The Hollow Tree (22 page)

“And now you hate it.”

“Wal, I don’t see the use of it, much. I been in Gentleman Johnny’s army alongside of Captain Sherwood and Colonel Peters and the rest in this here Queen’s Loyal Rangers and I seen things worse than what happened to old Obadiah Hanks. What I ain’t seen is, I ain’t seen anything to make me doubt we’d all be a sight better off gettin’ the hell outta here and goin’ home, beggin’ your pardon, Mistress.

“My ma used to break up fights between my brother Dan and me. She’d set us to polishin’ the front window, one on one side, one on the other. We would of give up teeth to bust that window and have at each other, but the wrath of our ma wan’t a thing to play light with. So we polished and we polished, and by ’n’ by, we began to feel so foolish we’d have to laugh. Well, mebbe this here war needs my ma to set us all to polishin’ windows.”

Phoebe had a sudden picture of General Powell, Captain Sherwood, Joseph Heaton, and a thousand others lined up along one side of an enormous glass window with an equal number of angry rebel generals, soldiers, and Sons
of Liberty on the other, all polishing away. She giggled.

The soldier grinned. “I guess it ain’t such a practical notion. Anyways, here we are and I got chores to do before we tie up. I wish you Godspeed, Mistress.”

“Goodbye. Thank you for keeping me company — and for making me laugh. I am Phoebe Olcott from over on the Connecticut River, in Vermont. If … if you tell me your name I will keep you in my prayers,” she said shyly.

The soldier smiled at her and suddenly he looked very young. “Well, Mistress Phoebe Olcott, I’d take that most kindly. My name’s Ben Larkin.” He took her hand and shook it vigorously. “When I’m up here to Sorel again I’ll come see how you’re fairin’.”

Ben Larkin’s window polishing and his warm smile had made Phoebe a little less worried about facing Fort Sorel and her old travelling companions, and she looked with open curiosity towards the fort that would probably be her home for the duration of the war.

Fort Sorel stood on the western shore of the Richelieu, where it met the St. Lawrence River. Except that it was open to the water on two sides, it was much like Fort St. John’s, only larger. There seemed to be more barns, more houses, more barracks, and the shipyard was bigger. But it was so like the place she had just
left that Phoebe almost expected to see the faces she had been used to seeing during the two weeks she had been at Fort St. John’s. And, in a way, she did. There were soldiers, dressed in all manner of uniforms, some wearing bandages, some using walking-sticks. And there were the refugees with the same bewildered look, like children set down in unfamiliar surroundings without their mothers. With her cloak drawn tightly around her, her bundle of clothes under her arm, Phoebe marched bravely down the gangplank towards the big building at the west end of the compound that looked to be the fort commander’s headquarters. She had, carefully tucked inside her sleeve where she could feel the crackle of it, the letter on heavy, official stationery that Justus Sherwood had put into her hands early that morning.

She was threading her way through the knots of people, the carts and horses, when she heard someone cry out her name. She whirled around. It was Jem. Tall, lanky, his light-red hair flying loose behind him, he was racing towards her. In one swift move, he threw his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He kissed her all over her face, her eyes, her nose, hugged her again, then set her back on the ground but did not let her go.

“Phoebe, oh Phoebe.” He was trembling
and his voice was husky. “I thought … I thought … Oh, Phoebe!” His face was wet with tears. He hugged her again, until she had to cry out. He loosened his hold. “Oh, God, Phoebe, I thought you were dead.”

“I … I’m not.” Phoebe hugged him tightly but quickly around his waist. She was happy, she was embarrassed, and suddenly she didn’t know what to do. No boy had ever kissed her, no one had ever shown her this kind of affection. She was quite overcome. Jem stepped back and hastily drew his sleeve across his eyes.

“I’m all right, Jem,” she said breathlessly, trying to cover her confusion. “I wasn’t, because I hurt myself and I nearly starved, but then I got to Fort St. John’s — no, that’s not so, I almost got to Fort St. John’s, when some soldiers found me, and then there was Mary Maracle and Lizzie O’Neil who took care of me, and Mistress Sherwood and Captain Sherwood — and she gave me a gown but I didn’t want to wear it because Peter’s sister gave me these clothes but I have it anyway and I was so worried about coming here but a nice soldier named Ben Larkin made me laugh about polishing windows—”

“Whoa!” Jem grinned at her. He put out his arms to pull her to him. He dropped them to his sides. He flushed and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “What are you talking about, Phoebe?”

“I don’t know.” She started to laugh. Jem started to laugh. They looked at each other, then looked away. They laughed again for the sheer joy of finding each other. Finally their laughter subsided, leaving them both a little less self-conscious. Phoebe became aware again of voices, of people coming and going, of a horse whinnying.

“Jem” — she paused hesitantly, afraid of what she might hear — “is everyone all right? Did everyone reach here safely?”

The lingering smile left Jem’s face. “Not everyone.” He sighed. “Phoebe, your uncle Josiah got all the way here, but he died only a few days after. He was just plum wore out, your aunt said. Anne took it hard.”

Uncle Josiah. He had always been such a shadowy figure in the family, quiet, studious, always a little frail. Phoebe felt the tears rising in her to think of him dying so far from home, so far from his books and the work he loved so much. She remembered Aunt Rachael saying once that Uncle Josiah ought never to have left Connecticut. Now he was gone.

Jem took her bundle from her and they walked together across the hard-packed snow towards a log barracks along the south wall of the enclosure. Jem said it was where the Vermont and New York refugees were housed.

“And there ain’t but the one room fer us all,” he grumbled. “But then there’s folks come
after us who’s got to live in tents.” He pointed towards the west end of the compound where half a dozen tents were set up. “They’ll get buildings soon enough, but the General don’t know what to do with us all,” he went on. “There’s so many of us and there’s more comin’ every day. And we sure don’t know what to do with ourselves. Ma figgered things was gonna be dandy if we could just get ourselves into this British-held country. Well, here we are but I’ve heard tell that Governor Haldimand over in Montreal thinks for sure some of us is rebel spies, so he’s plannin’ to set up a Loyalist camp over in a place called Yamachiche on the other side of the St. Lawrence so’s we’ll all be farther away from rebel country, where we can’t do no harm.”

“Why would there be spies? What could there be to spy on here in a Canadian camp full of refugees?”

“Well it ain’t just refugees here, there’s soldiers. This here’s a proper fort. Over in Yamachiche across the St. Lawrence, there’d be just you refugees.”

Phoebe turned his words over in her mind. She stopped walking and turned to Jem. “ ‘You refugees’?” she said. “What do you mean, ‘you refugees’? You’re one, too.”

“Phoebe, there’s a thing I got to tell you.” Jem gripped her hand. He looked at her, then looked away. “I’ve joined up.”

“Joined up?”

“Phoebe, I told you. I told you way back when we was gettin’ ourselves from Lake Champlain to find my ma. I told you I was itchin’ to join.”

“Yes, but …”

“And I figgered my ma was safe here ’n’ would do well enough without me. And I thought you wasn’t ever comin’ back.” He took a deep breath. “And, anyways, I done it.” He looked at her apprehensively. After a long wait he asked, “Ain’t you gonna say somethin’?”

“No.” What could she say? She couldn’t even think.

He grimaced, looked at her as though he wanted to say something more, sighed, and started walking again.

Inside, the barracks was, as Jem had said, one large room, about twenty feet long and not much more than half of that wide. It’s naught but a covered campground, thought Phoebe. But no campground had ever been so smoky or reeked so of unwashed clothes, unwashed people, stale food, and old smoke. The fireplaces at each end of the room sent out almost no heat and a lot of smoke to add to the stench. What fresh air there was seeped in through the chinks between the logs and around the edges of the door, and the windows, one on either side of the door.

Phoebe pulled her cloak up to cover her nose as she looked around her. Through the haze she could see all the people she had so dreaded meeting again. But now the dread was gone, altogether gone. She was glad, glad even to see Joseph Heaton’s sour face turned towards her in shock.

Before Master Heaton had time to say a word, Betsy Parker caught sight of her. She hurled herself at Phoebe. Phoebe swung her up into her arms. Over Betsy’s head she saw Jonah Yardley grinning at her. In his arms he held George. Phoebe’s eyes filled.

“I’m happy to see you, Jonah.” She smiled tremulously. “And George, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He put the cat down and came swinging towards her on his crutches. He held out his hand. Phoebe took it and squeezed it hard. “Come,” she said. With Betsy Parker cradled in one arm, Jem on one side of her, Jonah on the other, she started towards the far corner, where Aunt Rachel had risen from a chair and was moving towards her.

“Just a minute, Mistress Phoebe Olcott.” Joseph Heaton shoved Jonah aside so forcefully the boy almost fell. He grabbed Phoebe by the arm and spun her around. Betsy cried out.

“You got more gall than the whole dad-blasted rebel army, marchin’ in here sweet as you please as if we didn’t know what you done.
You’re a traitor and a spy and we don’t want you in here with us honest folk. We want you locked up and dealt with like the rest of the spies, and I’m a-gonna see to it that’s where you gets to.”

Jem grabbed Joseph Heaton by the shoulder. “Let loose her arm,” he snapped.

Phoebe set Betsy on her feet, pried Master Heaton’s hand loose, and held out her own hand.

“How do you do, Master Heaton.”

“Don’t you how-de-do me,” he snarled.

By now the entire room was silent. People were moving towards their voices. Betsy clung to Phoebe’s leg. Jonah took her hand. Jem put his arm around her. Phoebe’s mind flashed back to the night she had arrived at the first camp, when Anne had screamed at her. She had been alone then. She was not alone now.

“Master Heaton,” she said, “I am not a spy and I am not a traitor. I have a letter from General Powell at Fort St. John’s to say that this is where I am to come and this is where I am to stay until the war is over. He knows all that I have done. He has no wish to see me imprisoned.”

“The General don’t know what us knows and, what’s more, I don’t see no letter.”

Phoebe pulled the letter from inside her sleeve and held it out to him.

“I cain’t read in this kinda light,” he
growled, “Here, Lucy, your eyes is better nor mine, you read it.”

Lucy Heaton came to stand by her husband. She smiled timidly at Phoebe. Phoebe smiled back and handed her the letter. Lucy read aloud the words Justus Sherwood had asked General Powell to write, words that commended Phoebe for her courage and perseverance in carrying the message entrusted to the scout Gideon Robinson. The letter ended by asking Fort Sorel’s commander to give her “succour and asylum” for as long as she should have need of it. It was signed “Brigadier-General Watson Powell, Commander, Fort St. John’s.”

When Lucy finished reading, she handed the letter back to Phoebe. “Here, child,” she said quietly, “you will need this to give to the commander.”

Joseph Heaton seemed to shrink a little. He glared around the room, looking for support, but every single person there stared back at him coldly — even Charity Yardley. “Hmpf!” he said. “Letter or no letter, I has my suspicions.”

“Well now.” It was Bertha Anderson. “I knowed all along you was a good girl in spite of what some of them said. I knowed all the time else I could never have trusted you to care for Betsy here, or poor little Tibby Thayer who died. I, for one, am glad to see you come back to us safe and sound.”

“And you must come now and see your aunt and sit a spell and tell us how you fared.” It was Peggy Morrissay, taking advantage of the moment Bertha Anderson had stopped for a breath.

“Thank you.” Phoebe smiled gratefully at Jem’s mother. Still holding Jonah’s hand, with Betsy still clutching her leg, Jem beside her with his hand under her other elbow, she made her way to where Aunt Rachael stood waiting. Anne stood at her side. The little boys, open-mouthed, stared up at her from the floor, where they were playing with a set of roughly carved wooden soldiers.

“I am sorry, Aunt Rachael.” It was all she could think to say.

Aunt Rachael didn’t say anything. She took Phoebe in her arms. When they drew apart, Aunt Rachael put her hand out and smoothed Phoebe’s soft brown hair back from her face. “I see you still wear your Mohawk friend’s dress,” she said.

Phoebe smiled through her tears. She looked at the bundle Jem carried in his hand. “I have a gown,” she said, and Aunt Rachael smiled back. “So,” she said, “your mission is complete.” And Phoebe knew that Aunt Rachael understood why she had freed Japhet Oram.

In a small, quiet voice Phoebe didn’t think she had ever heard her cousin use, Anne asked, “Phoebe, what did the General mean about ‘Gideon’s message’?”

Phoebe looked at Anne. She looked at Aunt Rachael, at Jem, at the children, at the other people gathered around, people who had once felt she had betrayed them, people with whom she was going to have to live for months, maybe years more. So she sat down on a bench near one fireplace and she told them all about finding the message in the hollow tree. “And I hated them,” she said. “I hated them who had hanged Gideon, and I wanted … I wanted …” All the feelings she had had on that bleak and terrible morning came back. The tears poured down her face and choked the words from her throat. She took a deep breath and went on. “I was afraid, but I had to do it for Gideon because I loved him. And because he was loyal. How could I be other than loyal to him in this one last thing. And because, Anne, because you said I was a rebel and it was my fault. So I took it. I took the message and I followed the brook, as Gideon once bade me.”