The trip to White Dog’s cave took two days. On the first day out I became overconfident. I reckoned Pennington’s men were not sure of the exact location of the hideout, so I figured we had some time. Maybe it was because we were hungry and tired of eating roots. While we were paddling the canoe, I peered down through the clear water and thought I saw the big old trout that lived in one of the deepest pools of River No River.
What is he doing up here? I wondered. I had snagged him once, almost pulling him out of the water, but he got free. He was the granddaddy of all trout, but he was too wily, and I never did catch him. I saw him now and then, a shadow at the bottom of the pool. In the evening, he would float to the surface and swallow the flies that landed on the water. I had even seen him eat frogs when they were swimming across the river. White Dog said once he had seen the old trout eat the last mallard duckling in a single file of ducklings. That trout would eat anything. When I fished for him, I used any old bait, as long as it moved or was shiny.
Madeline and I stopped every so often and fished from the canoe. Once we pulled the canoe up onto a bank, hid the boat in the bush, and fished from the shore by a stand of mulberry and willow trees. I used one of my best flies. We took turns using my fly rod, but mostly I let Madeline use it. She knew how to cast downwind with the Sun just right so as not to cast a shadow and scare the trout. She threw the line out again and again so that the fly had little time to sink and as little as possible of the line was drowned. If a bluegill or trout saw the drowned line, he would not bite. She was a good angler, but she was not having any luck.
I had already caught a small trout. I watched Madeline cast her line. She was using an artificial fly of her own making — a pretty design with a body made of bear’s hair wrapped in coloured silk and hackled with the gaudy feathers of a partridge. Madeline was a born angler, just like me, but she would not use live bait because she did not like putting the hook through a living thing.
Finally, she caught a nice trout. It flew out of the water and fought with her, but she reeled it in. The trout was a beauty. Madeline said we should head to White Dog’s cave so we could arrive there before nightfall.
“What for?” I signed. “I think the granddaddy trout is about to strike. You are just mad that I am going to catch him and not you.” I wanted to catch a big fish of my own to beat the one she had caught. I could be very competitive.
“Michael Flynn, you are the most difficult person in the whole world!”
So I tried and tried to catch the trout. One hour went by, then two. But I did not catch the fish. All I did was waste precious time.
That night I made a fire with flint and some dry yarn I carried in my pocket as a starter. The fire was small on account of I did not want to let the enemy know where we were. We cooked the trout on a spit over a fire and peeled the sweet flesh back with our hands. In the moonlight, I could see the fish jumping. Tormenting me.
Madeline and I said good-night. I saw her ask for her mother’s safety in her home-signed prayers. Then she fell asleep.
I stayed awake for a while, counting the stars. I figured if the British found White Dog’s cave, they would have to be careful. The cave was part of the spirit world. White Dog believed everything possessed an immortal soul. Even the rocks were alive. The spirits that protected White Dog’s cave could be friendly, but if you had bad intentions, they could hurt or kill you. I wondered if Franklin was just a spirit of the sky who had fallen to Earth. I pictured the inventor falling from the sky, then I fell asleep.
In the morning, Madeline and I paddled upriver to the cave. We arrived there late in the morning and beached the canoe. You could not see the cave from the water, but I knew it was there, hidden among the firs in an alder grove at the top of the hill. Madeline and I were halfway up the hill, climbing through the thick underbrush — bunchberry, heather, and starflowers — when I saw the branches of the big willow tree at the cave mouth move. It was White Dog. He was making quick movements with his hands far away from his body. It was one of our home signs. He made the sign again.
Stay away.
He put his arm over his head in a horizontal position.
Danger.
On the opposite side of the hill I saw them, their red coats clearly visible against the trees. They had found the cave. It was an ambush. White Dog was trying to warn us.
Then everything happened at once. Franklin burst out of the cave and ran down the hill, headed right for us. The British moved after him at the same time, and I saw Pennington shout, “Take him alive!” But one of the soldiers fired, anyway, and a musket ball flew past Franklin’s head, scattering the leaves of a tree. Another musket ball flew over my head with an awful vibration. Now two Redcoats were after Franklin. They threw down their muskets and were racing to catch him. White Dog came out of nowhere. He crashed into the soldiers like a wild animal and sent them sprawling. The soldiers were no match for White Dog’s ferocity. Without their guns, they were helpless.
When Franklin finally reached us, he was all out of breath and wheezing. Madeline led him down to the canoe and helped him in. I signed to Madeline to hurry and push off from the shore. I wanted to make sure White Dog had not been injured, so I ran back up the hill to the cave, but he was gone. Birds flew above me as if nothing had happened, as if our war games amounted to nothing. All the world was still.
Returning to the shore, I saw Madeline and Franklin paddling downriver. She waved to me. I dived into the water and swam out to the canoe. Madeline helped to pull me in. I almost tipped us, but we managed to stay upright. Franklin asked me where White Dog was. I assured him that White Dog had probably run into the forest and would most likely meet us back at the orphanage.
We reached the orphanage on the second night. That was when we heard the news.
Brother Jean told us that Captain Pennington had arrested White Dog and thrown him into the Civil Asylum for Incorrigibles in Lower Town. He had been classified as a lunatic on account of the pictures on his skull and his nocturnal behaviour. He had also been designated an enemy of the King.
It was all my fault that White Dog was caught. If I had not lingered to fish, he would still be free. I took my beautiful fishing rod outside and snapped it in half. I vowed never to fish again.