Shadowbrook (13 page)

“Perhaps, sir. I couldn’t say. No way to tell. But Villiers …”

“Yes?”

“He says he came to avenge his brother’s death, sir. And he considers that he’s done that.”

Yes, by Christ Jesus, he had. They’d brought him the reckoning a few moments before. Thirty of his men were dead and seventy wounded, and the surgeon didn’t think he could save many of those. There was not a mule or a horse or a pig alive in the stockade. They were not only without four-legged transportation, they were without a steady supply of meat. Washington stabbed at the paper containing the Articles of Capitulation. “Jumonville’s mur—His brother’s passing, Captain, is there anything in here about that?”

“A few words, sir, nothing important.” What bloody else could he say? De Villiers had written the damned thing on his knee. The bloody document was all but illegible. He had thought there was something in there about Washington accepting responsibility for Jumonville’s assassination, but he couldn’t find it when he looked again. Maybe he’d been mistaken. He was offering himself as a hostage so the men could live; what in hell’s name else could be wanted of him? Wasn’t him
who should have given the command to stop the massacre back in the glen. “I don’t think there’s anything that matters, sir. About Jumonville, I mean. But there’s one other thing …”

“Yes?”

“The Indians fighting with them, Colonel Washington, I expected it would be the usual French allies, sir. Ottawa and Huron. It’s not.”

Washington knew almost without having to ask, but he wanted to hear the words. “Very well, Captain. Which Indians, then?”

“Ours, sir. At least the ones supposed to be ours. Mingo and Shawnee and Delaware.”

Washington reached for his quill. “Pray God this ink is not too full of water to be readable, Captain.” He signed his name with his usual flourish.

The Virginians, Washington leading, left Fort Necessity the following morning, the fourth of July 1754. Most of the men were barefoot, and there wasn’t a complete uniform between any ten of them. They carried their muskets pointing downward, as custom demanded of surrendering troops.

De Villiers had lost three men of his six hundred; a few more had sustained light wounds. The victors watched the militiamen leave, then destroyed Fort Necessity before heading west. On their way back to Fort Duquesne, traveling the road the Virginian troops had built, the French burned to the ground Gist’s trading post and Red Stone Fort. The Ohio Country was once again safe for New France.

SATURDAY, JULY 4, 1754
QUÉBEC UPPER TOWN, NEW FRANCE

THE MAN, A
habitant
wearing leather breeches and a belted hunting shirt and a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his forehead, made his way across the Place d’Armes, the ceremonial heart of the Upper Town, and headed toward the Porte du Palais. There was a guard at the gate, a Canadian wearing the uniform of the colonial troupes
franches de la marine.
He glanced at the basket fixed to back of the
habitant.
“You go for firewood?”

“
Bien sûr, mon ami.
How else can my family eat?”

The guard waved him on. The man shuffled forward, not stopping to glance at the great château on the banks of the River St. Charles that was home to Intendant Bigot. It was said that Bigot could lose thousands of livres at gaming tables in his great ballroom and never count the cost. Nothing to do with a man who must gather firewood in the forest to survive.

The woods thickened when he was out of sight of the château’s wooden palisade and its cannon. Now Louis Roget did not feel the need to stoop so markedly; he walked with a bit more ease, enjoying the tall pines and fir trees and the feel of their needles beneath his feet, glad of the shade and the breeze off the river. Except for the nature of his errand, the Provincial Superior of the Society of Jesus would have found this a pleasant stroll in the country.

“Vous! Ici!”

The savage was covered from head to foot in blue tattoos. Both cheeks were scarred with knife cuts that ran from ear to mouth, precise enough so it was obvious they were ceremonial marks, not battle scars. He wore feathers in his long black hair, a breechclout, and little else besides an array of bracelets on his arms and legs. A large medicine bag made of the whole skin of an otter hung round his neck, marking him as a member of the powerful Midewiwin priesthood. The Jesuit suppressed a sigh. Dear Lord, that You have sent us to such a place as this to deal with such men as these.

“Tu n’as pas de savoir-vivre, mon fils.”
Roget spoke slowly and with more than usual care. He was never certain how much French these savages understood. “You forget your manners, my son. Remember to whom you speak and adjust your tone.”

The Indian shrugged. “We are both priests, is that not so? Do you think you are higher than me?”

“I am a priest of the one Great Spirit that rules the heaven and the earth.”

The sun was directly overhead now. The red man had been waiting in these woods since it was only a quarter way above the horizon and he had eaten not long before; he belched loudly, then squatted. In his own language he was a Twightwee, a crane person. The Europeans had adopted the Ojibwe word and called them Miami. By whatever name, his people had inhabited the land the French called the
pays d’en haut
since long before the
Cmokmanuk
arrived. Still more important, he was a priest of the Midewiwin, a member of one of the most powerful lodges, and a holy man who could speak with the spirits. He had little use for these Europeans no matter what tribe they belonged to, French or English, but he had learned to make choices between bad and worse.

The French made trade, they gave gifts, they showed respect—at least most of them did, this haughty black robe was an exception—and there were not so many of them. The English multiplied like grasshoppers and devoured the land the way swarms of insects devoured leaves. When the English came, the hunting grounds were destroyed and the
Anishinabeg
had to leave their homes and the bones of their ancestors and search for new places to live. “Since we agree that there is but one Great Spirit,” the Indian said, “all his priests must be equal.”

Roget had not come into the woods to argue theology with a savage. He remained standing, but he removed a small chamois bag full of coins from beneath his shirt and held it in plain view. “I was told you had important things to say. I am listening, but I hear only small words.”

The Midè priest looked up, thinking that he would like to cut out the heart of this arrogant European, and that if he did he would not eat it but feed it to the dogs in his village. But the bag of coins would buy a large quantity of firewater. His mouth was dry with his need for it, and sour with the taste of betrayal. He licked his lips. “I speak big words, black robe, important words. I am offering you more power over the red men than you can believe possible. I will make you king of all the
Anishinabeg.
You will be able to summon them to fight for Onontio and defeat the English once and for all.”

“I am not interested in your spells and incantations. You must offer me more than just words.”

The Indian summoned the spittle for speech and tried to ignore the sick feeling in his belly. “Memetosia, an old and wise Miami chief, is in Albany now. He makes powwow with the English who would overthrow Onontio.”

“It is three years, many moons, since the Miami turned their back on their father Onontio and chose to listen to the lies of the English. It is not a surprise that they attend a powwow with Onontio’s enemies.”

Ayi!
Half of him hoped this dog turd would refuse the bargain and try to walk away. Then he would kill him and take the money and have no need to betray Memetosia. But he was sure to have brought only a part of the payment. If he killed the black robe now he would never get the rest. “Do you tell me you are not interested in what happens between Memetosia and the English in Albany?”

“I am interested in the glory of the One True God and His Church. The English separated themselves from that Church. They are in mortal sin and doomed to hell fire.”

Impossible to deal with men who thought they knew everything. The priest felt a fart coming on and rose slightly on his haunches and freed it, laughing inwardly at the flicker of distaste he saw on the face of the black robe. “If you do not like the English, then you must agree my words are big words.”

“If they concern the enemies of Almighty God, yes,” Louis Roget said, finally squatting beside the Indian, “they are big words. And I am listening with both my ears.”

“How much do you have there?”

So, now we come to the heart of the matter, the Jesuit thought. The servant asks and the master pays. “One hundred livres.” It was a third of what had been stipulated.

The Miami spat on the ground in disgust. “It is not enough.”

“It is a first payment only. One hundred now. Two hundred more when you accomplish ‘the great good thing’ you have promised.”

The Miami hesitated a moment, thinking about how much firewater he could purchase with three hundred livres, of the hunger that never left of his belly, and of his great need. Finally he took up a twig and scratched a series of symbols in the earth. “
Papankamwa,
the fox.” He tapped the first mark, then indicated the others in turn. “
Eehsipana,
the raccoon.
Ayaapia,
the elk buck.
Anseepikwa,
the spider.
Eeyeelia,
possum.
Pileewa,
turkey.” After each pronouncement he looked up to be sure the black robe was paying attention.

Roget waited until the recitation was complete before speaking. “I told you I would not pay for your charms and incantations.”

The Midè priest felt such a need to cut out this one’s tongue that it almost overcame all else, but his great thirst reminded him that it did not. “When you speak words over the bread and the firewater in your Mass, do they not change?”

“Yes, but—”

“So we are agreed that words can be very powerful.” Then, before the black robe could find another argument: “Your bread and firewater look the same after you speak your words, yet you say they have become different. I speak of something you can touch and see. Ancient stones, black robe, magic more powerful than the words of your Mass.
Papankamwa, eehsipana, ayaapia, anseepikwa, eeyeelia, pileewa.
My words will make you a king.”

MONDAY, JULY 13, 1754
NEW YORK PROVINCE

The reeds that grew beside this stretch of Hudson’s River were taller than Nicole’s head, taller than either of the men. They parted with soft, sighing sounds as the party of three moved through them, then closed as if they had never been disturbed.

It had been three weeks since the night beside the Shawnee fire. The journey by canoe had been infinitely easier for Nicole, but the boat had been abandoned the day before and left well hidden on the riverbank.

“Not a good idea for us to announce our arrival by paddling alongside the Albany town wharves,” Quent said. When Nicole asked why, he hesitated, then grinned. She liked his grin. It made him look like a mischievous small boy. “Can’t say I’m certain of the answer to that,” he admitted. “But it’s not the way Corm and I do things.”

She understood what he was saying. Stealth was bred into them; it was how they survived. Anyway, she didn’t mind giving up the canoe as much as she’d thought she might. The paths here were well marked and a bit wider than in the Ohio Country. The trek had been easier than she’d expected until they got to these dreadful reeds.

She was in her usual place, between the two men. The sun was not yet directly overhead, but already perspiration poured off her and the buckskins of the men were dark with sweat. She could smell their ripe, musky odor mixing with the fetid heat rising off the marsh. When evening came all three of them would strip off their clothes and bathe in the river, then eat and sleep. It was the prize, the goal that made her able to put one foot in front of the other.

A reed swiped her cheek and Nicole knew from the sting that she had been cut. She wiped away the blood and the sweat with a corner of her torn and shabby skirt. Then Monsieur Shea, who was in the lead, stopped walking and Monsieur Hale put a hand on her shoulder. They waited like that for a few heartbeats. By now she knew better than to ask what or why. Nicole held her breath.

Another man appeared, an Indian, dark-skinned and flat-faced, with flared nostrils. He wore buckskins and had a tomahawk at his waist. His hair was black and coarse and worn loose to his shoulders. What looked to be the tail feathers of some bird hung from his ears, and his face was covered with the strange markings Nicole had been told were called tattoos. She had become adept at reading the reactions of her two companions. She knew at once the newcomer was not an enemy.

The three men spoke for a moment or two in that rapid, guttural language she didn’t understand. The Indian kept staring at Nicole and jerking his head to indicate a spot somewhere to his right. Eventually Cormac Shea and the stranger took a few steps in that direction, disappearing into the all-concealing reeds.

“He doesn’t like speaking of important things in front of a squaw,” Quent said.

“But I do not understand a word of his language.”

Quent shrugged. “He doesn’t know that. Wait here. If you don’t want to be lost in these reeds forever, don’t take a step in any direction.” He followed after the other two. Nicole had no idea where they had gone. The tall reeds had an eerie way of distorting any sense of direction. She could, however, hear the low murmur of their voices.

A few moments later Quent reappeared at her side. He was alone. “We’re going on. Cormac has to see someone. He’ll catch up with us later.”

“I wouldn’t have been lost forever if I’d moved,” she said. “You’d have found me.”

“I expect so.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“To make you behave.”

“I am not a child. You must stop treating me as if I have no understanding and no intelligence.”

“You’re right. I won’t do it anymore. This journey,” he added, “it can’t have been easy for a white woman who’s never been in the wilderness. You’ve done well.”