The Northwest Passage

By Henry Nary

In 1755, Robert Rogers is a brash young frontiersman from New Hampshire’s wilderness who is determined to find the Northwest Passage. Captivated by hearsay lore and his daring dream, Rogers wants nothing more than to walk over the horizon and never come back.

While on a hunting expedition one day, Rogers encounters a reverend and his daughter, Hannah Dunbright, who are seeking shelter from the unforgiving wilderness. He invites the pair back to his cabin, where he realizes that he and Hannah share a mutual attraction. But on the day they share their first kiss, Hannah and her father are kidnapped by Captain Andre Durantaye, a cunning French-Canadian coureur de bois. Meanwhile Rogers, who believes he has lost Hannah forever, attends a governor’s ball, where he meets Elizabeth Browne, a friend of Hannah’s; it seems she also has her eyes on the frontiersman. As events unfold, one of the women betrays him and the other seeks revenge--the consequences of the tempestuous love triangle.

In this epic story of love, betrayal, and redemption, a young explorer embarks on an audacious and dangerous quest to fulfill his dream amid the British struggle for empire and revocation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480804708

Henry Nary

Henry Nary has worked as a copywriter for the Blue Bell Observer and has penned poems and short stories for anthologies. He is also the author of two short stories. An armchair history buff and avid Eagles and Phillies fan, he currently resides in the Philadelphia metro area.

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THE NORTHWEST PASSAGE

Henry Nary

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Copyright © 2014 Henry Nary.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0469-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0471-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0470-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902758

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/06/2022

CONTENTS

Introduction

Part I The Fight For Empire

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

Part II Dream Of Baye De I’ Quest

36

Part III A Revolution Aroused

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

Epilogue

To my late mother, who championed my endeavors?

Virginia your being was a gift.

Part I  The Fight for Empire

Part II  Dream of Baye de I’ Quest

Part III  A Revolution Aroused

INTRODUCTION

There was a time in New Hampshire’s frontier history when a boy on the cusp of manhood had to learn or perish. In such a harsh realm, the rearing of a legend was born. It was during this period that a young man yearned to see what the maps of his day never showed and go in search of a fable that existed from a time long before his birth. Early in his life, Robert Rogers was fascinated with geography. He’d once heard a theory that, somewhere, a linkage existed through the wilds of the North American continent, enjoining the two oceans by interior rivers—not a polar route. He would often gaze at the western horizon and wonder what lay beyond the farthest mountains. It was such thoughts that gave young Rogers his sense of interest and destiny.

From the founding of America’s coastal settlements to well into the mid-eighteenth century, a trackless forest spread west. However, this vast wilderness was to become a geographic pawn among England, France, and Spain as the eastern forest turned perilous and a place where the faint of heart dared not go.

It was a time before a revolution gave birth to a new nation and men fought to survive in a savage existence that raised Rogers to military prominence. At the same time, a dream gnawed at him, a dream to find the river that spanned the continent and would lead to the Pacific. This was long before the time of Lewis and Clark.

Twenty years before the seed of revolt was planted in America’s soil, another war raged, a long and bitter wilderness war between France and England. It was a war that Robert Rogers tasted at a young age, the Seven Years’ War, also known as the French and Indian War. France sought to keep the fur-rich territory that stretched beyond the horizon, while the English tried not to be pushed into the sea. It was an epic duel of nations as the fate of a continent hung in the balance. So within the context of this bloody war, and later the American Revolution, the story is told, one of an ill-fated love and of the fabled lore that is as bold as the vast continent itself.

In 1755, New England’s New Hampshire woods were dark, rugged, and dense. A young and brash Robert Rogers grew into manhood in these woods. He became captivated by an urge to explore and search for the long-sought and fabled route to places at the far ends of the earth, such as India and China, and even to that mystical kingdom known as Persia.

But among these reasons, mostly greed and a worldly colonization, they were dwarfed by a much larger sense of destiny gripping both England and France. There was a need for a shorter route that would lead to the extension of influence by means of naval power and for a trading post route, with the hope of choking enemy commerce.

A folklore had endured ever since Columbus went in search of India and later with Henry Hudson. Then in 1534, French explorer Jacques Cartier reconnoitered an unmapped west coast of what is now Newfoundland and discovered the mouth of the mighty wide river. Each man had thought that he had finally found the beginning to that elusive source of what they believed to be a water route. But their jubilance was soon dashed when each learned that both the Hudson and Saint Lawrence Rivers’ inlets were not what they had first believed. And so, the quest to find the Northwest Passage would now be inherited by others yet to come.

Major Robert Rogers would be such a man. In 1763, he met American-born explorer Jonathan Carver, who shared two of Rogers’s interests. One was to map the Great Lakes of the Northwest Territory. The other was to traverse North America on a mighty river that the French called the Missouri, after the Indian name.

The lore surrounding the existence of a water route, a new and shorter corridor that would grant merchants a way to China and the East Indies for its wealth of silk and spices, was enduring at the dawn of a newly colonized continent. The man who found that long-sought passage would be remembered over the ages. Robert Rogers was now driven with the ambition to find the Northwest Passage.

Rogers’s failure to use simple judgment, both in love and in life, would eventually bring about a fall from grace. Now, in a framework of this literary historical fiction, one is cast back to that early period of America that has been all too forgotten with time, a time when a young lad named Rogers boldly dreamed.

Research through the New Hampshire Historical Society and other sources shed insight on Major Robert Rogers’s background. The events depicted are mostly authentic and, where possible, arranged as they occurred. Most relationships between characters are consistent with fact. That’s especially true of Elizabeth Browne, who, in 1761, wed Rogers, and of longtime friend John Stark, who, sixteen years later, aided in the defeat of General John Burgoyn’s British army, augmented with Hessian mercenaries, from Montreal in 1777.

Rogers had many serious opponents. One such man was Colonel William Haviland, commanding His Majesty’s troops protecting Albany. Another was General Thomas Gage. Both had an extreme dislike for the famed major of the Rangers. The two ranking British officers felt that Rogers was an undisciplined rabble-rouser, a glory hound. Gage’s feelings were due to envy given that Rogers was the most active scout to be commissioned by the British. His reports, as Haviland would learn, were concise and accurate. His original reports can be found in the Documentary History of Frontier New York (vol. 4), located at the New York State Historical Society in Albany, New York.

As for character, Hannah Dunbright’s values and morals represent those of a typical New England woman of the mid-eighteenth century. They are similar to those of an ancestor of the author named Hannah Dustin, who had endured captivity by Indians in New Hampshire in 1698 and inspired Hannah Dunbright’s own story. Such a lady would have surely known Rogers, an eligible bachelor for most of his life.

The daughter of Reverend Arthur Browne, Elizabeth, also knew Robert. She was nearly sixteen when she met the major. The young lady was taken with admiration for the frontiersman; however, she soon found that he had many faces. Presently, an original portrait on canvas of Miss Elizabeth Browne is owned by the prestigious Reynolda House Museum of American Art in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

The character of Captain Andre Durantaye, the sly and sinister French-Canadian antagonist, is also factual. Research in the Canadian archives, however, shed little light on this ghostly man. Few records of that period survived a fire in the 1890s. Yet the name of Durantaye, a coureur de bois, is noted in a brief account. Andre, the bush fighter, is mentioned only once in being involved with Robert Rogers. The incident, an account of the Battle of the Snowshoes mentioned in a 1917 article by Rogers’s great-great-granddaughter, details the ambush of Rogers and his Rangers." The tale will surely live again in this plot for revenge, a revenge that will cast Hannah Dunbright into the dark pit of betrayal and nearly costs Major Rogers his life.

During Rogers’ time, nothing known would have dispelled the myth of the Northwest Passage. Most believed large rivers led to, or were derived from, the sea. European geographers had thought of themselves as knowledgeable as any and felt every river was sourced by a powerful means: the sea. Therefore, it was natural to believe that a large river threading the heart of North America came from such a mighty source. If indeed true, it would cut a lengthy ocean voyage nearly in half. However, any such route must first breach a vast and still unknown interior.

No one considered other possibilities or pondered the thought of being wrong. No one considered that perhaps a river’s flow was due to another reason altogether or imagined that between the seas were mountains that rose up to scrape the heavens.

It was under this illusion that an actual expedition was planned in London in 1774. It would seek the Baye de L’Quest, a huge inland sea wrongly shown on the 1762 map by Janvier of Paris, which the English knew as the Bay of the Western Waters. It was the goal that Rogers would lead some two hundred men to secure a place among the greatest of the world explorers.

And it might have happened too, if not for a rash act of revolution. The hand of fate would deny him the fame he sought and his place of immortality. What should have been known as the North American Exploratory Venture led by Robert Rogers and John Stark instead became known as the Corps of Discovery led by Lewis and Clark thirty years later. Of course, as with Lewis and Clark, Rogers knew well the risk of committing such an audacious act against France and Spain, who had held roughly a third of all westerly land to North America. But Robert Rogers would worry about such consequences later. First, he would be forced to confront other matters, ones far more serious. His life was embroiled with two women and two wars, and now he was caught in the web of intrigue and betrayal. Yet throughout a period of upheaval, he still had an insatiable urge. His mind never forgot the haunting voice from within, handed down by time, an echo that spoke of the storied fable known as the Northwest Passage.

The author wishes to make clear that the novel in no way intends to glorify acts of violence depicted. However, as shown by the research found, it is very consistent with the events of the time. Nor does the author wish to indulge in superficial romanticism. The true depiction of Major Rogers has been noted as raw and dark in nature. His character is largely based on factual accounts. The views on Native Americans are not necessarily those of the author but of Rogers himself, whose own journal and anecdotes from other sources depict the attitudes of the times. The author has no intention of giving disparaging images of native tribes of the eastern woodlands and hopes no offense is taken.

In reference to the land west of the Illinois still being held by France upon their surrender of forces, and claims to Eastern, North America in accordance to the {Treaty of Paris} ending a ‘Seven Years War’ against, England in 1763

Quote:

It was a pity that England had not also brought, {Louisiana} into it’s possession for we should have been possessed of perhaps the most valuable territory upon the face of the globe.

—Major Robert Rogers, Circa 1768

Excerpt from his Journal

PART I

THE FIGHT FOR EMPIRE

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1

Her name is, Hannah, a bit of a recluse some would say. Over years of lost time she hid herself away, kept melancholy by memories of a once, intriguing life. Now she yearned to speak of the past. It took some doing to convince herself this was a notion she felt right with and thus broke unseen chains of self-imposed solitude. A private arrangement had been made in which to confide before the end arrives, before the inevitable fault of age steal her last warm, unheard wisp of breath, forever.

It was the fall of 1807 when the elderly Hannah Dunbright Winthrop heard the firm, repeated tapping at her door. Putting aside the daily task of sweeping dirt out of her house, she meandered down the hall and saw to the commotion. Opening the creaky door gently, she saw a man in the youth of life and kindly asked, Can I assist you, young fellow?

The young man carried a small slant-top writing desk under his arm and introduced himself. He explained the nature of his visit. It was then she realized it was someone she had expected.

May I come in he cordially asked.

Hannah grinned graciously. Why of course. she said, opening the door wide.

As he entered, removing his round-brim hat, Hannah gently shut the door and offered him a cup of refreshment. He politely declined as he followed her lead into the greeting room, he ambled close behind, his feet clunked on the wood floor. There, he removed his frock coat and nestle down in a straight-back chair. The young man’s stare never left the woman, who gently seated herself across from him. The moment was awkwardly silent at first.

That quickly vanished as Hannah’s eyes twinkled in the glow of a lit fireplace that crackled in the background and cast warmth through the damp, cool room. Her face had displayed both a glow and a shadow as she and her guest sat within the old whitewashed clapboard house on the corner lot of Church Street—a house that had seen eighty-one harsh New England winters. Hannah was poised and focused in a heavy, brown woolen shawl. It was a time of day usually set aside for sipping hot tea, but today she sat perched in her favorite maple chair. Her grayish-white hair was tucked under a fine, white lace net. She and this fellow sat face to face in the first-floor sitting room.

They were surrounded by the many items Hannah had collected in her long and very eventful life: the gold-framed silhouette likeness of her late father, a reverend; twine candles in brass holders from her father’s church; a gold dome-top mantle clock brought from England that now sounded few chimes; and books nestled in the detailed carved bookcase with a secretary’s draw—something Hannah used very frequently. There was an endearing coziness about the old house that she liked, especially on dreary days when she was entertaining a guest.

The young editor opened his writing box and withdrew a quill pen and papers. He noticed the painted bluebird porcelain dishes on the shelves. His eyes then turned back to Hannah.

He began by asking her about her childhood, then of her father and her mother, and it seemed an hour passed with ease. Finally, with his quill pen in hand, he was ready to proceed. He wanted to know about the major.

She knew it would eventually come to this; it always did. Her wrinkled hands gently rubbed her freckled knuckles as if to polish them. Her voice, though frail, was clear and calm.

As you know, he was commonly known around Portsmouth as the major, she told the young man from the New Hampshire Gazette. Almost everyone around here will remember him. If one were as well acquainted with him as I was, one would also know he was not always the obstinate man some claim he was.

The prim and gray-haired lady added in a spirited chirp, He was, on many occasions, a humble and very caring man.

She paused a moment and continued. He once showed me the scars on his hands and forearm and told me the stories of how he got them—stories of fighting the French and Indians.

Sixty-eight-year-old Hannah was dressed in a simple, long, and dark blue dress, her hair pinned up, her hands cupped politely on her lap. The young man noticed her wrinkled eyes shifting around the room as she tried to recall the foggy past, her voice wavering with melancholy, having lost a young woman’s gift for long talks.

I do suppose a few stories about him are a stretch of the truth, but most had no need of the slightest exaggeration, she said quietly.

Close by on an adjacent table, a tattered, clothbound journal sat. It was thick with tawny pages and bore a title in bold, gold letters. She noticed the young man glancing at it, curious, and told him he could look at it if he wished. There are so many accounts, places, and names, she added.

The young editor rose to retrieve the journal. As he picked it up, he discovered something else on the table: a framed wall map depicting the old colonies and land far to the west of North America. He returned to his chair and gently thumbed through several of the pages. Then he asked, Is there some sort of occurrence that could mark what sort of man Robert Rogers was?

She pondered his question a moment and then replied with candor. "There’s plenty of old tales of Major Robert Rogers, but perhaps no better example can be cited than one that happened in June of 1768 on a stretch of road amid the thick woods between Londonderry and Portsmouth. His coach was suddenly stopped by a hooded, pistol-waving thief. To the thief’s utter surprise, he found he’d robbed a man of great prominence.

"‘Why, Major Rogers!’ said the thief. ‘If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have done a thing against you.’ He gave the major and the other passengers back their money.

The criminal let the coach pass by unmolested out of sheer respect for this man, Hannah remarked quietly. Truly amazing.

The young editor waited a moment and then inquired about her relationship with Elizabeth Browne.

Oh, she said, sighing, "where shall I begin with someone I’ve known from childhood?

"Know this: not every detail will be mentioned. I will say that she and I and the major have a past—a complicated past forever entwined as if we were from the same spinning wheel of a yarn. It spanned both a war with France and those grim years of the rebellion for independence.

"Of course, she and I were very young and quite innocent, but when for the first time we met Major Rogers—or shall I say Captain Rogers at the time—it was then that we first saw his nature and learned of his quest. He explained what it meant, and I listened like a schoolgirl being taught a curious lesson in geography. As for Elizabeth, I know she experienced his nature and knew his dream too. But the rest of our story shall now be for posterity and for others to judge, not me. I hope you understand, she added with a gentle lean forward, resting her hand on his wrist. I’m not being a coy old woman, just respectful of those who either cannot or will not speak for themselves. And so, I do not wish to speak any further on this matter."

Hannah Dunbright Winthrop eased back in the chair and smiled graciously. She peered at the young man and inquired if he had any further questions regarding Major Robert Rogers.

As a matter of fact, I do have one other if you don’t mind, the young man replied.

Hannah sat up. Of course. What is it?

The man gazed at her with piqued curiosity. He said, Can you tell me what you know of Major Rogers’s belief in the existence of the old, fabled lore of the Northwest Passage?

Hannah drew a breath and paused. You want to know about Northwest Passage? With a stiff finger pressed to her lips, she added, There really isn’t that much say.

At that moment, her demeanor changed as she looked away. No, no, that’s not quite true. He truly believed it existed and was waiting to be found somewhere, by someone. I hardly have the words to describe his grand enthusiasm at the mention of the subject.

Turning to the man, her voice heightened. I guess I don’t need to tell you he wanted to be the one to find it. Oh, how his face beamed when he talked about his passion to go seek it. It made me certain he’d go to the ends of the earth to find it.

A sudden glistening came to Hannah’s eyes as her emotions swelled. She gently withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her wet cheeks. "Some thought he was a near-mythical figure when, in fact, he was just a mortal man acting out his own Greek tragedy.

Forgive me, she begged as she dabbed her cheeks dry. We all take different paths in life. He chose a course that would cost him dearly. I bristle at those near-sighted fools who cast judgment on him. I’ll be one who leaves such decisions in the hands of God and God alone. As for all else, there’s more between the major, Elizabeth, and me—but I will not sit here and discuss it. I do hope you understand an old woman’s need for privacy. Also, let me state for the record that I shall grant no more interviews. As for further details on anything I’ve said today, that task is for the historians and those who tell wild tales.

I understand, said the young editor.

He placed a comforting hand on her wrist as he rose, humbled in her presence. He thanked her for granting him valuable time while making a mental note that Mrs. Hannah Dunbright-Winthrop was simply a very lonely woman who still loved a legendary figure, and that’s how he would tell it.

With a smile, he bid Hannah farewell and left.

Hannah Dunbright’s acquaintance with Robert Rogers had begun fifty-two years earlier on New Hampshire’s northern frontier of New England. There, she learned of his quest well before the United States declared itself free and constitutionally independent of England.

1755

Young Robert Rogers began the day before the light of dawn to hunt. Venturing into the deep woods, he found a position suitable for a good shot. He had been there many times before and liked to use the fold of a tree’s trunk to lay his musket at rest. Leaning back against the side of a gray boulder bulging out from a steep hillside, he gazed at something else. It was what he’d begun to draw on the face of the porous stone—an image that captivated his imagination like nothing had before.

Don’t be of an unsteady hand, Robert muttered to himself.

Shaded from the blistering sun by the outcropped rock, he hunched back on his heels. There, nestled in the pine sticks and oaks, he withdrew into a trance, his mind softly drifting into what he knew was the unknown world. Using a jagged stone to scratch away the rock’s mossy surface, a more defined image came forth. He wiped off the flaky filth to see it more clearly. Now those squiggly lines resulted in a something recognizable to one’s eye: a map. Perhaps more profound to the lad was the soft ray of sunlight creeping toward the image. He smiled as if it were meant to entice further inspiration.

The map was a crude boundary of the farthermost British domain in North America, at least what Robert knew of it He remembered a story he had overheard while on a visit to Portsmouth with his father. It was in Strawbery Banke where he had encountered a rum-soaked old mariner who’d said he was a privateer ship’s cook. He recalled him saying he had seen an old parchment map of eastern North America, with notes in scribbled French, as he served his captain a daily plate of bread and cheese. He said, before his captain rolled it up, he had seen the date 1643 in the corner. Yet two words in English, likely written by his captain, revealed the notation Possible Route.

A possible route for what? Robert pondered. What does it mean? At that moment he could only speculate as he listened intently for a further account.

Young Robert hadn’t been disappointed.

His focus, his memory, and his thinking bore down intensely on how that old mariner rambled on; how he told of hearing that the crew knew of the map possessed by the French vessel’s captain; and how it supposedly detailed a route into the Northern Americas, down the Saint Lawrence River, past the Iroquois lands, and portaging at Lake Erie’s end. He spoke of knowing about distant places and strange names, too. One of them was called Cathay. Another one, China, was an Asian land where one could scoop up pieces of gold off the stone-laid streets.

But does this mythical Cathay really exist? Robert mumbled to himself. He rubbed his sapphire eyes and wondered if the map and Cathay could somehow be related to lore of the fabled Northwest Passage. Such an idea was dreamy to him. He felt fortunate to have this place, a hideaway near a still pond that offered him shelter and a place of some solitude where he could think such fantastic thoughts. But he sensed he always had been a lucky lad when it came to grand thinking.

Robert felt a kindred link to his existence on this late summer morning, carrying his flintlock, powder horn, and some of his animal traps. He had traveled far from farm and family, into the dark piney realm of a vast, savage wilderness to hunt.

He was a child of the wilderness, raw and wild to the bone. Wiping his hands of a cruddy filth on his laced rabbit-hide leggings, he heard the haunting coo of a lonely whip-poor-will and knew it was now getting far too late in the afternoon to remain there any longer.

Emerging from the wedge-shaped nook that might have once harbored a bear, he put on his frayed tritucked hat.

Robert was alert. He heard faint, crunchy footsteps. He crouched low to prime his musket. Cocking it, he laid it in the fold of a branch limb and waited.

All right now, he mumbled with a tight clinch of his thick, square jaw. Do show yourself.

The thought-to-be menace finally came into his sight. It was a tawny, dappled whitetail deer. Now, Robert slowly lowered himself to one knee and aimed as the animal seemed aware of his presence at this distance.

Suddenly, a shot echoed through the woods. The musket’s roar, not of his doing, caused the deer to bolt and stagger off through the shadowy, dank underbrush of the broadleaf forest floor. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a faint stir of disturbed branches.

Robert ducked and watched warily. He eased the hammer down and then draped his powder horn over his shoulder and slipped the handle of the hatchet under his belt. He back-stepped several paces and then swung around and ran tree to tree amid the tangled underbrush. His translucent strides boosted him toward the hilltop rim with ne’er a backward glance.

He leaped over fallen logs and mossy rocks. His fringed deerskin shot-pouch and powder horn swung wildly. He stopped and tilted back his head and drew several sharp, deep breaths. Wiping away the sweat, he caught sight of something. Now, his unease had returned. He put his hand upon one of several faint moccasin tracks. He sensed they were only days old. It’s unlikely they’re still nearby, he thought. Indians rarely stayed put for long.

For as long as young Robert could remember, the name Saint Francis had conjured up an images of wicked, hatchet-wielding demons. He, like every colonist on the New Hampshire frontier, had a deep-seated fear and loathing for this awful place, though an exact whereabouts was unknown. All Robert knew was that those black-hearted Abnakis came from up in Canada. They were usually under the command of a coureur de bois, too. He’d seen the aftermath of their raids, everything burnt to the ground. Many unfortunate souls had been scalped while others were burned alive.

Robert gazed into the lush, narrow valley among rolling mountains known as the Great Meadow of Mountalona, a place that had been settled by his father, the cantankerous Ulster Scotsman. He felt confident that the danger had now passed. He propped his musket’s muzzle over his arm and watched the drifting clouds overhead.

He reflected back some thirteen years, when his family had left the Massachusetts Colony due to money woes and headed to this frontier. He still bore calluses from felling trees for their new cabin and clearing ground for planting. He recalled his father claiming it was a place he had once seen as a boy in a green glen in the far off Scottish Highlands.

In time, like his two older brothers, he became a fine hunter. He’d once been taught to track by a Penacook Indian boy, who had long since vanished with his tribe, run out by the colonists. Robert’s older siblings now envied him as he claimed a bragger’s right. Only a deeper satisfaction remained—proving the old mariner’s story to be right.

Robert heard the brush crunch again. Wary, he crouched down behind a large boulder and vowed to himself never be taken captive.

Just then a solitary figure appeared—someone he knew all too well. Robert lowered his musket. He smiled as his brother approached.

Why, I nearly shot you, James! he cried out.

His brother, a few years older and quite leaner, hunched over in exhaustion and then sprawled on the ground, loose legged. It’d have served me right for listening to Mother. He gasped deeply for breath. She asked me to find you. You’ve been gone far too long. Found this too.

He then tossed his brother’s worn tricorn hat at his feet and drew closer to him, holding the two squirrels Robert had shot and dropping them in his hand.

You found them, I see, Robert said, eyeing them. I’d begun breathing a little hard myself and threw them aside.

Robbie, James said, brushing back his scraggly, curly, dark brown hair. Have I ever told you that you have a lot of gall? Luckily, you’re so swift you’d outrun most anything around. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were half deer.

What’s the other half of me?

How about a reckless fool, James laughed. Luckily, though, I found your tracks.

Robert edged closer to the stony rim while the low sun cast a glow over the Great Meadows.

Ever have an urge to do something bold, James? Go over that horizon and never look back?

His brother mulled over his words. Sometimes. But for now, I like it here. You’re just different than me. Do you remember that quiet winter day in Rumford? You gave that poor fellow a severe beating. What was the reason? Oh, yes, a treacherous nature. And if not for father and myself prying you off his bloodied pulp, you might have killed him.

And father hasn’t let me forget it either, replied Robert, stepping away from the rock’s sloping ledge. He squatted to gather the fowl in his arms. I swore it wouldn’t happen again.

James rose to his feet. I’ve never seen anyone with such a temper. I pity any Indian going for your scalp.

Dusk will be here in a few hours, and we’d better be getting back. Robert gestured back toward where they’d come from. Did you see those moccasin tracks back there? They’ve been watching.

His brother nodded. I wonder how far New France is from here.

No matter how far, it isn’t far enough for me, he replied. I wonder if those Frenchies ever heard the same tale as I did?

There you go with that dreamy look, James said. You’re still thinking about that old myth. Let it be, Robbie. Why, that old legend will carve your heart if you let it.

Robert drew his large hunting knife. That myth is now a part of me, and nothing will change it.

Laying the glinting blade on his thigh, he wiped off blood and put it back in a deerskin sheath.

Let’s go.

They headed back at a brisk pace down the hill until Robert stopped after his brother moaned that he was walking too fast.

Picking up a stone, Robert turned to face him. He flipped the rock repeatedly in his hand. His stare was mischievous.

Is my pace too fast for you, brother? I’ll not crawl!

James huffed deeply. He was puzzled by the stone that his brother carried in his hand. So, he asked, a good luck charm?

What’s this? Robert swung around. You’ll find out pretty quick.

Rearing his arm back, he tossed the stone at a wasps’ nest that clung high on a limb and knocked it down. Instantly, a dark swarm of angry specks appeared, and the two sped off, swatting away wildly in an attempt to outrun the stinging insects.

Shortly after, Robert and James paused, safe despite the foolish prank.

Let’s go get that deer I shot, James remarked casually.

So, you’re the one, his brother said with an amused look.

James grinned.

Not long after retrieving the deer, they came upon something they’d rarely seen—an idle horse-drawn cart in a stand of maples and birch and what appeared to be a small womanly figure, her face shrouded under a ribbon-tied white bonnet. She stood still while watching an older man peer down at a ruined wheel.

Such a sight of misfortune, James observed. I believe they can use some help.

As they approached, the girl rose and brushed off her long, frilly skirt.

Father, there are two men coming upon us.

The wavy-haired man, wearing a long black frock, rose to wait for them. He put on a black, wide-brimmed hat.

We’ve no money purse, nor valuables. Being folks of God, we rely on the charity of others. Please spare her and me any indignity, called the old man.

The two Rogers halted in their tracks.

Robert called to them, We’re hunters, not robbers.

The young woman was curious.

Maybe they’re God’s answer. Besides, you’ve not got the strength.

The old man knew his daughter was right and frantically motioned for them to approach.

Robert and James were more than willing. Putting his musket in the hand of his brother, Robert approached the ox cart and leaned down to examine the splintered wheel. Then he introduced himself and James and told them they were from a nearby cabin and farm. He also said the cart needed proper mending.

Robert Rogers looked at the young girl with curly golden hair. She was seventeen or so, prim and well-to-do. She wore a ruffled split-front skirt that looked as if it were drawn in the back and showed the edge of her petticoat. Under a cape, her curvy shape was alluring.

Her emerald eyes glanced at him like sparkling crystal in the sun’s glare.

The girl’s father clasped his hands together and prayed, Oh, Lord, your deliverance is welcomed by us.

Then he introduced himself.

Greetings to the both of you. I’m Reverend Benjamin Dunbright, and this is my daughter, Hannah. She is my only child.

Hannah smiled and gently curtsied.

I’m afraid it isn’t safe for you to be here much longer, Robert said to the reverend and his daughter. My brother and I have seen signs of Indians.

Reverend Dunbright’s face remained unchanged. Do you know where we might stay for the night?

Our farm isn’t far from here. You can spend the evening there. We’ll return in the morning to mend the wheel.

Reverend Dunbright looked at the cart. I need to hide our possessions.

Robert and James picked up the pole with the deer and heaved it onto their shoulders, and soon they all set off toward the farm. James winked at Robert, knowing he wanted Hannah to walk beside him.

Hannah was soon having trouble keeping pace, stumbling on her frilly dress.

Raise your dress, Robert suggested. At least until we reach the cabin.

She looked at him with annoyance. Thank you for your advice. How can anyone live in such a godforsaken place?

We don’t see many travelers this far into the wilderness unless they’ve come to build. And neither of you look like settlers to me. What brings you and your father so far from the safety of Rumford?

My father’s purpose is to spread the Lord’s word among the colonists. It’s the ‘Great Awakening.’ We’ve been sent with blessing from Governor Bennington Wentworth. She glanced at him. Surely you are a Presbyterian believing in the righteousness of God?

I’ve not given it thought. God, cleanliness, or some vow of mercy with one’s enemy just doesn’t fit in this place.

What do you mean? she asked.

Those savages aren’t godly in the least. They don’t deserve mercy. What’s more, they’ll not deserve an ounce of prayers either. And the only prayer you’ll ever cite is a lust for more English scalps.

We are all part of God’s plan, she said. Don’t you see that?

I’m sure the savages weren’t of his plan, he told her. If anything, they’re of Satan’s. Any other thinking is just plain naïve.

Satan doesn’t create people, she insisted. He just misleads them. We can all live together as one if taught of God’s love. Perhaps, if you could see it that way, you could learn to embrace them as you would your brothers.

Tell that to all those who’ve lost family on account of those awful devils.

Hannah said, Father will discuss this in his sermon.

He’d better speak loud, Robert said. The murdered husbands, sons, and daughters don’t hear so well.

He shifted the weight of the branch on his shoulder. James was setting a good pace on the route. He and the reverend had been chatting amiably.

You haven’t said anything about yourself, Robert said. I’m surprised your mother allows you to go out like this, even with your father.

My mother died giving birth to me, Hannah said quietly. I’m helping my father just as he would have wanted Mother to do if she were still alive. She told him that she’d had an older brother, but he had become sick and died at the age of seven.

Traveling with Father isn’t so bad. He treats me like a princess. And since he is a member of the Anglican Church of England, I even sailed to England with him several years ago.

That must have been exciting.

She shrugged. London was covered in filth and has lots of beggars, but it was better than this godforsaken wilderness.

She was much too beautiful to argue with.

Your father seemed overly worried about the cart. What be in those?

Bibles and some … Hannah’s voice trailed off.

Dear, her father interrupted. These boys must be tired of such chatter. And you know how I feel about needless talk. It’s a measure of idleness.

The reverend told the boys he meant no disrespect and was grateful to them. He added, My daughter is now of the age to use a woman’s etiquette, especially true in the presence of such abiding men. I know she would never be disobedient of a father’s wish, since it would be a sin to do so. Am I not right, Hannah?

Of course, Father, she replied in a delicate voice.

The reverend offered her a pleased look as he placed his hand to her soft cheek as if to caress it. Have I told you, my dearest daughter, that you are so much like your mother, whom I miss so dearly? His marveling stare showed his pride for her as he slowly turned away.

Hannah quietly took his words to heart. She spoke no more as she followed close behind , trying to envision, as she had done countless times, the face of a mother she never knew.

The party forged the shadowy, hilly woods and soon traced a narrow, worn footpath that cut into the undergrowth of fern weeds along the bank of a brook. There, the young Rogers boys motioned for the Dunbrights to halt. They stood silent as a welcomed sight was upon them.

Remain still and quiet, insisted a wary Robert.

2

There, in the late afternoon amber haze, was the dark shape of the Rogers’ isolated farmstead log cabin.

There it is, Robert said. Fancy, no, but it’s our home.

Built on an ax-cleared plot amid tree stumps and cleared-away brush land, the cabin and barn stood near the center of Mountalona Valley. The cabin looked stout with its curvy, hewed, notched logs cinctured in a dried pine pitch chinked with clay mud. The cabin’s logs rested on a slight raised foundation of stone. The roof’s pitch was steep and was layered in thick sod and bark strips. It bore some rot. Two small, iron-hinged, shuttered windows with narrow slots for muskets were open for the breeze. Above, a gray smoke rose from the stone chimney.

Both of the Rogers knew something was cooking, but they were cautious. They knew a sudden appearance from the dark woods would draw shots from the family, thinking they were Indians.

Robert called out to let them know it was just him and James returning and that they were in the company of two others.

We’re coming to the cabin!

A familiar voice answered and beckoned them inside.

As the four walked toward the cabin, the boys’ mother emerged, carrying a musket in her hand. She smiled.

It’s about time the two of you got back. It is definitely not a time for strangers to be wandering the woods without a musket. You know that if you came across any Indians, they might hack you to pieces.

The reverend seemed unflustered by the remark. Mrs. Rogers, I assume. By God’s righteous providence, my daughter and I have the strength to forge the wilderness.

Robert’s mother placed the gun aside as they entered the house. Reverend, these are my three other sons, she said with her hand outstretched. Reverend Dunbright shook her hand as Robert and James entered the room.

This is Reverend Benjamin Dunbright and his daughter, Hannah, Robert said. Their cart wheel was broken when we came upon them.

We’re fortunate your sons found us, said the reverend, tipping his hat.

The boy clutching the gun is Richard, and the younger one is Samuel, Robert said. The littlest is named Daniel. We’re all a bit wild at heart, some more than others.

Hannah’s father spoke next. Mrs. Rogers, is your husband planting? I say a man’s toil is God’s work.

He has passed on, Mary Rogers said. A musket ball hit him about four winters back when he was gone visiting an old, dear friend.

Since it was dark inside the house and my father was wearing a fur robe, old Mr. Ayre thought he was a bear, Samuel explained.

Reverend Dunbright frowned. Please forgive my insensitive remark, Mrs. Rogers. Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut. However, if you need to talk, the Lord and I will listen.

She said, That’s all right, Reverend Dunbright. James was a brave man. I never shed a tear of regret marrying him. I met my husband back in Ireland when I was a Macphartridge. We were married back in 1725.

The youngest son became fidgety and seemed eager to speak. Finally he blurted, But, Mother, you always asked him not to wear his bear robe. Remember, it was always filled with too many things that smelled awful?

Hush, Daniel, you’ve said enough. Go wash up, Mary replied angrily.

Robert grinned.

My little brother was speaking of Mr. Ebenezer Ayre, my father’s closest and dearest neighbor. After Father was hit, he lived for several days but ended up dying from blood loss. We hold no ill toward Mr. Ayre. It was all just a mistake.

Their mother said, Let’s turn to more hospitable things, like eating.

Soon the cabin was bustling with activity. The windows and doors were braced for safety during the night. The fire in the stone hearth crackled and hissed loudly. Mary stirred the black iron kettle as the flames rose underneath it, her floor-length apron stained by splattered juices. Even her white cloth cap looked soiled from making dinner.

She raised the ladle out of the kettle. Somehow she always seemed to know just when the deer-meat stew was perfect. She dipped her finger in for a taste as the scent of it drifted through the cabin.

Everyone seated themselves on the wooden stools around the square table. Bowls and spoons were set before them. The glow of the flickering candle in the center of the table illuminated their faces as the steamy stew was served.

They started to devour it, but Reverend Dunbright interrupted them. Let us all pray together. He folded his hands and slowly bowed his head. When he had finished the prayer, he dug in.

Robert asked the reverend where he and his daughter had been heading.

We were bound for those farms along the upper Contoocook River, the reverend replied. I’m supposed to offer worship services there this coming Sabbath. This was prescribed to me by the deacons of the governor’s own Episcopal Church of Portsmouth.

Robert cocked an eyebrow. That’s a real dangerous journey, Reverend Dunbright, even for a well-armed party of soldiers.

God will help Hannah and me on the hard and dangerous journey.

You’ll have a devil of a time outrunning Indians in that cart of yours, especially now that it’s broken, Robert said. We’ll go about fixing it in the morning.

Mary turned to the reverend. You’ll both have to stay the night. You’re a brave soul, Reverend Dunbright.

Robert reached for the breadbasket once again, but Mary swept it away from him and offered it to Hannah. Here, dear, you must still be hungry from your long day of traveling.

Hannah looked at her father, and he nodded his approval for her to speak. She glanced back at Mary. No more than anyone else, but life must be harsh out here.

My boys are a great help. Still, it is usually well into dark before the day’s work is done.

It must have been difficult to build a home here, Mrs. Rogers, with the threat of wolves, bears, and Indians, Hannah said. You must have to carry a musket all of the time?

It is better to do so, Mary answered.

Robert said, This is the second cabin we’ve built. Father, James, Richard, and I all helped build this one six years ago.

What happened to the first one you built? Hannah asked.

When we returned from Rumford one spring, it had been burnt to ashes.

Everything was gone, Mary said. The barn, the sheds, and the small garden patch for my onions and turnips. That little plot, in some way, always brought me a measure of belonging. I ended up growing another just like it.

Hannah said, It must have been a terrible sight. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to lose everything you own—the very things you need to exist.

Her father said, You must have had the strength of Samson’s heart.

Those black-hearted red devils even went so far as to hack down every apple tree in our father’s orchard, Robert said. He had paid dearly for the seeds, too, and it had taken two years for them to arrive from England. Soon after he died, all of us older brothers enlisted in Ebenezer Eastman’s Provincial Militia Company.

Did anything remain of the old cabin? the reverend asked.

Mary said, Only the black kettle over there that I still cook with, the ladle dip, a yarn needle, and by some miracle, most of the hearth mantle, which covers the one you see there.

Having so many sturdy sons around must be a blessing, remarked Hannah quietly.

Mary smiled, Mostly. Richard and James have always been around when I needed them. They do their chores without delay and always with good spirit. Samuel and Daniel are too small for any of the tasks. Then there’s Robert.

What of him? Hannah asked in a quiet voice.

Robert’s brothers grinned.

Mary first addressed the boys. Perhaps like the day someone peed their britches and stunk like a skunk. Or maybe the time when another of you fell through the icy pond, even though your father had told you never to go near it before the spring thaw. I remember pulling you out by your hair and nearly lifting up your scalp better than any Abnaki Indian could. So now, if you’re done eating, would you please go and prepare a place for yourselves to sleep tonight. These folks will be taking yours.

James and Richard excused themselves from the table and headed out of the room.

You must understand something, Mary said. James and Richard are filled with deep envy because of Robbie. They know he got away without doing his own share for a long time. I tried to get him to do his part, but it was of little use since he was always gone. He often angered his father to the point of receiving harder tasks as punishment. But Robert seemed to take it in stride. I think he understood his father loved him and wanted to rear him in a proper farmer’s way. And to do that, he felt the boys needed to learn about hard work, something my husband understood. If his sons were going to survive this place, they must be raised as hard and strong men. His harshness wasn’t for meanness’s sake but for the sake of making sure they stayed alive to provide for a family one day. In the meantime, though, some skulls were a little too hard for that lesson to sink in, but I do believe Robert has come around.

Robert doesn’t look like a laggard, replied Hannah.

As a boy, Robbie knew he was part of a family, yet he sought independence. I wish he hadn’t run off following rivers or exploring mountains so often, though. It always seemed his next journey was much longer and farther than the prior. It was like he was chasing after some rainbow’s end but was never able to find it.

It all sounds so adventurous, Hannah said. It seems the devil must have had a finger on Robert.

Enough of such blasphemous talk, Hannah! And to do so in another’s home, interrupted the reverend.

Oh, now, Reverend, Mary said. Don’t be so harsh on her. She’s most likely right.

Hannah said, I’m sorry about what I said. I promise it won’t happen again, Father. She politely asked to be excused. Would someone please show me where Father and I are to sleep this evening?

Mary motioned to Robert. Go help her into the loft. I’ve an old night dress for Hannah to wear. I think it will fit her.

Mary swiftly lifted off her stool and went to get it from one of the several trunks used for storage in the dark corner.

Hannah slowly rose and followed Robert to the ladder in the far corner of the cabin. Once they were both in the cramped, low-ceilinged loft, they were quite close to each other. Robert pointed at a mat of feathers and straw.

There it be. Can’t say it’s fancy.

Hannah pressed her hand on it. It’s fine for the night.

You might prefer the quarters in the barn if this ain’t fit enough. There is more privacy there but still no fancy arrangements for a lady.

Hannah Dunbright drew a breath, her nose twitching at the reeking smell of the loft’s years of odors and stored moldy, damp furs. It was almost enough to cause her to gag; however, she kept a civil tongue, not wanting to seem ungrateful. She was not accustomed to such unkempt surroundings.

Well, she finally sighed. I guess this will have to do for the moment.

Robert noticed her expression. We’re not exactly familiar with having visitors here. I guess we’re too used to being a rather filthy lot.

She placed her hand on his arm. I only meant that I have gotten so accustomed to a large house. Please don’t be angry with me.

I’m not angry. If I was, you’d know it, he grinned.

I’ll remember that, Robert, she said.

Listen here, Hannah, he said, suddenly turning serious. You and your father shouldn’t be traveling out here alone. The dangers are many. This is no place to get lost or be in need of rescue.

Robert turned to say good night.

Wait, she urged. "You must understand something about my father. If you heard his church sermons, you would be impressed. He sees it as his godly mission to bring some encouragement and instill virtues and to give hope to anyone who’ll listen. That includes all the darkest heathen corners of the world.

We rely on the kindness of others to offer us quarters. Do you know of Jonathan Edwards? My father heard his sermons as a young man. The Reverend Edwards presided over the witch trials and passed his judgment on those accused of dabbling in devilish deeds and using the black arts. That inspired my father to dedicate his life to preaching for the salvation of one’s eternal soul. With my mother dead and knowing his true dedication, I couldn’t in all good conscience turn away. I was expected to be a dutiful daughter. If your family needed your help, would you turn away from their beckoning plea?

Robert sported an abject expression. Well, I don’t suppose so, he replied. I heard about the witch talk too. I don’t believe any of it. A man makes his own devilish ways, even those who claim to be of sterling worth, I say!

Maybe so, she said. Anyway, a proper young lady from Portsmouth is all about the desire of finding self-worth. Every girl seeks an acceptance either from her family or friends or even from love, even if she doesn’t realize it at the time. Perhaps for a man it’s different. I wouldn’t know! Hannah put her hand on his forearm. I’ll say no more of my feelings, but I’ve one last request of you.

Robert sighed, trying not to be rude. All right, what is it?

She paused shyly. Well, before my father and I leave, perhaps you’d be kind enough to show me around your farm property?

Robert rubbed his lips in thought. There isn’t that much to show of our lot—mostly woods. But I guess it would be safe enough. We could take a stroll over toward the pond. It’s not too far.

Hannah was excited by the suggestion. That does seem like a wonderful plan, she said happily. We’ll have a jaunt through the wild woods, and I’m sure with your musket at the ready, we’ll to be safe from any bears, wolves, and savages that might lunge out at a moment’s notice.

The young Rogers was unimpressed by her attempt at wit. Just try and get some sleep, he told her dismissively. And if I were you, I would remove some of your pretty clothing as it’s very warm up here. Also, if something nibbles at you during the night, it’s just mice. They make themselves at home in this loft like they live here, which they do!

Hannah lurched back in revulsion, her eyes glancing at every nook of the dark loft. This place does leave a lot to be desired for a young woman. It will surely test my nerves. I’m sure I seem quite prissy to you.

You’ll be fine tonight, Robert promised.

Can I speak frankly without hurting your feelings? Hannah asked quickly.

My feelings have been treaded on before. Speak your mind.

You seem to find smiling a difficult chore.

Would my smiling offer you more pleasure? he retorted gruffly.

It couldn’t hurt and would help your manners. I must also say your appearance is rather crude. Although I admit that while you’re unpolished to the eye, there is something strangely alluring about you, and at the moment I can’t understand why! Maybe it’s your confidence and how you carry yourself. Then again, it could all be my imagination.

Hannah carefully took hold of his hand and gazed at it. I don’t see any signs of scars or wounds. I’ve heard that a man’s hands can tell the true story of his ways and life. So what is your story, Robert?

He pondered the question. I’ve never had anyone ask me that before. He drew back in deeper thought and replied, Not all scars are visible, and not all wounds are on the outside for all to see. As for my story, it’s still in the making, for sure. I can say that I’m steadily ambitious, and I won’t apologize for that mark on my character. And to that I’ll let my actions speak loudly for all to see when it’s finally written. Is that a good enough explanation for your fancy taste?

Hannah looked down. Perhaps your nature is filled with hidden virtues you just haven’t found yet.

Her pulse quickened. Robert, she said, I think you’re a good man who would go far and wide to help a dear friend. Am I wrong about that?

True enough! he conceded. However, if there’s one thing I learned about seeking existence in these wild woods, it’s that true friends are few and trust can be as fleeting as yesterday’s wind. For me, I must rely on myself and my family. We trust and measure each other’s guile needed to survive and to build our future here.

Finally, a discovery of virtue! she beamed.

Young Robert’s brow furrowed. He exclaimed, But let me claim here that I’ve no mercy for betrayal. I will go just as far and wide to gain my revenge. Do you understand me better now?

It’s strange, she said. Your tone speaks of betrayal as if you somehow expect it. You’re a vigorous young fellow who shouldn’t be troubled by such thoughts as an old man would. You’re just far too suspicious. Hannah stared deeply at him.

I never said I was betrayed, he sharply replied. Besides, what would you know of betrayal?

Hannah responded in kind. I didn’t say I did! I guess I’m fortunate in that sense for it must be terrible feeling. Though, quite honestly, I do have an understanding of what loyalty means.

Hannah’s face looked forlorn. "Let