Shadowbrook (48 page)

“Mr. Franklin was effective,” Washington conceded, “though I admit he may have stretched the truth some. What matters is that both the Forty-fourth and the Forty-eighth are at full strength now. And the colonies have contributed their share of militiamen and supplies.” He took a notebook from the pocket of his blue jacket and flipped it open. “As of this morning we have twenty-two hundred men, a hundred and fifty wagons, and I believe some half a thousand packhorses. The French are vastly outnumbered. They may well be preparing to leave the Ohio Country as we speak.”

“Somehow, Colonel, I don’t expect it will be that easy.”

Washington smiled. “No, probably not.”

“Definitely not. The French have a great many Indians fighting on their side. Unless Braddock can get enough braves to make a real difference, he’s still out-numbered.” Quent nodded toward a group of about fifty Iroquois standing a short distance away. Nowhere near enough, but a good start.

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Can’t think of any other reason a general would send for me.” It had occurred to Quent that Washington might have recommended him, but the more he thought about it the less likely it seemed. It was common knowledge that the young colonel had brought six hundred Virginian fighting men with him but had himself offered to serve with Braddock as a volunteer. Meaning that, unlike his men, he got no pay. Still, he was well placed, one of two aides-de-camp. The young man was ambitious, he craved status as well as military glory. The last thing he’d want was for Braddock to hear the story of how, after they’d surrendered and been promised quarter, Jumonville and his wounded men had been slaughtered by the Iroquois while Washington stood and watched. The summons from Braddock had to have come because the general had heard of his reputation among the Indians.

Both Quent and Washington made themselves appear intent on watching the recruits train. Finally Washington cleared his throat. “Tanaghrisson, the one they called the Half King. I’m told he died a few months past.”

“In their camp at Aughwick. That’s his successor over there.” Quent gestured toward one of the Iroquois. “The tall one with the striped face and all the tattoos. His name’s Scarouady, he’s an Oneida. They were part of the original Confederacy, back when it was just five tribes. Oneida are always among the fifty Lords that rule the League.”

“Scarouady,” Washington repeated. “I do find the names of these people hard to keep in mind.”

“Some can be safely forgotten,” Quent said. “Tanaghrisson, for example.”

Washington hoped his flush would be attributed to the spring sun. “I agree. Let the dead rest in peace. By the way, when I heard you were coming I mentioned to the General that no one knows more about the Indians. I suggested he listen carefully to whatever you had to say.”

“Generous of you. As I recall, I left you without a proper goodbye.”

Washington smiled. “No need to talk about that either. New business to attend to, eh?”

Quent nodded, his eyes on the officer in the bearskin who was shouting commands at his charges, attempting to teach them to form themselves into the famous parallel lines that allowed British soldiers to fire a never-ending volley of musket balls into the ranks of an advancing enemy. The lads were trying, but the lines were undulating rather than straight. Moreover, the recruits were armed
with sticks, not muskets. They were to pretend to discharge their weapons, then drop to their knees and reload pretty much in unison, while the line behind them pretended to fire over their heads, preparing to kneel and reload at the precise moment the front rank stood to fire. Both lines had too many men too swift to kneel and too late to stand. “They don’t seem to have the hang of it, do they?” Quent asked.

“Not yet. But they will.”

“Perhaps. And when they do? Will the French come out and meet them on the battlefield, do you think?”

“I see no reason to think them cowards,” Washington said stiffly.

Because they’re not, Quent thought. But neither are they fools. “Right. Where’s this general London’s sent to make the future safe for we poor colonials?”

“His tent’s just over there. I’ll bring you in and introduce you, shall I?”

“The one with those damned yellow stripes on his face, tell him.” General Braddock didn’t look at Quent when he spoke, just kept shuffling the papers on his desk.

“His name is Scarouady.” Sweet Christ, how could a man come to wage war in this place, put his life and the lives of thousands of others in the way of a musket ball, and know so little about the Indians? “He’s a Lord of the Iroquois League. A Half King. He’s an important man. You need him, General Braddock.”

The Englishman looked up and studied Quent through narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “Need?” A few grains of powder from his wig had fallen to his shoulders. The general flicked them away. “I do not actually need any savage, Mr. Hale. A fact for which I thank the Almighty. It is unthinkable that His Majesty’s entirely legitimate claims should be dependent upon heathen with painted faces and feathers in their hair.”

Only the thought of those boys trying to pretend their sticks were muskets kept him from turning and walking out. “Whatever they look like to you, General, the Indians are formidable in a battle. And there are a great many of them fighting with the French.”

“That’s no recommendation to me, Mr. Hale. I have seen the French fight. And I assure you neither they nor your Indians will prevail over a well-disciplined line of British soldiers.”

“And I assure you that this is America. Things are different here.”

“So I believe,” Braddock said softly. “But I repeat: You are to tell this Scarouady he must send his squaws and their papooses away. I cannot have them traveling with my forces. The warriors—braves—may stay. They might be a useful reserve. Always a bit of mopping up to do at the end of a battle. Now—”

“A bit of mopping up.”

“Yes. As I said. Mr. Hale, I’m told you are a fearsome shot with that long gun, and a man of unimpeachable honor and decent family, as well as a practitioner of the peculiar skills required in this wilderness. And that you know as much about the red men as anyone in these colonies. And God knows, you are big enough and red enough yourself to terrorize most men, certainly the French. But all that said, I am in charge here and my orders are to be instantly obeyed. If you wish to stay, you must accept that fact. Now, sir, do you intend to be with us or against us?”

“If I were not with you, General Braddock, I would have left long since.” But why was he with them? There were nearly a thousand braves aligned with the French at Fort Duquesne, Abenaki, Huron, Ojibwe, even Potawatomi and a number of Ottawa who had come with Pontiac. By every instinct Quent found himself on the wrong side of this damned fight. But he was English and American, not French and Canadian, and the best part of twenty-two hundred men were likely to die if he couldn’t convince Braddock to see reason. “Your men have women with them. The wives of many of the officers, and the others, the laundresses and sutlers and such, all follow—”

“You need not mince words with me, Mr. Hale. There are the officers’ wives, and as for the rest, we both understand what we’re talking about. Whatever functions the women perform in the way of selling provisions to the men or doing their wash, they are essentially whores. But they are white and the men require them.”

Besides, Quent knew, Braddock kept them under a close control no squaw would accept. The women, except for the officer’s wives, were required to be present at the morning parade every day, and each time the rules were read aloud to them:
Any woman caught stealing or wasting supplies, death. Any woman caught giving or selling liquor to the Indians, 250 lashes. Any woman caught outside the boundaries of the camp, 50 lashes.

“Troops can’t be expected to be without females for months on end,” Braddock said. “I employ a doctor to look after them, be sure they’re not diseased. They do not parade around in broad daylight with their naked bosoms on display, or strap their infants to their backs, or relieve themselves in full view of officers as well as ordinary ranks. The squaws and their young are a disruption; I want them gone by nightfall. And while you’re about it, tell the savages they are to quiet their nightly revels. All that whooping and hollering is keeping me awake.”

“They are doing the war dance, General. If they stop, your difficulties begin. It means they’ve decided not to fight.”

“Damn it, man, have I not made myself clear? I would rather have them than not have them, but neither my campaign nor its success is to be made dependent
on savages. Now, take that Scarouady fellow my message about the squaws, and tell him and the other chiefs I will see them shortly.”

“So, Uko Nyakwai, I would feel better about this war belt if it had come from you and not from this man Croghan.”

“I am honored by the respect paid me by Shingas, the mighty sachem of the Lenape. But I remind Shingas that Croghan acts for William Johnson, and Johnson has been made the
Cmokmanuk
leader of all things to do with the
Anishinabeg.”

Quent and the Delaware chief squatted in the shade of a chestnut tree a short distance from the walls of the fort. Shingas turned his head and spat on the ground. “I do not know this William Johnson. Do you speak for him?”

“I speak for his character.” Originally from Ireland, Johnson was an Indian trader who had lived many years in the Mohawk Valley, not far from Shadowbrook. Quent had never heard anything to make him think ill of the man. “He has chosen a wife from among the Kahniankehaka. And they have made him a full chief.”

Shingas spat on the ground. “I am little impressed by who is or is not adopted by the snakes.”

“Then you will be pleased that there are to be a few less of them in this battle.” Both men could see Scarouady and his fifty braves leaving the fort. Their families followed, looking neither right nor left, as stoic and dignified as the men. Outraged by the attitude of Braddock, the Iroquois had decided they would all leave.

Shingas nodded. “Perhaps, but were I this English war sachem, I might not feel the same. Tell me the truth, Uko Nyakwai, this Braddock, is he a fool?”

“I do not think so. But he does not know this land, or those of us who live here. Still, I am told he is brave and wise in battle.”

“And I am told that he sends no word of his intentions to the French. Neither does the king in England tell the king in France that he means to make war on him in this place.”

The
Anishinabeg
despised the notion of making war without first declaring it. Quent had to find an explanation. “I believe that is true. But the French occupy land that the English claim. According to the
Cmokmanuk
custom, they are within their rights to make them leave.”

Shingas sat back on his heds. “Land the English claim … That is the meat I cannot chew. How can any man own something he cannot make or destroy? Land belongs to every foot that passes over it,
neya?”

“It is their way. Not even Shingas the great sachem will change them.”

“But does their way leave room for the
Anishinabeg
to go on living here? Tell me what you think, Uko Nyakwai, for I admit it is a question I cannot answer.”

“The Lenape and the Shawnee and the Mingo all want the French to leave this valley, do they not?”

“You know that is so.”

Quent did know it. That’s why Croghan’s war belts had been at least tentatively accepted, and why six chiefs—five now that Scarouady had left—had come to parley with Braddock. “The English will prevail if the braves of Shingas and the other war chiefs fight with them.”

“And if we do not?”

“There will be more and more French. And more and more of their Huron and Abenaki allies.”

Shingas picked up a twig and began drawing figures in the dust. “It is not just the Abenaki and the Huron who fight with the French. There are Ottawa at their camp. And Potawatomi. Is Uko Nyakwai no longer a son of the Potawatomi fire?”

“I will always be that, as Shingas knows. And I will always wear the amulet given to me by my dead wife’s father, the great Ottawa chief Recumsah. But I am English, not French. And this is my homeland. Sometimes it is not entirely clear which side a man must choose.”