The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (7 page)

“Faster!” yelled John.

“Come on, hurry!” yelled Lou who had already made it to shore.

As John and George reached land they looked back. The lake creature had also changed direction. It turned, as if to follow the boys. It moved toward them in the water while John, George and Lou ran on land.

With firm land beneath their feet, the three of them blurred across the edge of the lake until they reached the lip of the mountain. Without a backward glance, they slipped over the great forested hill in descent.

Chapter 10

The Admiral

September 22, 1759

(69 years ago)

The French admiral stood straight as an arrow on the bow of his ship, peering onto the shoreline of Lake Ontario. Now, just as the day's light ascended, was when he felt most at home on his vessel. His men knew to leave him alone while he gathered his thoughts. Usually he would make his way to his cabin now to write. But not this evening. He did not want to lose the setting before him. The admiral sat down and picked up his quill and began to write.

Dear Annette,

I am sorry for this distance between letters, but circumstances have intervened more than once.

The British choke off our trading channels at every opportunity. It is a maddening war. I told you in an earlier letter that we lost Fort Niagara this summer to the British and abandoned Fort Rouillé at Toronto.

A few weeks ago, in port, I was made an admiral. There was little formality, not like it would have been in France, had I been home. I would like to think of this as a show of confidence and yet I know how many men we have lost to battle, disease and despair. I fear I am but the latest choice and I have no illusions about being divinely different from those who have come before me. However, I do harbour hope that I shall outlast this war and be with you soon.

How lovely the land is here! As I write this, we have been lying low along the shore of Lake Ontario between Kingston and York in a land of bays the British have dubbed Prince Edward County. For now, I have directed most of the fleet further into Lake Ontario while we explore here.

I have a French map created just two years ago and it has been some help. Although, realistically, this is Indian country after all, no matter what either we or the British say.

I am astonished by the bay we have sailed into.

Rising up before me as I pen these words is a magnificent hill, heavily wooded and green with promise. From the hill, a wide waterfall careens over the side and makes its way to the bay down a crooked stream.

For the moment, we are in a holding position and I feel that I must explore it, provided it appears safe to do so. I do not think the British have any real numbers of men here. As much as I love the open water, it will be good to feel the land beneath my feet for awhile.

I think of you often and I hope each day that I will be home with you soon.

With all my love,

Joseph Fortin

Chapter 11

Devil's Lake

Supper was awkward. Before splitting up to go home, John, George and Lou had agreed to remain silent about what they had seen. Instead, John had said they had simply fallen in the lake after having gotten into a good natured shoving match with one another. John took the mild scolding compared to the alternative of being banned from the lake.

But why would he ever want to go back anyway? He tried to focus on dinner. What he had seen less than an hour ago would not leave his mind. Anxious sweat trickled down his right temple and he brushed it away. He tried to tune in to the conversation.

“How are you faring these days?” asked Helen.

“Oh, the ague knocks me down sometimes,” said the colonel, “but I just keep getting up again.” “What's ague?” asked Lou.

“Chills and sometimes fever,” said Helen. “I imagine it's not pleasant.”

The colonel waved his hand to dismiss any more talk about his health. “Never mind me. Kingston's in a fine mess right now.”

Helen nodded. “It's the typhoid, isn't it? We heard from Cornelius.”

He nodded grimly. “Seems like it's everywhere. So far we've been untouched. I'm glad to see you're all doing well here.”

John knew typhoid was a terrible disease, which often began with high fevers and diarrhoea so severe it often resulted in death.

“How's Allan these days?” Helen asked, referring to the colonel's grown son.

Colonel Macpherson shook his head in disbelief. “You know Allan – he's the social point for the whole clan up there in Napanee – ever since he built that big home. He's doing mighty well for himself.”

A long silence occurred and John sensed they were no longer thinking about typhoid or the colonel's son. When the colonel and Hugh Macdonald sat at the same table, supper was bound to end up being tense. They always had to get through the same conversation they had been having for years.

“How's the flour-milling business, Hugh?” asked the colonel. He was an intimidating figure in his full uniform, sitting stiffly and cutting his last piece of venison with precision. His trim, silver moustache moved with his chewing.

“Couldn't be better,” said Hugh. He dug into his last bite of boiled potato.

More silence. John concentrated on the three bunches of onions and herbs drying from the ceiling beams as he chewed, not fully there. He was nearly finished anyway. “You know, I don't know why you ever left good old Kingston,” said Lieutenant Colonel Macpherson. “It has what anyone needs.”

“I remember – except for customers,” said Hugh.

“Maybe that had to do with how things were run.”

Hugh, who had changed careers several times, including as a shopkeeper in Kingston, put his fork down and looked at the colonel. Helen got up to get the teapot from the trivet on the counter, bustling more than usual as if to put distance between her and the conversation. “Why are you here, Donald?” asked Hugh. “The news sheet? There's no printer in Stone Mills so I don't know where it's coming from.”

The colonel raised an eyebrow. “This goes beyond a news sheet. Other things are happening – things which I'm not at liberty to talk about. Let's just say there's good reason to be vigilant.”

John watched his father stab a green bean. “I'm not even saying I agree with the things we're reading in the news, Donald, but you have to admit the Reformers have come up with a big win in the election earlier this year. There's a clear majority of them in the Assembly now in York – including Mackenzie.”

The colonel bristled. “Poppycock. That fool won't last, mark my words. What sort of man wants the chaos of American-style democracy?”

“The same sort who are tired of being treated unfairly, I suppose Donald,” said Hugh.

John cleared his throat. “Mrs. Pringle...er, Miss Pringle says that if the Family Compact doesn't like a decision made by the elected Assembly, they can just overrule it. She said that's why some people want a change. Is that true, Colonel?”

The colonel wiped his moustache. “Miss Pringle... isn't she the widow at the general store?” John nodded.

“Well, that's true my boy. But those rules are there for a reason. It's a dangerous thing to let just any common man have enough power to make decisions without a sober, educated voice of reason. Sometimes the common man doesn't always know what's good for him.”

The colonel chewed more aggressively. “Let me be clear about William Lyon Mackenzie,” he continued. “This is the greatest fool Scotland has ever produced. In fact, I'm even sorry that he is a Scot.”

John exchanged glances with Moll. Mackenzie was considered a huge thorn in the ruling party's side. There wasn't a Tory alive who didn't wish he would just disappear. Some people believed he might one day incite a rebellion if he didn't stop.

Three years ago, Mackenzie published a newspaper called the
Colonial Advocate
which talked openly about changing the way government worked and breaking up the monopoly of power the Tories held. Mackenzie even wanted to unite the British colonies, which John thought was unlikely.

John remembered hearing that Mackenzie once attacked the Tories so strongly in his newspaper that two years ago, young members of the Tories smashed his printing press. Since then, it seemed as if he was more famous than ever.

Hugh devoured another boiled potato and smiled in edgy amusement at the table talk. He allowed a brief grin at John before he looked at the colonel again.

“You know what Mackenzie says – “every free government must have two parties, a governing party and a party in check. What do you think of that Donald?”

The colonel wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You can call me Colonel.”

A shout outside caught everyone's attention. Hugh cocked his head and partially stood. More hollering from other voices could be heard.

“What the devil…?” said Hugh. Wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, he strode to the front window and looked outside. He was followed by the colonel and Helen. John, Moll and Lou filled the viewing crevices left between the leaning, grown-ups' bodies.

John could see Peter and Charlotte Goslin, a farming couple from the top of Lake on the Mountain. They were both speaking loudly and other men and women from the village were gathering around them.

The Macdonald's and the colonel all rushed outside into the dusk. Nearly half the village was already there. Big Solomon Brook's red hair and beard could be seen standing high amongst the crowd. The smiling farmer, Darius Marshall, was just walking up to the crowd and stood near Hannah Pringle. John also noticed five or six farmers he recognized from both below and above the mountain.

“What's going on?” Hugh demanded. A chorus of voices continued to talk at once.

“Silence!” yelled the colonel. The retired officer stepped forward. The round smudge of evening sun set his uniform's gold buttons alight. Within seconds the crowd had hushed.

“Now,” said the colonel. “What is this about?” Peter Goslin cleared his throat. “There's something living in that lake up there – we saw it with our own eyes!” Charlotte Goslin nodded, her eyes wet with fear. John and Lou looked at each other. Lou was obviously biting her tongue and John subtly shook his head so she'd keep quiet. He could feel a bead of sweat creep under his hairline.

Should they tell everyone what they saw, too?
“It's not just Whisky Wilson, you know,” said Peter. “There's something…grotesque in that lake. Something terrible.”

“I told you! I told you all!” shrieked a skinny, haggard man. Whisky Wilson popped out of the crowd like a grubby leprechaun and began dancing a short jig in front of everyone. A few people gently pushed him out of the way where he continued his dance off to the side of the crowd.

“But it's not just that,” said Peter. “We found this on our way down here. I'm pretty sure it's Anson Rightmyer's.”

Those who could see clearly gasped. It was a bloodsoaked, torn shirt.

“He was supposed to come by yesterday to help with the harvest and he never showed.”

Hannah Pringle put her hand to her mouth. “He's right,” she said, getting closer to the shirt. “It's from my store. Anson bought that shirt last summer.” The crowd erupted into noises of confirmation.

“Attention!” yelled the colonel. He stood straighter, which John thought was impossible. “We are going to handle this in a civilized way.”

The crowd buzzed quietly while a short, stocky man parted them as he walked. “A wonderful idea, colonel. I will certainly be as civilized as possible as we figure this out.”

The colonel stiffened as the barrel-chested man moved forward. Constable Charles Ogden had a thick band of brown hair encircling his head although he was nearly bald on top. A substantial brown moustache angled down around his mouth.

“Ahh, Constable,” said the colonel. “I defer to your local knowledge.”

John saw his father smirk as the colonel was put in his place.

“Well thank you kindly,” said the constable without kindness in his voice. “Now what's going on?”

Lewis Patterson, another farmer, spoke up first. “Anson Rightmyer has been missing for two days and at the same time more and more folks have been seeing some kind of abomination in that lake,” he said, pointing to the top of the mountain. “Some kind of an evil serpent. And now we find Anson's bloody shirt? This village isn't safe anymore.”

The crowd buzzed in chatter with many people nodding their heads in agreement. John realized he would have to tell someone, something, about what they had seen.

“Hold on, hold on,” said the constable. He rubbed his bald head and looked at Peter Goslin. “Where exactly did you find Mr. Rightmyer's shirt – in the woods? Near his home?”

“No sir,” said Peter. “We found it on the edge of the Devil's lake itself. Right where we saw the serpent – in Lake on the Mountain.”

Constable Ogden used his forearm to wipe his brow. “First thing tomorrow morning I'm going to want to talk with anyone who's seen something in that lake. I have my doubts about these stories, but I'll hear anyone out.”

A few voices erupted to argue and then John raised his hand. He made eye contact with Constable Ogden. “We did, sir – we saw the serpent.”