George Johnson's War by Maureen Garvie

Author:Maureen Garvie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV016120
Publisher: Groundwood Books Ltd
Published: 2002-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

~ 10 ~

THE PRISONER

“FATHER loved Christmas.” Peggy warmed her backside at the fire and blew her nose on a rag. “And New Year. He would have arranged things, even here at the end of the earth. Feasting, and music, and games.”

“Don’t dwell on what’s missing, Peg,” said Lana. “We’ll keep Christmas again, once war’s done. We’ll have to be satisfied this year with new moccasins, and dolls for the little ones.”

“We had wonderful presents when Papa was alive,” Peggy kept on wistfully. “Books, and scents from Philadelphia, and sugarplums and Chinese fans.”

There was even a monkey with a tasseled cap and a jacket. Monkeys and sugarplums seemed faraway fancies now.

Some British families were planning a service for the Feast of the Nativity. Mother suggested Uncle Joseph might read the lesson in Mohawk. But the chaplain did not like the idea.

“Let the Indians hold their own services in the camps.”

“Along with loyalty to the King goes loyalty to the King’s religion,” said Mother, repeating one of Father’s phrases. “Many here are baptized. And they have forgone Midwinter festival this year because of our great hardship and sorrow. I am sure Sir William would not have spiritual comfort and the word of God denied us as well.”

As usual Father’s name worked changes. “I see your point, Mrs. Brant,” the chaplain answered stiffly. “We must bring civilization to the wilderness. Please speak to Captain Brant on my behalf.” He looked over at us. “Perhaps your children might wish to gather greenery for the chapel. To make the day more festive.”

There was no green of any sort to be seen around the fort. Every bush and sapling had been burnt for fuel. But Peg, Lana and I were given leave to cross the river by canoe, if it was calm.

When we left the barracks next morning, the water was glassy, the ground white with frost. The guard let us out the south bastion gate, and we made our way through the camps and lean-tos, down the cliff to the docks.

The dock men grinned at us as we clambered down the path. My sisters were a bright sight in their red mantles and moccasins and leggings, half Indian, half ladies. A sailor stepped forward to help Peg, and she tossed her curls at him and pointed to the canoe she fancied. He made a little bow as he handed her a paddle.

I took the stern. The far shore looked near a mile off across the river, and we set to, our paddles dripping silver in the black water. My sisters’ hair was soon webbed white with mist.

On the far side we lifted the canoe from the water and struck out up the hillside past the Indian camps. At the first ridge we turned and looked back across the river. It was a grand view — the fort rising up over the lake, the only bright thing the flag hanging at the roof peak.

The trees near shore had been cut for firewood, but up over several ridges we found scrawny pines and hemlock.

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