Table Of ContentBEGINNING AGAIN
Further Adventures of a Loyalist Family
by
Mary Beacock Fryer
Toronto and Oxford
Dundurn Press
1988
Copyright © Mary Beacock Fryer, 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise
(except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press Limited.
Design and Production:Andy Tong
Printing and Binding:Gagné Printing Ltd., Louiseville, Quebec, Canada The writing of this manuscript and
the publication of this book were made possible by support from several sources. The publisher wishes to
acknowledge the generous assistance and ongoing support of The Canada Council, The Book Publishing
Industry Development Programme of the Department of Communications and The Ontario Arts
Council.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in the text (including the
illustrations). The author and publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any reference or
credit in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, Publisher
Cataloguing in Publication
Fryer, Mary Beacock, 1929-
Beginning again ISBN 1-55002-043-9
1. United Empire loyalists - Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8561.R93B43 1988 jC813'.54 C88-094555-9
PZ7.F79Be 1988
Dundurn Press Limited Dundurn Distribution Limited
2181 Queen Street East, Suite 301 Athol Brose, School Hill,
Toronto, Canada Wargrave, Reading
M4E 1E5 England
RG10 8DY
BEGINNING AGAIN
Further Adventures of a Loyalist Family
by
Mary Beacock Fryer
Illustrations by Kenneth McNaught
Maps by John C. Lamontagne
Editor: Barbara Smith
FOREWORD
I have often discussed Escape, my first book on the Seaman family, with my
readers. The question asked most often is, what happened to Caleb and Martha
Seaman and their eight children after they settled in Canada? Here is another
part of their story.
Some place names have changed since the 1790s, the setting of the story.
Buell's Bay has become Brockville; Coleman's Corners is now Lyn; Seaman's
Landing is called Rockport; Fort Oswegatchie was on the site of the city of
Ogdensburg, New York.
I also want to thank my two artists, Kenneth McNaught and John C.
Lamontagene. A special appreciation goes to my editor and lifelong friend,
Barbara J. Smith. Many years ago we talked about doing a story together on
some aspect of historical fiction for young readers. Now we have done so.
To all
young readers
who enjoyed
Escape
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Our “Estate”
Chapter 2
Farmer Ned
Chapter 3
Of Winter and Strange Goings On
Chapter 4
Stretched to the Limit
Chapter 5
Uncle William
Chapter 6
Apprentice Raftsmen
Chapter 7
Of Two Cities
Chapter 8
Tryst on the Hudson
Chapter 9
Two Homecomings
Chapter 10
Finishing Touches
Chapter 11
Our Great Raft
Chapter 12
Cold Iron
Chapter 13
Limelight for Elizabeth
Chapter 1 Our “Estate”
W
hen I awoke that May morning of 1790 the sky was still grey. The
sun had not begun to rise, but I was too excited to sleep any
longer. Today was special. Today we were going to explore our
very own land. Because my father, Caleb Seaman, had been loyal
to King George the Third during the American revolution, he had been given
208 acres of land by the District Land Board here in Canada.
Not quite a year had passed since the dreadful day when Papa and I had been
arrested. We were thrown in jail in Schenectady, in New York State, after Papa
had been recognised as a Loyalist. In dead of night, Papa, his friend Truelove
Butler, and I broke out of the jail. We packed our wagon and fled to seek safety
in Canada. In our party of fugitives were my mother, Martha, and my seven
brothers and sisters—Cade, who was now sixteen, Sam, fifteen, Elizabeth,
fourteen, Smith, six, Sarah, five, Stephen, four, and Robert, eighteen months. I
was the third son, at thirteen not quite a year younger than Elizabeth.
The sun had begun to stream across my face when Papa's shout called us to
breakfast. As soon as we had eaten, Papa could hardly contain his impatience.
“Hurry up, everyone!” he called. “So we'll be there before the light's gone.”
“Remember, you're going to have to row against the current,” Sam roared, at
the top of his lungs as usual..
“Ned,” Mama called to me. “Smith and Stephen have vanished. Find them,
please.”
I raced about outside our cabin and caught my two younger brothers who had
escaped despite Mama's orders to stay inside. I could hardly wait to get started.
At last we were all lined up and ready to walk the three miles to Buell's Bay,
where the merchant and landowner, Mr. William Buell, was lending us his
bateau. A journey of eighteen miles up the St. Lawrence would bring us to our
land.
Anticipation made light of the hike along the rutted track hardly fit for a
wagon—Papa and Mama in the lead, arm in arm, each with a basket of supplies.
Behind them marched Cade, the eldest, carrying blankets and shepherding
Smith, Sarah and Stephen. Elizabeth and I were in the rear, ready to catch
Smith, Sarah and Stephen. Elizabeth and I were in the rear, ready to catch
anyone who eluded Cade. Around us capered our black and white dog Goggie,
named by Robert, our youngest. Elizabeth had named him Samson when we first
got him, but when we called him, my brother Sam answered. “Goggie” was
really Robert's attempt to say “Doggie”, but soon everyone was using the name.
Elizabeth and I took turns carrying Robert, who at eighteen months wanted to go
on his own legs. He was not easy to hold either, he squirmed so.
“Walk! Me walk!” he shouted.
“No,” retorted Elizabeth. “If we have to wait for you, it'll be dark before we
get to Buell's Bay.”
The only one not along was Sam, who had stayed home to take care of the
horses—our much prized bay stallion, the bay mare, and the filly she had
dropped in March. That filly was a gift, for at the time of our escape from the
summer before, we did not know she had been bred. I wondered that Sam should
be willing to miss out on the adventure of going to our land, but he was probably
pleased to have the cabin all to himself. It stood near the centre of our village of
Coleman's Corners, which lay inland by a waterfall. There, the father of Elijah
Coleman, one of my friends, had built grist and sawmills. When we first arrived,
Coleman's Corners already had a dozen houses, more than Buell's Bay. It
seemed to us the best place to open our blacksmith's shop. People liked to
combine a visit to the mills and other business.
We took scarcely an hour to reach Mr. Buell's store, exchange greetings, and
carry our belongings to the small bateau tied to the jetty in the sheltered bay. The
bateau was about half the size of those built by the government for use on the St.
Lawrence. Government bateaux travelled in groups of about a dozen each that
were called brigades. When a brigade arrived at a set of rapids that lay down the
river from us, the crews of all the bateaux combined to haul each one upstream.
The smaller boat we were borrowing, however, was plenty big enough for our
needs.
Mr. William Buell was a small, neat man with laughing eyes and a person of
standing in our community. A former officer, he was better off than most of our
neighbours, and as a magistrate he dispensed justice and sat at Courts of Quarter
Sessions. At first we stood in awe of him but he quickly took a fancy to Papa and
Mama. They were Long Islanders, and Mr. Buell had been raised nearby in
Connecticut. He thought New Yorkers were boring, except for Long Islanders.
Since the first Seamans and the first Buells had come from England to the New
World at the same time, he decided we must be related.
As we boarded the bateau we found that we were in luck. The wind was from
As we boarded the bateau we found that we were in luck. The wind was from
the northeast and we would not have to row. Papa hoisted the lateen sail and we
scudded up the bateau channel along the north side of the sparkling blue St.
Lawrence and soon found ourselves passing through the Narrows, formed by a
row of pine, oak and maple-clad islands from which pink granite poked. Now we
had time and the breath to talk. Robert was no longer fretful, busying himself
running on the flat floor of the bateau. Occasionally one of us would put a hand
out to stop him climbing on the seat and trying to fall overboard. Then the sail
began to flop and Papa showed Cade how to trim it.
“This is the life!” Papa fairly crowed. “A mere tub, not my father's schooner
Whitewings, but it's nice to be sailing again.”
“You never told us about any ship, Papa,” Cade said, surprised.
“Hush, Cade,” Mama interrupted him. “You'll stir up sad memories.”
Papa shook his head. “Those memories have mellowed with time. I'd like to
talk about it, Martha.”
“Was it something to do with your brother, Nehemiah, Papa?” I piped up,
trying to conceal my eagerness to learn something about the man for whom I
was named. “Who drowned at sea?”
At that Papa nodded. “Yes, Ned. He slipped on the deck and fell into Long
Island Sound. We never found his body. Until we lost Nehemiah, I wanted to
become the ship's master. Afterwards I hated the sea and decided to train as a
blacksmith.”
“But he lives again in you, Ned. You're a lot like him,” Mama added.
For a few minutes no one spoke, but we were too full of our plans for this
summer of 1790 to remain subdued for long. Mama's dearest wish was to start a
school in her limited spare time, to teach our younger ones and the other children
of Coleman's Corners. Even Mrs. Coleman, the miller's wife, could not read and
write. Mama had agreed to become the teacher in return for flour and other
foods. Papa had arranged for Cade and me to work for a farmer, Mr. Joseph
McNish, to learn how to pioneer on our own land. The McNish farm was just
outside Coleman's Corners, and we would be able to walk home to spend Sunday
with the family. Papa himself had agreed to work for Captain Justus Sherwood,
who for some years had been building timber rafts and sailing them to Quebec.
The captain was also the chairman of the land board, and he had helped Papa
select a grant that had fine timber on it, right on the shore of the St. Lawrence.
Hauling logs through a bush where there were no roads would be nearly
