now. The snowblindness had left him without any permanent damage.
He could make out three figures coming up from the river trail. One was an old man, one was a woman with a baby on her hip. A dog trotted ahead of them, sniffing the ground.
Rory smiled and said to himself, "By thunder, they made it!"
He stood up and shoved the pistol into his belt. He retrieved his axe and slung it over his shoulder, ambling down into the clearing.
Maggie knew him from the way he walked. He had a quiet, sure way of moving, even snowblinded, she could tell that.
"Howdy!" he shouted out.
"We got elk!" Jake hollered back.
"Come along then," Rory motioned towards the cabin.
When Maggie came up to within speaking distance, Rory stopped and nodded.
"I see ya got yer boy, that's good. How'd ya find 'im?"
Maggie grinned. "It's a strange story to tell," she said.
"Well, come on inside, we'll put on the kettle and ya kin tell it all, from beginning 'til the end. It surely is good to see you folks."
Rory did put on the kettle. They made tea and talked and ate and fed the scraps to Poordevil. Rory found a slab of maple sugar to give to Hoot Owl. He sucked on it contentedly.
"I thought you mighta been Indians coming downstream on the war path," Rory said.
"They'll be travelin' soon," Jake said. "Me and Maggie, we're headed down to Kittanning as quick as we kin git there. I don't suppose you'd wanta come with us?"
Maggie gave Jake a sidelong glance.
"Naw," Rory said, "I think I'll stay up here a while, maybe I'll head down later in the spring, if things gets too risky up here."
"Aw, that's too bad," Jake said, "because I was just thinkin' if we had us a canoe we could be down at the tavern in three, four days. Otherwise I guess we'll just have to traipse along, me, with my bad leg and my sore shoulder and Maggie here, a young mother carrying her child. Don't worry about us, sleeping out in the rain and sleet and havin' to feed that baby on short rations—"
Maggie frowned, "Jake stop. It's all right, Rory. It's not all that bad. We'll be home in a week or so and then this whole thing will be behind us."
"You sound like yer a little tired of adventure," Rory remarked.
Maggie laughed, "I'll thank the Lord to never give me any more adventures such as I've had."
Rory smiled. "I know what ya mean. Maybe I am pushin' my luck a little to stay up here any longer. I suppose there wouldn't be no harm in goin' downriver now."
Jake nodded, "That's a smart decision. You won't be sorry fer helpin' us out."
"No," Rory said, "I don't expect I will."
Secretly, Maggie was pleased. But she made a great effort of not showing it.
Maggie glanced around the cabin. She thought about asking about Hank, wondering if Rory's dog had come back. But the answer was obvious and there was no point in bringing it up.
That night, they feasted, playing with the baby in the firelight and fell asleep by the warm glow of the fire.
Rory and Jake worked on the canoe the next morning, overturning it and setting it up on two logs, sealing the cracked seams with melted pine pitch and sewing up any loose pieces with tamarack root lashings.
By noon they were loaded and in the water. Maggie sat in the center with Hoot Owl on her lap. They stowed their few provisions. Jake and Rory paddled in the bow and stern. Poordevil stretched himself out among the gear and they shoved off downstream.
Every paddle stroke brought them closer to Franny's tavern. The water was fast and cold and dangerous. Maggie was impressed by the way Rory and Jake handled the rapids with a quiet courage which didn't require any words, just a stroke and sweep of the paddle in fast water, allowing them to careen past huge boulders and through tight log jams which threatened to smash their craft to splinters.
There were long quiet hours, too, times when the river carried them along easily, when they only had to dip the paddles to keep the craft on course.
At night, they slept under the overturned canoe in riverside camps, rolled up in their bearskins and blankets by a tiny fire.
After four days of paddling, they came within sight of the first cabins and farms. Late in the afternoon on their four day on the river, Maggie glanced ahead and saw the familiar outline of her Aunt Franny's tavern, set on a slight rise above the riverbank.
"We're home," she whispered to Hoot Owl.
Rory and Jake maneuvered the canoe through the fast water and brought it sliding up along the muddy bank, a hundred paces from the cabin door.
"Well, "Jake said, "we did it. Good job on the paddle there, Garvin."
Maggie stepped out into the shallow water and waded up onto the bank, carrying Hoot Owl on her hip. Then she heard a shout.
When Maggie turned, she saw two figures coming towards them, walking fast through the spring mud. One was tall and thin, that would be Uncle Thomas. And one was was built solid, with red hair that shined in the sunlight. That was her Aunt Franny.
Maggie ran to her aunt and fell into her warm embrace, holding Hoot Owl up for her to see.
"So this is the Little Hoot Owl," Franny said in
her rough Irish brogue, "we'll put some meat on his bones, I can assure ye of that!"
Uncle Thomas ran down to the shore and helped the men draw the canoe up and tie it safely to a sapling. Poordevil frisked around barking, glad to be back on firm ground.
Maggie and Franny glanced down there.
"Looks like the menfolks are goin' to talk each other's ears off," Maggie's aunt said, "You come inside and I'll get some Callahan Bread inta ye, sure Maggie ye look as thin as kin be. Where'd ye come by thet fine-lookin' dog?"
Maggie laughed, "That's a long story."
"Aye, and ye'11 have time to tell it, but first it's bread and drink ye'U need."
Franny did have Callahan bread. She had bread and buttermilk and red turnips. She had venison soup and corncakes and dried apples, all things Maggie had dreamt about in her starvation days.
But now the starvation days were over. She was home, she was really home.
That night, Maggie broke away from the celebration at the tavern and climbed the hillside above Kittanning, looking out across the Allegheny. From where she stood, she could see to the four directions:
To the east, back toward Philadelphia, where she had come from so long ago; to the south, where her home would be; to the north, where she had spent her time in captivity and hardship; and last of all, to the west, to the land of promise.
Maggie knew that out there, beyond the armies and the land-grabbers and the wars, there was free land, free and wild and open, lit by starlight and scoured by wind and snowstorms. She knew that somewhere out there, in the Ohio, there were fresh wild places, where a person could go and be free of whatever was troubling them.
The wind picked up, blowing Maggie's red hair out in the wind. She stood for a long time, gazing out across the rolling Pennsylvania hills, just as she had years ago, when she had first come to the frontier.
Maggie was looking forward to tonight. And the nights and days that would follow. She knew that tonight at the tavern, there would be firelight and candlelight and stories and songs and laughter. There would be mulled cider and groundhog stew and the smell of fresh-baked bread, mingled with the mouthwatering odor of smoked bear hams.
It would be good.
About the Story
Now that you have read this story, you may be wondering which part is fact and which part is fiction.
I have been criticized by some armchair historians for making Maggie's adventures too far-fetched for modern-day readers to believe. Some critics have written that the hardships and accomplishments of women like Maggie Callahan are "tall tales" and have no basis in fact. I have enjoyed the controversy these books have created.
The truth is this: If our frontier grandmothers had not displayed the type of determination and tenacity depicted in these stories, they never would have stayed alive long enough to have books written about them. Those who feel these stories are "tall tales" have only to read the actual accounts of the women who lived through those rugged times. In the diaries and journals these women left behind, one can find stories as strange, or stranger, than the ones I have told.
My own historical research has been aimed at assuring that the historical and cultural background of the books are correct and as accurate as modern-day research can make them.
I have also included my own first-hand experiences as a wanderer of the woods and as a person who has lived in primitive conditions for many seasons, feeling the bite of the cold and the warmth of the sun on my back, being glad I was alive and alert and able to partake of nature's hard lessons.
Like Maggie, I am grateful for what I've received.
My primary literary sources for this book have been The Life of Mary Jemison, by James Seaver; The Journals of General John Sullivan and His Men, obtained by special permission from the New York State Historical Society; Over 50 narratives of women captives during the revolution, from the rare book collection of the Rosenbach Institute in Philadelphia; as well as the classic works on the Seneca, Lewis Henry Morgan's The League of the Iroquois and Anthony Wallace's work, The Death and Rebirth of the Seneca. Most of all, I am thankful for the wisdom and generosity of the Seneca people, who have shared their knowledge and insights with me during my visits to their area.
I was fortunate to be able to visit the places where this story takes place and to walk a portion of Maggie's route along the Allegheny and Genesee Rivers, listening to what the land had to say. It was quite helpful to be able to see the old site of Little Beard's village, acres and acres of lush corn and bean fields in the beautiful Genesee Valley.
Some readers may be curious about the origins of the "hibernation" motif I used in the last section of the story. As I mention in the story, this was not a traditional Seneca practice. I have been able to find no record of this technique at use among the Seneca.
Instead, the idea came to me by way of a curious and fascinating story which appeared in the April 1940 issue of Yankee Magazine.The article, written by Robert Wilson, recounted a tale he had gleaned from a 100-year old newspaper clipping from a rural Vermont newspaper.
The newspaper article told the strange tale of an isolated community in New England which "froze" some of their members over the winter and resurrected them, Lazarus-like, in the spring.
The newspaper article offers this eye-witness account of their "thawing out":
"Large troughs made of hemlock logs were placed nearby filled with tepid water, into which the bodes were placed separately with the head slightly raised. Boiling water was then poured into the troughs from kettles hung on poles nearby until the water was as hot as I could hold my hand in. Hemlock boughs had been put in the water in such quantities that they had given the water the color of wine.
"After lying in the bath about an hour, color began to return to the bodies, when all hands began rubbing and chafing them. This continued about an hour when a slight twitching of the muscles of the face and limbs, followed by audible gasps, showed that life was not quenched and vitality was returning.
"Spirits were given in small quantities and allowed to trickle down their throats. Soon they could swallow and more was given them when their eyes opened and they began to talk and finally sit up in their bath tubs.
"They were taken out and assisted to the house where after a hearty meal they seemed as well as ever and in nowise injured, but rather refreshed, by their long sleep of four months."
Whether this can be considered a documented historical account, a tall tale or just a fascinating lie, is a debate I will leave to others. As for me, it was enough that it provided the seed for an imaginative story.
Truly, truth can be stranger than fiction.
And Now…
Remembering Maggie:
A Guide to Living the Dream
for
Teachers, Parents and their Children
How to Use This Guide
Welcome. This Guide is a companion-piece to Robin Moore's historical fiction novels
The Bread Sister of Sinking Creek
Maggie Among the Seneca
Up the Frozen River.
It is aimed at encouraging a specific kind of reading. You might call it dreamreading: reading and experiencing the story in dream-like manner, so the characters speak and act out their roles in the reader's inner world - the world of imagination.
This booklet is designed as a guide to that inner world. This Guide contains 150 Whole Language activities, developed by Award-Winning Educator Paul Sanborn in collaboration with Robin Moore.
Here are a few practical suggestions for making the best use of the guide:
Don't feel you need to complete all three books to begin work on the activities. For convenience sake, activities are laid out by chapter order. This way, you can stop at any point in your reading and refer to this guide for appropriate activities.
It is not necessary, or important, that you do every exercise. Simply pick the ones which suit you best. Each project functions separately.
Have fun. These stories are
rich with educational opportunities. Don't feel you need to be limited to what you see here. Feel free to use this booklet as inspiration for your own projects.
Suggested Activities for
THE BREAD SISTER OF SINKING CREEK
Chapter One:
This story takes place in the year 1776. Do some research on this crucial year of American History and develop a timeline that shows the key events of 1776. Follow this timeline as the story of Maggie unfolds throughout the book. What is happening in Philadelphia at this time? What is happening in New York City at this time? Where is General Washington and his Army? How is the War going for them in 1776?
In the first chapter we meet Mr. Herbert Johnson and Maggie Callahan. The author goes to great length to fully describe them to us. Draw a careful picture of the two characters including everything that you can remember from the book so that the drawing is as clear and close to how they really looked as you can. When you have finished reading the book, see if your impression of how these two people, Maggie and Mr. Johnson, has changed based on what you have learned from the book.
Whenever we read a book, even if it is a work of fiction, the author often ties the book in with a particular place. See if you can locate "the Great Valley" on either a colonial or modern map of Pennsylvania. Note that the author gives you some clues as to where this place is. Keep the map handy for reference. If you cannot find a map of Pennsylvania, draw your own map of "the Great Valley", adding pictures and other items to it as you read through the story.