Danger at the Landings for pdf.indd Page 3

  Make a spark, and the whole mill will go

  up in flames. Do you know how explosive

  flour can be?”

  33

  “No sir.” I stepped back from my uncle’s

  fierce eyes.

  “Boom! That’s how fast. Fire! It’s a mil er’s

  biggest fear. You always have to be careful

  in a gristmill, you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now I’ve got work to do! Mr. McDou-

  gall’s gone to the store to pick up some

  supplies. You can go meet up with him.”

  I ran out of the mill thankfully, almost

  tripping over the orange cat.

  I picked up a handful of rocks and threw

  them off the bridge into the river. Then I

  hurried into the vil age. Smoke drifted from

  the chimneys of the log cabins and shanties.

  A woman stepped through a doorway and

  emptied a tub of water on the ground. A

  man chopping wood nodded at me without

  stopping his swing. Black and brown cows

  nibbled the stubble in a field behind one

  of the cabins.

  I stopped for a few minutes beside

  the blacksmith and watched him press a

  steaming shoe against a horse’s hoof. A

  34

  wagon full of grain sacks pulled by two

  oxen rumbled past, its wheels barely turn-

  ing in the mud. I crossed the road to a

  long wooden building with a sign saying

  General Store.

  A bell tinkled when I opened the door.

  Mr. McDougal was hunched over a wooden

  counter, talking intently to a man in an

  apron. Behind them Red pushed a broom

  lazily across the floor.

  Mr. McDougall nodded at me. “There

  you are, Max. You look around for a few

  minutes. I won’t be long.”

  I didn’t care how long he took. I wanted

  to see everything. I peered into barrels of

  tea and salt and molasses. One barrel was

  even full of axe heads, buried in sawdust,

  and another of glass panes for windows.

  Bolts of bright cloth and colored ribbons

  that Ellie would love crowded the shelves,

  along with saws and hammers, gunpowder

  and china dishes.

  My nose tingled with the spicy smell

  of cinnamon and cloves and apples. The

  35

  peppermint sticks filled two glass jars on

  the counter. I stared at them longingly. Mr.

  McDougall smiled. “Pick one, Max.”

  I took forever deciding between the

  stick with pink and red swirls and the one

  with taffy brown stripes, secretly wishing

  for both.

  “Take the cherry one,” said Red, leaning

  on his broom. “I’ve tried them all.”

  “Pinched them all, more like it,” said

  his pa. He gave Red a sharp look. “You get

  back to your sweeping, young man.”

  Red sighed heavily as his pa handed

  me a cherry peppermint stick wrapped in

  a scrap of brown paper. I took it outside

  and sat on the porch step, sucking the end

  into a sharp point.

  In a few minutes Red popped out be-

  side me. He glanced over his shoulder with

  a satisfied grin. “Didn’t see me go. Hey,

  you know what my pa and Mr. McDougall

  are talking about in there, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “War! Right here in Canada!”

  36

  I stopped sucking and looked at Red

  skeptically. I had an idea he was a pretty

  good liar.

  “Honest. Cross my heart. My pa says

  there’s a rebellion going on right now in

  Lower Canada. And any fool knows rebel-

  lion is just another name for war. Some guy

  called McKenzie is tryin’ to overthrow our

  government.”

  I had no idea what Red was talking about.

  I had a fuzzy idea that the government was

  a bunch of men in Toronto. And I had

  never heard the word rebel ion. It sounded

  awfully daring, trying to overthrow a gov-

  ernment.

  “Why would he want to do that?” I

  asked.

  For a second Red looked uncertain. “I

  don’t know why,” he said in a reproachful

  voice. “They were whisperin’ most of the

  time. But Pa says all patriotic men will be

  called to defend this country.”

  A shiver ran up my spine. What if Red

  were right? Before we came to Canada,

  37

  Papa was a soldier. Would Papa go to this

  war?

  “I’ll be going,” said Red boldly. “They’ll

  need every loyal man they can get!”

  I stared at his bright eyes. “You aren’t

  old enough to be a soldier!”

  “Maybe not,” admitted Red. “But I bet

  they’ll need waterboys!”

  The store door opened and a woman’s

  voice hollered, “Red, you get back in here

  right now.”

  Red made a face. He stood up and dis-

  appeared inside.

  I wrapped my peppermint stick back in

  the brown paper and stuck it in my coat

  pocket.

  Red called it a war. He said he was go-

  ing. And in the little time I’d known Red,

  I figured he would do it.

  My stomach churned. It sounded like

  the adventure I longed for. If only I could

  go too!

  38

  Chapter Five

  Rebellion!

  What would happen to Ellie and me?

  On the long paddle home across Big Lake,

  I thought about Papa. A long time ago on

  a winter hunting trip Papa fel off his horse

  and didn’t come home. El ie and I stayed

  alone for two whole nights until the Indians

  helped us. I remembered with a shiver how

  cold and empty the shanty felt. How I had

  longed to hear Papa’s laugh and smel his

  pipe as I huddled in my bed.

  Red said a rebellion was just like a

  war. Papa could be gone for months and

  months. If only I could be a waterboy

  like Red. I wasn’t exactly sure what a

  waterboy did, but I knew I could do it. I

  39

  would march beside Papa, and I wouldn’t

  be afraid at all.

  A thought flashed through my head.

  Could this be Papa’s and Ellie’s secret?

  Could this be the reason they whispered

  and looked at me nervously? I trudged

  behind Mr. McDougall along the Indian

  trail at the portage, the canoe resting eas-

  ily on his broad shoulders. Mr. McDougall

  seemed lost in his thoughts too. Maybe he

  was worried about leaving Mrs. McDougall

  and Kate and Jeremy.

  Suddenly loud shouts broke the silence.

  We rounded a bend above the fast flow-

  ing river. In the middle of the current, a

  huge pile of logs was jammed up against

  a rock bar. Two lumbermen stood on the

  logs holding long poles. I recognized my

  friend Pierre and watched in horror as the

  log he was standing on rolled.

  Pierre leaped to another log and shouted

  towards the shore. Two more lumbermen

  stood on the rocks, hollering and waving

  their arms.

  40

  “What are they doing?” I cried.

  “Trying to get the logs free.” Mr. McDou-

  gal set the canoe down on the ground. “Stay

  back, Max! I’l see what I can do to help.”

  I was always being told to stay back.

  Edging down the bank closer to the river,

  I watched the men, my heart thudding. The

  churning water pounded the logs against

  the rocks. I was sure they would never

  come loose. I wondered if Pierre felt the

  same way about his logs as Papa did about

  his wheat.

  The logs heaved up in the middle. Sud-

  denly, with a tremendous tearing and grind-

  ing noise, they broke free of the rocks. The

  lumbermen on the shore yelled.

  “Pierre!” I shouted in terror.

  Pierre and the other lumberman leaped

  from log to log. Any second they would be

  sucked into the foaming river. But before I

  could catch my breath, they had scrambled

  onto the bank. Water dripped from their

  thick beards.

  I wanted so much to talk to Pierre. I

  41

  wanted to ask him if he had been scared.

  But he had time for only a friendly wave,

  and then he and the other lumbermen

  scrambled along the shore of the river after

  their logs. I watched them go.

  “I’m going to be a lumberman one day,”

  I told Mr. McDougall.

  “Hmm,” said Mr. McDougall.

  He thinks I can’t do it, I thought. No-

  body thinks I can do anything exciting or

  brave!

  When our log cabin finally came into

  view, my legs ached from sitting still in the

  cold. Smoke drifted from our chimney. I

  longed for Ellie’s hot soup and my warm

  bed.Papa met me at the cabin door. I was burst-

  ing with stories of my day, but Papa didn’t

  listen. He stepped outside with me.

  “Max,” he said simply, “we butchered

  Hambone today.”

  My stomach lurched. All thoughts of

  porcupines and rebellion and lumbermen

  vanished. I stared at Papa in disbelief.

  42

  43

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “No, Papa,” I said desperately. “No!

  You changed your mind! Please, not Ham-

  bone!”

  Papa tried to hug me. I shoved him hard

  and ran.

  “Max, wait!” he shouted.

  My head roared. I ran to the drying shed

  where Papa stored the meat. I pushed open

  the door. Fresh sides of meat hung from

  the rafters. Everything swirled around me.

  The smell of burnt hair and fat made my

  stomach heave.

  I screamed.

  Papa picked me up and carried me to our

  cabin. I kicked his legs hard and squirmed

  to get loose, but he held me tight.

  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I

  cried.

  Ellie looked scared. I pretended she

  was invisible. She was a traitor. She knew

  what Papa was going to do and she didn’t

  tell me. Rudely, I shoved my bowl of soup,

  sloshing it on the table, but Papa didn’t say

  44

  anything.

  I left the table, crawled into my bed and

  buried my face under my quilt. Salty tears

  stung my cheeks.

  Someone sat on the edge of my bed.

  Then Ellie said quickly, “Hambone didn’t

  suffer, Max. Papa did it so fast. Hambone

  never knew.”

  I stuffed my fingers in my ears.

  “I cried too,” said Ellie. “It’s not just

  you who liked Hambone.”

  “Loved Hambone,” I corrected Ellie in a

  muffled voice. “I loved Hambone.”

  “I know,” said Ellie. She was quiet for a

  minute. “I’ll lend you Pirate for a while.”

  I tried to say, “I don’t want Pirate,” but

  I was too tired.

  Dimly, I felt Ellie leave.

  I had two last fuzzy thoughts before I

  fell asleep.

  They will never make me eat ham again.

  Ever.

  Tomorrow I will run away to the lumber

  camp and live with Pierre.

  45

  Chapter Six

  A week went by before I had a chance to

  run away.

  Papa said that it was now December. I

  looked out the window at the brown stub-

  bly field where we cut the wheat and the

  new freshly ploughed field, the dirt black

  and soft.

  “Where is the snow?” I asked.

  “The Indians say they can’t remember

  a winter as mild as this,” said Papa. “But

  snow is coming. There is ice in the bay this

  morning, Max, and it hasn’t melted.”

  Ice in the bay! I didn’t have much time

  before the lumbermen left. If only Papa

  didn’t crowd my day with so many chores.

  Ellie and Papa had been especially nice to

  46

  me for one whole day because of Ham-

  bone. Then it was back to work.

  Every day, as I carried wood and fetched

  water and picked rocks in the field, I scanned

  the lake anxiously for canoes.

  I decided that I would go to the camp

  today, before it was too late.

  Sometimes I was sure that Ellie could

  read my mind. “Max, remember we’re dip-

  ping candles later. You have to help me.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Inside I was thinking, When you are

  dipping your smelly candles, I’ll be having

  adventures with Pierre!

  Papa was in his field and Ellie was

  collecting eggs in the hen house when

  I left. My heart thumping, I ran along

  the trail that followed the lakeshore. I

  imagined Papa and Ellie hollering at me

  to stop, but I heard nothing except Star’s

  distant bark.

  The trail wound in and out of little bays.

  Most of the time you could see the lake.

  Sometimes the trail ducked deep into the

  47

  forest. That was the part I didn’t like. A long time ago, Ellie and I met a lynx on

  this trail.

  I walked faster. If only I could have rid-

  den George to the lumber camp. The sky

  was heavy with gray clouds, strangely dark

  for the middle of the day. My hands and

  my feet tingled with cold. A few snowflakes

  straggled down. I buttoned my coat right

  up to my neck and dug my hands into my

  pockets.

  I was surprised when I stumbled into

  the camp. I had been expecting to hear

  the ringing of axes and the crash of fall-

  ing trees and maybe even singing voices.

  When the lumbermen passed by on their

  rafts, they were always singing. But every-

  thing was stil . The lumbermen sat around a

  fire in front of a long wooden shanty. They

  dipped bread into steaming bowls and ate

  hunched over.

  Pierre looked as surprised as I was. He

  jumped up and led me to a stump beside

  the fire. “You have come all this way by

  48

  yourself for a visit!” he said in his funny

  voice.

  “Not a visit,” I said. My eyes stung. “Papa

  killed Hambone,” I whispered.

  “Ah,” said Pierre. He looked sad. “You

  are shivering. Come, have some soup to

  make you warm.”

  A lumberman handed me a bowl of thick

  yellow soup and a chunk of bread. I swal-

  lowed a tiny bit of soup and tried not to

  make a face. It was much too salty, not at

  all like Ellie’s soup. I forced down another

  spoonful. Then I nibbled on a corner of

  the bread. It was hard and stale. I sighed.

  I would have to get used to it.

  The lumbermen left the fire. They lugged

  bulging canvas sacks from the shanty down

  to the canoes at the edge of the lake. They

  looked tired and cold. Nobody sang.

  One of the men poured a pot of water

  over the fire and kicked the sizzling coals

  with his boot.

  I took one peek inside the shanty. It

  felt very cold. In the dim light I could

  49

  50

  see wooden bunks along the side, like

  the berths we slept in on the ship from

  England, and a huge raised fireplace in

  the middle. For a second, I thought of

  my own cozy bed with the thick patch-

  work quilt.

  By the time the lumbermen had everything

  stowed in their big canoes, the snow was

  fal ing thickly.

  There were four canoes in all. I rode in

  Pierre’s canoe. The men paddled silently

  down the lake, fat wet snowflakes settling

  on their blanket coats and caps.

  When we saw our homestead, my heart

  thudded. I was supposed to be cleaning

  the barn. I wondered if Papa and Ellie had

  missed me yet.

  Pierre called something in French to the

  men in the other canoes. Then he turned

  his canoe towards the shore. “We must say

  goodbye to your papa and sister,” he said

  in a serious voice. “We will tell them you

  will see them in the spring.”

  The spring. My heart lurched. As we

  51

  paddled closer, I could see Papa, still in his

  field. A man on a black horse stood beside

  him. I strained to see who it was.

  Then Papa and the man, leading his horse,

  walked quickly across the field. Papa held

  a piece of paper. I could hear him calling,

  “Max! Ellie!”

  When Pierre landed the canoe on the

  beach, my stomach tightened. As I walked

  to our cabin, I practiced the words in my