Escape

by Mary Beacock Fryer

  “Papa,” Sam said urgently, “we’ve just seen the merchant from Schenectady!”

  “I know, I know,” Papa answered. “He got here yesterday and has been asking about us all around the village, but we’ll figure out a way to evade him.”

  Chapter Five

  Enter James MacGregor

  “Mr. Butler, may I…”

  “If you call me that once more, I’ll tan your hide,” Mr. Butler threatened. “Now let me hear your story again, right from the beginning. Who are you?”

  “I’m James MacGregor,” I began wearily. Tightening my grasp on his waist from my perch behind him, I pressed my legs against the horse’s sides. “You’re my father.” That made me think for a moment. “Do I call you Pa?” I asked him slyly.

  “Of course you do. Go on.”

  “You’re my father, Hector MacGregor. You’re a cabinetmaker and we live on the High Street in Albany. I’m your only child and my mother is dead. We’re on our way to Oriskany to visit relatives.”

  “That’s more like it.” Mr. Butler was stern for a change. “See that you remember and let’s have no more slips. Do you want to give us away?”

  “Oh no, Pa!”

  Nothing but danger on all sides. At any moment we might be seized and imprisoned. Yet laughter bubbled up inside me when I called him Pa. Most of our friends in Schenectady addressed their parents as Pa and Ma, but Mama and Papa forbade us to. They cherished the old customs from Long Island.

  For the next few days I had to be on guard. Ned Seaman, with seven brothers and sisters, had given way to James MacGregor, an only child. I squirmed in the black woollen suit I wore. How it itched! I’d have given anything for the comfort of my old deerskin breeches and homespun shirt, but they weren’t grand enough for the only son of a craftsman from Albany.

  And how different that craftsman looked from the Truelove Butler of a few hours ago. Gone were the filthy clothes in which he’d spent a week in jail — replaced by Mr. Cameron’s Sunday suit. Big and imposing astride his horse, Hector MacGregor was every inch the prosperous citizen.

  About two hours had passed since our arrival at the Cameron farm, a very busy two hours. Mr. Butler’s faith in Sandy Cameron had been justified. As it turned out, we were getting more help than we’d even dreamed of. Mr. Cameron was going to travel with us as far as Oriskany, where he had a cousin, John Mackenzie. He was sure that his cousin would shelter us for as long as need be.

  Now we were on the road again, but anyone on the watch for a wagon drawn by a black mare and a bay stallion would search in vain. And anyone on the lookout for two men, one woman, and eight children in a wagon trailing a foal and a big, brown dog would be foiled too. We were travelling as three families, none of them named Seaman.

  The plan had been carefully worked out. Mr. Butler and I would go on horseback, as Hector MacGregor and his son James. Papa would be John Warren, a widower with four children — Cade, Elizabeth, Smith, and Sarah.

  Sandy Cameron would keep his surname but pretend to be his own twin brother Angus, a blacksmith from Connecticut. Mr. Cameron had told all his neighbours that his brother might soon be moving west to settle in the Mohawk valley. No one would suspect his story. Mama, the baby, Stephen, and Sam would make up Angus Cameron’s family, and Goliath would go with them. Sam was the one who managed the dog best. Elizabeth was too easy on him.

  Mr. Cameron left first, driving his own wagon, to which we had transferred Papa’s anvil and the other tools. The wagon was drawn by our bay stallion and Mr. Cameron’s sorrel mare. Papa had traded our black mare and her foal for the sorrel. It was an uneven trade, but Papa was afraid the foal would die along the way. Besides, he felt he owed Mr. Cameron something for the risk he was taking.

  It was to protect Papa that Mr. Cameron was driving the stallion. Papa was an excellent horseman and one of the few men in Schenectady who kept a stallion. Everyone in the district knew Papa’s big bay, and someone would surely have described him to Captain Fonda. His men were bound to be watching for a bay stallion, driven by a man answering Papa’s description. No one would mistake Sandy Cameron with his thatch of carroty hair for Papa.

  When Papa first tried to hitch the stallion beside the strange mare, the powerful horse reared and bucked. Papa mounted him at once and galloped him around Mr. Cameron’s field several times. When Papa brought him back to the wagon, he was as gentle as a lamb.

  “Sam,” Papa called as Mr. Cameron set off, “if you have any more trouble with the stallion, unhitch him and ride him hard.” Sam nodded and waved. He could manage the big brute almost as well as Papa could.

  A little while later Mr. Butler and I departed on a horse Mr. Cameron had lent us. Papa would leave last, driving our wagon hitched to Mr. Cameron’s team of geldings. Since most of the wagons on the road were drawn by geldings or mares, Papa’s team wouldn’t stand out.

  With our new identities, the men had decided it should be safe for us to travel by day and perhaps even spend a night at an inn. Perched behind Mr. Butler, all I could think of was a deep feather bed, soft and downy, beckoning me. I was so tired that my whole body ached and I had to struggle to keep awake.

  Luckily Mr. Butler was tired too. Before long he turned off the road into a patch of woods. “We’ll sleep for just an hour or so,” he said. In a grassy glade we dismounted, unsaddled the horse, and hobbled it. Then we rolled ourselves in the blankets we carried strapped to the saddle and were soon sound asleep.

  It was a long hour. We didn’t wake up until after noon, and then only because we were hungry. Hurriedly we ate the meal of bread and cheese Mrs. Cameron had packed for us and set out again. Once we were on the road, Mr. Butler began to drill me on the background of the MacGregors.

  “MacGregor is a Highland Scots name,” he told me. “So is Cameron. Many Highlanders have settled in the Mohawk valley.”

  That reminded me of Sandy Cameron’s son Duncan, whose itchy suit I wore. How gleeful he’d been when his mother gave it to me. He’d been wearing a pleated skirt of bright checks, which he called “the kilt.” It was easy to see why he was glad to be rid of the beastly suit, but that skirt hadn’t seemed much better to me. I could just imagine a cold wind nipping those bony knees.

  We rode on and on and I thought we’d never stop, but finally just after dusk Mr. Butler asked the question I’d been longing to hear. “What would you say to sleeping in a soft bed tonight?”

  “Oh yes, Pa!” was all I could answer. That morning nap had been just a tease, long since forgotten in the hours of bumping along on the horse.

  Mr. Butler stopped at a farmhouse to ask whether there was an inn nearby. No inn, we were told, but Mrs. Stoneburner, who lived just a mile beyond, sometimes gave a night’s lodging to weary travellers.

  The Stoneburner house was big and much more imposing than most of the houses we had passed, but Mrs. Stoneburner proved to be a hospitable woman, who agreed at once to give us a bed, supper, and breakfast for two shillings. It would be sixpence extra to feed and stable the horse.

  She led us into a large, warm room, which she called the kitchen. It seemed strange to me. In Schenectady Mama had done most of the cooking on the single hearth in the main room. That wasn’t the only difference either. The Stoneburner house had several bedrooms on the ground floor, but the second floor was a large loft. The bedrooms in our house in Schenectady were all on the second floor, and there was an attic under the tall gables.

  Different though it looked, the kitchen reminded me of home. Mr. Stoneburner was seated beside the hearth smoking his pipe, just like Papa. And the room was alive with children, cats, and dogs. In a basket near the fire was a litter of newborn pups, their eyes still closed. When I knelt to stroke them, their mother eyed me nervously.

  Just as Mr. Butler and I sat down to our supper, a boy about my age came into the kitchen. He was the Stoneburners’ oldest son and his name was Paul. While we ate, Paul kept to himself. After his father and Mr. Butler had gone out to the barn and his mot
her up to the loft to put the young children to bed, he came over to me and poked me in the ribs.

  “Where’s your skirt, MacGregor?” he said with a sneer.

  I was indignant. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on,” he bullied me. “You’re a Highlander. Everyone knows they wear skirts.”

  “They don’t in Albany,” I snapped. Then I remembered Duncan Cameron. “Besides, you don’t even know the right name. Those skirts are called kilts.”

  Paul didn’t like that. Threatening me with a fist, he scoffed, “I’ll bet you can’t fight.”

  “Just try me,” I boasted. “I can lick my big brothers and I can lick you …” I stopped aghast. What had I said?

  “Big brothers,” Paul jeered. “You haven’t any. I heard your father say so. You’re a liar and you’re scared of me.”

  I was afraid, but not of Paul. Had I betrayed Mr. Butler? Then all at once Paul punched me in the stomach, and the sudden pain drove away my fear. I hit him as hard as I could, and we fell to the floor, rolling and kicking and hammering each other. The noise brought Mr. Butler to the kitchen in a hurry. He ordered us sharply to stop and pulled us apart.

  “Who started the fight?” he demanded.

  Paul pointed at me. “He said he could lick his big brothers and he hasn’t even got any.”

  Mr. Butler groaned and clutched his head, while I cringed. How on earth would he get us out of this?

  “James, you’re at it again,” he said sternly. “How many times have I told you not to make up stories?”

  By now Mr. and Mrs. Stoneburner had been drawn to the kitchen and they were listening, looking very puzzled. Mr. Butler shook his head in despair. “Of course James has no brothers, but he likes to pretend. I’ve warned him about that habit. James, apologize to Paul, and no more fighting.”

  “Yes, Pa. I’m sorry, Paul,” I answered meekly, much as I hated to. After all, Paul had started the fight. He should be the one to apologize. Then I remembered gloating when Papa admonished Sam to use his head. I should have taken the advice to heart too.

  Mr. Butler rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, and Mrs. Stoneburner patted his arm. “It’s hard for you to have to bring up that boy without a mother,” she consoled.

  Mr. Butler nodded and hurried from the room. Mrs. Stoneburner thought he was overcome with sadness, but I knew he was trying hard not to laugh.

  Paul seemed to want to make friends now. “Is Albany a big place?” he asked me.

  I didn’t know anything about Albany, but that didn’t stop me. “It’s huge,” I said. Words tumbled out, and soon Paul was convinced that Albany must be the finest city in the world.

  Now that we’d made up, Paul decided to show me his most prized possession. From a cupboard he took a set of lead soldiers that had belonged to his father when he was a boy in Europe. The soldiers wore long, full-skirted coats, very different from the uniforms of our militiamen. Some of the coats were green with wide red cuffs and collars. Some were blue, trimmed with gold.

  “Let’s have a battle,” Paul said. “I’ll take the men with red cuffs and be the British army. You take the men in blue and pretend to be General Washington with his troops.”

  Soon we were moving our troops back and forth, booming like cannons. When Mr. Butler came back in, I was shouting, “The British are coming! The British are coming!”

  When I saw him, I came back to earth with a thud, suddenly reminded that I would soon be British myself. All the fun had gone out of the game, and I was glad when Mr. Butler suggested that it was bedtime.

  As soon as the bedroom door closed behind us, I told Mr. Butler how sorry I was for talking about my brothers. He chuckled. “Never mind,” he said, “I slipped up too. Mr. Stoneburner showed me a sick cow and without thinking I told him what to do for her. He was very surprised that a townsman and cabinetmaker should know so much about cattle.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “That my father had been a farmer.” Mr. Butler paused for a moment and then he murmured, “We’re becoming a fine pair of liars, you and I.”

  That remark brought a twinge of conscience. “How big is Albany?” I asked remorsefully.

  “Not very big,” he replied, “smaller than Schenectady, I think. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Paul will be surprised if he ever visits it,” I answered. Then mumbling a sleepy goodnight, I snuggled down into the feather mattress.

  “Sleep well, Ned,” Mr. Butler whispered.

  “James,” I whispered back.

  “I stand corrected.” Mr. Butler laughed. “James it is. Enjoy the bed. After tonight we’ll have to make do with blankets on the ground. I’ve been counting the coins your father gave me.”

  Warm and comfortable though I was, I still lingered on the edge of sleep. Where were the others? Did they have soft beds for the night? I could hear rain falling, and Mama caught cold very easily.

  In the midst of that last troubled thought, sleep overtook me.

  Chapter Six

  Foiling the Militiamen

  It was seven o’clock and a bright sunny morning. Mr. Butler and I were seated at the kitchen table, a hearty breakfast spread before us. As well as oatmeal, Mrs. Stoneburner had set out mutton chops, sausages, a dish of boiled eggs, and thick slices of cornbread. It was just such a breakfast as Mama might have offered to her hungry men.

  As soon as we had finished eating, Mr. Butler said to Mrs. Stoneburner, “I’d like to pay you now.” He counted out enough coins to make two shillings and sixpence. Mrs. Stoneburner wiped her hands on her apron and took them from him.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” She stood lost in thought for a moment and then went on, “There are militiamen in the district searching for two men who are wanted in Schenectady.”

  “Are there?” Mr. Butler’s voice was steady.

  “Yes, they came to our door yesterday.”

  “Why are the men wanted?” Mr. Butler asked.

  “The militiamen didn’t tell us. All they said was that there are two of them, one named Seaman and the other Butler.” She peered at us for a moment, her eyes puzzled. Then in a gentle tone she said, “Take care on your journey. I wish you Godspeed.” One thing was clear. Mrs. Stoneburner might suspect that we weren’t really the MacGregors, but we had nothing to fear from her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Stoneburner. We’ll take care.” Mr. Butler looked pleased with himself. And why not? He’d found out what he wanted to know without having to probe. Now we had been warned. We certainly would take care, great care, to avoid Captain Fonda’s men.

  “We must be on our way, James,” he said to me. “Do you want to say good-bye to Paul while I saddle the horse?” But the last thing I wanted was to leave him just then, and I followed him out to the stableyard.

  While he brushed down the horse, Mr. Butler tried to reassure me. He seemed to know the dreadful thoughts that were running through my head. “There are many settlers travelling west,” he said “The militiamen can’t possibly question all of them. Even if they stop your father, they’ll have no reason to suspect John Warren with his four motherless children.”

  The more he talked, the better I felt, and soon I stooped to watch him check the horse’s feet. Scraping away the dung and the straw, he probed the soft frog of the hoof for hidden stones that might lame the horse. Then I helped him with the saddle and tightened the straps that held our rolled blankets. We were ready to leave.

  Mr. and Mrs. Stoneburner were in the stableyard to bid us farewell, but Paul was nowhere to be seen. When we reached the end of the lane, we found him waiting for us. He waved and came running to the horse’s side.

  “Will you be stopping here on your way back?” he asked eagerly. We had to say yes in case the militiamen returned to question the Stoneburners.

  A few hours later we reached a little town called Canajoharie. Bright and peaceful in the morning sunshine, its narrow streets and scattered houses reminded me of Fort Hunter. “It doesn’t look much
like Schenectady, does it?” I said to Mr. Butler.

  “That’s because Schenectady was built much earlier,” he told me. “In those days the Dutch settlers copied the tall, narrow houses and wide, grassy streets of Albany.”

  On and on we went, spending the next two nights in the woods, resting but not really sleeping. After that first morning, a chilling rain fell steadily. Our clothes and blankets were always damp, and the cold seemed to settle in our bones. Every time we passed an inn, I pointed it out to Mr. Butler, though I knew we needed our few remaining coins for food. By day I studied the wagons on the road, half hoping to catch a glimpse of Mama or Papa, half hoping that I wouldn’t. Much as I longed to see them, I wanted them to be safe ahead of us.

  Once we did stop at an inn — for a meal. At the table with us were some travellers who told the innkeeper quite openly that they were Loyalists on their way to Canada. I couldn’t understand that until later Mr. Butler explained that they had nothing to fear. The settlers in the Mohawk valley were glad to be rid of them.

  “Then why can’t we tell people we’re Loyalists on our way to Canada?” I asked him.

  “You know our case is different,” he replied. “Your father and I are wanted men. Captain Fonda may even have offered a reward for our capture.”

  Then into those endless, dismal hours fell one bright ray of light. While we were chatting about Johnstown, Mr. Butler told me that the closest school was more than sixty miles away at a place called Kingston, and the fees were high. Even if Papa decided to settle near Kingston, it would be years before he could afford to send me to school. That suited me very well.

  When Papa first came to Schenectady, he had very little money. Mama had to teach Cade and Sam at home. She was well educated, better than Papa, though he could read and write. Many of our neighbours in Schenectady couldn’t even do that.

  Then when I was six, Mama began to give Elizabeth and me lessons. There was a school for girls, but Mama couldn’t spare Elizabeth for the whole day. She needed her at home to help with the little ones.