Richelieu River, Canada
New Moon
We followed the river’s west bank. Ashpelon seemed in no haste now that we’d reached Canada, and he let me set the pace. With my baby coming within a month, I had to move softly so as not to slip, and stopped to “gaze upon a rose” every hour or two. I wore my loosely laced waistcoat and apron high and foolishly longed for a bedgown.
We traveled only a few hours each day. There was scant sunlight, and I was exhausted from hunger, cold, and my condition. At each camp, we built two small wigwams; one for Nìbi Wàbà, my girls, and me, and the other for Ashpelon, Kenompāe, and a warrior whose name I learned was Mooi. My loneliness slowly overcame my anger, and I conversed with the Natives again, to the extent their English allowed.
Fort St. Louis at Chambly was situated below cascading falls, its French flag fluttering above a tall wooden stockade. A French soldier in a brown coat, hat, and full armament guarded the gate. The sight filled me with hope—at last, a Christian outpost. As we approached, the soldier raised his musket to his shoulder.
“Indiquez votre identité et la raison du voyage,” the soldier ordered.
I was surprised to comprehend a few words, some sounding similar to English. He was demanding to know who we were and why we were here.
Ashpelon responded in an equally confident tone. “Je m'appelle Ashpelon, un chef algonquien. J'ai des prisonniers anglais à vendre.”
“Il y avait d'autres membres de votre compagnie ici hier. Un kilomètre de plus, il y a un petit village,” the soldier said, lowering his gun.
Other members? My pulse quickened in hopes Hannah might be found not far off.
Ashpelon spoke French. I do not know why that surprised me; I suppose because I could not. It made sense, as he was an Algonquian with ties to Canada, and in light of his plans for us from the beginning.
They exchanged a few more words, and we continued onwards. Past the fort, we came upon a cluster of small houses. Most were but one story, built of logs, though two were of river stone and half-timbered. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, and I wept to see Christian homes again. Homes that remained in place through the seasons.
The village gave way to scattered farms. An elderly couple offered Ashpelon a bottle of rum and a Spanish dollar for us, but he refused.
“How much are we worth to you?” I asked, hoping the price was reasonable but not insulting.
“A woman of intelligence with child? Three young girls? Much.”
I smiled at the comforting scent of stews and soups cooking, the soft mooing of a cow in a barn, and the dark lacework of branches in a snowy apple orchard. I was eager to return to this familiar life. A farmer brandishing a gun halted us, and he and Ashpelon again held a conversation in French.
“Mommy, are we going to stay here?” Mattie asked.
“I do not know, love. I hope so.”
The man approached, smiled at me, but shook his head.
He and Ashpelon spoke for a few minutes more.
“He cannot afford my price for you and the girls,” Ashpelon said. “We will ask again in Saurel. But he sees you are to have a baby and wants to bring us some food.”
“Merci, monsieur,” I said, using the only French I knew.
The man went to his house made of stone, and in a few minutes, he and his young wife returned. She murmured words of comfort, laid her hand gently on my belly, clucked her tongue, and glared at Ashpelon. Gently, she wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and handed me a basket with a linen cloth. I smelled freshly baked bread, ripe cheese, and apples. She bent and gave each of my girls a small piece of maple candy.
“Merci, madame, merci,” I said to her.
The French couple bade us sit on their stoop and eat, and our captors hovered nearby. My girls and I devoured one of the two loaves, half the small wheel of cheese, and all the crimson apples. The farmer’s wife handed us each a cup of hot tea, and in my gratitude for its warmth, I burned my tongue, unable to wait until it cooled.
We pushed on through more wilderness. I insisted my girls ride upon the sled whilst I trudged atop the snow with the cumbersome snowshoes. At times, my womb clenched like a fist, a sharp pain. I prayed my babe would wait until we reached someplace safe and warm.
On the third day, we came to a cluster of wigwams near the river, a fire burning in their midst. What Natives were these?
“Mommy, it is Holly and Sammy!” Mattie cried, breaking free of my grasp on her hand.
“Wait, Mattie!” I cried as she ran toward the camp.
But it was Holly and Sammy. And Hannah.
“Hannah!”
We stumbled toward each other and embraced. I squeezed her tight, not wanting to let go of her warmth. I stepped back and smiled at the bloom upon her cheeks.
“How long have you been here?”
“About a week. The Indians spoke to some French nearby, and none could afford us but said they’d raise the money in haste. So here we wait,” she said.
Ashpelon strode into the camp and spoke to the Natives. They kept glancing our way. All three of my girls ran off with Hannah’s children, and I tried to keep them in sight.
“Do you know anything about the others?” I asked as we walked farther into the camp.
“We crossed paths. I think they are not far off,” she said. “I still do not know whether they will resolve to sell or keep me. For now, they have given me back my children, so I am blessed.”
“I feared I’d never see you again once they separated us. ’Tis so good to see you safe.”
One of the Native women called to Hannah. She embraced me again and hurried away. I called back my children, and they returned somewhat reluctantly.
I longed to spend the night here, but Ashpelon insisted we continue.
My heart was lighter now, knowing Hannah and her children were alive and well, though I worried over Mary and the rest. I eagerly looked forward to Saurel, praying the other captives were there. Ashpelon let me ride upon the sled when I grew tired and pulled me himself, no doubt because he knew he’d get a better price for us if the girls and I appeared well-tended.
When we stopped so I might “gaze upon a rose,” I asked him again about the orphans. “Your people killed their mothers, so Hannah, Mary, and I watched over them. We could do that still.”
Ashpelon shook his head. “Your husband, your town, owes us a debt,” he said. There was sadness in his voice, in his eyes.
I glared at him but remained silent.
Ashpelon clenched his jaw and lowered his eyebrows. I waited for him to compose himself.
“Your husband led attacks against my people,” he said.
“He is a scout, a guide, not a leader,” I said, realizing I was mincing words.
“You deny he played a part in killing many?”
“In retaliation for your attacks upon us!” I cried. My voice was righteous. My conviction wavered.
Ashpelon pounded his fist into the palm of his hand. I trembled but stood my ground.
“You English think we have no rights, no feelings, yet do not look at your own reflections. Yes, my band stole your cattle—because they trampled our corn, and we were starving! Now that you have known hunger, can you not understand?”
“’Twas not only that, but –“
“But to avenge the theft of your animals, your men massacred us. Hundreds of our people at Peskeompskut. Hundreds! Women and children!”
His words broke through. I finally believed him. Women and children. I choked back a sob.
I asked then, even though the truth dawned.
“And how will our orphaned children repay our debt to you?”
“We are thinking of keeping them.”
“No! You cannot!”
“We can. They will be happy with us.”
“But they are English, they—”
“We will speak no more of it,” Ashpelon said, and walked away. I stood there seething with anger. It infuriated me he had the power to end every one of our conversations.
* * *
After three more days, we reached Fort Richelieu at Saurel, situated on a hill overlooking the rivers and a lake Ashpelon called Lac de Saint Pierre. We climbed to an earthen rampart, where two soldiers stopped us at the main gate.
Again, a discourse in French. Apparently, the guards ordered Kòkòkòho, Keompae, and Nìbi Wàbà to remain out o’ doors, before opening the gate and escorting the rest of us to the gallery.
“We are meeting with Captain Pierre de Saurel himself,” Ashpelon boasted.
I prayed fervently that I would finally have a home beyond the threat of tomahawk and starvation.
The handsome captain walked briskly into the room. He wore a russet coat with many buttons, the gray lining showing in his deep upturned cuffs. Black and gold ribbons adorned his gray hat and the shoulders of his coat, and matching ribbons tied his breech cuffs and boots. A white sash swept diagonally from his right shoulder to his waist. His brown periwig fell to his shoulders, and his mustache was tinged with gray.
“Ashpelon.” He nodded, ribbons fluttering.
“Captain.” Ashpelon bowed.
How did these two know each other? Furs? Missionaries? War?
“Who have we here?” de Saurel asked in English, nodding to me and bending down to see my girls, his gloved hands on his knees.
“English,” Ashpelon said, “captives taken in battle. We have come a long way and hope this woman and her daughters would make suitable servants for one of your people.”
Ashpelon’s lie angered me. Taken in battle? Hardly. Although I supposed we were prisoners of war. I bit my lower lip, squeezed Mattie’s hand, tightened my hold on Sally, and tried to smile. There were worse fates than being a servant to a French captain’s family.
“I’m certain they would, but you have caught me at a poor time for trading. France is for once at peace with the Algonquian and Iroquois tribes, the Mahicans, and the English. My charge is maintaining that peace. I doubt taking English captives into servitude would better our cause,” said the captain. “How many captives do you have?”
“Eighteen. Three women, two men, the rest children, but—”
“Is there a search party? A ransom?”
“No,” Ashpelon replied.
Another half-truth.
“Eighteen. Hmmm.”
“I am only concerned with selling these four,” Ashpelon said.
Five, I thought, feeling a kick.
The captain turned to me. “Where is your town, madame?”
“Hatfield. On the Connecticut River, in Massachusetts Bay Colony,” I said.
“You have come so far. You must be courageous and exhausted.”
I nodded.
“You will find most French are kind. We are Catholic, though. There is a mission here, within the fort. Your new master will expect you and your girls to be baptized as Catholic if you wish to have any rights as citizens of New France.”
I did not know what to say. I couldn’t imagine denouncing my faith and taking on the vanities of the Catholic Church, which was far more sullied by idolatry and indolence than the Church of England.
He turned to go, then stopped.
“What is your name, madame?”
“Goodwife Martha Waite.”
He raised his brows in surprise. “Waite? I recall the name from years ago. Was your husband in the fur trade?”
The captain knew both Ashpelon and Ben. It seemed impossible.
“He never traveled to Canada,” I said.
“No? But I have been to both Albany and Springfield.”
I nodded. “My husband and I met in Springfield.”
He stroked his jaw, thinking. “What did you do before, in your town? Hatfield?”
“Cooked, cleaned, and tended the garden, the poultry, sheep, and cows. Spun wool, knitted, sewed, and made soap. Canned and dried the harvest. I read my Bible and kept the Sabbath. Cared for our three children, and taught my oldest to read,” I said, squeezing Mary’s hand.
“You can read, madame?” Captain Saurel gave me another appraising, though not unkind, gaze. I nodded.
“Come sit in my office,” he said, motioning us to follow.
I sat with Mattie and Mary upon an upholstered settee, holding Sally in my lap, and the captain sat behind his desk. Ashpelon warmed his hands by the fire burning in an iron stove. I gazed in curiosity at maps of New France and New England hanging upon the walls. The captain cleared his throat, leaned forward, and steepled his fingers in front of him.
“I was granted a seigneury: a large stone farmhouse, fertile fields, and orchards. I hold a high position with the Comte de Frontenac. I am descended from French nobility,” de Saurel said, not in a boastful manner, only stating his value as I had done.
“I married my wife, Catherine, nine years ago. She is a good woman, a good wife. However, the Lord has not seen fit to bless us with children. She is lonely, and I am growing old.”
I held my breath, hoping this was leading to my salvation.
“We have two men to work our farm, but I think my wife might welcome the help and company of a young, intelligent woman such as yourself, Madame Waite,” de Saurel said, smiling at me, “and she would adore your three girls,” he paused and shot Ashpelon a look, “and the new baby on the way.”
I waited, knowing this decision was not mine but his and Ashpelon’s. Captain de Saurel stood and turned to Ashpelon.
“Ashpelon, I will pay her ransom. She and her children will live with my wife and me in our home,” de Saurel said, and then turned to me. “Madame, you will be employed as our servant, as will your daughters when they are older. If you convert to Catholicism, you will become a citizen of Canada. You will have your own room and board, and your daughters will be free to marry.”
It did not seem a horrible fate. But I’d be forced to relinquish my faith, and never be able to return home. What if Ben came for me at last? Would the captain release me? Could I bear a life without Ben’s love?
Sally squirmed in my lap, and I handed her the last piece of candy the farmer’s wife had given us.
“I have French Louis XIV sol pieces, Spanish dollars, wampum, furs. What was your English ransom demand?” the captain asked Ashpelon.
It was as if I weren’t there or was but a horse at the market. Would they check my teeth to judge my age?
“Ten pounds each,” Ashpelon said. He’d raised our price.
“I will give you the equivalent of twelve pounds each, including the child she is carrying, but in exchange for my largesse, you must swear an oath to keep the rest of your captives in good health and to find them homes here, in my seigneury,” de Saurel said. “Do not take them farther north.”
Bless you, captain, for adding those conditions.
“Sixty pounds?” Ashpelon pretended to consider this. “I will need to talk to the others, without, so they can help ensure the bargain.”
“Madame Waite and her girls stay here with me until you return,” the captain said.
“But—”
“Those are my terms.”
Ashpelon nodded, took one last look at my girls and me, and left.
“Now, Madame Waite, it is Christmas! Let me get you and your children some of our holiday cake, Buche de Noel, and some tea, perhaps?” He smiled kindly at us and rang a small brass bell.
I smiled back at him.
“Yes, please.”