The Way Lies North

by Jean Rae Baxter

  It was Mama who was astounded. Coming out of the tent a minute later, she stared at Nick blankly. For a moment Charlotte wondered whether she even knew who he was. Nick reddened slightly, as if suspecting that he was unwelcome. He bowed.

  “Nick Schyler at your service.”

  Mama recovered her composure. “Oh, excuse me … I didn’t expect …” She laughed nervously. “I’m really not prepared for guests.”

  When Papa burst out laughing, even Mama joined in.

  After a supper of pea soup, soggy hardtack biscuits from Nick’s rucksack, and raspberries, the questions began.

  “Where did you go when you rode off on that Rebel’s horse?” Papa asked. He picked up his knife and the half-finished spoon that he had been whittling when Nick arrived. The knife bit into the soft wood, scattering tiny shavings as Papa hollowed out the bowl of the spoon.

  “Not far. The horse went lame halfway to Albany. I left it in somebody’s pasture and headed for New York on foot. Along the way a Loyalist family took me in, but I didn’t stay long. By Christmas I was in New York. With no place to live and no money, I was in a bad situation until I met a Quaker who told me that the British needed couriers. He told me to apply to Colonel Robinson, the officer in charge of Guides and Pioneers.”

  “You never thought to enlist in a regiment?”

  “No, sir. I did not.”

  “You haven’t joined the Quakers, have you?”

  “No. But I share their hatred of war. As a courier carrying dispatches, I need not take the life of any man. That’s a vow I made to myself when this war began.”

  “But your sympathies lay with the Rebels, as I recall.” Papa stopped whittling. He raised his head and looked directly at Nick. “What happened to your Republican ideals?”

  Nick flushed. “I haven’t lost them completely. I feel no reverence for King George. I still think that taxation without representation is wrong. Nothing could justify the Stamp Act.”

  “Hold your horses!” Papa said. “Money was needed to pay for the Colonies’ defence. Why shouldn’t they contribute?”

  “That’s not the issue. Why should a country on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean run the affairs of the Thirteen Colonies? Even Prime Minister Pitt recognized that we should have a voice in making laws that affect us. There are capable people in America. Brilliant men like Benjamin Franklin, scholars like John Adams, and responsible landowners like Thomas Jefferson.” He paused. “I believe in government by the people. Every man should have a vote.”

  “Why not every woman, too?” Charlotte interrupted.

  Nick turned his head and took a look at Charlotte. “Now that is a revolutionary idea! But why not?”

  “Enough of this radical nonsense!” Papa raised his hand. “Nick, I understand your position. But if you still think like a Republican, what made you decide to help the Loyalist side? I suppose my daughter had something to do with it.”

  “She did.” As Nick said this, his mouth twisted. “Some bad things happened.”

  What sort of things? Charlotte wondered. A cold feeling ran down her spine. Why did that strange and bitter look cross Nick’s face?

  Papa cleared his throat. “Bad things happen in war.”

  “It turns men into beasts,” Nick exclaimed. “Look what’s happening in the Mohawk Valley. Neighbours fighting neighbours. People’s lives turned upside down.” He stopped for breath.

  “Yes,” said Papa, before Nick could continue. “I may not share your goals, but I agree that violence is not the way to make any situation better.” He lifted the unfinished wooden spoon that he held in his hand. “Do you see this? There’s only one way to work with wood, and that’s slowly and carefully until you achieve exactly what you want. You can’t use an axe to carve a spoon.”

  Nick seemed to relax. “That’s what I think too, though we may differ about the qualities that make a perfect spoon.”

  Papa started whittling again. “I can foresee the day when free citizens on this side of the Atlantic will enjoy self-government. But revolution isn’t the only way to achieve that goal. You don’t need to destroy a way of life in order to make it better.” As he pressed his knife blade against the spoon’s shallow bowl, another tiny flake of wood dropped to the ground.

  Charlotte’s eyes moved from the spoon to Nick’s face. The tight look around his mouth had relaxed. There was a long pause.

  “Nick,” Mama said hesitantly, breaking the silence, “I wonder whether you have been back to the Mohawk Valley?”

  “Yes, a fortnight ago. On my way here, I passed through Fort Hunter. I saw your house.”

  “You mean that it’s still standing?” Mama asked.

  “It has escaped burning. People are living there.”

  “Squatters,” said Papa bitterly.

  Nick nodded. “It’s like that everywhere — squatters moving into empty houses that Loyalists have abandoned.”

  “I’d rather my house burned to the ground,” Papa said.

  “It wasn’t spared by chance,” said Nick. “You can be sure a Liberty man wanted it for himself and told his friends to leave it alone. Now that the Continental Congress has banished all Loyalists, their property will be expropriated. If the Rebels win the war, as seems likely, squatters will get clear title.”

  Charlotte felt sick at the thought of strangers taking over their home, warming themselves by their fireplaces, sleeping in their beds. But she wouldn’t go as far as Papa. No matter who lived there, she could not wish her home destroyed.

  “Are any Loyalists left in Fort Hunter?” Mama asked.

  “Mighty few. I can tell you that the Reverend John Stuart is no longer there. He’s in Schenectady.”

  “What’s he doing there?” Papa asked.

  “He was arrested. The Board to Detect Conspiracies suspected him of plotting with the enemy. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge him, but he isn’t allowed to leave Schenectady without the Board’s permission. He’ll likely be sent up to Canada when there’s an exchange of prisoners of war.”

  Papa frowned. “I hope Mr. Stuart still has my horse. She’s a good mare, and I hate the thought of any damn Rebel on her back.”

  The next morning, Louisa Vrooman came to call, bringing her four children. She hugged Nick and kissed both his cheeks.

  “I’ve been worried about you ever since you stole that Rebel’s horse. But here you are, safe and sound.”

  “It’s good to see you and the children out of harm’s way,” Nick said. “But where’s Peter?”

  “Off to Fort Niagara with the Royal Greens. Hadn’t you heard? So I’m on my own with all these children. We have to wait until the end of the war, then start all over again.”

  “You mean, produce four more children?”

  “Like as not,” Louisa laughed, casting a proud glance at her brood, who were sitting on the grass near the tent. The boys were helping their little sisters make daisy chains. They were beautiful children, sunny and blond. Charlotte hoped that Nick’s children would look like that.

  “Now, what’s this I hear about you and Charlotte?” Louisa asked.

  “Show her,” Nick said to Charlotte.

  As Charlotte held out her hand to show Louisa the golden band with its garnets and pearls, she felt almost embarrassed at its beauty amidst the stark hardship all around.

  “I won’t wear it every day,” she said. “We have our valuables buried in a pit under the tent. I’ll keep it there.”

  “Peter and I did the same thing. Peter dug a hole big enough to bury a dog under our tent. We hid everything of value in it — jewelry, documents.”

  “Documents?” Papa asked.

  “You know. Legal papers. We have them sealed in an oilskin pouch: the deed to our land, the bill of sale for a yoke of oxen, my father’s last Will and Testament that lists what he left to me.”

  “Our legal papers are buried back at the farm,” said Papa.

  Nick sounded surprised. “What good will they do you there?�
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  “After the war is over, I plan to go back and dig them up, along with our family Bible and some silver that was too bulky to bring with us.”

  “Maybe they won’t still be there.”

  “They’re buried deep.”

  Nick leaned forward. “Mr. Hooper, if the Rebels win, after the war won’t be soon enough. There’s a squatter on your land. The farm would be his by the time you went back. He’d shoot you as a trespasser if he spotted you digging. So far, he isn’t working the fields. If I were you, I’d find a way to get those papers before he starts ploughing and planting that land.”

  After waiting a moment to let this sink in, he added: “There’s something else you ought to know. The British government has appointed an Inspector of Refugee Claims to catch cheaters. Too many Loyalists have been exaggerating their losses. I heard of a fellow who claimed he’d owned a hundred head of cattle, and it turned out to be one cow.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Papa. “There are bad apples in every barrel.”

  “True,” said Nick. “What’s to stop a fellow from lying if he doesn’t need to prove what he lost?”

  “Honesty,” said Papa, “which is often in short supply.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why they’ve made the new rule: no compensation without proof of loss.”

  Papa slowly nodded. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Chapter fifteen

  Charlotte lay with her arms folded under her head and stared into the dark. Six feet away, on the opposite side of the tent, Nick was sleeping.

  Mama and Papa must have thought that she was asleep too, because they were talking in those whispery voices they used when they did not want to waken her.

  “You heard what Nick told us,” Papa said. “We should have brought our legal papers with us. They would have been no trouble to carry.”

  “Henry, regret serves no purpose. At that time it seemed safer to bury them. The Sons of Liberty were everywhere.”

  “I should have known better. I wasn’t thinking about compensation. God knows what I was thinking.”

  “You were thinking about getting Charlotte and me to safety. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Charlotte heard the crunching of the beech leaves in Papa’s mattress as he rolled over. He sighed heavily. “Martha, I see everything differently from how I did a year ago.”

  “Well, it is different.”

  “Look at me. I hobble along on my crutch like an old man. Three toes missing. I can’t clear rocks any longer. I’d wear myself out in half a day if I had to follow a plough. When we left the Mohawk Valley, I was sure I could still do everything I did thirty years ago. But I was wrong. I’m sixty. It may be five years before the Upper Country is surveyed and the land grants assigned. You and I will each receive one hundred acres. What use will it be to us? Two hundred acres of wilderness to clear before we can even start to farm!”

  “Sixty-five is not so old,” Mama said tactfully. “Wait until we receive our land grants. There’s no need to decide now. If you think then that it’s too late to start farming again, we can sell our grants.”

  “Martha, we won’t be able to buy a chicken coop with what they will fetch. After the war, there’ll be thousands of disbanded soldiers with no interest in farming dumping their grants for whatever they can get. The best thing for us to do will be to hand over our land grants to Charlotte and Nick. They’re young and strong. They can make use of them.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I’d like to run a general store. As soon as the Upper Country is settled, there’ll be a mill on every creek, and a village will grow up around every mill. People will need a store. With fair compensation for our property back home, I’ll have the money I need to get started.”

  “A general store. You’d be good at that, Henry. But as you say, it takes money to set up shop.”

  “So we must retrieve the papers. The deed to our house and land, bills of sale for the livestock, receipts of payment for furniture. Everything we need is in that strongbox.”

  “I don’t know of any way we can go back there to dig it up.” Mama sounded anxious.

  “I’ll go back myself and dig it up.”

  “Henry, I don’t know how you can.”

  “I’ll find a way.” There was a rustling noise as he rolled over again. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Right now, we had better get some sleep.”

  For Charlotte, sleep was further away than ever. Of course Papa could not make the journey — a crippled man with no means of transportation. And even if he did succeed in reaching Fort Hunter, he might be captured. All Loyalists had been proscribed and banished. If a Whig neighbour recognized Papa and turned him in, he would spend the rest of the war locked up in Schenectady jail. He might even be hanged as a traitor.

  On the other side of the tent, Nick sighed in his sleep. It’s for our future too, she thought. Nick’s and mine. And we’re the ones who can make the journey. A plan took shape in her mind. Nick had a swift canoe and a year’s experience travelling on secret missions through enemy territory. He didn’t know where to dig, but if she went with him, she could show him. In her mind’s eye she saw the potato field, the rock pile and the snake fence, the spade marks and boot prints that marked the spot.

  If Papa wanted to talk about it in the morning, she would be ready.

  Papa said no.

  Charlotte had expected that. Looking her father straight in the eye, she could practically read his mind. Too dangerous for a girl, he was thinking, not proper for a decent girl. But she asked anyway, “Why not?”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “But I wouldn’t travel as a girl,” she explained in a very reasonable tone. “If I wear breeches, a shirt, a broad-brimmed hat, and tie my hair back in a queue, I can easily pass for a boy.”

  “Huh,” said Papa. “You might fool all the world. But you wouldn’t fool Nick, and you wouldn’t fool yourself.”

  “Papa, don’t you trust us?”

  “Alone in the bush for two weeks?” he snorted. “Do you think I was never young?”

  Charlotte didn’t like to say it, but she wasn’t convinced that either parent had ever been young.

  “Papa,” she answered, “I know what honour is due to me and due to you.”

  “I am sure you do. But nature has its own laws. In the wilderness, civilization’s rules are easy to ignore. Think about it. Given such opportunity, could you and Nick resist desires that are natural and urgent in the young?”

  “If we give you our word?”

  “What will that be worth in the middle of the night?”

  All this time Nick remained silent. He looked from Charlotte to Papa and back again, and when he looked at Charlotte she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes.

  At last he spoke up. “Mr. Hooper, I like the idea, and I reckon I can control myself for two weeks, if that’s your chief worry. We can’t go this summer because my leave is nearly over. In two days I report to the Commander for my next assignment. But in the spring I’ll have another leave coming to me. Charlotte and I can go then.”

  “Won’t that be too late?” Charlotte asked.

  Nick shook his head. “The squatter isn’t farming the land. He has a few sheep in the pasture, but the fields are growing nothing but weeds. He’ll wait till the fighting is over before putting in crops.”

  Papa stroked his chin — a sure sign that he was thinking hard. “You’d be travelling through a hundred miles of disputed territory. There may be Oneidas hiding in the bush.”

  “No worse dangers than your family went through to get here,” said Nick.

  “That’s true, Henry.” Mama broke in. “We need those papers, and we have to weigh need against risk. Besides …” She paused and put her hand to her chest. For a moment her breath rasped in her throat, then a deep cough shook her body. Mama pulled a rag from the sleeve of her gown and held it to her mouth. She coughed and coug
hed. When the fit of coughing passed, she glanced at the rag, folded it carefully, and thrust it back into her sleeve. “As I was about to say, our family Bible and silver tea set are buried there too. Charlotte and Nick must have those, someday.”

  Charlotte could hardly believe it. Her mother was willing to let her travel with Nick through the wilderness for two weeks with no chaperone. Maybe Mama’s body had weakened, but a trace of her old spirit remained. This was the woman who had smiled to see James, Charlie and Isaac in their new uniforms. She had shared their spirit of adventure, their recklessness that was so foreign to Charlotte and Papa, the solid ones.

  Papa’s resistance collapsed. If Martha was on Charlotte’s side, he had no ally. Making a last stand, he argued, “If I drew a map showing the exact spot to dig, Nick could go alone.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “One rock pile looks much like another.”

  “Especially at night,” Nick agreed. “On my own, I might not find the right spot at first. With squatters living in the house, there wouldn’t be time for digging holes here and there.”

  “You’re probably right,” Papa sighed. “I don’t like it, but I give my consent.”

  The time remaining was too short — only two more days for catching up on all the months Charlotte and Nick had been parted.

  At sunset, on the eve of Nick’s departure, they left the fort and followed a path through the woods to the spot where they had pulled the canoe onto the shore only one week before. There they sat on a limestone ledge and looked across the channel. All that remained of day was a fading pink light above the woods on the far side.

  Tree frogs began to peep, and from further down the shore came the loud “harrumph, harrumph” of the bullfrog chorus tuning up. The rising moon appeared like a silver mound above the trees.

  Charlotte could not shake off the sadness that had been with her all day. Tomorrow evening at this time Nick would be rolling out his blanket at some lonely campsite on Lake Ontario’s south shore.

  “Do you think,” she asked, “that the war will be over by next summer?”