The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “I’m glad to see them,” Charlotte said. “They’ll have news.” It was hard to hide her excitement. Yet Papa probably guessed. He knew as well as she that the Vroomans’ farm was right next to the Schylers’ place. They would surely have news about Nick.

  When the bateau reached shore, Peter Vrooman climbed out and then helped his wife and his daughters over the side. By the time the girls were out, the two boys had already scrambled over the gunwale and were inspecting the Indian canoes that lay along the shore.

  Louisa gazed about. She was a pretty, plump woman, matronly although still in her twenties. That’s what came of having four children before she was twenty-two. But she always appeared cheerful, even now as she stood on the Carleton Island shore, her bonnet tied with ribbons that looked as if they hadn’t been pressed for weeks.

  “Louisa!” Charlotte called.

  Louisa’s eyes opened wide. “Charlotte Hooper!” She rushed forward, holding out both hands. “We knew your family had left Fort Hunter, but nobody had any idea where you’d gone.”

  “Papa thought we’d be safest if we came north to an English fort.”

  “After what happened to us, I reckon he was right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when Peter finally admitted that we had to leave, we decided to head for New York. It sounded safe, with all the English troops stationed there. We planned to rent a house, live there till the war was over, then go back to our farm.”

  Louisa made a wry face. “The Sons of Liberty wrecked that plan. We’d loaded up the wagon with our best furniture and started off. But we hadn’t travelled half a day before the Sons of Liberty stopped us. They smashed the furniture and threw everything about. Then they took off with our horses and wagon and left us standing beside the road.

  “After that, Peter said we should forget about New York and go up to Canada. We took to the woods because we didn’t want meet those Liberty men again. After a couple of days, we came upon that man and his cow. They saved our lives.”

  Charlotte looked at the round, pink faces of the two little girls who clung to Louisa’s hands. They appeared healthy, considering what the family had been through.

  “We met them too,” said Charlotte. “Snelgrove and Bessie were heading for the Black River when they spent a night at our camp on the shore of Oneida Lake.”

  “Snelgrove figures he’ll make his fortune at Fort Haldimand,” said Louisa. “As long as that cow produces, there’ll be milk, cream and butter to sell to the officers. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”

  As Louisa spoke, Charlotte noticed that a crowd of children had gathered around Bessie. Snelgrove was again demonstrating his marksmanship, shooting streams of milk into their open mouths.

  Later that day, while Papa and Charlotte were helping Peter to set up his tent, he told them what he could about life in the Mohawk Valley after the Hoopers had fled.

  “We left a fortnight after you did,” Peter said. “During those two weeks, things got worse every day. You never knew who was going to attack you, or when. They’d smash windows. Throw fire into your house. Even your minister, Reverend Stuart, had his property plundered.”

  “Rebels were using his church as a tavern before we left,” said Papa.

  “Now they’ve turned it into a stable — not that he has much need for a church any longer. Only three families are left of his whole congregation. There’s talk about trying him for treason.”

  “Treason!” Papa exclaimed. “On what grounds?”

  “Befriending Mohawks. Helping Loyalists. Some people think he’s a spy. Both his brothers have turned against him.”

  “I’d heard that,” said Papa.

  “It’s the same everywhere. Brother against brother. Neighbour against neighbour. Father against son. Like the Schylers.”

  Charlotte caught her breath. The Schylers. Nick and his father. What about them?

  “Like the Schylers?” Papa asked. “What happened?”

  “Oh, of course you haven’t heard. It happened a week after you folks left. I learned about it from Schyler’s brother. He’s a Tory, as you likely know. The two brothers haven’t been on speaking terms for three years — one being a Tory and the other a Whig. Anyway, Nick showed up at his uncle’s door with his clothes tied in a bundle. He said his father had thrown him out because he changed sides.”

  “Nick changed sides!” Papa said. “Well, I’m glad he saw the light. What reason did he give?”

  “He told his uncle that he had seen some ugly sights. The violence of the Sons of Liberty bothered him most of all. But he refused to talk about it.”

  “So the lad is living with his uncle.”

  “Not any longer. He stayed there a couple of days. Then a press gang showed up to recruit him for the Rebel army. They got off their horses, walked up to the front door and asked for Nick Schyler. Nick was in the next room, listening. He tiptoed out the back way, sneaked around to the front of the house, jumped on the best horse and galloped away. That’s the last of him anyone has seen or heard.”

  Charlotte could scarcely take it in. Nick had changed sides. Nick was gone.

  For the rest of the day, Charlotte never stopped thinking about what she had heard. When night came, vivid dreams disturbed her sleep: Nick on a horse galloping down the river road, Nick calling to her from under the sycamore tree, Nick lying on the ground covered with blood. She woke up sweating, afraid to sleep lest she dream again.

  Until dawn she lay awake wondering what to make of it all. Nick had changed sides, so politics no longer divided them. But wherever he was, his life was in danger. Traitor. Horse thief. He’d hang if the Rebels caught him.

  Ever since she fell in love with Nick, fear had not been far away. Papa had warned her from the beginning. She would never forget that evening or that warning.

  There had been a barn-raising at a nearby farm, followed by a dance in the upper space that would become the hayloft as soon as the early hay was ready to mow. But for this one night, there would be jigs and reels for as long as the fiddler played.

  After helping to raise the barn, Papa said he was too tired to go. Mama, who had a quilt to finish, was content to stay home. And so it was Charlotte and her brothers who set off in the wagon, since the Hoopers’ buggy was not big enough to carry four people. James drove. Charlotte sat up on the high board seat beside him, taking care that her new yellow gown not be soiled or crushed. Isaac and Charlie rode in the back, where hay or market produce was the usual load.

  When the dancing began, each of her brothers in turn was her partner, before going off to ask other girls. Left standing with the wallflowers, Charlotte wondered if she would ever be asked to dance by a boy who was not her brother. When no one had claimed her for the next two dances, she decided no one ever would. And that was when Nick Schyler stepped up to her.

  “May I have the honour?” he asked.

  She glanced around quickly, thinking that he meant this invitation for some other girl. Handsome, lanky, blue-eyed Nick was seventeen years old, a farmer’s son who lived a mile down the road from the Hoopers. Until this moment, he had never paid any attention to Charlotte. But there he was, offering his arm. With a smile she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they were off.

  It was just as well that they danced every jig and reel, for she was too shy, at fourteen, to have carried on a conversation.

  At the end of the evening, James beckoned from across the room, signalling that it was time to return home.

  “I have to go now,” she said, reluctantly pulling her hand from Nick’s, where it most certainly belonged.

  “May I call on you tomorrow?” Nick asked. “After church?”

  Charlotte felt herself blushing and was barely able to meet his eyes.

  “Yes, I reckon that will be all right.”

  In the morning she told Mama and Papa that Nick had asked to call.

  “He’s a fine lad from a good family,” Mama said, “though I
’m not sure you’re old enough to have a young man calling on you.”

  Papa frowned. “The Schylers are Whigs. Best not mix with him too much.”

  “But may he call on me? Papa, please!”

  “I would not close the door against him. But I see trouble ahead.”

  Plenty of trouble, as it turned out. Yet until the day her brothers joined the Loyalist regiment, she never could have guessed how bad.

  Chapter ten

  “Poor man’s chicken feathers, my grandmother used to call them,” said Mama. She was stuffing beech leaves into hemp sacks. Sergeant Major Clark had given them six empty sacks — enough to make three mattresses.

  “Why did she call them that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Because that’s what poor people used, in the old days. They’re not as soft as chicken feathers, but they’ll block the cold that rises from the ground.”

  “What we need is a fire inside the tent. I see smoke rising from the Indians’ huts. Papa, if they can have their cooking fires inside, why can’t we?”

  “Canvas burns a hundred times faster than bark. One spark, and whoosh! Fire’s dangerous in a tent. What we need is a metal pail. If we had one, we could fill it with embers and hot ashes and bring it into the tent. That way, we could have warmth without danger.”

  Mama grasped the open end of the sack she was filling, and as she gave it a shake, she started coughing.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Papa.

  “It’s nothing.” Mama caught her breath. “Just dust from the leaves.” A moment later she coughed again.

  The next day her cough was worse.

  “A touch of ague,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.” She sat huddled in her blanket. Her teeth chattered, but her skin was hot.

  “Martha, you have a fever,” said Papa. “The doctor should see you.”

  “I’ll ask him if he’ll come,” said Charlotte. She pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders. When she opened the tent flap, snow swirled inside. Wind buffeted her as she crossed the parade square.

  She found the regiment’s doctor and his assistant in the outbuilding that housed the surgery and the infirmary. The doctor, a tall, thin man with greying hair, wore over his uniform a smock splashed with blood. A putrid smell filled the air. Lying on a narrow cot, a soldier moaned with pain as the assistant bandaged his feet.

  “Gangrene,” the doctor told Charlotte as he took off the smock. “The poor fellow has lost four toes from frostbite. His marching days are done.”

  The doctor listened attentively as Charlotte described Mama’s symptoms. He asked, “Has your mother a rash? Does she vomit? Are her bowels disturbed?”

  “No. Just fever and a cough.”

  He put on his greatcoat and fur hat. “It doesn’t sound infectious. Not like typhoid or small pox. I’ll have a look at her.”

  In the icy tent, the doctor took off only his gloves while he tapped Mama’s chest and back and listened to her breathing.

  “She suffers from an asthma and water on the chest. I shall bleed her. Then you must burn sulphur to cleanse the air. I’ll write a script for you to get it.”

  When the doctor had drawn off a pint of blood, Mama said that she felt better.

  Papa took the doctor’s script to the commissary and returned with a lump of yellow sulphur the size of a lemon. It burned with a blue flame, filling the tent with acrid fumes. Within seconds, all three were choking.

  Mama gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

  Papa opened the tent flap and kicked the burning sulphur into the snow. “Better freeze to death than be poisoned by those hellish fumes!”

  “If we were back home,” Mama whispered, “Dr. Ruttan would give me laudanum.” Her eyes were red, and every breath wheezed in her chest.

  Dear old Dr. Ruttan! Charlotte remembered how he used to arrive in his high-wheeled buggy, for Mama was often ill. He would peer at her through his square-framed spectacles. “Give her port wine, half a glass every day.” That was his favourite prescription. From his black bag he would take out a vial of laudanum to help her rest.

  “Maybe the doctor has laudanum in his dispensary,” Charlotte said.

  “Ask him,” said Papa. “It’s worth a try.”

  Again Charlotte stepped out into the gale. Wind-driven grains of snow lashed her face as she made her way to the surgery. The doctor was not there.

  Charlotte asked at the blockhouse.

  “Try the officers’ mess,” said Sergeant Major Clark.

  That was where she found him, playing cards at a table near the fire. The junior officer who opened the door looked out at the swirling snow and motioned her inside. As she stepped closer to the fire, her cheeks tingled from the warmth of the blaze. The scent of nutmeg rose from a steaming punchbowl on the sideboard.

  Glancing up, the doctor recognized Charlotte. At the next break in the play, he got to his feet. “I’ll be back,” he told the others, “after I’ve seen to the young lass.” He joined her by the fire. “Is your mother worse?”

  “Yes. She needs laudanum.”

  “Oh? Are you telling me what to prescribe?”

  Charlotte winced at the disdain in his voice. “Please, I didn’t mean …” She knew that she ought to apologize, but the lump in her throat made speech impossible. No laudanum for Mama. She backed towards the door, trying to escape before she started to cry.

  “Stop.”

  She paused, still not looking at him.

  “Laudanum, you say?” The doctor cleared his throat. “Come along. I have it in my dispensary.” He put on his greatcoat and fur hat. “No woman should have to spend the winter in a tent.”

  She tramped after him through the snow. When they reached the dispensary, Charlotte stamped the snow from her boots and waited inside the door while he took out his key and unlocked the dispensary cabinet. From a glass-stoppered bottle he filled a small vial.

  “Twelve drops every night.”

  Charlotte held the vial under her cloak all the way back. When she entered the tent, Mama turned her head at the blast of frigid air.

  “Is that Isaac?” Her voice sounded strained and weary.

  “My dear, it’s Charlotte,” Papa said gently.

  The wind shook the tent, making the canvas flap like a loose sail.

  “Where is Isaac? Hasn’t he come home?”

  Charlotte looked at her mother’s blank, unseeing eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “Isaac came home. But he isn’t here right this minute.” She handed the vial to Papa. “Twelve drops every night.”

  “I’ll give it to her now.” He counted out the dose.

  “When Isaac gets back, tell him … tell him …” Whatever the message, she never gave it. The laudanum took effect in moments, and Mama was asleep.

  Charlotte too slept heavily that night, not waking until morning light filled the tent. The first thing she heard was Papa’s deep voice.

  “We’ll have a brown cow. We can call her Daisy, after that cow we had back home.”

  Mama mumbled something.

  “What’s that, my dear?” said Papa. “Buttercup? Yes, we could call her Buttercup. Then she would have to be a yellow cow. Well, I’ll find one for you.”

  When Charlotte sat up, she saw a smile on her mother’s face.

  “A dozen chickens,” Papa continued, “and a rooster to keep them laying. The rooster will wake us every morning. Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

  “Henry Hooper, I love you.” Still smiling, Mama closed her eyes and slept again.

  When she awoke, she was wet with sweat, but the fever and delirium were gone. Papa continued with the laudanum. Mama’s chest cleared, and the fever did not return.

  Christmas Eve. Sitting with Mama and Papa in the cold tent, Charlotte couldn’t help thinking about the family’s last Christmas. There had been plum pudding boiling in the pot, a turkey roasting on the spit, mulled cider in the punch bowl and evergreen wreaths in the windows. Mama had played carols on the clavichord
while the rest of the family gathered around to sing. Nick had taken Charlotte for a sleigh ride. She remembered the sound of harness bells jingling. When he kissed her, his mouth had been warm although his cheeks were cold. That was only one year ago.

  Outside the Hoopers’ tent, people walked by calling out, “Merry Christmas.” A drum began to beat, and a fife joined in. Charlotte stepped outside to see what was going on. Through softly falling snow, a drummer and a fifer were making the rounds of the Loyalist camp. The drummer shouted, “Come one! Come all! Sing carols at the blockhouse.”

  Louisa Vrooman walked by with her husband and children. When she saw Charlotte, she called out, “Come along with us.”

  Charlotte shook her head. It was fine for Louisa, surrounded by her family, to share the Christmas spirit. If James and Charlie and Isaac were alive, Charlotte might feel like singing carols too.

  Louisa motioned the others to go on ahead. She stood outside the Hoopers’ tent, arms folded, waiting. “I know how you feel,” she said. “But next year won’t be any better unless you try.”

  The music of the fife and drum was fainter and further away, yet Louisa did not budge.

  Charlotte hesitated. Behind her, inside the tent, Mama was weeping while Papa held her in his arms and tried in vain to comfort her. What more could anyone do?

  “You’re right,” Charlotte said to Louisa. “I’m coming.”

  Louisa linked her arm with Charlotte’s. “If we hurry, we can catch up.”

  They stomped through the snow to join the others. When they reached the blockhouse, the singing had already begun. To her own surprise, Charlotte felt happy to be there, surrounded by people who still had the heart to sing,

  Glad tidings of great joy I bring

  To you and all mankind …

  In the crowded blockhouse Charlotte stood between Louisa and a copper-skinned girl in a buckskin cape and listened to the Christmas story. The journey to Bethlehem. The angelic host. The shepherds. The Three Kings. Charlotte knew it all by heart. But the last part moved her, as it never had before: