The Way Lies North Page 4

  “I’m not a Rebel, either. Please put that down and let me explain.”

  “Put it down, Elijah. Whatever she is, she can’t hurt us.”

  Elijah lowered the pitchfork. He licked his lips. “What’ll we do with her, Ma?”

  “We’ll start by hearing what she has to say.”

  Charlotte relaxed. These people were Loyalists. They would help.

  “My name is Charlotte Hooper,” she began.

  As the woman listened, she pursed her lips and frowned. The longer she listened, the more worried she looked. When Charlotte had finished, she shook her head.

  “I believe you. But suppose I let you stay here and the Sons of Liberty find out. Do you know what they’ll do? They’ll hang Elijah and burn down the house.”

  “Her folks can hide in the root cellar,” said Elijah. “If they get caught, we’ll say we didn’t know they was there.”

  “You think Liberty men will swallow that? In a pig’s eye!” She turned to Charlotte. “Still, I reckon we’re obliged to help you. Go get your ma and pa. I’ll unlock the root cellar so you can slide right in. Once you get in there, don’t come out till you’re ready to leave. Don’t say good-bye. Just go.”

  Charlotte felt like hugging the woman. “Thank you, Mrs… .”

  “Cobman. Sadie Cobman. My husband and my eldest son are in the west with Butler’s Rangers. This is my middle boy, Elijah. My youngest is asleep in his bed. He’s nine years old, but he won’t be the youngest for long.” She laid her hand on her ample belly. “God willing.”

  “Ma, shall I go along to lend a hand?”

  “Do you need a hand?” asked Mrs. Cobman.

  “It would help. My father is a big man, and he can’t walk.”

  “All right. Elijah can go with you.”

  “I’ll get my musket.”

  “Hold your horses!” She turned to Charlotte. “How far away are your folks?”

  “About a mile.”

  “No gun, then. One shot would rouse the village. Be quiet and be quick.” She looked out the window. “This rain’s a blessing. Nobody will stir outdoors that doesn’t have to.”

  “I’ll put the pitchfork in the shed,” said Elijah, “and catch up to you.”

  Charlotte hardly noticed the cold and the rain as she started up the path. Her gamble had worked. Next time Papa would pay more heed to what she said.

  The Cobmans’ root cellar smelled like apples and earth. By the light of a candle set in a tin cup, Charlotte saw open barrels of apples and winter vegetables ranged along the rough stone walls. Three quilts lay folded on an unpainted board shelf.

  “Looks like Ma has got things ready,” said Elijah. “There’s apples and carrots to eat — turnips and potatoes too, if you don’t mind them raw. As for the calls of nature, our backhouse is in the yard. Just go at night.” He started up the steps, then turned, “I’ll check in the morning to see how you are.”

  After Elijah had gone, Mama found a stack of hemp sacks in a corner. “There, that’s not too bad,” she said as she spread them on the earth floor. “Better than outdoors, at any rate.”

  “Our clothes aren’t going to dry down here,” Charlotte said.

  “No, but they won’t get any wetter.”

  Charlotte draped her muddy cloak over a barrel. She took an apple, wrapped herself in one of the quilts, and sat down. She was warm enough, although uncomfortable in her soggy clothes. Overhead she heard voices and footsteps. So the plank ceiling of the root cellar must be the floor of the room above.

  As she munched the apple, Charlotte remembered another time long ago when she had hidden in a root cellar with mud all over her clothes. She must have been six years old, because it was the year before she started school. After days of rain, the sun had come out, and she was racing down the lane to meet her brothers coming home from school. Just before she reached them, her feet had flown out from under her, and she landed on her backside. James and Charlie had burst out laughing: “You’ll catch it now!”

  But Isaac pulled her to her feet. “Go hide in the root cellar,” he had told her. “I’ll fetch you a clean gown.”

  For some reason it had been important not to get dirty. Probably company was coming. The only thing Charlotte clearly remembered was Isaac bringing her a fresh gown, concealed under his jacket so Mama wouldn’t know. He had helped Charlotte to change. “Don’t worry about the muddy gown,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” And he did. Isaac washed it in the horse trough and hung it in the barn to dry. Mama never knew; or if she did, said nothing.

  Charlotte took another apple from the basket. What good apples! Crisp, juicy and sweet. She passed one to Papa, who was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. Mama, who was holding her hands over the candle flame for a bit of warmth, turned toward Charlotte.

  “It’s only for a few days,” she said. “We’ll make the best of it and get some rest.” She took a blanket and settled down beside Papa.

  The candle flame guttered and went out. Now the darkness in the root cellar was complete. Was this how it felt to be buried alive?

  Chapter four

  “You married me because I was afraid of spiders?” That was Mama’s voice.

  “I grant that you had other charms, but it was your fear of spiders that won my heart.”

  Their voices had wakened Charlotte. In the pitch-dark root cellar she felt as if she were floating in a void, with her parents’ voices her only lifeline to the real world. She needed to feel their nearness. But what in the world were they talking about?

  “Spiders, of all things! Henry, be sensible.”

  “I am always sensible. Other men face wolves and bears to impress the woman they love. But I could be a hero to the prettiest woman in the Valley by killing a spider.”

  “And that was why you married me?” Mama sounded amused.

  “Partly. But I had a practical motive too. I was thirty-five years old and tired of the bachelor life. I longed for regular meals, clean-swept floors and bright curtains. I wanted better company than the mice that shared my daily bread. With Martha Riley keeping my house, there’d be no mice, ants, earwigs, spiders—–”

  “That’s enough, darling.” Mama started to laugh, but her laugh ended in a cough.

  “If you want to change the subject, we can talk about your other charms.”

  “Ah, yes.” She cleared her throat. “You admit that I had other charms.”

  “Yes indeed. Your ivory skin, your emerald eyes, your beautiful red hair. Dearest Martha, I knew from the day we met that you were the only woman for me.”

  “And there I was, thirty years old and past my prime.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “After taking care of my parents all those years until God called them home, I expected to end my days as a lonely old maid. You rescued me from that.”

  “You rescued me from being a lonely old bachelor.”

  This time it was Charlotte who coughed. If her parents were going to talk about love, she didn’t want to hear it.

  “Hush!” Mama whispered. “We’ve disturbed Charlotte.”

  Now that all was quiet, the feeling of loneliness returned, tinged with envy. Mama and Papa had each other. All Charlotte had was a silver locket and a ring of braided hair to remind her of earlier hopes.

  She had made the ring more than a year ago from Nick’s hair and hers, light and dark strands twisted together, something of him and something of her. “This will do for the present,” he had said when she showed it to him.

  Now she was almost sixteen. Though there was still no gold band upon her finger, the braided ring was safe in her locket and her locket safe in her petticoat. Where exactly was it? She ran her fingers up and down her skirts, searching. Surely she hadn’t left it behind? No. She was certain she hadn’t.

  At last she found the locket where she had quilted it into her petticoat, slightly above her left knee. As her fingers pressed the oval shape, she felt a little less lonely, and a little clo
ser to Nick.

  A thin line of light under the root-cellar door was the only visible sign of dawn. Outside, a rooster crowed. Charlotte heard footsteps overhead. She could distinguish three sets. The slow footsteps must be Mrs. Cobman’s, the clunky ones Elijah’s, and the scampering ones the little brother’s. From the scraping of chair legs on the floorboards, she concluded that the kitchen was above the root cellar and that it was breakfast time.

  Doors slammed. The scampering footsteps and the clunky footsteps ceased. Overhead, Mrs. Cobman plodded back and forth. Likely she was clearing the table.

  In a few moments the root-cellar door swung open, and there stood Elijah at the top of the steps with a large basket over his arm. “I can’t stay,” he said as he came down the steps. From the basket he took out an oblong box. “Here’s some extra candles. Ma says for Charlotte to put her cloak in the basket so she can dry it by the fire.”

  “That’s kind of her,” said Charlotte as she folded the muddy cloak.

  “There’s something else. Ma says I have to put the padlock on the door.”

  “You mean lock us in?” Papa asked.

  “Just for the daytime.”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “Ma thinks so.” Elijah shuffled his feet, obviously uncomfortable to have to deliver this message. “Moses don’t know you folks are here. He ain’t allowed to take apples from the root cellar, but he sometimes sneaks one if the door ain’t locked. Ma don’t trust Moses to keep a secret. He’s only nine.”

  “Isn’t he at school all day?” said Mama.

  “He is. But after school he might try to snitch one. Ma’s worried about the neighbours too. No telling who might come snooping around.”

  Elijah picked up the basket and mounted the stairs. When he opened the door, Charlotte caught a glimpse of grey sky. Then the door shut, the latch clicked, and the padlock closed with a snap.

  “This is a fine pickle,” said Mama. “I don’t fancy being locked up.”

  “Neither do I,” said Papa. “But Mrs. Cobman makes the rules.”

  Charlotte shivered. Being locked in gave her a prickly feeling, as if ants were crawling over her skin.

  There was nothing to do but eat and sleep. No one had thought about providing water, but the juicy apples held enough moisture to stave off thirst. When the line of light under the door disappeared, Charlotte knew that it was dark outside. There was more scraping of chairs overhead; the three sets of footsteps were heard again.

  Late in the evening, when Elijah returned to take the padlock off the door, he brought back Charlotte’s cloak, dry and brushed.

  “I’ll be back in the morning to lock you in if you’re still here.”

  “We will be. I wish we could leave tonight,” said Papa. “But my ankle needs one more day.”

  “Then I’ll see you in the morning.” Elijah closed the door behind him.

  The next morning Elijah seemed nervous. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and appeared to be listening for something.

  “We’ll leave tonight,” Papa told him.

  “That’s good,” said Elijah. “I don’t like the way some of our neighbours eye the house. Ma is scared out of her wits. Today I’ve got a job cutting wood, and I hate to leave her alone.”

  After he left, Charlotte got out a carrot. She was tired of apples. There was food in the rucksack, but Mama said it had to be kept for the journey. Charlotte sat down, rested her head against a barrel of turnips, and munched the carrot. After she had finished it she decided to take a nap. Not that she was tired, but what else was there to do?

  Mrs. Cobman’s footsteps padded across the kitchen floor. Poor woman! The last thing she needed was Loyalists hiding in her root cellar. In her condition, with her husband and eldest son away, she must already be in a terrible state of nerves.

  Now there was a new sound — not overhead, but outside in the yard. Carts rattled. Wagons creaked. Horses’ hooves stamped. There was shouting, and then banging at the door.

  Mrs. Cobman’s footsteps thudded in the direction of the noise. Her voice cried out, “Be off with you!”

  “Open up! Open up!” There was a crash.

  “What?” Mama gasped.

  “Hush!” Papa whispered.

  “Villains!” Mrs. Cobman screamed. A second crash. Then loud scraping and bumping that sounded like furniture being dragged across the floor. There were shouts, smashing glass, the pounding of many boots, and a woman’s sobs.

  When the noise overhead died down, more shouting arose outside. It sounded as if men were loading wagons right outside the root-cellar door. “Give me a hand with this wardrobe,” someone shouted.

  “Next they’ll come for us,” Papa whispered.

  Charlotte grabbed up the blankets and hemp sacks and shoved them into a corner. Mama blew out the candle. All three crouched behind barrels. No escape was possible. Their only hope was not to be seen. Charlotte’s heart thudded as she waited for the axe blow that would smash the padlock, break down the door.

  Horses whinnied. Wagons rumbled away. Then silence.

  “They’ve gone,” Charlotte whispered.

  “They didn’t know we were here,” said Papa. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What have they done to Mrs. Cobman?” Mama asked.

  “God knows,” said Papa.

  “Henry,” said Mama, “we must help her.”

  “We’ll wait ten minutes. Let the scoundrels go on their way. If they saw us breaking out, matters would be worse for her.”

  They waited. Charlotte strained to hear some sound from above. Even weeping would be better than total silence.

  “I smell smoke,” said Mama. Charlotte smelled it too.

  “Damnation!” Papa was on his feet. “They’ve fired the house.”

  He stumbled up the steps to the root-cellar door. Charlotte heard his hand axe clash upon the hinges, striking blow after blow. When the upper hinge gave way, he flung his weight against the door, smashed it open and lunged through. Charlotte followed; Mama, dragging the rucksack, was right behind.

  “Which way?” Papa asked.

  Charlotte pointed toward the back of the house. Racing past the kitchen window, she saw nothing through the glass except dense smoke as thick as raw wool. It poured out when Papa opened the back door. He and Charlotte plunged inside.

  Shutting her eyes against the stinging smoke, she dropped to her hands and knees and felt her way across the floor. Where was Mrs. Cobman? Charlotte groped for a foot, a hand, or fabric of a gown. Her lungs were about to burst. She had to get out. Her hand made one last sweep of the floor — ahead, to the left, to the right — and her fingers touched an arm.

  “I’ve got her!” Charlotte grabbed the limp arm. With the intake of breath, smoke filled her lungs. Through half-closed eyes she located the tall rectangle of light that was the doorway, and then squeezed her eyes shut again. Choking and gasping, she dragged the motionless body across the floor.

  But the door was too far away. Charlotte’s ears pounded and a burning mist swirled through her head. Her knees collapsed under her. She felt the plank floor against her cheek as a great tide of blackness swept her away.

  “Breathe!” Mama’s voice came from far away. “Take a big breath. Good. Now let it out!”

  Charlotte’s breath wheezed in the air passages to her lungs. She opened her eyes. There was Mama bending over her. Charlotte pushed herself up on one elbow and looked around. A little way off, Papa, kneeling on the ground, held Mrs. Cobman by the shoulders as she too struggled for breath. Behind them, flames shot from every window of the Cobmans’ house.

  “Can you walk?” asked Mama.

  Charlotte nodded. But as soon as she got to her feet, her knees buckled.

  “Lean on me. We can’t stay out in the open.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “Back to the forest.”

  “What about Mrs. Cobman?”

  “She has to come with us. We can’t leave her alone.”


  Mrs. Cobman’s eyes were fixed upon the burning house. Her lips fluttered, but no sound emerged.

  Papa, still holding her shoulders, spoke quietly, “You are safe. Your sons are safe. That’s more important than a house.”

  Mrs. Cobman seemed not to hear. Shudders passed through her body.

  “You’re coming with us,” Papa said. Wincing as he stood up, he held out his hand to help her to her feet, but she jerked away.

  “No. You folks go your ways.”

  “We can’t leave you here,” said Papa. “We’re going back to the woods. When your sons join us, you can decide what you want to do.”

  “If I’m in the woods, they won’t know where I am. They’ll think I’m in there,” and she pointed to the burning house.

  “I’ll wait here,” said Charlotte. “When your boys get here, I’ll bring them to you.”

  Looking back over her shoulder at the flames, Mrs. Cobman let Papa lead her away. With every step she leaned more heavily on Papa’s arm.

  Mama picked up the rucksack and followed.

  What Charlotte needed was a place to hide and rest. To the side of the house stood a honeysuckle thicket. Somewhat unsteadily, she made her way to it and sat down on the ground. No one would notice her here as long as she stayed still.

  Through the tangle of branches she had a view of the river road and of the passers-by who stopped to watch the fire. Some were on foot, some on horseback, and some in buggies. No one looked excited to see the house in flames.

  A loaded barge moved slowly down the Mohawk River. In another day or two, it would go right by Fort Hunter. If she were on that barge, she could tell the bargemen: “Let me off at Chrysler’s Grist Mill. I can walk home from there in half an hour.” Charlotte felt a big sore lump in her throat as she watched the barge disappear around a river bend.

  The fire burned on. The Cobmans’ roof fell in, shooting a firestorm of sparks higher than the trees. Then the walls and floors collapsed. By mid-afternoon, all that remained were the stone chimney and a great hole filled with smoldering timbers.

  Elijah ran toward the pillar of smoke with his head up, as if unable to take his eyes away. He ran until he reached the front gate, and there he stopped. Clutching the top rail, he stood motionless for several minutes. Then he opened the gate, walked slowly to the edge of the smoldering pit, and covered his face with his hands.