The Prize, page 16
With heavy hearts, Caleb and Lunette boarded up their marvelous new house, unsure whether they would ever return to it. Captain Mallett assured them that it would be kept safe, even in their absence, and something about the way that he said it made Caleb think that he had made some arrangements.
In any event, both families took refuge with a spinster sister of Polly’s further south in the New Hampshire Grants. There, they received the sad news that Elijah Clark had fallen, not to a Redcoat’s bullet, but to simple dysentery. Having lost her son and now her husband, Polly chose to remain with her sister when the war ended and Caleb and Lunette returned to their home.
Captain Mallett, too, returned, and he and Caleb were quite successful at their canoe-building business. Mallett brought in another partner, a young Abenaki, and between the three of them, they became the dominant sellers of canoes as the islands and shores of Lake Champlain filled with new settlements.
Caleb and Lunette had two sons—Samuel and John Peter—and a daughter—Daphne—before he was stricken with smallpox, from which he recovered, though they had no more children. The five of them could be frequently seen for many years paddling their canoes around Mallett’s Bay.
The story of Carleton’s Prize could be said to be apocryphal, but for the cannon balls which have been recovered from the waters around it. To this day, rust stains may be seen leaching down the cliffs from balls still embedded in the rocks. The lantern and flag were my own invention—it is entirely likely that General Carleton mistook the island for an American ship without the help of a heroic youth with a skill at the paddle.
On a personal note, my grandmother, Eleanor Roberts, donated Carleton’s Prize to the newly established Lake Champlain Land Trust in 1978, in memory of her husband, Harold Cooper Roberts. Harold and Eleanor Roberts, together with Harold’s brother, Charles Roberts Jr., had acquired a quit-claim title to Carleton’s Prize when they purchased nearby Providence Island (from which I depicted Caleb and the Malletts observing the Battle of Valcour Island) in the late 1950s.
The settlement depicted in this novel actually existed, though perhaps not in the exact form I’ve given it for my purposes. It comprised present-day Winooski, Burlington and Colchester. Fort Frederick stood at the Winooski Falls, and did house the settlement’s general store.
With as much fidelity as possible, I have depicted the historical events of the war on Lake Champlain as they actually happened. Where I have taken literary license, I have done so with the best possible understanding I could develop of how things might have happened.
Captain Jean-Pierre Mallett was a real figure, although very little is known about him. He did lend his name to the bay and the headland where he lived, and he was believed to have been involved on the American side as a conduit for intelligence about the British forces in Canada. The cellar-hole for his home was said to be visible well into the nineteenth century, which is my justification for depicting the house as a somewhat grander edifice than the log cabins that were otherwise typical of the time and place.
There were rumors that he had been a pirate, and even that he had buried treasure someplace in the region, which has led to a certain amount of fruitless excavation in the area over the years. I took great liberties with every other detail about him, and offer my apologies to his descendants if any should find offense in my sympathetic and even affectionate depiction of the man.
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First and foremost, I want to acknowledge the brilliant people at National Novel Writing Month, whose concept and tools drove me to start writing novels. I must thank my friends and family who served as my initial readers, and who kept me accountable for not only hitting my progress goals, but also kept asking me for the latest installment - and offered creative and inspired comments each time I delivered.
My research for this story was made possible by the even more brilliant people at Google Books, whose project of scanning and making available older books put a seemingly inexhaustible wealth of sources at my fingertips. I would also like to gratefully acknowledge the expertise of David Martucci, who was able to swiftly answer a very specific question about the banner that flew over Benedict Arnold’s flagship on Lake Champlain, and James Manship, who suggested Mr. Martucci as a resource.
Thank you to Lee Parsons for her assistance with the cover art and to Igino Marino for his digital rendering of the period typefaces we used.
We deeply appreciate you spending the past couple of hundred pages with the characters and events of a world long past, yet hopefully relevant today.
If you enjoyed this book, we’d deeply appreciate a kind review on your favorite bookseller’s Web site or social media outlet. Word of mouth is the best way to make our authors successful, so that we can bring you even more high-quality stories of bygone times.
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Tales From a Revolution series:
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the meeting house, dappling the floor and wall as Peter shifted slightly in his seat, aware of the presence of the dozens of other silent worshipers around him. With a conscious effort of will, he set aside the sounds of people breathing, the occasional scrape of a foot on the floor, and even the staccato cough that punctuated the stillness from the other side of the room. As he did so, he could feel the familiar sensation of the light filling him, and the peace of his Creator’s presence.
He savored the feeling, and the cares of the world fell away from him for a time. His mind no longer buzzed with the details of worries about his business, running a successful mercantile exchange in the bustling town of Trenton. His wife’s illness, the aches that accompanied him now through his days, his fears about present events in the world, all faded like the sound of a distant cataract on a river—present, but not a matter for concern at the moment.
One problem refused to sink into the gentle rush of distant worries, however, and he knew that he must seek guidance now, while the light was in him, and hope for the clarity of an answer. Only a few times before in his life had he so urgently needed assistance in making a crucial decision.
He breathed deeply, and gently queried within himself what the correct course was, whether the difficult path that seemed to lie before him was the correct one. An answer, inchoate, but firmly resolute, formed in his mind almost as soon as the question had been posed.
He found himself on his feet, speaking into the quiet of the meeting as though some other presence moved his tongue. His words brought bitter tears to his eyes even as he spoke.
“It pains me more than my words can convey to say this to ye, my brothers and sisters, but my own son, Robert Harris, has taken up acts which are intolerable in our Society. In consequence, I believe that he must be read out of our meeting, and denied the future joy of our fellowship.”
Peter could hear the shocked inhalations around him as friends and family listened and realized what he was saying. He avoided the gaze of his son, whose head had risen to face in his direction as he began to speak. He knew that Robert’s face would be stony, his lips pursed and white with anger at his father, much as they had been when they had argued earlier in the week, the recollection of which threatened to disrupt his calm now.
Robert had been fixed in his intent when Peter had raised the subject with him. “Father, thou knowest that the King and Parliament are committing violence against these colonies, in contravention of all commitments to respect the freedoms we are due as Englishmen. How long can it be before they sweep away all of their commitments, and we are forced to attend services in the King’s churches, or to tolerate the keeping of slaves by our neighbors? If they can change their word so easily in one matter, what stops them from all things being malleable in their hands?”
“Robert, thou raisest alarms against actions that no Parliament has ever considered, to which the King has never given voice, and use these as arguments for violating the most important principals we hold in our hearts? If we raise arms against all who transgress against us, are we different in any way from the rest of this warlike world?” Robert’s face had hardened as Peter spoke, and he could contain himself no longer.
“Father, I am not unmoved by thy desire for peace, and thou wilt not see me directly take up arms, no matter the provocation. However, this is a matter of too great import to be constrained by the thoughts of men who faced everyday princes’ squabbles over some muddy stretch of ground. This struggle is for the very freedom of mankind against despots everywhere, and whether thou canst see that or not, I still feel called upon to act in some small measure in its defense.”
Robert had turned on his heel and walked away then, tossing a final bitter remark over his broad, powerful shoulder at his father. “I wonder, truly, whether thou art not happier with the Colonies under the King’s thumb, watching thy neighbors pay Parliament’s taxes while thou enjoyest our traditional immunity from measures related to war. Art thou hiding behind thy devotion to peace in the interests of personal gain?”
The anger Peter had felt rise within himself in that moment had frightened him. He had never before thought himself capable of raising a hand to strike another man, let alone his own son, but the urge had seized him to chase Robert down and knock his head with whatever came to hand. He had, however, mastered himself, and even now felt shame for the passion that had risen in his heart in that moment.
Peter’s voice was steady, low and firm, although his heart now fluttered like a wounded bird in his chest as he continued to speak to the congregation. “He has urged the taking up of arms in the present disorders which convulse this colony in its relationship with the King, and provided real aid to those who would persist in the furtherance of violent conflict, rather than pursuing the peaceful resolution that has been the aim of this Society. I invite any who would speak against the expulsion of Robert Harris to say their minds now.”
The silence, which had been a source of peace to him before he spoke, now seemed pregnant with unspoken conflict. His wife gazed steadily at him from across the room, her expression unreadable. She loved all of their children equally, but it was no secret between them that Robert was Peter’s particular favorite.
Peter remembered feeling from the moment that Margaret’s midwife had called out to announce the arrival of his firstborn son that Robert was marked for something greater than the mundane. Throughout the years, when Margaret had been inclined to rely upon the Biblical warning against sparing the rod, Peter had been the one who had interceded on the boy’s behalf. In lieu of the more direct instruction that his mother would have delivered, Peter had instead engaged Robert in endless discussions on the nature of right and wrong, good and evil.
Though his sisters sometimes had needed guidance to avoid the temptations of the world about them, these childhood evils had never seemed to reach Robert as he had grown and matured. Peter had counted himself as lucky to have avoided the difficulties that so many fathers had with their sons… until now.
He could sense the eyes of the congregation upon him and then upon his son. Both men were well respected in the community, and no public strife had before arisen between them. The shocking suggestion of reading his own son out of meeting had been foreseen by none, Peter could see from the glances exchanged around the room.
To rise in Robert’s defense, however, carried the risk of being seen as advocating for the same cause that the younger Harris was being censured over. As he listened to the silence around him, Peter reflected on having heard that in other meeting houses, whole groups of members had been read out for publically taking the side of revolution against the King.
That his own son could be the trigger for such a split within their own tightly-knit community gave Peter a deep sense of apprehension amongst the fierce contemplation of the meeting. After a space of several minutes, though, nobody spoke, and Peter took his seat, to find his hands shaking as he strove to return to the grace of the inner light for a while longer before the meeting ended for the week.
He was still staring at his shaking hands as people began to rise from their seats and file out of the meeting house around him, each member of the congregation eschewing the typical gathering at the door, by an unspoken accord. Peter took a long, deep breath to steady himself and then stood and walked out into the brightness of the light that had now abandoned him within.
Look for The Light: Tales From a Revolution - New-Jersey at your favorite booksellers.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Afterword
Historical Notes
Acknowledgements
Thank You
Lars D. H. Hedbor, The Prize
