The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “Here’s the lady we been looking for.” His voice was harsh and too high for a man. “Madam, we found something of yours. Reckon you’d like to have it back.” With a laugh he tossed the scrap of ribbon onto her face.

  Yes, it was hers: a bit of trim that must have torn off when she snagged her gown in the duck blind.

  “Get up!” The man hauled her to her feet.

  Papa shouted, “Keep your hands off my daughter!” Charlotte heard a thud. Mama screamed.

  The bull-necked man dragged Charlotte from the hut and threw her to the ground. For a few moments he stood prodding her with his foot, as if uncertain what to do next. Two young men came from the hut and joined him. One was tall and scrawny with a sparse beard that gave his cheeks and chin the look of a badly plucked chicken. The other was short and square.

  “Look what I got here,” said the bull-necked man.

  “A nice bit of sport,” said the tall one. The short man laughed but said nothing.

  She knew that she had seen them before. But where? After a moment, she remembered. It was in Johnstown on market days, where they used to hang around in front of the tavern, whistling at women and making lewd remarks.

  Charlotte’s stomach twisted with fear, but she refused to show it. She sat up and smoothed her skirt over her knees. “You’ll pay for this,” she said, ignoring their stupid grins. “You have no right to abuse loyal citizens.”

  “Who’s going to stop us?” the tall man sneered. “Will Georgie Porgie send his redcoats to shoot us?”

  The short man stopped laughing. “Boys,” he said, “you know who this is? She’s Nick Schyler’s sweetheart.”

  “Why, so she is,” said the tall man. “Nick’s Tory sweetheart! Well then, I reckon she wants to send him a kiss.” He held out his arms, puckered his lips, and noisily kissed the air. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “No!” She jumped to her feet. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  As he reached for her, she turned her head away. But then he gripped her face with both hands and pressed his mouth against hers. Charlotte clamped her lips together.

  “That’s not much of a kiss. You can do better. Nick told us you’re a right handy kisser. Didn’t he, boys?”

  “Nick sure did,” sniggered the bull-necked man. “Let me have a turn.”

  “Ben, I never thought you’d kiss a Tory wench.”

  “Never did before. Most are too ugly. But this one’s not bad.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Come on! Give me a kiss.” He had a fleshy mouth and little blue eyes like a pig’s. When he pulled her to him, she spat in his face.

  “Damn you,” he snarled.

  The tall man snorted. “I reckon she’s too wild for you to handle.”

  “I like them wild.” Ben thrust his knee hard between Charlotte’s legs and toppled her backwards. Then he was sitting on her, a leg on each side. He had her shoulders pinned to the ground.

  Now what? Her feet were free, but she didn’t dare to kick. If she kicked, these Liberty men would see her petticoats and notice their strange, lumpy appearance. All she could do was beat her fists on the ground and scream.

  The short man called out, “Boys, leave her alone.”

  “Not till I get that kiss.”

  “If Nick hears about this, he’ll kill us.”

  “He won’t care,” the tall man laughed. “Nick wants nothing more to do with this girl.”

  Ben’s face came closer. Piggy eyes. Sour breath. Bristly hairs in his wide nostrils. Charlotte was ready. At the touch of his lips, she bit with all her strength.

  With a grunt, he let her go. Crouching on the ground, Ben held one hand over his mouth. Blood ran from between his fingers. “You cursed witch!”

  Charlotte sat up. With shaking hands, she pulled her skirts right around her ankles. Thank God no one had noticed the petticoats!

  An older man wearing a broad-brimmed hat emerged from the hut. “What’s going on here?” His eyes narrowed. “Ben Warren,” he said, “I want none of this.”

  Ben spat a mouthful of blood and picked himself up from the ground. The last two men came from the hut, the first with Papa’s rifle, the other with his canteen.

  “They got no money,” said the one with the rifle. “This gun is the only thing worth taking.”

  “Before we leave,” said the other, “we may as well finish the brandy.” He took a swig, then passed Papa’s canteen to the next man. The last to drink threw it into a bush.

  “Wait,” said Ben, who was still mopping blood from his chin, “Let’s truss up this she-devil. Stick her in the hut with the others and make a bonfire of the lot.”

  “No,” said the older man. “We’ve had too much swamp law already.”

  “Let them go,” said the man holding Papa’s rifle. “Good riddance. If they want to freeze in the snow up in Canada, why should we stop them?”

  “When your Pa wakes up, tell him the Sons of Liberty thank him for the brandy,” said the one who had taken the canteen. He turned to his friends. “Maybe we still got time to shoot some ducks.”

  Their boots crashed through the undergrowth as they left.

  Charlotte pulled herself to her feet and entered the hut. Mama lay on her side, with her wrists tied behind her back and her ankles bound. Papa was sitting up, holding the side of his head. He looked up at Charlotte.

  “Did they hurt you, my dear? Did those scoundrels do you harm?”

  “Only a few bruises. I was lucky they didn’t notice my petticoats.”

  She knelt down by Papa to inspect his wound. “There’s some swelling, and a bit of blood.”

  He shook his head. “Fortunately, I have a thick skull.”

  “Thank God they did no worse,” said Mama.

  “Do you still have your knife?” Charlotte asked Papa.

  He drew the knife from its sheath. “I’m surprised they left it. My hand axe too.”

  Charlotte cut the cords that tied Mama’s wrists and ankles. Mama sat up and rubbed the red marks on her skin. “How can men act like that?” she said. “They called themselves Patriots and bragged about their crimes. Houses fired. Barns burned. Crops destroyed. Every evil committed under the sacred name of liberty!”

  “Do you know who they were?” Papa asked. “I got knocked on the head before I recognized anybody.”

  “One was called Ben Warren. He was the worst. If the others had let him, he would have burned down the hut with us inside.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “I’ve seen a few of them in Johnstown. Ben Warren was the only name I heard.”

  “Ben Warren,” Papa repeated. “I’d like to get hold of him when I have a horsewhip in my hands.”

  “So would I,” said Charlotte. “Just give me a chance.”

  Papa’s rucksack was empty. Biscuits, apple slices, cakes of sugar, bowls, cups and spoons were scattered on the ground. The big ham that would have to last all the way to Oneida Lake lay outside the hut’s entrance. Mama picked it up.

  “I’m glad the Sons of Liberty weren’t hungry,” she said as she brushed off leaves and twigs. “But I wish they had spared our tea. Those scoundrels dumped it out, looking for money in the bottom of the tin.”

  Tiny flakes of tea lay scattered on the hut’s earth floor. “I’ll see what I can do,” Charlotte said. Crawling on hands and knees, she gathered the fragments into a bowl. When she had found all she could, she took the bowl outside where the light was better. Using her fingertips as pincers, she picked out bits of bark, twigs and leaves, wisps of web, and dozens of spider legs, heads and abdomens. “The tea may taste odd,” she admitted.

  Papa had already found his flint, steel and flax tinder, and he had a good fire blazing. When the water reached the boil in the camp kettle, Charlotte tossed in the tea.

  “Our first day,” she said as she waited for it to steep. “I hope the rest won’t be like this.”

  “No guarantees,” said Papa gruffly.

  Charlotte poured the tea int
o the family’s three tin cups.

  Mama’s eyes widened as she sipped. She peered into the cup. With a small shudder, she set it down and did not lift it to her lips again.

  “The taste is unusual,” said Papa, “but refreshing.” He finished his.

  Charlotte finished hers as well. Not to drink it would feel like defeat.

  Chapter three

  Charlotte ached all over. Her ribs, her shoulders, her neck, even her mouth felt sore. But nothing hurt more than the taunts of those Liberty men. “Nick told us you were a right handy kisser.” “Nick won’t care.” “He wants nothing more to do with this girl.” All lies. Nick would never say such things. So why did she feel so miserable when they couldn’t be true?

  I’ll always love you, Charlotte, was the last thing he had said when they parted. She knew that he meant it. There was no falseness in Nick.

  Since that day five months ago she had told herself a hundred times what she should have done. She should have run back and thrown her arms around him. She should have vowed to love him despite everything. If only she could live that day over again, that’s what she would do.

  Yet what difference would it make? Her brothers would still be dead. The British would still be losing. And she would still be on this long trail, a refugee heading north on a dark October day.

  The forest felt dead and sodden. Rain was falling. It had been falling steadily for hours. Rain dripped from the trees. Drop. Drop. Drop. By late afternoon the trail was slick with mud.

  They were walking down a slope when Papa fell. A sudden skid, and there he was — on his hands and knees, or rather on his hands and his left knee, for his right leg was stretched out behind him. Something had caught his foot.

  “Damnation!” he muttered.

  Charlotte knelt on the muddy path. She saw what had happened: when Papa slid, his foot had wedged under a tree root that snaked across the path.

  “Don’t try to move,” she said. “I can get it out.” Grasping Papa’s boot, she pulled it backwards until it came free.

  Papa got to his feet, took a step forward, and then sank to one knee. “My ankle,” he grunted. “It can’t bear my weight.”

  Mama took both of Papa’s hands, and they looked at each other in that special, close way they had when everything was going wrong. Charlotte didn’t say a thing. If Papa’s ankle was broken, they might as well sit down and wait for the Rebels to find them. She and Mama would never be able to carry a two-hundred-pound man sixty miles through the bush to Oneida Lake.

  “Let’s get you over to that tree where there’s a bit of shelter,” said Mama, turning her head in the direction of a big maple a few yards off the trail.

  Charlotte and Mama helped him to stand up. With his arms across their shoulders, Papa hobbled to the tree. When he was settled with his back against the trunk, Mama pulled off his boot. “Does this hurt?” she asked while she kneaded his foot and ankle.

  “Not much.”

  Charlotte saw him wince.

  Mama looked up. “Henry, your ankle is sprained. You’ll have to keep off it for a few days. We must find somewhere to stay.”

  Charlotte looked around. Nothing except trees and rain. Even the shabbiest old bark hut would be a palace.

  “We’re a mile from Canajoharie,” said Papa. “Half the folks there would risk their lives to help us; the other half would hand us over to the Sons of Liberty.”

  “Well,” said Mama, “we can’t spend the next three days under a tree.”

  “I’ll go to Canajoharie to look for a safe house,” said Charlotte.

  Papa grimaced. “How would you know it if you’ve found one?”

  Charlotte thought hard. Obviously, she couldn’t just walk up to someone’s door and ask. But there had to be a way. “I can look in people’s windows for signs.”

  “What sort of signs?” Papa asked.

  “Things like flags and pictures. If I see the King’s portrait on a wall, I’ll knock and ask for help.”

  “You’d probably get caught for a Peeping Tom. And even if you didn’t, there isn’t much chance of seeing anything like that. It’s a bad gamble. I can’t allow you to go.”

  The rain changed to an icy drizzle. Charlotte walked around to keep warm. Papa was being unreasonable! If he wouldn’t let her go to Canajoharie, what plan did he suggest? They couldn’t stay out here. By the time Papa’s ankle got better, they’d all be sick with an ague. Or captured by Rebels. Or both.

  “Papa,” she pleaded, “I want to try.”

  He glanced towards Mama, who sat huddled in her wet cloak. “The risk—–”

  “Let her go, Henry,” said Mama in a tired voice. “We don’t have a choice.”

  “I still don’t like it.” But he pulled out the map. While he unfolded it, rain dripped on the paper and the ink started to run. “Here’s the path to Canajoharie. It’s just ahead, on your right.”

  Mama took the map from him. “Godspeed,” she said as she folded it again.

  Mud and wet leaves made the path as slippery as if it had been greased. Charlotte walked with her head bent and the hood of her cloak pulled up. At first the only sound she heard was the splatter of rain, but before long it was joined by the gurgle of swirling water. The Mohawk River. Canajoharie was just ahead.

  She must have quickened her step without knowing it, because that was when it happened. Her heel skidded on a pad of wet leaves; her feet flew up from under her, and there she lay — flat on her back in mud as thick as chocolate pudding. High above her, the trees waved their naked branches. For a moment she did not move. The back of her head felt numb, but when she moved her limbs, testing first her arms and then her legs, nothing hurt.

  Charlotte picked herself up. This was a bad beginning. First Papa and now her. If they couldn’t even stay on their feet, how were they ever going to get to Oneida Lake?

  “More haste, less speed,” she muttered. After a time she was able to make out the shape of a house. And after a few more steps, she saw another. Two frame houses, both white clapboard with green shutters. At least they looked green, but daylight was fading so fast that all colours were starting to look the same.

  A row of pine trees divided the space between the two houses, running all the way from the forest to the river road. The trunks weren’t quite thick enough to hide her completely. But with the rain and the fading light to veil her, she probably would not be seen.

  Picking up her skirts she dashed for the nearest tree. From behind its trunk, she peered about, and then scurried to the next. Once again, she looked about. No one was in sight. Darting from tree to tree, Charlotte moved closer. Halfway down the row, she came level with the two houses.

  A pink light glowed in a downstairs window of the house on her left. That glow must be from the fireplace. Good. It would give enough light for her to see what was in that room. But what if people were there? She did not see anyone. Maybe they were all in some other room, having supper. Better wait for a few minutes. But then they might come back. Better not wait. Besides, it was cold outside, and she was soaked to the skin. Oh, what should she do?

  Charlotte made up her mind. Nothing hazarded; nothing gained. She raced across the side yard. With her body pressed against the window shutters, she peered inside.

  The room she saw was a parlour, and it was almost a vision of home: upholstered chairs, a sofa, a big family Bible on a round table, a clavichord standing in one corner. There were pictures on the walls. Some were landscapes, some portraits. She screwed up her eyes, trying to see a recognizable face. There was only one. From a heavy, ornate frame George Washington’s stern eyes stared right at her.

  She would find no help here. Charlotte shrank back, edged along the wall, and then in a crouching run headed back to the row of trees.

  The house next door had a shed, a backhouse, half a dozen apple trees, and a garden that already had been spaded over for winter. Set into the stone foundation was a root cellar door. Maybe this house would be the one.


  Charlotte made a dash to the nearest window and peeked in. The room was a kitchen. A banked fire glowed in the fireplace, a braided rug lay on the plank floor, and in the middle stood a trestle table with wooden chairs ranged along its sides. But she saw no portraits and no flags.

  Better try a different room. The parlour was a likelier place. It would be at the front of the house. She drew back and took one step — just one — when something hard struck her in the back and a voice cried out, “Halt! Or I’ll drive this pitchfork through your kidneys.”

  Charlotte stood still. It was a young voice, that of a boy on the verge of manhood. She did not dare to turn her head.

  “Put your hands up. Walk around to the front!” He gave her a jab with what certainly felt like a pitchfork. She obeyed.

  When they got to the front door, the voice said, “Knock good and loud.” Charlotte raised her fist and banged on the door. A minute passed. “Knock again.”

  She was starting to think no one would ever come, when finally she heard a bolt being drawn. The door opened, and in the doorway stood a very pregnant woman wearing a white nightgown and a frilled mobcap.

  “Elijah, what in heaven’s name are you up to now?” the woman exclaimed as Charlotte stumbled into the room.

  “Ma, I caught a spy looking in our window.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “That’s the dirtiest spy I ever seen.”

  “I’m not a spy!” Taking her chances, she turned around. The boy with the pitchfork looked about thirteen. Though nearly as tall as Charlotte, he was skinny as a fence rail.

  “I was coming from the backhouse,” he said, “when I seen her prowling around next door. Then she snuck over here and looked into our kitchen. I got a pitchfork from the shed and came up behind her.”

  “Huh!” said the woman. “Likely she was figuring what to steal.”

  “I am not a thief.”

  “You’re a damn Rebel. It amounts to the same.”

  The tines were aimed at Charlotte’s chest, but the boy’s hands shook so hard and the pitchfork wobbled so wildly that she wasn’t sure what part of her body would be hit if he attacked.