The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (5 page)

“What's wrong, Lou?”

“I don't see Mr. Pitman.”

John and George looked at one another, confused. Then everyone lost the warmth of the sun. Finding themselves in a great shadow, John, George and Lou turned around. Standing over them was a great, bearded eclipse.

Nathaniel Pitman.

Lou screamed. John clamped a hand over her mouth.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the towering man. His eyes were small and dark, lost in his deep-set brow. His voice was deep and rumbling and infringed on the solitude of the lake. “We…” began George.

“We were fishing at the lake,” completed John, smiling through his nervousness.

“We were?” blurted Lou, who suddenly found herself with her brother's hand over her mouth again.

The giant of a man looked around. “Where are your poles?”

“Poles?” repeated George, as if it was the most ridiculous, follow-up question imaginable.

“Oh, we don't use poles, sir,” said John. “We're just using our hands – like bears do.” John mimicked the action of a swatting bear in a stream and then glanced toward George who also began swatting in a makebelieve river.

“You're very close to my saw mill. I don't like children near my mill,” said the towering man, inching closer while stroking his long, dark beard.

“Yes, we were just talking about that and...oh, do you hear that?” John cocked his head to one side with exaggeration.

The heavy-breathing saw mill operator frowned and stopped. “Hear what?”

“It's my mother,” John and George both blurted out at once. John glared at George.

“It's his mother,” they both pointed at one another. In the corner of his eye John saw Lou bolt for the edge of the mountain. John grabbed George by the shoulder and ran after her.

Chapter 6

The Games People Play

The chess game mirrored John's mood. His queen was somehow trapped, his two knights were floundering, his bishops and one rook had long ago been taken and his pawns were nearly spent. It was not his finest game. Moll glanced up at her brother and didn't say anything, but John knew she was wondering how quickly to finish him off.

“What's bothering you?” she asked. They were playing chess in their customary seats in the main living area. A soft stream of morning light sliced across the wooden game board. Today, Lieutenant Colonel Donald Macpherson would arrive. Knowing he was coming reminded John of Kingston, which in turn had reminded him of his recent nightmare.

“Something's wrong. Is it the treasure map?” Moll asked. She looked toward the front door. However, Helen and Lou had not yet returned from the general store. John continued to sit with his head in his hands.

“No – it's not that. But thanks for sewing that inside pocket,” said John, instinctively feeling the slight bulge in his vest where the map rested.

“You're welcome.” Moll didn't press any further. Instead, she calmly killed another pawn with a swoop of her dark bishop.

“Moll, do you ever think of James – I mean, still?” He glanced into her sky blue eyes and saw her flinch. “Of course I do.”

John nodded. Reaching over he moved one of his knights in retreat. “Once in a while – quite often, really – I have the same terrible dream. I can see us in that tavern…James and me. With Kennedy.” His eyes stared at the chess board.

“Kennedy's gone now,” said Moll. John raised his head. “So is James.” “I know that.”

John sacrificed a pawn to her waiting queen. “What I mean is,” said John, “I should have done more. That's why I think I keep dreaming it over and over again.”

“John, you were young yourself, only a year-and-ahalf older. You mustn't ever think that.”

“I was still the eldest brother.”

“You were seven-years-old John!” She looked at him with caring eyes. “Do you know why you keep dreaming about it?”

John felt his eyes begin to well as he shook his head.

“Because you were there!” she said. “You were the only one, out of all of us, who can carry James inside of you that way. You couldn't have done more than you did.”

Using his shirt sleeve John absorbed a stray tear that had gotten through his resolve. “I won't forget him, Moll. Mother and Father may. But I won't.”

Her eyes moist, she reached over to give him a hug. “I'm still going to wallop you in this game you know.”

“I know,” said John, grinning.

***

It was the pain in his head that he felt first. It was as if a great boulder was resting on top of it.

Anson Rightmyer awoke, sitting. He was on a slim, splintered chair in a mud-dark cabin. He couldn't swallow. Not the way he wanted. A piece of dark, green cloth was tied tightly across his mouth and around his head. As he tried to move, Anson felt like he was a part of the chair. In a way, he realized he was. His arms were tightly bound behind him. In turn, his ankles were tied to the chair legs.

The last thing he remembered was seeing a shape in the lake. An impossible shape. Had he been attacked by…that thing? No. He had seen something...but it was from behind that he had been grabbed. He remembered the strong hand over his mouth.

Anson's eyes began to adjust to the pain in his head to see beyond the chair on which he sat. He squinted and saw three shapes. Two men were standing in front of him, a third figure on a chair, further back. The two men who were standing were impassive, stiff and soldier-like.

The man on the chair, though, was different. He was round-faced and stared back at him. Smiling. It wasn't a warm smile, though. Not at all. In fact it didn't seem like a smile at all – more like a twitch around the mouth. The grinning man gently stroked the back of a tiny, brown sparrow with his index finger.

Anson blinked. He knew this man – it was his neighbour! He had been found and would soon be going home! The rag in his mouth wouldn't allow him to work his tongue properly. But he moaned at the smiling man and tried to call his name. “…ar-i-uhh…ar-i-uhh….!”

“Shhh,” the voice came back. “It's too late for talking, too late. You're just too curious of a Brit you are. Just too curious.”

Darius Marshall rose. He set the sparrow on a small table and swaddled it in cloth. On his belt Darius wore a long knife. He slowly drew it from its sheath and then selected an apple from a bin in the corner of the room. Then he moved within inches of Anson's face.

Anson drained of all colour. Going home was far from certain, he realized. Something was wrong. Darius palmed the apple for a moment and then began to peel it directly in front of Anson's eyes. Each puncture of the apple's skin caused Anson's heart to tighten.

“I'm sorry. Is this bothering you?” asked Darius, nodding to the knife and apple. Anson nodded, unsure. The twitching face of his neighbour laughed. Then Darius raised the knife to the bridge of Anson's nose. Anson felt the cold touch of the knife's blade trace along the bridge of his nose and down its slope. The last thing he thought of was Mary Ann, just moments before he fainted.

Chapter 7

The Colour of Oppression

“Mother, when will the colonel be here?” asked John, bursting into the house for the second time. The smell of baking bread wafted through the room and John immediately felt like he could eat a second breakfast.

“Any moment,” she said, sweeping the kitchen for the third time. Moll and Lou were polishing silverware and smirked at John. “If you'd just stay down by the bay instead of poking your head in here every five minutes, you just might be there to greet him.”

“Is Colonel Macpherson travelling with Cornelius?” asked John.

“Yes, but don't you talk his poor ear off. And if being there to greet him doesn't sound like something you'd like to do, you can head back to the mill.”

“No, no – I should be there to say hello! Bye now!” John fled from the house. Although it would be nice to see the colonel again, it would be even better to have time to hang out with George. But he wouldn't be avail able until this afternoon to explore, since the Cloutier's had family visiting.

John could hardly stand it, considering the map in his inside pocket. He had been up late, staring at the strange markings on it in the fading light of his room until his eyes bulged.

Although he boarded in a rooming house while he attended grammar school during the long, winter months in Kingston, the Macpherson's house was a second home to John. His uncle and Aunt Anna were always there for him.

John often felt like he lived two completely different lives. One was full of the kind of excitement that can only be found in a larger city. On Kingston's busy streets all manner of people could be found. On a Friday night John could go about the town and watch men and women from high society move about the city in their expensive clothes. Yet all around them were the desperate poor, and homeless, living like animals between taverns and shops.

Recent immigrants from England, Scotland and Ireland – as the Macdonald's had once been – mixed with officers and soldiers from Kingston's great military presence. It was a diverse blend of people, trying to live their lives in many different ways.

John remembered some of the trip across the Atlantic Ocean in the ship, ‘Earl of Buckinghamshire,' when he was just five years old. It wasn't an easy voyage, being stuck in the cargo hold area with other poor immigrants looking for a new life in a new land.

His other life, here in Stone Mills, was another world. This summer was even more remarkable than usual, given that he had a treasure map in his pocket and rumours of a lake creature in his head – all in the same summer. John's only wish was that he had more time. As he looked across the water, John couldn't see anything other than the ferryman, Jacob Adams, taking someone across the reach to Adolphustown. The ferry service – which was a flat-bottom boat called a bateau – constantly made the brief trip back and forth, like an aquatic road for travellers.

Adolphustown was less than a mile away on the other side by ferry and was one of the first settlements in Prince Edward County. It was where John had previously attended school.

A couple of years ago, the Macdonald's had lived in Hay Bay, which was also across the water's reach. Back then, John walked to school from Hay Bay to Adolphustown every morning and night, a distance of three miles, one way. The small, wooden schoolhouse where he attended had been built by the original settlers, the United Empire Loyalists, who had fled the American Revolution. They sacrificed everything in order to remain part of Great Britain.

John watched the ferryman and now two other men fishing at the edge of the bay. He still didn't see anything else. This area of Upper Canada had so many inlets it was difficult to see in a straight line. One moment, a person could see a vessel and then the next, it would be gone as it steered around a sharp corner of the bay.

While he waited, John walked down the shoreline to Solomon Brook's shipbuilding and repair business. He could see Solomon shaping a piece of oak as he drew closer. John eyed the half-of-a-ship being built while resting on large blocks along the sandy shore. He wondered where this new vessel might be headed. Perhaps Kingston, Montreal or even overseas to England?

The burly, red-headed man nodded to John as he approached. There probably wasn't a larger, stronger man in Stone Mills, except for maybe Nathaniel Pitman.

“John, lad – how are you faring this morning?” asked Solomon. He leaned the great plank of oak he was working on against the fledgling ship. “I'm well, thank you, Mr. Brook.”

“Waiting for your uncle, I presume?”

“How did you know?”

Solomon used his forearm to wipe his face. “It's not hard to figure out what goes on in a village this size, lad” he laughed. “The colonel's a good man. I've met him a couple of times.”

“He's coming with Cornelius,” John said. “Maybe he had a delayed load.”

Solomon scoffed. “Cornelius Larue has always been delayed. I can't understand why your uncle would travel with that character – a man of his stature deserves better.”

John grinned. “The colonel likes to help people out – he likely wanted to give Cornelius the extra work.”

“Sure,” said Solomon, “as long as the poor colonel doesn't have to pay with his life. He's a braver man than me.”

Cornelius' bateau was a thirty-footer, pointed at both ends. It was larger than the local ferryman's, but was on the older side. For years Solomon had been trying to sell Cornelius a new one.

The boat was a common sight between Stone Mills and Kingston, as he made his living moving goods from place to place in what was becoming a busy trade area. Bateau operators like Cornelius made it possible for businesses like the Macdonald's mill to find a market for its flour. Hugh Macdonald sold most of his flour into the larger Kingston and Montreal markets. And it was also how finished goods like sugar, spices and cloth came to tiny Stone Mills.

Even though there was a rough road called the ‘Danforth' which crept along Lake Ontario between Kingston and Ancaster, people still preferred travel by water given the torturous quality of the road. The waterways, lakes, rivers and inlets provided reliable fourseason roads and became pathways for people and goods in everything from canoes, skiffs, scows and bateaux.

“Did you hear about Anson Rightmyer?” asked Solomon.

John shook his head. He knew of Mr. Rightmyer, a farmer on top of Lake on the Mountain. Whenever John saw him at the mill he couldn't help but stare at the man's four-fingered hand, even though he knew it was rude.

“Looks like he disappeared. He was supposed to help the Goslin's with their crop, since they were taking turns helping each other out – you know how it works,” he said.

John nodded. Farming wasn't an easy life and neighbours always helped each other at harvest time.

“He better not have skipped town, that's all I can say,” said Solomon. “Why would he do that?”

“Well, I shouldn't be spreading this around, but the man owed me a crop share for some work I helped him with. I'm still waiting for it, and now he's disappeared. Hmmph,” added Solomon.

“It hasn't been too long, though, right?” asked John. “Maybe he went hunting?”

“Yeah, likely he got lost somewhere while hunting, more like it. That man hasn't been right in the head since Mary Ann died anyway.”

John didn't know what to think about Mr. Rightmyer's state of mind. He barely knew the man.

“Well, look along there, lad. That's them now,” said Solomon, scratching his red beard and nodding at the bay. “I'm surprised they're still afloat.”

John followed Solomon's gaze out onto the bay. Having rounded an inlet, the bateau was now visible. Cornelius, lanky, with blonde, dishevelled hair, was only partly visible to John's line of sight. That's because his uncle was standing on the bow of the small bateau as if his were the lead ship in a great armada in some grand military manoeuvre. John waved and danced around.

***

He moved unseen and unheard. Among the thick shrubs and long grass, Darius Marshall watched the open water of the Bay of Quinte from his elevated hiding place.

As he scrutinized the great bay, he stole glances toward the general store. Darius couldn't help but picture Hannah Pringle. She was so different from Sophia, and he thanked his lucky stars for that. Hannah would never run off with another man. His face darkened. Least of all a member of the Family Compact.

Darius squinted. He could see a bateau approaching on the open water. Normally this was not surprising. Stone Mills had its fair share of visitors and traders. But this time, the approaching vessel concerned him. He took cover to watch until the bateau grew closer. His keen eyes spotted a smudge of red in the flat-bottomed boat. British red. The colour of oppression. The colour he had voluntarily fought against as a member of the U.S. army, earning his reputation under Colonel Richard Johnson as a mounted rifleman. He remembered the clash of bayonets along the Thames River, east of Detroit, against the 41st Regiment of Foot.

The Brits had surrendered there with their Indian allies as they would in the near future once his own plan was complete. The biggest mistake his country had ever made was signing the Treaty of Ghent to end the War of 1812. They had given up too soon. They had not committed to the war the way he had personally committed to it.

He was grateful to have the support of some of the top men from his old unit here in the village. They trusted him completely – even his eccentric approaches to battle.

The bateau drew nearer and he began to recognize the small vessel and its operator, Cornelius Larue. But the red uniform moved to the front of the bateau and perched there, like a bloated hawk. Yes, he was a Brit all right. An officer of some kind. But he looked old. Washed up. Probably should be retired if he's not already. Odd – but not a threat.

A movement caught his eye. He could see the burly red-headed shipbuilder. But it was the young Macdonald boy on shore who was moving, jumping up and down and waving warmly to the Brit as if he knew him well. Perhaps he was even a relative.

Too bad. He knew the Macdonald's were Brits but he didn't know their connection to the British military. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. He would have to consider them all hostile now. People like the Macdonald's didn't know what democracy looked like. Living like this, under foreign rule, they were a malignant presence.

He wondered what President Adams would say once he handed him Stone Mills, the perfect point from which to lead troops to Kingston and York. He wondered if Hannah would marry him for the great man that he was about to become.