Sarah’s Valley
By
Sharon R. Mierke
Coyright 2012 Sharon Mierke
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, than please return to Smashwords.Com and purchase your copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author
Sarah’s Valley
It was a 1929 Model A Ford, my pa’s pride and joy (or, so he’d led me to believe). ‘Course, I knew it was being held together with twine and fencing wire. That’s why when it came to a dead-halt, refusing to climb a hill that appeared to mount right straight up to heaven, I wasn’t one bit surprised. The surprising part came after no matter how many wires I shook and unplugged and plugged back in, Old Betsy’d just decided to give up the ghost. No amount of cajoling or threatening could get her engine to turn over. I’d coasted down one mountain of a hill, stalled on a rickety old wooden bridge at the bottom and that seemed to be as far as I was going to get.
“No wonder Pa was so quick to hand you off on me,” I muttered. “Made out like he was lettin’ go of his best friend.”
I crawled out from under and hit my head on the bumper.
“Damned tarnation. Now what am I goin’ to do?” I struggled to stand up, still holding my head, and swung my foot back, giving the tire a good healthy kick. One thing for sure, it hurt me more than it did Betsy.
“That ain’t goin’ to get you nowhere, son.”
I swung around, nearly tripping over my own two feet.
“Where’d you come from, mister?” I gasped.
He laughed. Well, it seemed to me that’s what it was, in a throaty sort of way. I’d never seen such an old man in my whole life. He must’ve been tall at one time because now he was bent with age and I still had to look up at him. I swear his tan hide-skin shirt and pants with its shiny knees and elbows were probably just as ancient. Leastways, they smelled as ancient. Not that you’ve seen everything there is to see in this world by the time you’ve reached sixteen but I’d seen my share of old folks. Besides my granny and grandpa, that is. This one looked about the same age as Moses did in that book Ma’d given me about stories in the Bible. He was holding onto a staff, ’xactly as Moses was, too. Not only that, he had long white hair and a beard that reached almost to his belt buckle.
“You ain’t Moses, are you?” ( In truth, I knew he couldn’t be Moses but I seemed to ask before thinking.)
Ma always told me that if I didn’t know something, I should ask. Never be shy about askin’, that’s what she’d said. Otherwise, she said, you’ll go through life pretendin’ to know everything when really deep down, you’ll be stupid and scared. Well, I never wanted to end up stupid and scared so I always made sure to ask questions whenever I could. It irritated Pa to no end but he couldn’t say much, considerin’ Ma was now buried out in the backyard, right beside my grandma and a baby brother I never knew.
“No, son, I ain’t Moses. Or Abraham, for that matter.”
“Well, who are you? How’d you sneak up on me like that?”
He chuckled. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy cussing at this old car, you would have heard me.”
I could feel my cheeks burning. Of course, he was right. If I’d been payin’ attention like I should and not going off like some wild animal, I would have heard him creepin’ up on me.
“Why’re you kicking the heck out of this thing anyway?” He stood away from the car and looked it over as if he’d never seen an old Model A before in his life.
“Maybe you noticed, mister, it ain’t ‘xactly takin’ me up this hill like it should.”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were so narrow that his bushy eyebrows almost swallowed them up.
“You figure if you kick the tires and cuss, it will start?”
I shook my head. “Naw, it makes me feel better, that’s all.” I glanced down at my worn leather boot. “Well, it don’t make my foot feel any better and that’s for sure.”
The old man cackled. If I was wantin’ some sympathy, it wasn’t going to come from his direction. He shuffled over to the car and checked out a dent on the back fender.
“Why don’t you have a horse? You’d be up that hill and long gone by now.”
Just the mention of a horse made my eyes water. Pa might have claimed to give me his prized possession but it had been a two-way exchange. I’d left behind Sugar, the finest little mare you could ever find. And, why’d I leave her to take the car? So’s those people, strangers to me, would think I was a ‘somebody’ as I drove into their yard. Pa said that nobody takes a horse anymore and we didn’t want them folks to think we were dirt poor. Which, in actuality, we were.
I’d dreamed about whippin’ into that rancher’s yard in my car every day for the past three months - ever since I’d received the letter saying they’d be happy to have me in their employment. Said they were looking for a strong young man who knew lots about mendin’ fences and runnin’ a steam engine. And, that was me. Now all I had to do was make sure I made it to Swift Current, Saskatchewan, by next Tuesday.
Something inside of me wanted to stay with Pa but we both knew there was no future for a young man growin’ up in northern Saskatchewan, what with the Depression and all. Pa and Grandpa had cleared as much land by hand as they could but there was barely enough area for growin’ to keep food on the table. Someday, Pa said, when he and Grandpa were both probably in their graves, I could come back and make it into a real farm. Until then, however, I needed to get out, see some of the world and earn some money. ’Course, Pa said that if I happened to have any extra coins jinglin’ in my jeans pocket, I might be happy to send a bit his way.
“Right now, mister, I wish I did have a horse. You know anything about cars?”
The old man shook his head. “I know they’re not too reliable.” He grinned, showing off his toothless gums.
“Where’d you come from anyway?” I asked. “You live round here?”
The old man pointed out towards the hills. “That’s my home.”
As far as I could see, there wasn’t anything that even came close to resembling a home. I’d been in such a gall darn hurry to get through this valley with its mountain-like hills that I hadn’t taken the time to survey my surroundings.
There was a narrow lazy-movin’ river running under the worn-out bridge. It wasn’t high but it might have been in normal years. The water looked brownish, warm and uninviting, even in the heat. There hadn’t been enough rain in the past couple of years to fill a teacup. The whole country was sufferin’. Burnt-out brown grass covered the high hills that cradled the river below. There were few trees on the riverbank and the ones that grew there looked straggly and lifeless.
“This ain’t much of a place to live,” I said. Not that I wanted to hurt the old fellow’s feelings, it’s just that after living all my life in the north, this barren treeless landscape took some getting used to. Pa’d warned me about it. Said that’s why he’d kept travelin’ north; couldn’t stand lookin’ out the kitchen window and seein’ nothin’ but flat land and tumbleweeds bouncing along with the wind.
The old man grunted. “It’s my home.” He bent over, capped his eyes with both hands and looked in the window.
“You ever see a Model A before?” I asked. Not that it was anything to brag about. Most of the cars I’d met or that had passed me along the way were a lot newer.
He shook his head.
“You never saw a car before?” I asked, in wonderment.
He looked at me with his toothless grin. “Never saw a car so old.”
“Oh, well, I’m only sixteen, you know.” I could feel my face getting hot. “I’ve got a job waitin’ for me in Swift Current. After I earn some money, I’ll buy a new car.”
The old man was silent for a moment. My grandpa would’ve said that he was contemplatin’. That was grandpa’s biggest word so he tried to use it as much as he could. I didn’t mind except when it meant that supper might be late.
“So, how are you going to get to Swift Current?” He reached up and stroked his beard. “Are you going to walk?” He held out his hand. “Perhaps, you’ll be wantin’ my cane?”
I wished that I’d have had a smart answer but after all, even though I was trying to act like an adult, I really wasn’t one yet. Although I’d never admit this to Pa but sometimes I wished Ma were there to give me a hand. She used to read a lot. Even Pa said that she’d had a real quick mind. I think all the hard work just plum wore her body right out.
I guess the old fellow could see I was about to break into tears so he didn’t want to embarrass me any further.
“Come on. No point standing out here burning up in the sun. You et anything today?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to admit that my sandwiches were all gone. I would have still had some too except I’d gone and left the windows open last night whilst I slept by the side of the road. Some critter had climbed in and taken off with my food. Probably a chipmunk, I figure, since I’d heard them chattering away before I went to sleep. Pa’d given me a jar of homemade canned peaches and that’d been my only food for the day. The jar of milk had gone sour so I’d had to pour that out. I put my hands in my pocket to feel my purse. There was money in there for gas and some food. Pa said I’d be able to find a restaurant in Regina or Moose Jaw if need be.
Pa’d also given me a talking-to about strangers and how they’d just as soon steal your money as look at you, so I didn’t tell the old man what was in my pocket.
“You think you could et again?”
I nodded. My stomach was terrible empty and it crossed my mind that, instead of food, I might have to spend that money on a bus ticket to Swift Current. That is, if there were any such thing as a bus in this god-forsaken land.
“Come on then.”
I took one last look at Betsy.
He shook his head. “You don’t have to worry; nobody’s going to be driving that old relic anywhere.”
He started down a narrow path that ran parallel to the river. I almost had to run to keep up. As far as I could see, there were no houses anywhere - only hot dry dirt under my feet and a hot dry wind in my face. If I could have slowed down, I would have taken out my pocket watch to check the time. The old man, however, was walking so fast and his dirty old moccasins were stirring up so much dust that I didn’t dare stop. That’s all I’d need to tell Pa: a man who looked like Moses led me out into the wilderness and I got lost - that’s why I never made it to Swift Current, Pa.
It seemed like we’d walked for an eternity. The sun was just touching the top of one of those tall hills and I was wonderin’ why on God’s green earth I’d ever agreed to follow this man. I’d have been better off hitchhiking, making my way to the main highway; the highway that Pa said would eventually take me to my destination.
I was thinking all these thoughts and wonderin’ if I shouldn’t discreetly turn around and go back to the car when suddenly, the old fellow made a quick turn to the left. I stopped right in my tracks and stared. There, snuggled between two large grass-covered mounds and built right into the hill, was a small log cabin, its roof covered with tall yellow prairie grass. There was a miniature square window on each side of the wooden slab door. About ten feet in front of the cabin was a fire pit with a black kettle suspended over the dead coals.
Off to the right, not far from the house, was a grey unpainted outhouse with a bit of lean to it. It looked as if someone had planted wild rose bushes around it but the flowers were finished and the branches dipped over with rosehips. Behind, there must’ve been some sort of cave in the side of the hill with a large wooden door covering the opening.
The old man turned towards me, a smile on his face.
“Here we are,” he said. He pointed towards a flat stone that was close to the fire pit. “There, you sit. I’ll put some coffee on.” He hesitated. “You old enough to drink coffee or you want milk?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
The toothless grin again. “Good. I don’t have any milk.”
I watched as he made the fire and hung a blackened coffee pot over it. Out came a cast iron pan and before I knew it, there was bacon and potatoes frying. Nothing had ever smelled so good.
And, nothing had ever tasted so good. Without realizing it, I’d finished off three helpings and two cups of the blackest, thickest coffee I’d ever drank. This coffee put Pa’s and Grandpa’s to shame. Not that I’d ever tell them.
“So, mister, I really want to thank you for the grub.” I stood up. “I guess I’d best be gettin’ along now. I figure I’ll sleep in the car tonight and hitchhike to the main road tomorrow.”
The old fellow scraped off the plates and tossed the coffee grounds into the fire.
He smiled. “No need. I got some coverings. Lots of room here under the stars. There’s a fellow I know goes into Regina every Saturday morning. You’ll get a ride with him.” He shrugged. “Maybe he can get your Model A running.”
“Well, I really appreciate this. I sure do.” I grinned and rubbed my belly. “Have to admit I don’t feel much like walkin’.” I sat back down again and looked down the hill at the slow moving river. “This river got a name?”
He nodded. “They call it the Qu'Appelle.”
“That’s a funny name. What language is that?”
“French.”
“Oh.”
We both sat and stared out at the water and the hills. It was a lonely place, yet somehow beautiful. In a strange way, I felt comfortable sitting with this relic of a man.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Patrick Smithson. What’s yours?”
“Oh, I’ve been called a few names over the years.”
“Why’s that? Doesn’t everyone just have the name that they’re born with?”
“Some do, some don’t.”
“Well then, what was the one that suited you the best?”
“You mean like the one I’d like engraved on my headstone?”
That was a thought that hadn’t crossed my mind but I guess when you’re sort of starin’ death in the face every day, you might be thinkin’ that way.
I nodded.
We were sitting in shadow now. The sun was behind one of those hills and the light from the fire flickered across his face. There must have been over a hundred wrinkles on that face. And, that was just from his cheeks up to his forehead.
“I guess that would have been Winnipesaukee.”
I stared at him. “You mean you’re an Indian?”
He grinned at me. “You’ve never seen an Indian before?”
I shook my head. “I thought Indians were red. I mean, that’s what you’re called, right? Redskins. How come you got light skin and white hair?”
He laughed. “My skin’s light because my mother was English, just like you. My hair’s white because I’m old.”
“How old are you?”
“Almost a hundred.”
“I never met anyone that old before. How come you live here all alone? Where’s your family?”
He kept staring out across the water. For a brief moment, a sad look crossed over his face but I might have been wrong. I ain’t exactly a professional when it comes to facial expressions.
“If your momma were English, then you’re not a real Indian.”
“No, son. I’m not a white man and I’m not an Indian.”
He reached down and threw another branch on the fire. Sparks flew up.
“What does your name mean? Don’t all Indian names have meaning?”
“There is no meaning to my name. It’s only a name. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I reckon I do. My ma told me that’s the only way to learn.”
He nodded. “Your ma’s right.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t with us anymore.
“I suppose there’s lots of stories about your livin’ in this here valley, Mr. Winnipesaukee. Seeing’s I notice you don’t have much for neighbours.”
He shook his head. “That could make for mighty long stories, Mr. Smithson.”
“Are they too long for tellin’ in one night?”
“They might be.”
“I’d be obliged if you’d share some of them. Seems like when folks are sittin’ round a fire, someone should be storytellin’.”
“Well, I reckon that’s true. And the older one gets, the more stories he hears and the more there are to tell.”
I slid off the rock and moved closer to the fire. One reason being I was getting a mighty sore behind. There was plenty of heat comin’ from those coals so I slipped off my cotton jacket and put it under me. I sat forward, Indian-style and waited. For several seconds, the old man stared up at the quarter-moon that was inching its way into the still-light eastern sky. I imagine he was gatherin’ his thoughts together.
Softly, he said, “To me, this isn’t the Qu'Appelle Valley; this is Sarah’s Valley.”
“Who’s Sarah?” I asked.
“Someone who lived a long time ago.” He paused. There were no sounds to disturb us. I could hear the faint murmur of the river and the soft rustling of tall grass shifting in the breeze. Somewhere down the river, a lonely loon called out. No one answered.
( The following story is told by me, Patrick Smithson, about twenty years later. It’s written as best as I can remember. Some parts might be missing and some parts might be a bit embellished.)
Chapter One
Benjamin Lawdry thought the bombing and shooting must be over. It had to stop sometime, didn’t it? How many people were left to kill? Twice now, however, he’d been mistaken, so he stayed in his hiding place, not daring to move; hardly daring to breathe. His body ached with cold. Its icy damp fingers penetrated his very being. If only he could stretch out his arms or legs. He held his breath as hot salty tears ran down his cheeks each time the pain shot through his left thigh. He had no idea how serious the wound was and he hadn’t enough nerve to look at it. His tattered soiled clothing smelled of smoke, gunpowder and dried blood. The stench from his own vomit filled his nostrils and he could feel its wet stickiness on the side of his face.
He wished his injury was in his head instead of his leg. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t remember anything. If he didn’t control his thoughts, he would go insane. Nevertheless, his mind kept racing back, racing back - like a nightmare that refused to end. His mother’s and sister’s screams would haunt him until he died. He squeezed his eyes shut until they hurt but that wasn’t enough to drown out their cries. Was that soon to be his destiny? When the soldiers returned, would they find him huddled behind the old shed and fill him full of bullet holes? Would Captain Mowatt and his army murder a young boy? Of course, they would. Look what they’d done to the town now. Why bother leaving a useless boy alive?
No one believed Mowatt would destroy Falmouth in the first place. Why would he? Falmouth was proving to be an important port.
Well, everyone was wrong. All the townsfolk, including his own father. The five vessels sitting in the harbour were not bringing supplies; they were loaded with bombs, carcasses, howitzers and cannons. First, there had been the message for the people of Falmouth: everyone had two hours to evacuate. If they didn’t comply, Mowatt and his men would burn the village to the ground. No one believed it would happen. He was a friend, a trading partner. They extended the time to eight, the next morning.Ha! The British were toying with them. His father had laughed. Mowatt wasn’t a fool; he would never destroy such a prosperous young village.
Besides, his father had been in the same room with Mowatt the night Samuel Thompson’s men captured him and took him to Marston’s Tavern. They’d released him, however; later, sending a letter of apology. There was no way Mowatt would come back for revenge. Surely, he wouldn’t. Nonetheless, he had returned. The proud citizens refused to give up their arms and leave. It was their land and they would defend it to the death, if need be. Never would they give in to the British. At twenty minutes before ten the next morning, the red flag appeared on the Canceaux’s masthead. Thus began an eight-hour naval bombardment.
The Lawdry home in Munjoy’s Hill became a rubble of ashes in less than two hours. There were three bodies inside, burned beyond recognition. Not until the last minute did Franklin Lawdry accept this as reality. By then, it was too late. There was only enough time to shove his thirteen-year-old son outside and tell him to run for his life. His last thoughts as he struggled to reach his wife and daughter through the thick, putrid smoke were of that son. He prayed for God to watch over him.
His father had yelled at him to run and not look back. Nevertheless, he had, only for a moment. All he remembered seeing was his father’s back as he ran through the flames that engulfed their home. And, the screams. He heard the screams. The screams coming from the upstairs bedroom, the room Father said would be safe for his wife and daughter. Safe, it was true, from the soldiers. Not from the ravaging fire. No one would ever come out of that house alive. Why would his father risk his life, going back into that burning inferno? Even though still a boy, almost a man, he realized that his father could never live with himself if he didn’t try to save the only two women in his life. A carcass had then burst in front of him, eating up the ground with bright red flames. A sharp piece of metal pierced his thigh. He gasped and grabbed his upper leg, blood oozing through his fingers. Blindly, he ran, through the ground fire, running until exhausted and trembling with pain, he collapsed behind the shed.
Why hadn’t he stayed? Why obey his father at this time? The time when he was really needed? Perhaps, with the two of them working together, they could have rescued the women. His mother was the dearest woman in the world; how could he survive without his mother’s love? How could he breathe without her? His sister, Regina, betrothed to Abraham Westerly. A fine young gentleman, who worked in his father’s dry goods store. Abraham had agreed to stay at the store to keep looters out. If there had been any looters, they would all be dead by now.
Why had he obeyed today when just the day before, his father had asked him make a delivery and instead, he’d run off to play with his friend? Why be obedient this time? He would rather have died with everyone else. Maybe he would die. Maybe God would see to it.
These were his last thoughts as a heavy darkness, like a great iron door clanging shut, released him from his pain and thoughts. He did not awaken until dawn.
The air was cool against his face. A soft rain was falling. Where was he? Why was he here? He listened. All was silent except for the sound of rainwater dripping methodically off the corner of the shed roof to the ground. Drip. Drip. Drip. Yesterday’s horrors returned. But, where was the sound of gunfire, the shouts of the soldiers and the cries of the people? Why was everything so quiet? So deathly quiet. He didn’t move. Was the silence just a ruse?
Slowly, he lifted his head to look around. Straight in front of him was a long hedge, still a rich green while the trees behind it were already starting to show signs of autumn. To one side, there was a white picket fence. Beyond he could see smoke rising from a smouldering house. Even from his hiding spot, he could hear the rain sizzle as it dropped on to the hot cinders. The fetid smell in the air made his stomach churn. Fortunately, he did not comprehend its source.
He tried to straighten his injured leg but could move it only a few inches. The pain was so severe, it made him light headed. He closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to pass.
Yesterday’s events came rushing back to him, filling his mind like grain being poured into a barrel, unable to control, running down, overflowing and spilling out. Could so much have really happened in one day? The ships in the harbour. The canons pointed straight at Falmouth. The citizens trying to make peace but stubbornly refusing to give up their guns. The shower of bombs and carcasses from the canons. The soldiers coming on to land, throwing torches into houses, shooting and killing. The noise. Deafening noise. Gun smoke burning eyes and nostrils. The wind shifting. The fire spreading. Thick smoke hanging over everything, choking everyone. The chaos as families struggled to leave but not willing to leave behind some of their belongings. The foolishness of it all. The horses and oxen bolting with each boom of a canon. How could something like this have happened? The screams. His own screams; his mother’s and his sister’s.
A loud moan filled the air. The sound of an animal caught in a trap. It pierced his ears yet he didn’t realize that it came from own lips.
Leaves on the ground rustled and footsteps approaching grew louder. He didn’t hear.
“Well, now. Look what I’ve found.”
The voice brought him back. The moaning ceased. Benjamin’s heart pounded. If this were one of Mowatt’s soldiers, it would make no difference; he couldn’t run anymore. His swelling leg, pinched against his pant leg, burned as if it were on fire. He closed his eyes and waited. For what, he did not know. Perhaps, a bullet to the head to relieve him of all his misery.
“Say,” the voice said. “Ain’t you Franklin Lawdry’s boy?”
Benjamin opened his eyes. An old man, his face black from smoke and dirt, bent down beside him.
He patted Benjamin on the shoulder.
“You hurt bad, son?”
Benjamin nodded. “It’s my leg, sir. Feels like it’s on fire.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll look after it for you. Me and my wife come back to look round after the fighting was over. Do you know where your folks are?”
Benjamin nodded.
“Want that I should take you to them?”
He shook his head, fighting back tears. “They’re all dead, sir. All of them. They were burned up in our house. My father went back inside.” A loud sob escaped his lips. “He couldn’t reach them. I knew he couldn’t.” He looked up. “He knew he couldn’t but he went anyway. I’m the only one that got away.”
The old man removed his tattered hat and clutched it with both hands. “Sorry to hear about that. Your pa was a good man. I heerd talk about him. Made me sad to see his store burnt to the ground. Never knew he’d lost his life too.”
He cleared his throat and replaced his hat.
“Guess we’d best see to that leg of yours now. What’s your name, son?”
“Benjamin.”
He smiled. “I go by the name of Joe Latkin and my wife’s is Margaret.”
He took Benjamin’s hand in his and gave it a gentle shake.
“Well, Benjamin Lawdry, you’re sure welcome to stay with the wife and me as long as you’ve a mind to. I could use some help with buildin’ some kind of shelter. Winter’s coming soon. Can’t pay you anything. All’s I can hope is that we find enough food to eat.”
Thus began Benjamin Lawdry’s life with Joe and Margaret Latkin. It lasted for nearly five years. It was a hard life but they treated Benjamin like their own son, a son they’d never been able to conceive. Margaret died from some type of fever. The Indians claimed it was cholera but no one knew for sure. Benjamin heard that it had completely wiped out one Indian village. Three days later, Joe broke his neck while felling a tree.
Benjamin stayed in the small makeshift home for several months before travelling west. There had been work in Falmouth. Most of the buildings were either burned to the ground or blown apart, but the cleanup meant hard labour with little pay. He’d worked on the docks some days, helping to rebuild the damaged ships. Mostly, he wanted to leave because every day he thought of his family. Some days he would walk to where his house once stood and sit for hours, staring at the ruins. He’d sorted through the ashes, searching for some kind of keepsake, but there was nothing. Joe Latkin had looked through the first time. Whether he’d come across any bodies and buried them, Benjamin never knew.
After burying the Latkins, there was nothing more for him in Falmouth. He moved west towards the White Mountains. After a year of trapping and living off the land, he joined a tribe of Abenaki Indians. He settled in with a small tribe close to Sebago Lake. Sebago meant ‘great stretch of water.’ And, that it was, being eight miles wide and eleven miles long. The Indians planted corn, beans and squash. They hunted, fished and gathered wild foods. Benjamin learned the Algonquin language. When winter came, they moved closer inland and covered their wigwams with hides and bark. In 1784, he chose Black Swan for a wife. It was a good life.
However, the slow easy way of the Abenaki was not to last. The British wanted them removed from the fertile plains of the rivers. The Iroquois wanted them destroyed. The French pressured them to join in fighting against the English. The Abenaki wanted nothing more than to dwell in their small villages, live each day as it came and in time, if the crops suffered or the hunting became scarce, to move on.
The English and the French pushed against them. Instead of engaging in a struggle, the Abenaki simply separated into smaller groups and disappeared into the night. Sometimes they set up a new camp; other times, they would regroup and counterattack. Whatever the older men decided, Benjamin obeyed. Except for his fair complexion, he looked like any other warrior.
In 1786, Benjamin became father to White Wolf. As he held the infant to his breast, for the first time since his mother and father had perished, he thought about the future. What did he want for the squirming infant in his arms? Life could not make any promises. That he had learned.
The Abenaki grew weary of running from the English and the Iroquois. They slowly migrated towards Canada. Benjamin, Black Swan and White Wolf went with them. The year was 1789.
The tribe pulled out when the leaves were turning red and gold. The autumn winds were still warm and navigating birds filled the sky, preparing for their long winter trips. The Abenaki were not as well prepared.
There were times Benjamin felt impatient with the carefree ways of his Indian people but Black Swan would never leave her family. Since Benjamin had no family, he stayed - because of her and his son. He knew, however, that some day he would have to take his son away. What would happen if the English or the French eradicated the Abenaki from the land? The land that didn’t belong to them any more. They no longer had a homeland or Ndakinna. It didn’t belong to the Iroquois either, but the English were not quite so eager to go up against them. The Iroquois would not melt into the night like the Abenaki; they would fight, pillage and burn. The Abenaki might call themselves alnanbal but sometimes Ben didn’t think of them as real men. When they did fight, the young bucks went wild; the elders had no control.
The first winter was harsh; many of the very young and old perished, either starving or freezing to death. Benjamin spent days searching the land for food. His only concern was for Black Swan and White Wolf. Usually, he found only small rabbits or sometimes, after making a hole in the thick ice of a lake, he would catch a fish. As the winter stretched out, they had to walk farther and farther for their firewood. By March, the small cluster of wigwams was sitting out in the open and the crisp sharp winds forced everyone inside.
The band moved on when the ice on the nearby lake started to melt. They needed to find fresh hunting grounds. Not only that, the Iroquois were inching up towards them and they didn’t have enough braves to fight. Benjamin was anxious to leave. He knew that if the Iroquois did attack, they could easily kill every man, woman and child in the village.
They walked northeast for two months. The land grew rich with trees, rivers and lakes. The hunting was good. The Abenaki had found their new home. No matter what Benjamin said, the tribe would not keep moving. They had everything they needed, why would they leave? When or if the enemy closed in on them, then they would move.
The following year, in the spring, Black Swan gave birth to a daughter. She was a tiny baby. Benjamin was afraid she would not live. He called her Autumn Flower because the flowers that bloom in the fall do not last long. He was right; Autumn Flower died before the summer heat arrived.
With the loss of his daughter, Benjamin lost his desire to move to his own people, the white. He settled into his Indian life, not worrying or caring too much about the future. White Wolf was his only joy. It wasn’t until his son was nearly ten that Benjamin realized it was necessary to teach the boy English.
And, this he did. Day after day, hour after hour. Black Swan grew anxious. She was afraid her husband and son would abandon her and her people. There was, however, a greater concern. The Iroquois kept advancing. Each day one or two young braves would not return from hunting. The women hid in their tepees until their men returned. No day went by without weeping and wailing.
Then, suddenly, in the night, the Abenaki slipped away. Benjamin awoke before the sun. He was alone. White Wolf and Black Swan were not beside him. He pushed aside the skins that covered the tepee’s door and went outside. The camp was empty. It was as if everyone had disappeared off the earth, including his wife and son. Benjamin Lawdry was now more than thirty years of age but the pain was no less than what he had felt back in 1775 when he was a boy of thirteen. For months, he lived as a madman, barely existing.
It was nearly two years before Benjamin located that Abenaki tribe. The familiar wigwams were nestled beside a small lake, bordering Lower Canada. For two days, Benjamin waited and watched.
Finally, on the third day, he spotted Black Swan. She emerged from a tent with a man. It was obvious that she had taken a new husband. But where was his son? His heart ached. By the third day, Benjamin had maneuvered his way to the other side of the camp. A group of young warriors made their way down to the water, laughing and shoving. Only one had fair skin. It was White Wolf. His heart sang. He knew, however, that no one would simply hand the boy over to him. As soon as he stepped into that camp, an arrow would pierce his heart. He bided his time.
Several days later, the moment arrived. White Wolf walked into the woods alone to relieve himself. He stood only a few feet away from his father, who was hiding in the deep brush.
“White Wolf,” Benjamin whispered, in English.
The boy did not move.
“It is me, your father.”
The boy shook his head. “No,” he said, in the Algonquin language. “My father is dead.”
Benjamin emerged from the brush. It was all he could do not to crush his son to his heart but he knew that was not the Indian way.
“See,” he whispered. “I am alive.”
The boy stared. “But,” he said, in halting English, “my mother said that you were sick and we must leave you behind. She said you had the fever and it would spread to the tribe.” He shuddered. “I cried for you for so long, my father.”
Benjamin shook his head. “No, I was not sick. She was afraid that I would take you to the white people, that is all.”
The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Benjamin walked closer. White Wolf rushed into his father’s embrace. The two clung to each other.
White Wolf knew he could not have both his father and his mother. He would have to choose. Two nights later, when the clouds covered over the moon, he joined his English father.
Benjamin changed his son’s name to William.
Therefore, it was that, in the year 1800, William and Benjamin Lawdry entered into Canada. William was now fourteen years old.
Winnipesaukee stopped talking. I looked over at him. The dying embers cast flickering red streaks across his lined face. His eyes were closed. I watched for a moment to see if his chest was rising and falling. Yes, it was. The old part-white man and part-Indian was still alive. I waited. Perhaps, the story was finished. If so, it wasn’t much of a story. Leastways, not one that had to be told before one’s death I wouldn’t think. Not that he wasn’t a great storyteller; Ma always said the Indians knew how to tell a tale.
Suddenly, his hand reached down, picked up a log and threw it on the fire. Sparks shot up and disappeared. The night air was getting chilly. I wrapped the smelly old blanket around me a little tighter. The ground was hard and the rolled up shirt wasn’t much of a pillow. Now I was wishing I’d brought my feather pillow from the car.
The old man didn’t say a word. He opened his eyes and stared up at the night sky.
“That’s it?” I said. “What’s all that got to do with this here valley being named Sarah?”
“You are an impatient young man,” he said. “If you are to become a brave warrior, you must learn how to wait.”
“Me? A brave warrior?” I laughed. “I’ll never be a warrior. Only Indians are warriors.”
“Ah, that is where you are wrong. We are all warriors in this land. A warrior fights for what is right, for the truth.”
Maybe I couldn’t remember everything that my mother’d taught me but one thing I knew for sure: If you live by the sword, you’ll die by the sword. Even Pa, who’d been in many a squabble in his youth, had agreed with that. ‘Course, I reckon sometimes that Pa agreed with Ma when down in his heart, he wasn’t quite as agreeable.
“You sayin’ everybody should be walkin’ round with guns?” I asked.
He smiled. “A good warrior,” he said, “never has to carry a weapon. The truth speaks for itself; you do not force anyone to accept what is truth.”
“Did you ever carry one?”
He nodded. “Sometimes I was not a good warrior.”
He lowered his head onto his chest and closed his eyes. He crossed his arms over his beard. Once again, silence.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate quiet times. Leastways, when it’s time to sleep. In fact, many’s the time, I wouldn’t have minded having a weapon, a real one, that is, to use on our old bull when he started getting romantic notions in the middle of the night.
Lord knows I tried to be quiet and wait but a man can take only so much silence.
“So, mister,” I asked, “is there any more to this story? Not that it isn’t interestin’ to learn about that Mowatt person and everything. And, the young boy goin’ with the Abenaki and all. That, however, was a long time ago. What’s that got to do with you and this here valley?”
The old eyes pierced through the bushy eyebrows. He sighed.
“That is what a story is, son. Do you think that life began only after you were born?”
I raised myself up on one arm.
“Oh, no, Mr. Winnipesaukee. No, sirree. I’ve been listenin’ to my grandpa enough to know that. He surely does go way back, ’specially when he‘s talkin’ bout the good old days.”
He laughed, in his gravely sort of way and said, “Sometimes when us old folk talk about the good old days, they really weren’t all that good.”
“So, why do you talk so much about them?”
“I guess we hope that by our telling, you young bucks will learn something.”
“Well,” I said, “when are you going to tell me?”
“As soon as you stop talking and start listening,” he said.
Chapter Two
William and his father worked their way into Canada and up to Quebec. They settled in with the Nemaska people for a while by Lake Mistissini. Here they learned the way of the Cree during the summer while hunting at Nitchequon and Neoshweskaau, the Cree’s hunting grounds. Benjamin taught William all that he could remember from his few years of schooling but soon realized it was not enough. The world was changing. In the fall, they travelled down to Montreal. William had a choice: he could enter either the Protestant or the Catholic school. He chose the Protestant.
In the next two years, he learned to read, cipher and hate the Roman Catholic Church. He also grew to despise the so-called faithful Christians who hated the Jews and used young Indian and black boys as slaves. One cold spring day, he watched in horror as the police dragged two women into the street. The men stripped the women to their waists before administering twenty-five lashes to their bare backs. It was at times like this that he thought back to his life as an Abenaki and he wondered if there was such a thing as true happiness in anyone’s world.
Benjamin Lawdry died as his parents before him. He’d left his son, William, in the care of a Metis couple, Magedeline and Francois Versailles, while he spent the winter trapping in Upper Canada. His small airtight heater overheated, exploded and he died in the flames.
In 1812, William Lawdry moved to York. On August 16th, he joined six thousand Indians in an attack to capture Fort Detroit. The next spring the Americans seized York, looting and burning. William stayed with the Indians, not only to preserve his life, but because he felt more comfortable with them than the whites.
William met a young Indian girl in 1815. The following year another Benjamin Lawdry was born. It appeared, however, that William was not meant to live a long satisfying life. In 1818, he died on the Young Phoenix. It was the first recorded Long Point shipwreck. His frightened young wife disappeared, abandoning Benjamin on an English family’s doorstep.
Therefore, the second Benjamin Lawdry grew up to be an Englishman. He attended an English school and learned cabinet making. By all accounts, he was very good at his trade. He and his family moved to the Ottawa area.
Benjamin fell in love and married Elizabeth Cummings in 1835. Elizabeth was from Portland, Maine, once known as Falmouth. The following year, they left Canada and returned to Portland. They had two children: Sarah and Franklin. Sarah was born in 1836 and Frank, in 1838.
“Aw,” I said. “Now we must be getting to the part about Sarah. Who was she, Mr. Winnipesaukee?”
The old timer settled down into the bear rug (at least, it appeared to be bear) that he’d wrapped himself in, and closed his eyes. I waited. Finally, I got up and threw a couple of the biggest logs I could find, on the fire. If this was the end of the story, I wanted to warm up before I went to sleep and if the story was going to continue, I still wanted to warm up. It was amazing how the breeze could change so quickly from to being too hot to feelin’ downright cool. That ol’ quarter moon was high above us now, and as white as one of those flour sacks after Momma had bleached it. It cast such a light that the river shone pure silver and the prairie grass stood tall like white wheat, ready to harvest. It truly was a wondrous sight and probably one my mother could have described in poetry. In some ways, I appeared to take more after my pa, at least, in the poetry writing department.
I pulled out my pocket watch and faced it towards the fire. It was almost eleven. My eyelids were getting heavy and it seemed that either my storyteller had decided to leave off until morning or this was the end of his tale. ‘Course, Momma’s words have a way of always coming back to me, “Be patient with your grandparents, Patrick. They are old. Never forget that they have probably forgotten more than what you think you know.”
Therefore, I kept quiet. Winnipesaukee’s eyes were closed so I shut mine, too. I was just drifting off, dreamin’ about travellin’ down that big highway to Regina when the sound of his voice brought me back to reality.
He spoke softly but his voice sounded loud and rumbling in the night’s dense silence.
Chapter Three
Portland was a thriving hub of activity when Benjamin Lawdry and his wife, Elizabeth arrived in 1836. The city and port had not only survived Captain Mowatt’s attack but Indians had invaded twice and burned most of it to the ground. Benjamin, however, was a bright, optimistic young businessman and Elizabeth, a staunch believer in progress and the preservation of family and nation. It wasn’t long before their cabinetry factory on Fore Street had to be expanded. Within three years, they were the proud owners of a fashionable home in Bramhall. The two children, Sarah and Frank, attended the finest schools.
Because Benjamin’s stepparents were English, they never elaborated on his true identity. Although adopted, he always carried his true name: Lawdry. In Canada, both the Indians and the whites looked down on half-breeds. Just saying the word left a bad taste in one’s mouth. Of course, Benjamin was actually more Indian than white but he was not aware of this.
He was also not aware that somewhere, deep within him, the spirit of the Abenaki raged. Elizabeth acknowledged the fact that her husband was sometimes restless although she never understood the reason. Nor did she realize how deep his disquieting thoughts went. She had, as some might describe, a more delicate constitution. Any slight apprehension would send her to her bed for several days. It never entered her mind that her husband might be discontented.
Not until one warm spring day in 1851.
Elizabeth was entertaining a group of society ladies that morning. Their maid was in the midst of serving a new flavoured coffee from South America when her husband flung open the sitting room French doors. His face was flushed and his black eyes, flashing.
“Elizabeth,” he announced. “I’ve sold the factory. There’s a wagon train leaving in three weeks and we’ll be with it. We’re moving west to California.”
The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of shattering china as each of the ladies’ teacups hit the floor and the thud as Elizabeth Lawdry’s body joined them.
Elizabeth’s friends had departed as quickly as possible, almost tripping over each other’s long skirts. Most were gasping, weeping and fanning themselves as their young men helped them into the waiting carriages. The nervous horses stomped their feet and the groomsmen snickered. The Portland women didn’t usually provide them with such entertainment.
Benjamin quickly summoned the family physician and he hastened to the house. A half hour later he left, carrying his little black bag in his hand and shaking his head. Miss Elizabeth spent the next three days in her bedroom. She did not speak to anyone. The children spent most of their time sitting on the floor outside her door, waiting and wondering what their destiny might be. Would Father be travelling west alone? Not that they would think of ever leaving Mother behind but surely she couldn’t expect them to give up on such an adventure! The more they talked about it, the more convinced they became that the West was calling them.
“But how will we get Mother to come?” Frank asked.
Sarah shook her head. For once, it seemed she didn’t have an answer. Finally, she said, “We must pray about it. Didn’t Mother read to us in the Bible that if you wanted something, you must keep asking?”
“I thought Jesus said to keep knocking. Is that the same thing?”
Sarah shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to pray anyway. After all,” she said, with great authority, “we may have to pray for a home, if Father truly sold this one.”
Therefore, while daughter and son were giving thought to what they might say in their prayers, their father ate, slept and fretted in his study. He knew Elizabeth might be upset with his plans initially but he hadn’t counted on such a drastic reaction. How many years did it take to understand one’s wife? She seemed to have enjoyed the journey from Canada to Portland so much. Wouldn’t she enjoy the journey to a virgin land even more? How exciting it was going to be! Why must she be so unpredictable? Had he not read the signs correctly? Could it have been that she just wanted to leave the cold uncivilized country of Canada for the slightly warmer climate and bustling life of the American city?
In hindsight, he realized that it would have been wiser to wait until the family was alone before bursting out with the news. That had been his initial plan but when he walked in the house and saw those beautiful blue eyes looking up at him with such love and trust in them, he couldn’t help himself. Oh, what a fool he’d been.
Each day seemed to stretch out longer than the one before. Everyone tiptoed from room to room.
Sarah, who was tall and dark like her father, took everything in stride. She was the only family member who understood her father’s dreams. How many times they had sat up on Bramhall’s Hill looking out to sea. How many times their eyes had strayed instead to the scene behind them, to the west. The mountain range beckoned them.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find out what’s beyond those mountains?” she had said, repeatedly. “Why must we live all our life here in Portland?”
Her father had always answered, “Someday, Sarah, my love, someday we will travel beyond the mountains.”
“And where will we go, Father?” Her black eyes shone with excitement as her long raven black hair fanned out into the wind. “Will we go to California? There’s gold there. Did you know?”
Benjamin would laugh and say, “So, you and I will go to the gold fields? And, what will we do with your brother and mother?”
Sarah could never answer because she saw only the two of them: father and daughter.
On the fourth morning, Elizabeth allowed her husband to enter their bedroom. The children crept up the stairs to their spot by the door. The servants stopped everything that they’d been doing and waited in silence. Elizabeth’s voice carried quite nicely throughout most of the house.
“Are you out of your mind, Benjamin Lawdry?’ she screamed. “Why, in heaven’s name, would we move out west? We have everything here. I’m happy. The children are happy. What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you happy? Business has never been so good. At least, that’s what you claim. Or,” she paused. “Is there something that you’re not telling me?” Her skin turned chalky and her hands shook. “What are you not telling me? Have we lost everything? What have you done? Have you started running to the gambling houses?”
Before he could say anything, Elizabeth fell to the floor, weeping and beating the rug with her small dainty fists. He knelt down beside her.
“Darling,” he said, lifting her up by the shoulders and holding her limp body against his chest. “Of course, I’m not going to the gambling houses.” He patted her back as he nuzzled his face into her soft blond hair. “It’s just that I’ve received this wonderful offer. A man from England got off the boat yesterday. He took a tour around Portland. He saw our house and immediately fell in love with it.” He drew back, forcing her to look at him. “I’ve been to the bank. We have enough money to pay off our mortgage and to cover the cost for the wagon train. Mack Kenny has agreed to take over the lease for the factory and buy all my wood. Our trip is completely paid for.”
She revived; anger being the wonderful catalyst that it is.
“Our trip?”
The children moved away from the door and down the hallway. They had no idea their sweet soft spoken mother could yell so vociferously.
“You mean you can pay for your trip. I refuse to be dragged off into some no man’s land. And, you will not take my children. The children will stay here with me. I’m sure that friends and family will be happy to look after us. When you have come to your senses again, Benjamin Lawdry, and have no doubt lost all our money, then I’m sure you’ll remember us and come back home.”
After this outburst, Elizabeth appeared to have run out of steam. The voices became muffled. The children tiptoed back to the door and the staff slowly made their way to the bottom of the stairs, each with one ear facing the upstairs landing. The Lawdry’s were one of the finest folks to work for in Portland but the staff was quite sure that cooks, maids and butlers wouldn’t be accompanying them out west. They stood and listened with heavy hearts.
Two hours later, Benjamin opened the door and came out. By this time, the cook, the two maids and the carriage driver were sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, cursing their master for putting their mistress through such torture. They were, however, confident that everything would be fine; the family would sit down to a strong cup of English tea and they would all laugh over such a foolish notion. If someone were buying this house, perhaps, the new home would be even finer than this one. Cook was already deciding what demands she would make for her new kitchen.
Frank tried to stay awake but after an hour, he stretched out on the carpet and fell asleep. Sarah sat with her ear to the door, her eyes closed and a slight smile on her lips. When she heard her father’s steps approaching, she jabbed her brother in the ribs with her fist.
“Wha…?”
“Get up, Frank,” she said. “We’re going to California!”
Chapter Four
Frank never did find out what had transpired in his parent’s bedroom that day. His father never revealed what he said, how he said it or what he did to win over his mother. He came out of the room, pale but smiling. As he walked past his children, who were still sitting on the floor by the door, he patted each on the head. Frank’s mother emerged hours later, her eyes red and her face flushed from crying but with a very determined look. She held a piece of paper in her hand. It was a list of her demands.
Still clinging to a thread of fast fading pride, she insisted that they could not throw their staff out into the streets. It was up to Benjamin to see to it that they kept their positions. If the new owners did not agree to this, she would not go west. She insisted on having an extra wagon for her clothes, the children’s clothes and some furniture, including her mother’s baby grand piano. Sarah and Frank would resume their music lessons as soon as the family settled in. There would be no concessions. And, settled they would be, in an established city or town. They would not live in the wilderness, in the middle of nowhere, worrying every day that bears or Indians might eat them alive.