Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  “Survival?” Vaudreuil made the same face. “When did this become a discussion of survival? And let me remind you, Monsieur, that we are at war with the English and have been so for some time.”

  “Ask Father Récher if he thinks this is a struggle for survival, Monsieur Governor. He saw what I saw—and when combined with the knowledge, the sure knowledge that we are cut off from our homeland—perhaps forever—suggests that we are not at war with the English any longer.

  “I don’t know what we are fighting, Governor. But only a fool goes to battle with an enemy at his rear.”

  “This is based on an entire cavalcade of assumptions, suspicions and fears, Monsieur. To go against the Crown—to end the war—based on that, seems irresponsible.” He set his glass down at the edge of a table and looked at it for a moment, as if it might not obey his wishes and remain there. “You truly have no idea if we are cut off from the mother country.”

  “I am not certain, no. I am not certain about anything—except that this in unknown ground. The situation has changed forever.”

  “Enough so that you’re willing to threaten Bigot’s life.”

  “You object?”

  “He has powerful friends at Court. That is consequential, unless, as you suggest, that is no longer of consequence. Past that, you can send him to a knacker for all that I care.”

  “A tempting suggestion.”

  Vaudreuil picked up his wineglass and raised it, catching the candlelight and breaking it into a thousand colored fragments.

  “Remind me not to anger you,” the governor said at last.

  Any further, Montcalm thought. He raised his glass and drank appreciatively. I will keep that in mind.

  Chapter 25

  The trees themselves were not consulted

  New France

  The Marquis de Montcalm had ordered more extensive patrols of the area, particularly between Québec and Montréal. All of the staff officers were assigned turns at leading patrols, and Olivier D’Egremont was no exception.

  It was always an invigorating experience to leave the safety and quiet of the habitations and travel out into the wilderness, like a courier de bois—but better armed, and with a limited and particular mission—to make sure there were no infiltrations. For most of the officers, infiltrations meant British soldiers, or irregular cadres like the infamous Rogers’ Rangers; but following his own experiences, he was aware of other possibilities that might be lurking in the woods.

  The patrol—two bateaux, twelve men including himself—left the St. Lawrence at the Chaudière, the swift-flowing river replaced with a lazy, muddy stream. Out of the sight of the great river, the vegetation was thicker, the trees hung heavy and closer to the ground; sunlight was occluded and sound was muffled.

  “Let’s put in over there.” D’Egremont gestured toward a small cove, where there was an obvious trail leading from the water’s edge into the woods. His second nodded from the other boat, and the men poled the flat-bottomed bateaux against the current until they bumped up against the shore. The men disembarked, shouldering their small field packs and weapons, and formed up along the trail, making room for D’Egremont to come to the head of the line.

  “Allez,” he said. “And no chatter. I expect silence—and attention.” He glanced back at his second, a scarred veteran of the Austrian Succession whom the younger men admired, and the older ones feared; from the rear of the column he nodded and scowled at the men ahead of him.

  They set off at a brisk pace. Though the French soldier of the line was no Indian scout, under the watchful gaze of authority and the presence of the dark, primeval forest, each man appeared to be on alert, tramping as quietly as possible along the path.

  D’Egremont could see, though, that the men were nervous. He was, too: the path was narrow, the underbrush uneven, the vegetation thick and entangling. Five hundred feet along the trail, they had lost sight of the boats and the sun was almost completely invisible through the tree canopy.

  Then, suddenly, the cloying quiet was interrupted by the sound of a voice—a man somewhere ahead, speaking aloud—in English. D’Egremont held up his hand; if there was room, he would have immediately deployed his troop in a skirmish line, but there was no space. He turned, gestured to the sergeant, then drew his saber and began to move forward.

  There was a clearing fifty feet further along, a remarkable circle of trees in the midst of an overgrown dense forest. At the far edge, an older man was on one knee, plucking at a plant at the base of a tree.

  “Perfect,” the man was saying. “I would say . . . Agastache nepetoides.” He took the plant and tucked it into a cloth bag hanging by a strap over his shoulder. He rose to his feet and turned, noticing D’Egremont for the first time.

  “Hello. Or should I say bonjour?”

  The man was tall and middle-aged, wearing a modestly-cut suit somewhat out of fashion. Over it he wore a sort of smock with a wealth of pockets, some of which appeared to have tools and other items stuffed into them. A pair of wire spectacles lay low upon his nose, and he peered through them at the Frenchman.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” D’Egremont asked in English. “And we can speak in your language if you prefer.”

  “That would be my choice,” the man answered. “My French is somewhat rusty.”

  “I asked you a question, Monsieur.”

  “Did you?”

  “I did.” D’Egremont waved, and the others came forward, forming a line at the edge of the clearing. “I asked you who you are.”

  “Bartram,” he said, removing his hat and offering a slight bow. “John Bartram, at your service.”

  “John Bartram, you are an Englishman in the territory of New France and are therefore trespassing.”

  “Truly.”

  “Yes, truly,” D’Egremont said, somewhat aggravated. “I am still waiting to hear what your business is here.”

  “Well, here,” Bartram said, “Agastache nepetoides. The yellow hyssop. An extraordinary plant, and very important for the pollination of insects. I found a remarkable sample at the base of—” he turned around. “This tree. No, wait—I think rather it was this one,” he said, gesturing at where he had been kneeling. “Really a remarkable—”

  “I do not care about the flower—”

  “The hyssop. You don’t care? Regrettable,” Bartram said. “I’ve hardly found any, though I assume I will find more closer to the river.”

  “Monsieur Bartram, you should not be here.”

  “In this forest?”

  “In New France.”

  “Brother,” Bartram said, “I assure you that the trees make no distinction as to which country they happen to occupy. Indeed, there is no boundary line that I can see.”

  “The boundary line,” D’Egremont answered, “is the one on which your king and my king agreed.”

  “An arbitrary mark made on some map thousands of miles from here? I assure you, sir, that the trees themselves were not consulted at all in the matter. Therefore, I do not see how it matters to us.”

  D’Egremont was not at all sure how to respond to the comment; instead he gestured at two of the troopers. “Take Monsieur Bartram in charge—”

  He stopped and looked beyond his line of soldiers and noticed that the path they had taken from the river seemed to be obscured by trees and foliage.

  “Ah,” Bartram said. “I suspect you have no idea just how angry these trees are with you.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “No, of course you do not, Lieutenant—is that the correct title? One must be punctilious in these matters. You see, the trees have not been consulted in all of this mapmaking and boundary-marking. And that is not to mention the clear cutting and lumbering, the slashing and burning . . . they are angry, Lieutenant. Very angry indeed.”

  The two soldiers whom D’Egremont had ordered stopped in arm’s-reach of John Bartram and looked to their commander for direction.

  “I am not sure I co
mpletely understand,” D’Egremont said.

  “For the best part of three decades I have traveled through this wilderness,” Bartram said, seemingly unaffected by two heavily armed soldiers close by. “Between Peter Kalm and myself, we have constructed a catalog of nearly every species of plant in this part of the continent. This land is familiar to me, and of late I have begun to realize that I can feel it as well.”

  “Of late . . . ”

  “Since the comet,” Bartram said. “The forest is beginning to awaken, Lieutenant. The beings that comprise it know their friends . . . and their foes as well.”

  If D’Egremont had not traveled to Carillon with the Chevalier de Lévis and seen the shades of Highlanders—if he had not heard the report of Soleil’s voyage upriver—he might have scorned the curious Englishman’s assertion. But this was one more incomprehensible thing in a world that suddenly seemed full of them.

  He turned, saber in hand, looking around the clearing. Somehow the trees looked closer, their boughs had dipped lower, and the canopy of foliage obscured the sun even more thoroughly.

  “I take it that they call you friend, Monsieur.”

  “I flatter myself to think that they do.”

  “And what do they think of us? Or have they not imparted any intelligence regarding that subject?”

  “They are not especially fond of white men, Lieutenant. Nationality is a matter on which they are utterly indifferent, though I daresay the French have been slightly more respectful of the wilderness than my own countrymen. They do not seem to be loyal to the red man either—but the natives understand that the natural world has its own jealous privilege.”

  D’Egremont was once again left with no idea how to respond. Here was an Englishman who might or might not be a spy; the correct thing would be to take him into custody and convey him to Québec . . . perhaps the Marquis would know what to do with him.

  “Will you come with us voluntarily, Monsieur Bartram? I will personally guarantee your good treatment.”

  “As a prisoner?”

  “As our guest.”

  “I have no interest in being anyone’s guest, Lieutenant. And I assure you I am much more comfortable in this environment than in some habitation in New France. So I regret to say the answer is no.” He held up a hand. “And before you order these stout young men in front of me to do violence to my person, I will remind you of what I said about friends and foes.”

  D’Egremont looked around him, the open area now dim from the overhanging foliage. It was as if the bright spring day had been transformed into grim autumn. There was no path at all. The clearing was a very small island surrounded by impenetrable forest.

  “You place me in a difficult situation,” he managed at last.

  “It is not difficult at all. Go and report my presence if you must,” Bartram responded. “But I will be on my way, and you will permit it or face the consequences.”

  “From you?”

  “From them,” Bartram said, gesturing to the trees that surrounded the clearing. Then he looked away toward the tree he had been examining and held out his hand. As D’Egremont and the soldiers watched wide-eyed, a path opened up. Bartram offered a slight bow and began to walk away. The two men nearest him made to follow, but D’Egremont shook his head.

  Behind the Frenchmen a similar path appeared, and D’Egremont gestured toward it.

  Go and report my presence if you must, he thought.

  He wondered what the marquis would make of it.

  Part IV:

  Orientation

  June, 1759

  Ye monsters of the bubbling deep,

  Your Maker’s praises spout;

  Up from the sands ye codlings peep,

  And wag your tails about.

  —Cotton Mather, Hymn

  Chapter 26

  The broom star has made old things new

  The Ohio Country

  Spring had not quite come to the land; the days were lengthening as normal, but the nights were cold, and the wind was stiff. It should already be planting season, but the ground was hard and unyielding; the sun seemed distant and the shadows it cast seemed dull and stark. Guyasuta did not know whether this was some sign from the Great Spirit, and Sganyodaiyo gave no insight except to say, Brother, these are the strangest of days.

  That was nothing he did not already know. He walked through Logstown without giving away his unease: he had made his choice, and the people who looked to him as their chief did not need to have doubts. Sganyodaiyo remained in his house, neither walking among the people nor speaking to anyone other than Guyasuta himself—and to the Great Spirit, of course.

  On the cold afternoon when the messenger returned from his mission to Warraghiyagey, Guyasuta sat in front of his own house, watching people pass by, offering nods and greetings. He had stopped to pack and light his pipe when a shadow passed in between him and the sun; he looked up to see someone standing before him, arms crossed in front of him.

  “Friend Shingas,” he said, beckoning to a seat beside him. It was courtesy only: the Delaware chief was not one he would necessarily call a friend, but since the tribe had been driven from Pennsylvania into the Ohio country, more and more of them had settled in Logstown—including their young, headstrong chief.

  “There are rumors,” Shingas said.

  “There are always rumors. What now?”

  “Flying Heads,” Shingas said. “And Maneto, in the great river. I had thought those things to be nothing more than legend, to frighten young children. But these stories do not come from children.”

  “Of course not.” Guyasuta took a long draw on his pipe, and after a moment offered it to the Delaware, who did the same. “Because they are not legend.”

  “Should I be joyful or fearful?”

  “When it comes to such things, Friend, one should always be fearful. They do not make distinction between the tribes and the whites—Flying Heads attacked the Council Fire of the Haudenosaunee. The Great Spirit is angry with the People of the Longhouse for becoming too close with the English and French. The whites are intruders on our land—”

  “I do not need to be told that,” Shingas interrupted.

  Guyasuta was a young man by any measure, and only the separation of the tribes in the Ohio country from their Haudenosaunee overlords had elevated him to a high position among a less numerous people. But Shingas was younger still and burned with hot anger at the injustices done to the Delawares, particularly over the last few years. To Shingas there were only enemies and rivals—no real friends.

  “The Haudenosaunee must renounce their alliances and turn their back on the whites,” Guyasuta said. “All of the things that come to them as gifts and trade goods are things they must do without.”

  “Yet the whites will still have them. Ships come across the sea and bring more every season.”

  “No longer.”

  Shingas was about to reply but stopped, his face a mask of surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “The ships will not come any longer. Sganyodaiyo has seen that the world is changed since the coming of the broom star.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will in time.”

  Shingas frowned. “What am I to tell my warriors, Friend Guyasuta? That the broom star has made old things new, that the sky and the earth have traded places, and all because one Seneca brave, who cannot bear the light of the sun, says so?”

  Guyasuta took us his pipe again. “Yes.”

  “The Delawares are not prepared to accept that. Not from you, not from anyone.”

  “Why? I know it is not because you are afraid, or that the Delawares are afraid.” Guyasuta smiled as Shingas frowned even more. “It is because you do not understand.”

  “I said that.”

  “You did. And I am prepared to make it clear to you—or, rather, Sganyodaiyo will make it clear. He will explain to you what has happened, and what is going to happen next.”

  “When will this happen then?”r />
  “Soon. I am expecting a messenger. When he comes, I will find you, and we will go to Sganyodaiyo—and he will tell you of the sky and earth and old and new and all will be clear.”

  The messenger came to him as he stood before Sganyodaiyo’s house. The man had ridden hard without sleep for two days but showed no sign of weariness.

  “Tell me what Chief Big Business told you.”

  “He was not happy with the message you sent him, Chief,” the man said. “He knew what the broken arrows meant.”

  “Did he also know of the Flying Heads?”

  “Yes. The young Mohawk was at his stone house, recovering from injury.”

  “Young Mohawk?”

  “The one called Joseph. He found a way to destroy a Flying Head, but it burned his hands.”

  “I did not know there was a way to defeat them without a shaman’s medicine. That is . . . interesting. What did the white chief answer to the message?”

  “He spoke these words: ‘I will deliver words personally to your chiefs—after I kill their braves and burn their longhouses.’”

  “Those words exactly?”

  “Yes, Chief. After he told me I should leave before I was hunted for sport. I thought reporting to you more important than my personal honor, but I will unsheathe my tomahawk and blacken my face to avenge it when you walk to war.”

  Guyasuta placed his hand on the young brave’s shoulder. “Of course you will, my friend, and I will welcome you by my side.”

  At a nod, the messenger departed for some much-needed rest, and Guyasuta went into the house of Logstown’s shaman and fellow chief.

  Though the sun was grim and wan, it was very bright compared to the dim interior of the simple house. The ground floor was divided into two rooms, one each to the left and right of the front entrance. There was a rough stair at the far end of the short hallway that led to the sleeping chambers above.

  A young man, younger than the messenger, stepped out of the left-hand room, with the air of someone looking to repel intruders; when he saw it was Guyasuta he relaxed.