My patience was not tried much longer. I saw Waubagone coming towards me. With her were three women, one with a cradleboard on her back, and another with a toddling bairn carried on her hip. They came halfway across the clearing. Then the woman with the bairn left the others and came towards me.
I stood up slowly. She was wearing a deerskin tunic that reached to her knees, over a trade shirt, and fringed leggings over winter moccasins. Her braided hair fell down her back, just like any other young woman. She was a little shorter than the girl who'd brought me here, and much paler. The child, who was not pale at all, but brown as a fledgling wren, looked at me unblinkingly from under a fringe of thick black hair.
I went slowly towards her. We stood about five feet apart, and I looked into her eyes.
‘Rachel?’
I thought she tried to speak, but no words came. I saw her swallow. Then she said, in a kind of hoarse whisper, as she looked at me with a terror I'd never seen in her before in all our lives, ‘Is it . . . Mark?’
‘Ay.’
If she'd been the sister I knew, her face would have crumpled up then, and she'd have hurled herself, sobbing, into my arms. It had happened before. This Rachel stood frozen, staring at me as if she was seeing a ghost, and trying to refute the evidence of her own eyes.
‘Ay,’ I said again. ‘It's me. I've come to fetch thee home.’
‘Mark,’ she said hoarsely, as if she were asking herself a question. Then, ‘Mark!‘
‘Ay. It's me.’ Something had to happen. At least we could both speak English, or so I hoped. ‘Is this thy bairn?’ I asked her gently. I felt like I was coaxing an unbroken colt towards the halter. If I'd had sugar in my pocket, I daresay I'd have held it out to her on my spread palm.
Then she did begin to cry, but not the way she used to do. She made no sound, but I saw her tears falling. ‘Is it my bairn!’ she repeated. ‘Thee asks me that!’
‘Ay,’ I said. ‘It seems a reasonable question.’
‘Thee is Mark.’ That time I did hear her sob. ‘Thee is.’
‘Ay.’ I wasn't sure what to do next. ‘Does he have a name?’
‘She,’ said Rachel, and sniffed. I knew that sniff. It brought her back to me so much I felt my own tears rise. ‘Thee's right, she is mine. Her name is Zhawenjigewin. I won't leave her, Mark.’
It wasn't worded as an appeal, but I caught a note of desperation in it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I see that.’ I looked at the little girl, as if she were a riddle I were called upon to solve.
‘It means the same in English,’ said Rachel suddenly.
‘Oh?’
‘Zhawenjigewin. Thee can say it in English. Clemency.’
‘Clemency,’ I repeated numbly. ‘Ay well, Rachel, thee'd better get ready, if we're to bring her home. It's a long journey.’
‘Mark.’ Two tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. She made no move to wipe them away. ‘Thee's just the same. Mark. Isn't thee?’
‘Ay, but thee needn't greet for that.’
‘But thee must see . . . how can I go home? . . . Where in the world could I go now?’
‘Rachel,’ I said. ‘Alan is close by. He's hurt; he couldn't walk so far to find thee.’ (That was not the whole truth, but it was true in fact, and seemed more politic.) ‘We came to look for thee, and for that he was injured. I left him waiting for thee.’
‘I won't leave my child.’
‘Have I asked thee to?’
‘But Alan . . .’
I couldn't in honesty finish the sentence for her. ‘There's only one way to find out,’ I said. ‘If it seems that Alan and thee must part, I shall take thee home.’
‘Home!’ I thought then she'd break down. If she'd been alone I think I'd have taken her in my arms, but the bairn made that awkward. I didn't want to frighten it. ‘Home! Thee knows I can't go home! Am I not disowned?’
‘Ay,’ I said. ‘But not by me, nor thy father and mother.’ I was struck by an afterthought. ‘The little maid is not disowned.‘1
When I was at London Yearly Meeting I was almost moved to put forward my concern about our Testimony on marriage. Over the years I have seen so many good men and women lost from Membership of our Society because they chose to marry one who was not in Membership with us, which marriage must perforce be carried out before a priest. As I grow older the conviction grows on me that if our beloved Society is to survive in this fast-changing world, we must not cast out such Members from the fold. A way must be found to accommodate them, for very often these are convinced Friends, whose fault is only that they marry where they love. If this be sin, then who among us would desire to cast one stone? I say I was almost moved. The truth is that London Yearly Meeting daunted me somewhat: I had never been so far from home (except when I was in North America) and the place was full of southerners, who have much to say for themselves, and I found I could not speak.
Tentatively I held out my hand. Suddenly Rachel brushed the tears from her face with an impatient gesture I knew well, and turned away. I watched her disappear into the lodge.
I became aware of the women watching us. The older woman followed Rachel into the dark interior. There was nothing to do but wait. I paced to and fro under the maple trees – I was far too anxious to be still – and watched the sap dripping into the troughs. The dogs and children followed me at a little distance, watching warily. When I turned back towards the lodge a group of men were standing between me and the door. As I walked towards them they watched me gravely. No one moved or spoke. I stopped about six feet from them. ’Boozhoo,’ I said cautiously.
I don't know what would have happened, but just then Waubagone came out of the lodge with the older woman, who was evidently an elder among them, for she talked to the men, and they seemed to listen respectfully. But then there was some kind of argument. As far as I could make out, a couple of the young men were speaking quite forcefully to a tall warrior – I knew he must be a man of note by his eagle feathers – who seemed to be the leader. But another, older man, seemed to disagree with them. I couldn't tell who the leader favoured; he seemed impatient with both parties. I'd had enough. I interrupted them all, and said as firmly as I could in French, ’Messieurs! Je cherche ma sœur. Je la trouve. Je la prend chez nous!‘
The Lord was good to me; one of the men who had held aloof until now tapped the leader on the shoulder, and after a little discussion between them, he spoke to me in halting French. I had trouble understanding his accent, but the gist was clear enough. They – or some among them – said that Rachel was theirs, and disputed my right to take her away. My heart sank. Then I remembered the gifts that I had brought. I opened my knapsack and laid out the lengths of cloth and ropes of bead. I wished I had more, but at least the women came out to look over what there was.
It seemed not to be enough. ‘Asemaa,‘ said Waubagone, and then more emphatically: ‘Asemaa!‘
I spread my hands helplessly. ‘I have no more tobacco.’
The leader spoke, and there was a ring of finality about his words as he turned away. One of the young men shot me a look of scorn as he turned to follow.
I pushed in front of him and stood before the leader. He frowned at me, but I was past fearing. All I had left was my purse, and there was little enough in it, only the ten guineas which I could not spend in Mackinac, in spite of my needs, because they'd been given to me by Robert Southey as a gift to Rachel, if ever I should find her. I untied the leather string, and shook the gold coins on to my palm. I saw I had the man's attention. I held my hand out to him. The ten coins gleamed in the sunlight. ‘I have brought thee this gift,’ I said loudly and clearly, although not one among them could understand a word I said. ‘It comes from one of my own people. My sister gave him food and shelter when she was a little lass, and he was lost on the hill. I have brought this gold all the way from Greta Hall in Keswick, and used it for no other purpose because it was given for her. So now it is thine, and I will take her.’
Though the words can
have made no sense to him, he must have understood me by my tone. He wasn't frowning now, but he was watching me gravely. After a moment's hesitation he held out his hand, palm upwards. One of the young men seized him by the shoulder, and said something vehement, but the leader brushed him aside, and looked at me. I met his eyes, and some instinct I did not know I had, told me to act with all the ceremony of which I was capable. I picked up the gold coins, one by one, and transferred them from my palm to his. When they lay in a neat circle in his left palm, I held out my right hand. He looked down at it, puzzled, and the man who knew a little French whispered something in his ear. The leader held out his right hand, and I solemnly shook his hand to seal our bargain.
Then the leader spoke sharply to the group around him, and in a moment all dispersed. The younger men went into the lodge, followed by Waubagone and the old woman, and I was left alone.
I kept my eyes on the door of the lodge. I waited a long time, and began to be very fearful. At last the skins were pushed back, and I saw Rachel coming towards me. She was without the baby, a small tense figure, braced as if for confrontation. My heart misgave me. It had never crossed my mind that after my long journey, and all my successful bargaining, she might refuse to come with me. The thoughts rushed through my mind: what would I say to Alan? To my parents? What could I possibly do to insist? When Rachel's mind was made up, she never budged. I waited apprehensively.
She didn't waste words. She came up to me and said, ‘I will come. We will both come. They say I have no choice. If I had . . . I don't know . . . I don't know . . . Mark!’ Her control broke suddenly. She threw herself against my chest, weeping, and I hugged her in my arms. She smelt of maple sugar and woodsmoke. Her face was buried in my coat; she clung to me like one possessed. I said the sort of things one says to a frightened puppy. I don't know if she listened, but she stopped suddenly, and held herself away from me, gripping my arms. ‘Mark. Thee came. Thee came. I have to tell thee: I dreamed it. I dreamed thee would come. Again and again I dreamed it. I made myself stop, because I knew it was impossible. But thee came.’
‘Ay.’
‘Thee came?’
‘Ay, we've established that. Where's the bairn? Is thee ready to go now?’
‘No.’ She looked down. ‘I'll come . . . but I can't just leave . . . Tomorrow.’
‘Why may we not depart today?’
She hesitated. ‘I can't tell thee. I'll tell thee later. I must . . . Will thee wait for me, Mark? Will thee wait one day?’
‘It's been a bit more than a day. It won't make much difference now.’
She never told me what it was she had to do. In the end I agreed to go back the two hours’ walk to the hollow tree, and wait for her there. I found my way quite easily: the track was clear back to the turning, and thereafter Waubagone and I had left our footprints here and there in snow and mud. I stayed the night alone, and in the long silence of the dark my fears subsided. I wouldn't feel quite safe until I had her back to Mackinac, but there was a joy growing in my heart, as gradually I began to believe in it, that I had found her, that I had succeeded in what I set out to do.
Halfway through the next morning they came: Rachel, with Clemency-Zhawenjigewin on her back, and Waubagone. The baby looked at me with bright eyes, and made babbling noises.
‘She can't talk yet?’ I asked Rachel, for the ways of infants were little known to me.
‘She says, “ma-ma”. And “da-da-da”.’
‘Ay, that's a start, I suppose.’
In fact the child had more to say than any of us on the journey through the forest. Sometimes she slept, and sometimes she babbled and crooned, and sometimes she gazed with wide eyes at the sunlight that shafted through the trees about us. I offered to carry her, but Rachel refused to hand her over, and Waubagone, when Rachel said something about it to her, looked at me in astonishment. We had to stop at intervals for the child to nurse, and be cleaned up. While all that was going on I sat a little space apart and occupied myself with my own thoughts, which were mostly concerned with what our journey home would be like, with a woman and a baby in the canoe as well. I wondered if Alan would be fit to paddle. He certainly couldn't sit for hours with his legs tucked under him. I could apply my mind to the material problems. The emotional ones I could not face, but they hung at the back of my mind like a lowering storm that closed in nearer with every step we took. Finally it was right over us. We came out by the creek, and walked along the path trodden out by Alan, Loic and me, into our own clearing.
They'd lit a fire outside, and were sitting side by side on a log eating their dinner in the evening sun. The pot had been taken off the heat, but still simmered at their feet. I saw them for a second before they saw us, and, most unexpectedly, a wave of grief swept over me, for all the days we'd spent together, just the three of us, that were now ended. I'd spent my time struggling and longing for this moment, the time when our long task would be accomplished, and I might go home. But now that it had come, I was acutely aware of the thing that I was losing, which, in that little moment, I knew would never come again.2
They saw us, and Loic jumped up. Alan reached for his ashplant, and got slowly to his feet. I stood back, and let Rachel walk towards him on her own. Of course, I realised, they'd both had time to prepare themselves. The small matter that Alan wouldn't have expected was Clemency-Zhawenjigewin. But there I wronged him: Alan wasn't stupid. He knew what would happen to a captive woman; he would have thought of this. I saw him look at the baby, and instantly comprehend. What I didn't know – I'd had plenty of time to consider it – was what he'd do.
‘Rachel,’ said Alan. He sounded diffident, but he held out both his hands.
She didn't take them. ‘Her name is Zhawenjigewin,’ she said without preamble. I knew that truculent defiance. It was the way Rachel always faced trouble, refusing to compromise, as if deliberately inviting more. ‘She's my daughter.’
If I'd been Alan I'd have been tempted to strike her.
After a long moment Alan said, ‘And you're my wife. We were married before a priest. In law that makes her mine also.’
‘She isn't thine,’ said Rachel flatly. She had no need to state the fact. Clemency-Zhawenjigewin was clearly neither two years old nor white. I saw that Rachel, reverting to her old self, was determined to behave badly. I couldn't bear it. I turned my back on them, and gave my sister up for lost.
Alan said, ‘I know that. Do you . . . Are you asking me to leave you?’
‘Leave me?’ repeated Rachel. ‘Thee left me long ago, I think. So how can thee leave me now?’
‘Rachel . . .’ Alan stopped, and brushed his hand across his forehead. ‘I don't want . . . We've come so far . . . You're my wife. I didn't leave you. I came to find you.’
‘Mark found me.’
‘That's enough!’ I flinched – I'd had Alan's anger come my way, once – but Rachel never quailed. ‘For Christ's sake, woman, is that all you can say! After all that . . . you'd be better served if I . . . You're married to me, by God! You left me! I told you . . . Oh, for God's sake!’ He looked at her in exasperation, and gave a twisted smile. ‘ ‘Twas not what I meant to say, Rachel. I've had enough time to think, God knows. I'll say to you what I planned to say, whether you choose or not: we were married before a priest. In law that makes your child mine. If you come back to me, there's no other way for it to be.’
‘Does thee mean that?’ asked Rachel slowly. She seemed so cold, but I, who knew her best, saw the naked grief in her eyes. She looked more like one bereaved than one restored. Why she should torture herself – and Alan too – in this fashion was quite beyond me.
‘Yes,’ said Alan baldly. He paused. ‘But I can't call her Zhawenjigewin. She'll have to have an English name.’
‘She has one,’ snapped Rachel. ‘Clemency.’
‘Then bring her in,’ said Alan, and limped over to the wigwam. He held back the hide over the door. ‘Won't you . . . Can we speak about this privately? Please? Rachel?’
Loic and I looked at each other. Waubagone was still standing there, waiting patiently. ‘Are you hungry?’ asked Loic. ‘We made plenty, hoping you'd be back.’
Waubagone left as soon as she had eaten. The only gift I had for her was a couple of bears’ claws, but she seemed pleased with those. Loic and I sat on by the fire. We talked a little, but mostly we just watched the logs crackle, and the sun go down behind the trees. Loic told me how he'd shot a doe the day I'd left them. We should be all right, he said, now that spring was coming. In a few weeks we'd be able to go home. At the thought of home we relapsed into silence, each of us thinking his own thoughts.
‘Loic?’ I said at last.
’Oui?‘
‘Nidon said . . . everyone has said, all the time, that if Rachel were among the Ottawa in the Michigan Territory, they would have heard about it.’
‘I have been thinking that too. It is quite true, they would have heard. So we were not to be told, en effet. I have been trying to remember the things that were said, exactly. I doubt if anyone has lied to us. Waubagone says the warriors you met on South Manitou are going away now that spring has come. They go to join Tecumseh.’
‘Thee thinks it was because of them we were not to be told?’
‘Rachel was taken from Alan,’ said Loic. ‘She was returned, not to Alan, but to you.’
‘I don't understand.’
’Oui, Mark, you understand quite well, if you think about it. Would you welcome a stranger coming into your own country, inciting men to war? I think not. You like your own ways best, do you not? It is the same here. Perhaps Rachel, when she is used to being among us again, will be able to explain it to you more.’
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