The Hollow Tree (20 page)

The next time she woke, she was alone again. A dim light was coming in the window and filtering through the chinks in the logs all around the house — and so were wind and snow. The smouldering fire sputtered on the hearth but shed little light and less heat. Phoebe shivered under the heavy blanket that covered her. Cautiously she lifted herself on one elbow. Her head felt as though it weighed fifty pounds, and she was dizzy. Little by little she forced herself to sit up. Slowly she manoeuvred herself to the side of the bed and put her feet to the floor. She jerked them back. There was a cold muddy puddle on the floor beside the bed. What’s more, her right leg was throbbing. She gazed at it, puzzled. A length of lint bandage had been neatly wrapped around it. She sank back onto the bed. She remembered, then, falling down a deep crevice and cutting her leg on a sharp rock. She remembered, in vague snatches like a bad dream, the journey from the time she had parted from Jem on the mountainside. The days and nights did not seem separate, only moments — struggling across an abandoned beaver house, the
sound of a catamount screaming, wolves howling, scrambling up a hill in the dark, the terror of the gleaming eyes all around her, the gradual realization that the hills had given way to low land, then a river where she had lain down to sleep, no longer caring what happened.

And, I’m alive and I’m here, she thought. But I wonder where here is.

Looking around her in the dim light, she saw that there was no furniture other than the bed and a small chest beside it on two planks to keep it out of the mud. The chest served as a bedside table. On it was the bowl of soup she had drunk from when she’d last wakened. There was a film of ice over it. Beside it lay her knife and her moccasins and, carefully folded, her tunic, her leggings — and her pocket. She wondered where her red blanket was.

She turned her attention to herself. She had on a homespun cotton bed gown, much too big for her. I suppose it belongs to the woman with the friendly face, she thought, absently rubbing the rough cloth between her thumb and forefinger. “I wonder if I am a prisoner here.” She said this aloud and the sound of her own voice startled her. She pulled the cover up to her chin.

She didn’t have long to wait to find out. There hadn’t been time to more than imagine herself being dragged before a military tribunal made up of faces like Moses Litchfield’s, Hiram
Jesse’s, and Joseph Heaton’s before there was a knock on her door and a small, thin Native woman came into the room. She was dressed in deerskin leggings and tunic, and had a red blanket around her like the one Phoebe had worn for so many weeks. Her black hair was in two braids down her back.

“Good morning,” she said in Mohawk, and Phoebe responded in the same. The woman smiled and said something else, which Phoebe didn’t understand. Embarrassed not to be able to reply, Phoebe asked if the woman spoke English, and quickly explained that, not only was she not Mohawk, she only knew how to say “good morning,” “good night,” and three other words. She pointed weakly to herself. “Kahrhakon:ha — a Mohawk boy calls me that. My name is Phoebe, but Peter Sauk says I am more like a sparrow than a phoebe.”

“The English call me Mary Maracle.” The woman smiled at Phoebe. “Like you, I have lost my home in this war. My brothers, my father, and my husband are fighting with Thayendanagea for the British cause. You are in good hands. My sisters and I are here at the fort to help the refugees who come.”

“Fort. I am at a fort? What fort is it?”

“It is Fort St. John’s on the Richelieu River.”

She was in Canada! Fort St. John’s was where the refugees — and Jem, Aunt Rachael,
Uncle Josiah and Anne — had been headed. But her relief passed quickly. Could they have arrived already? — how long had she lain ill? If they were here, they would have told the commanding officer about Japhet Oram. Had she been rescued only to be hanged? Would the commanding officer have mercy if she gave him Gideon’s message? She looked over to where the pocket lay on top of her clothes. She had come so far, gone through so much to deliver that message. What if Anne or Joseph Heaton had already spoken against her? What if, after all this, she could never get that message to a British commander?

“I must see the commanding officer.” She sat up. Too fast. Dizzy, she sank back down again. She sat up more slowly. “I must get dressed at once — I must go see the commanding officer.”

Mary Maracle looked doubtful. “I think you will need to eat and rest before you are strong enough to go anywhere to see anyone.”

Phoebe did not want to rest, she wanted to go at once to see the commanding officer, but when she put her foot out of the bed again a fresh wave of dizziness swept over her and she realized that Mary Maracle was right. Tears of weakness filled her eyes.

“Please,” she said then, putting out her hand to clutch at Mary Maracle’s skirt as she turned to leave. “Do you know of a party of Loyalists from Vermont?”

“There have been several.”

“Is there a Mistress Rachael Robinson, or … a James Morrissay?”

Mary Maracle shook her head. “I have not heard those names — nor have we seen any new refugees these past few days — until you.” She smiled. “You wait.” Mary Maracle smiled at her again and quietly left the room.

Phoebe waited for what seemed like hours but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes. Then it was not Mary Maracle who came into the room, it was the grey-eyed woman with the kind face, the one who had brought the soup. She introduced herself as Lizzie O’Neil, the wife of a British sergeant.

“See the commanding officer, is it?” She looked quizzically at Phoebe. “Are you wantin’ to tell me you’re a King’s scout, then? Does the King have girls in his army now?” She laughed.

Phoebe didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she could tell this woman, no matter how kind she had been. “No, no, but there was … there was a scout. He died.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, there’s plenty of dyin’ goin’ on in these parts, surely. I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t believe you’ll get to see General Powell. He’s powerful busy, what with exchangin’ prisoners and dealin’ with refugees.”

Lizzie O’Neil came over to the bed, leaned down, pulled the blanket up to Phoebe’s chin,
stroked her cheek, then left the room. But Phoebe barely noticed her leaving. General Powell, Lizzie O’Neil had said. General Powell was the general Gideon’s message was addressed to. Of course, he would see her. It was
his
message.

The door blew open on a gust of wind and Mary Maracle came back in, interrupting her thoughts with a bowl of corn-meal samp, a basin of water, and a thin slice of soap. Phoebe ate a few spoonfuls of samp, then put the spoon down with a sigh.

“You cannot eat much when you have been nearly starved.” And Phoebe understood by those words and the look in Mary Maracle’s eyes that she really had been nearly dead, and why she was so very weak. She let Mary bring the basin of water to her in bed, and she washed her hands, treasuring the sliver of soap.

It was another day before she was strong enough to get out of bed for more than long enough to use the chamber-pot Mary Maracle brought her, or to have Lizzie O’Neil change the bandage and put fresh salve on her wounded leg. A long, impatient day. By the second morning she managed to eat all the samp in the bowl and, later in the day, to drink a whole cup of broth. Shakily, she got up to sit by the fireside that day. Sitting as close as she could to the feeble flames on a bench Mary had brought her, she washed her face, her hands, her neck, and her ears. How
she longed for a whole tub of hot water in front of a blazing hearth fire in a warm room. And for clean clothes. Hers were stained and torn, the fringe on both tunic and leggings almost all gone, and so thick with dirt and sweat they seemed no longer to be made of deerskin — and they were now almost as much too big for her as the bed gown was. She slipped her feet into the moccasins that had little left to them but tops and only enough of their soles to hold in the pieces of blanket she had fixed them with. She remembered, then, sitting on a fallen log, cutting a length of blanket off with her knife, folding it to make soles to cover the holes in her moccasins.

For all her weakness, Phoebe did not let a chance go by to beg Mary or Lizzie O’Neil to let her see General Powell, and at last, when Lizzie O’Neil came in that afternoon, she was accompanied by a younger woman, a slim, pretty woman, her fair hair covered by a clean white cap. She had a bonnet over the cap and a green wool cloak over her shoulders. She put off her cloak and bonnet, laid them on the bed, and approached Phoebe in that same, quiet, competent manner Aunt Rachael had. The memory brought a tightness to her throat.

“This is Mistress Sarah Sherwood, Phoebe. Her husband, Captain Justus Sherwood, advises the General about all his scouts. His missus will see to it he gets your message.”

“Oh, no!” Phoebe began — then, at the woman’s shocked expression, remembered her manners and curtsied to her, although she felt foolish doing that in her leggings, and such manners seemed now to belong to a time long ago. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but mightn’t I see General Powell, ma’am,” she pleaded, “for I have a most particular message to give to
him.”

“I’m sorry, the General sees very few of us civilians. Your errand will be safe with my husband.”

“But I must see him!”

“My dear child.” Mistress Sherwood tucked a strand of hair into her cap impatiently. “I’m afraid General Powell really will not see you. I have come to you because I understand that you have been entreating daily, nay, hourly, to see him. It cannot be. The best you can do is to entrust your errand to a man he
will
see. That man is my husband. Captain Sherwood is a Loyalist soldier whose duty is to sort out refugees and scouts.”

Still Phoebe hesitated. Could this Captain Sherwood see that Gideon’s message would finally reach General Powell? Could he keep her from the wrath of Joseph Heaton and the others? Convince General Powell she was not a spy?

“Come, child,” said Mistress Sherwood, “I cannot tarry here. I have left an infant waiting to be tended.”

Phoebe looked from Mistress Sherwood to Lizzy O’Neil. There was nothing in the way either of them looked back at her to suggest that they might relent.

Phoebe made up her mind. “Then, please, let me come with you,” she said.

Mistress Sherwood frowned, then nodded. “Here, now,” Lizzie O’Neil held out a wool shawl. Phoebe took it, wrapped it closely around her shoulders, and followed the two women through the low wooden doorway. She stopped, blinking in the bright sunlight of a winter’s day.

“Best of luck, dearie,” said Lizzie O’Neil. She squeezed her hand and hurried off.

“Come.” Mistress Sherwood took Phoebe firmly by the arm and began to walk briskly across the compound towards the west.

Phoebe’s hut was at the south end of a compound, separated from the rest of the fort’s houses and barracks by about two hundred yards, and she was more than grateful for Mistress Sherwood’s arm as they walked. There seemed to be a great number of people, dogs, horses, carts, and oxen, and they seemed like a teeming multitude to Phoebe after her weeks alone in the wilderness. She looked around her, longing to catch a glimpse of her aunt or the little boys, but nervously half expecting Joseph Heaton to loom up before her, pointing accusingly. But there was no sign of any familiar face.

The fort stood on the edge of a broad river with only a road between it and the water. Across the river was a low ridge of land, above which Phoebe could see the roofs of houses. The land was cleared as far as she could see up and down the river. Inside the fort’s enclosure were barracks where it appeared the soldiers lived, houses, warehouses, and a shipyard. At the north end was a big, square house which Phoebe took to be the general’s headquarters. For one wild moment she thought of pulling loose from Mistress Sherwood’s hold and dashing across the compound. But the impulse lasted only as long as the thought flitted through her head — she knew she couldn’t run that fast, not in her weakened state.

Sarah Sherwood led Phoebe through the gate and into a village beyond, stopping only to identify herself to the soldier on duty. It seemed a place of great bustle and noise to Phoebe. She guessed there were about thirty or forty houses of stone or clapboard, a shop, and a church. The houses had high thatched or shingled roofs that curled up at their edges. Smoke rose from all their chimneys. The village looked prosperous and cheerful. It was not much bigger than the wilderness settlements Phoebe knew so well, but she thought it had a long-settled look.

“The village of St. John’s was French until we won the war against them almost twenty
years ago,” said Mistress Sherwood. “Now there are as many English-speaking families as French here. Our house is there, see, just past the church.”

The church was only a few yards farther down the road. Phoebe was in a fever to reach it, to make Captain Sherwood understand that she had to see General Powell, but she was so tired her steps were slowing, and she was afraid she would have to stop.

Mistress Sherwood paused. “Yes. You should not even be up from your bed, I am sure. And would not be if you were not so very determined.” Her tone was disapproving.

Phoebe stiffened and forced herself to walk faster. In another minute or two they reached the dooryard of a small stone house where a tall, thin man dressed in breeches and shirt, was bent over a saw-horse, sawing the end from a wide plank.

“Justus,” said Mistress Sherwood, “here is Phoebe Olcott, the young woman who was found half dead across the river, the same who has been plaguing our Mary Maracle and Lizzie O’Neil to see General Powell from the moment she opened her eyes on the world again. She would not entrust her message even to me to convey to you, but I think I have persuaded her that you are, indeed, the proper conduit. I understand from Lizzie O’Neil that she says a
scout whose message it was is dead, but, here, she should tell her tale herself. Phoebe, my husband, Captain Justus Sherwood of the Queen’s Loyal Rangers.”

Phoebe gazed up into the Captain’s politely questioning face. Her mind seemed suddenly to have stopped working. The moment had come after all this time, after all that had happened, the moment for her to give Gideon’s message into the proper hands. And all she could do was stare. And think, irrelevantly, that his eyes were as blue as Jem’s. “Captain Sherwood,” she said, at last, in a small voice.