Hope's Journey

By Jean Rae Baxter

The fifth volume in the “Forging a Nation” series begins in 1791. The year a new province is created in the country that will one day be called Canada. The year Hope Cobman’s life turns around. At thirteen, she must leave the orphanage where she has lived since her mother’s death one year ago. Alone in the world, she dreams of finding her father and three brothers — all complete strangers to her, for even before her birth the American Revolution had scattered her family. Forced into becoming an indentured servant, she is little more than a slave to a lonely man and his bitter, crippled mother. Finally set free, she sets off on her own. But instead of finding a father and a brother who will take care of her, she learns that it is up to her to help them recover from the wounds of war. Along the way, she discovers her own strength. For Hope, and for all the Loyalists of Upper Canada, a brighter future lies ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronsdale Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781553804475

Jean Rae Baxter

Jean Rae Baxter holds a B.A. and M.A. from the University of Toronto and a B.Ed. from Queen’s. She has been nominated for the 2022 Governor General’s History Award for Popular Media: the Pierre Berton Award.Although she grew up in Hamilton, “down home” was Essex County, where her ancestors had settled, some as Loyalists in the 1780’s following the American Revolution and some a century earlier, in the days of New France.Jean has written six historical novels, the “Forging a Nation Series,” covering the period from 1777 to 1793:The Way Lies North (2007)Broken Trail (2011)Freedom Bound (2012)The White Oneida (2014)Hope’s Journey (2015)The Knotted Rope (2021)With The Battle on the Ice she moves ahead to the Patriot Wars of 1837-1838. Jean’s historical novels have won awards in Canada and the United States, including all three Moonbeam medals, –Gold, Silver, Bronze—for Young Adult Historical Fiction.She has also authored a murder mystery, Looking for Cardenio, and two short story collections, Twist of Malice and Scattered Light.As a teacher of creative writing Jean holds workshops on using the tools of fiction to bring family history to life.

Book preview

(1797)

CHAPTER 1

April, 1791

I am not an Orphan.

Hope stood in front of the desk where Henry McIsaac sat writing in a ledger. On his desk were a stack of documents, an ink pot and a tray of quills. He finished the entry he was making, laid down his quill and raised his periwigged head. To all intents and purposes, that’s what you are.

My mother is dead, but I have a father. He may not know I exist, but he’s still my father. And I have three brothers. She felt her lower lip trembling. A girl who has a father and three brothers is no orphan.

Much good they do you now. Mr. McIsaac’s voice was cold. You don’t seem to realize I’m trying to help you. You’re lucky to be offered this position. All that Ephraim Block expects you to do is take care of his mother, keep the cabin clean and cook the meals.

As if that were nothing!

Mr. McIsaac picked up a document from the stack and placed it facing her on the desk. According to the terms of your indentures, you’ll be bound for three years. In return for the performance of your duties, you will receive food, lodging and wages of three pounds per year, payable at the completion of the three years. By that time, your father may come to claim you. Or you’ll be old enough to marry.

He handed her his pen. Make your mark above the line at the bottom of the page.

I can write. Leaning over the desk, she carefully printed each letter. H-O-P-E C-O-B-M-A-N. Mr. McIsaac had already written the date: 15 April, 1791.

He turned the paper around and looked at it critically, causing her to wonder whether she had made a mistake. Then he signed his name as witness to her signature.

Behind her she heard a knock on the door.

Mr. McIsaac looked up. Come in.

The door opened.

Ah! Mr. Block. Mr. McIsaac stood up. You’re just in time.

Hope watched as Mr. McIsaac walked around from behind his desk to shake the hand of the man who had just entered. So this was Ephraim Block. He was a thin man with stooped shoulders. His reddish hair was tied back in a queue, and his skin was coarsened by the sun.

He flicked a glance at Hope. Is everything ready?

As soon as you’ve signed here. Mr. McIsaac showed him the paper.

Is everything correct?

Of course. You know that I practised law in New Jersey for twenty years before the Revolution.

When the document had been signed and sealed, Mr. Block turned to Hope. I suppose you have a trunk you need to bring.

Hope did not answer.

What? said Mr. Block. Are you mute? He turned to Mr. McIsaac. You haven’t saddled me with a deaf-mute, have you?

Not her! He laughed. Matron at the Orphan Asylum says she never stops talking.

That’s good. My mother will benefit from some female society, though women talk nothing but nonsense most of the time.

Matron told me I’d be leaving today, Hope said stiffly. I have my bundle here.

Then let’s be off, said Mr. Block. My property is eight miles west of Kingston. I can’t leave my mother alone any longer than necessary.

Hope picked up from the floor a canvas-wrapped bundle secured by a leather strap. It held a hooded cloak that had been her mother’s, two handkerchiefs, a brush and a comb. These were her only possessions.

At the door, Mr. Block turned around and said to Mr. McIsaac, By the way, have you any news about my case?

Not yet. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.

I’ll be in to see you next month, as usual.

Hope followed Mr. Block out the door. She did not want to leave Kingston, where there was bustle and excitement, with bateaux coming and going up and down the St. Lawrence River, and soldiers from the Tête du Pont barracks, handsome in their red coats. Most important of all, it would be easier for her father and brothers to find her if she lived in town, not in a log cabin in the wilderness. Because she was already half a year beyond the usual leaving age, the orphanage could keep her no longer. But why was there no family in Kingston wanting to employ a servant girl?

Her bundle over her shoulder, she trudged at Mr. Block’s side past the ruins of old Fort Frontenac with its crumbling walls. A stiff breeze blew from the lake.

There’s no road, said Mr. Block. We travel by canoe. With the wind rising, the water will be rough. I’ll need you to paddle in the bow.

Paddle? She looked at him blankly, as if she had never heard that word before. I don’t know how to paddle.

Weren’t you raised on Carleton Island?

I was. In the Fort Haldimand barracks. Soldiers’ families were quartered there.

I can’t believe you grew up on an island but don’t know how to paddle a canoe.

Why would I? There was nowhere to go.

Carleton Island’s no bigger than three square miles, and you never left it? He sounded as if he could not believe his ears.

Hope felt her cheeks grow red. The only time I’ve ever been in a boat was when the garrison soldiers brought Ma and me over to the mainland in a bateau.

Humph! He said nothing more until they reached the landing. It was swarming with people, for a bateau had just arrived from Montreal. The dark-eyed Canadiens, wearing their bright sashes, were unloading boxes and barrels onto the shore. They laughed as they worked, shouting to one another in French. Now there would be a night of revelry at the tavern before their bateau started back down the St. Lawrence in the morning.

Mr. Block did his best to ignore the Canadiens. He found his canoe among half a dozen that were pulled up on the limestone shore. He shoved the bow into the water.

Get in.

She hung back.

Hurry up. We have to get going.

I can’t swim.

Can’t swim, either! Oh, never mind. It’s not as if we are going to cross the Atlantic. Just climb in and make your way to the bow. He took her bundle from her and placed it in the canoe.

Knowing she had no choice, Hope climbed in at the stern, scrambled hand-over-hand to the bow, knelt cautiously and gripped the sides.

He reached a paddle to her. You can’t paddle if you’re hanging on to the gunwales. The best way to learn something is to do it. He climbed in at the stern and shoved off.

She dipped her paddle. Hope had seen plenty of Indians paddling canoes. She had some idea of how it was done.

Deeper! Mr. Block called out. As she dug in with her paddle, she felt the canoe move forward. Use your shoulders! he bellowed.

The canoe stayed close to the shoreline as they left Kingston behind. At first the water was not too rough. But the further they went, the bigger the waves grew. One moment the canoe was borne so high on a crest it seemed ready to take flight. The next, it slapped into a trough. Half the time, Hope’s paddle flailed the empty air.

It felt like the longest eight miles in the world. Her shoulders hurt and her arms felt ready to fall off. It was hard to keep a grip.

We’re nearly there, Mr. Block called to her. The next instant a big wave hit the canoe broadside.

We’re tipping over! she screamed. But they did not. Mr. Block righted the canoe. After that, Hope clamped her jaws shut. Never again would she let on that she was afraid. She dug her paddle more deeply into the billowing water.

As they passed a clearing in the woods, Mr. Block shouted. See that cabin? Ours is the next one.

Hope looked shoreward. Outside a log cabin, a boy was splitting logs. He lowered his axe, looked straight at her, and then lifted one arm in a big, sweeping wave.

His wave warmed her like a ray of sunshine. If she had not needed both hands to grip the paddle, she would have waved back. For the first time in days she felt like smiling. Her spirits lifted at the thought that someone young and friendly would be living not too far away.

The clearing was followed by a stretch of woods, and then they came to another clearing. Mr. Block turned the canoe landward. We’re here, he shouted, and he brought the canoe to shore.

A log cabin stood a little back from the shore, far enough back for the garden in front, which appeared to be already dug for spring planting. Behind the cabin was a plowed field in which tree stumps were still rooted. The house had a stone chimney, a plank door with long black hinges and two windows, one on each side of the door.

So this was the place where she would spend the next three years keeping house, cooking meals and taking care of Mrs. Block. Why did she need someone to take care of her? This was the part that worried Hope the most.

She lifted her bundle from the bottom of the canoe. On wobbly legs she followed Mr. Block to the cabin. He pressed the latch and opened the door. Hope heard a woman’s voice.

You’re late, Ephraim. Although cracked with age, it was a voice that expected to be obeyed.

Mr. Block stepped inside. Sorry, Mother. It was a slow trip back. The lake was rough.

You should have started sooner. Did you bring the girl?

Hope felt a shiver of fear. Did that powerful voice belong to the woman who would be giving her orders for the next three years?

Yes, Mother. Mr. Block looked at Hope over his shoulder. Come in.

CHAPTER 2

The Tyrant on her Throne

The old woman sat in a bentwood chair. She was small and shrivelled, her face deeply lined. A white ruffled cap covered her hair. The back of her chair curved around to end with an armrest on each side, and her crooked fingers clutched the armrests like claws.

Mrs. Block gave Hope a sharp look. Hope knew what she saw: a slim girl of average height wearing a grey orphanage gown that hung limply from her shoulders and reached nearly to her ankles, showing one inch of black stocking above her buckled shoes. What’s your name? Mrs. Block asked.

Hope Cobman.

You’re just a child.

I’m thirteen and a half.

You don’t look it.

She’s the best I could get. Mr. Block’s voice, which had sounded quite normal before, was weak and hesitant compared to his mother’s.

Let’s hope she works out better than the last one.

So there had been another! Hope wondered what had happened to the last servant. The old woman probably had worked her to death.

If it’s all right with you, Mother, I’ll go find the cow. It’s milking time.

You should’ve left Bossy in the shed, not free to wander off in the woods.

Then she couldn’t have grazed.

If a bear got her, it will be no one’s fault but yours.

When he had left the cabin, Mrs. Block turned her attention to Hope. Did my son explain your duties?

He didn’t tell me anything. Hope drew a deep breath. But the lawyer in Kingston said I’d have to cook meals, clean the cabin and take care of you.

Take care of me. Raising one hand from the arm of her chair, Mrs. Block inspected her gnarled fingers. Her hand shook as she held it in front of her face. It’s true. I can’t feed myself. Can’t wash myself. Can’t dress myself. That’s what you’ll have to do for me. They should have sent a woman, not a child. Her hand dropped down to grip the armrest again.

Hope did not answer, half hoping to be dismissed as unfit for the tasks involved. But if she lost this position, what could she do? Return to Kingston? Much as she wished she could remain in town, she had no desire to live on the street among drunken sailors, cutpurses and women who had to sell their bodies to buy food to stay alive. Although the life of an indentured servant was little better than the life of a slave, it was preferable to homelessness.

The last girl ran off with a soldier, said Mrs. Block. When his regiment was disbanded, the government granted him one hundred acres. As soon as he had the scrip in his hand, he sold it for a pittance and went off to Montreal, taking Barbara with him. She was a good-looking girl.

Mrs. Block took a sharp look at Hope. Your ears are too big. Jug ears. You may grow into them, but with that snub of a nose, you’ll never be a beauty. She pronounced this judgment in her loud voice. "At least I won’t have to worry about you running off with a man."

Hope felt her face turning red. I have no desire to run off with a man.

What is it you do desire?

Beg your pardon? No one had ever before asked Hope such a question.

Everyone has desires. She pointed to a built-in bunk that ran along one side wall from the front of the cabin to the back. Sit down. It makes me nervous to see you stand there shuffling from foot to foot. Hope sat down. Well, Mrs. Block insisted, what do you want most, if it isn’t a handsome man to carry you away?

Hope knew exactly what she wanted most, and she saw no reason to make a secret of it.

I want to find my father and my brothers. I have three older brothers.

Oh! Where are these missing people?

I don’t know.

When did you last see them?

Hope hesitated. The only one I’ve ever seen is my middle brother, Elijah. He was a private in a Loyalist regiment, the King’s Royal Rangers of New York. For a while he was stationed at Fort Haldimand on Carleton Island. That’s when I saw him. But then the army sent him down south.

Why have you never seen your father or your other brothers?

My father and Silas, my oldest brother, were away fighting the rebels when I was born. Ma said my father never knew about me. He joined Butler’s Rangers before she realized she had a baby on the way.

So your father and two of your brothers fought for King George against George Washington. That’s something you can be proud of. What about your youngest brother?

His name was Moses. Oneida Indians carried him off. I was told they adopted him. That’s all I know. Ma said he was a constant thwart and torment to her. But I’d like to find him, just the same.

How old was he when they captured him?

Not quite ten.

He likely was a thwart and torment. Boys that age usually are. But he’s a grown man now. If you find your brothers, they’ll be more like uncles to a child like you.

That would be fine. I like the idea of having uncles to look out for me.

Nonsense. A woman should take pride in looking out for herself. She cleared

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