Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  A few minutes later, with anchor raised and sails set, Neptune moved out into the channel, with the other ships following. Boscawen stood and watched, turning slightly away from the brisk wind, until the five ships passed Staten Island.

  Rumor outran fact on the streets of New York, as it always did. Among black residents it ran even faster; that the new king would be freeing all the slaves; that he would be buying all the slaves and then freeing them; that all the male slaves in New York would be freed and made sailors and soldiers. There was so much talk of freedom, or—among those who knew the word—manumission, that it was assumed that there had to be some truth to it.

  Governor De Lancey’s militia was still on the streets, patrolling against anything strange or extraordinary. The spiders were all gone, and the elephant-creatures had left as well: but the black people seemed to be moving with confidence, not keeping their heads low. Among the militiamen it was said that De Lancey was furious—about the new king, about the departure of the naval squadron, or about something else that no one wanted to mention.

  Change was in the air.

  Minerva was busier than ever, and scarcely ever left alone. It didn’t trouble her; she was used to having folks around, not just Absalom or Coffey, but anyone who needed comforting or advice or healing in one form or another.

  On a late afternoon in mid-September, Coffey arrived just at tea-time with York in tow. The young man, now a manumitted freedman working at the Admiralty office for Admiral Boscawen, looked like a devoted puppy.

  Sweet on that girl, Minerva thought, and it made her smile. Coffey smiled as well, as did York, though it was clear he wasn’t sure why he was doing so.

  “Tea is in the pot,” Minerva said. “And I gathered up a few biscuits. Sit, sit. La, you two look like you’re joined at the hip.”

  The two young people found spots on the settle, and Minerva took her customary place near the fire. Coffey sprung right up and poured the tea before Minerva could stop her, and soon they were all comfortable again.

  “What news, then?”

  “Oh, everyone is saying everything, Mercy.” Coffey looked at York. “They say that the new king is going to free all the peoples.”

  “Have you heard him say this, child?”

  “I haven’t heard him say anything, Mercy. He doesn’t talk to the likes of me.”

  “But you’ve seen him, up close.”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled. “Handsome man.” She patted her young man’s hand. “But not like you,” she added.

  “Even a cat can look at a king,” Minerva said, and laughed. A ray of late-afternoon sunlight pierced the clouds and passed through the window and into the sitting-room. “Young kings are always handsome. What else do you see in him, girl?”

  “I can’t see more clearly than anyone else, Mercy,” she said.

  “What your normal eyes see is good enough.”

  “Well,” Coffey said, “he’s getting used to his place. But he doesn’t let anyone scare him, not the admiral, or the governor neither. He’s acting like a king.” She smiled, a bit slyly. “And he’s in love.”

  “In love? With whom?”

  “He’s in love with a French woman, the one who came on the admiral’s ship. Ever since they came back from the battle, he can’t take eyes off her whenever she’s around.”

  “A French woman,” mused Minerva. “And a French priest put that crown on his head. I wonder what that all means.”

  “Not our place to worry,” York said, the first words he’d spoken as he listened to the two women’s conversation.

  Minerva set her teacup down carefully on the little table next to her and smoothed her skirts around her.

  “That is what a slave says, child,” she said to York. “But you are not a slave, you are a freedman, no matter your indenture. Of course, it is your place to worry. What is it the admiral said to us: a new dispensation. Our people have a stake in what happens, and it is of course our place. The world has changed, York.”

  “The governor’s militia have all the guns, Mercy. So long as they do, they will do all the worrying for everyone.”

  “You’re afraid,” Minerva said. “I know you are. So am I.”

  “You are, Miss Mercy?”

  “Of course I am. But I will not show it, and neither should you. The admiral is a good man; I can see it. He is in pain, which he won’t admit, but he believes in the right things. He sees us not just as black people, but as people.”

  “Governor thinks different,” York said. “Admiral isn’t the governor.”

  “The king—” Coffey began, but York cut her off.

  “King isn’t the governor neither. Governor thinks that every black man is Jupiter waiting to happen. He’s scared of us, all of us, and scared folks with guns are dangerous. All the blacks that were held to account in 1741 were put to death, but Judge Horsmanden is still judge. You ask your parents, girl,” he said to Coffey. “What happened in their day could happen in ours.”

  “York is right,” Minerva said. “We have a chance for change now because the world is changed. But it’s all promises. Anyone willing to make common cause with the black folks of New York is taking a risk.

  “But we can hope. We can always hope.”

  Two days after arriving in New York, King Edward and Catherine LaGèndiere found time to walk in the gardens at James De Lancey’s estate. The leaves were beginning to turn, and the quiet, pastoral place seemed the nearest thing to an English country estate. Still, for Edward at least, it was the most poignant reminder of where he was, and where he was not.

  Catherine had long since recovered from her exhaustion, but still looked careworn. Anne De Lancey, the governor’s wife, had arranged with her own dressmaker to fit Catherine for some new clothing—more plain than what might be found at the Court, perhaps, but enough to enhance her natural beauty. Anna, her unmarried daughter, had been offered as a companion, which Catherine gladly accepted. The young woman and Colonel Revere were present at a polite distance as the king and the Frenchwoman enjoyed the autumn sunlight.

  After a time, they settled on a bench, side by side.

  “I have been thinking quite a bit about what you told me,” Edward said. “I want you to know . . . while it makes things more acceptable to others, it really makes no difference to me.”

  “I had never intended to deceive you, Your Majesty.”

  “Edward. Please.”

  “I am not accustomed to address a king by his Christian name.”

  “I think such a privilege can be waived in private, Catherine. Or would you prefer I now address you as Louise?”

  She took a fold of fabric from her sleeve in her hand, examining it. “I have worn Catherine LaGèndiere like a suit of clothes for so many months now, I’ve grown quite used to it. I think I prefer it.”

  “There is no one to gainsay you. Out of curiosity, then; is there a real person who bears that name?”

  “There was. Henri LaGèndiere’s daughter was a particular friend of mine, and served as an assistant to Doctor Messier in Paris. She fell ill with cholera and died a month before we set sail. It was not well known in Paris, and it was a simple matter to take her place.”

  “Then I am moved to ask why you did so.”

  “It is difficult to discuss.”

  “If it troubles you so—”

  “No, no.” She smiled faintly, as if she wanted to make light of it. “It is something you must learn, sooner or later. I was betrothed at age twelve. Louis was fifteen at the time, already being fitted for the army. It was a good match in the eyes of his parents and mine, but I would be lying if I said that there was any love in it. He was . . . unkind, unthinking.”

  “The cad.”

  “Well, just so—Edward. But he had his career, and since last year he had his own regiment; he was, shall I say, a rising star, settled in his marital affairs. But he did not see me as anything but a decoration. It did not trouble me at all to find my own diversions and interests, ju
st as he found his.”

  “A man of poor taste.”

  “Aristocrats can afford to have poor taste,” she answered. “Or poor judgment. And I mean no offense to you personally, of course.”

  “My judgment has been questioned; very recently, in fact. No offense is taken, I assure you.”

  “The cad,” she said, smiling. “Who would dare?”

  “Admiral Boscawen. He was disturbed that I took matters into my own hands regarding the coronation.” He removed his hat and touched the circlet on his head. “Apparently that was a political decision he would have preferred to make for me.”

  “It is not his decision to make.”

  “I believe that he knows that, Catherine,” Edward said. “But it is a delicate matter, and as I am a callow youth—”

  Catherine laughed, and covered her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to make light of it.”

  “We should make light of it. He—and Field Marshal Amherst, I think—had originally thought that I would be elevated from prince to king in some manner that the English colonies could accept easily.”

  “What about the French colonies?”

  “Their acceptance was not a matter under discussion. I have made it complicated because I chose to make common cause with them, and offered to be crowned by the Catholic prelate of Québec. It remains to be seen what the rest of the English colonies will think of that.”

  “I don’t see as they have any choice, Edward. You are the king.”

  “Spoken like a true Frenchwoman. That isn’t how the British Empire is run.”

  “Still, you are the king.”

  “In this environment, my dear, I am king if the people decide to accept me as such. English or French or native, they will need to conclude that a king is needed and then if I qualify.”

  “To be certain, no one else qualifies.”

  “To be certain. However, the colonies of New England have managed very well without royal attention since Cromwell’s time. New York and Pennsylvania and Virginia have always been independent and headstrong; and the others are likely indifferent. The French and the Iroquois have their own traditions and customs. What we have is not so much a kingdom as three kingdoms united under a single crown—and each of those kingdoms will develop along their own lines, at least for a time. We—I, especially—will need to be patient.”

  He smiled. “You may think of our new kingdom as a work in progress. The one thing that unites us all and binds us together is a strong bond; our common struggle against the new perverse forces of nature and those who seek to wield them against us.”

  Catherine shuddered slightly and looked away.

  “I’m sorry,” Edward said. “I spoke carelessly and without thinking. I . . . don’t know what that battle must have been like from your perspective. I confess that I don’t understand much of what you were doing—but your effort was absolutely indispensable. If you were a man, I’d give you a title.”

  “I already have a title, for what it’s worth.”

  “Then I shall do the next best thing.”

  “Oh?” She turned to look at him. “What would that be?”

  “If you will have me,” he said, “I will make you my queen.”

  The words hung between them for several seconds, as a series of expressions crossed Catherine’s face: surprise, joy, worry, some fear as well. It was hard to tease them all apart.

  Finally she said, “And what would Admiral Boscawen or Field Marshal Amherst make of that?”

  “I have not consulted them. And they don’t have any idea that you are Louise, Duchesse de Mazarin. In fact, I believe they are somewhat at a loss to determine who might be suitable in the role. But I don’t care; what I witnessed at that battle made it clear that no other would do.

  “Catherine. My lady. I cannot command—I can only beseech. Would you consent to become my wife?”

  “I . . . am a married woman, Your Ma—. Edward.”

  “But there was no issue. I trust that the archbishop could put that marriage aside, particularly given the circumstances. For all practical purposes, after all, you are now a widow. And you have my solemn word and bond that your stature would be far beyond that of a decoration.”

  “Still, it is beyond my power to accept.”

  “And it is beyond my authority to compel. But at least you do not reject my suit out of hand.”

  “Reject . . . ? You think . . . you fear that I might reject you? After your demonstration of bravery and gallantry on the field in the face of . . . what opposed us? No, no. Certainly not. I am honored that you would ask me to marry you, and I am flattered that you would do so given the many obstacles that face the proposition.

  “I cannot accept at this moment—but if it becomes possible, then of course. Yes. Certainement. I can think of nothing I would rather do.”

  Chapter 66

  No one is alone in the world

  Johnson Hall

  “I don’t want to leave my home,” Molly said. The infant in her lap shifted a little in its sleep; she stroked her son’s head gently, but her face was serious and determined.

  “No one can make you go,” Skenadoa said. “The Tadodaho knows he cannot compel. The clan mothers cannot compel. They ask, Degonwadonti.”

  “What do they want of me?”

  “I think you know the answer,” Skenadoa responded. “They see how you have protected this place; they want you to protect their place.”

  “I could not protect any place before the broom-star fell, and before . . . ” She looked down at her son, and at last said, “. . . before William disappeared. There is no way to know whether I can do anything at all if I leave here, or whether this place itself is the defense they credit to me.”

  “They believe otherwise.”

  “And I am to give up my home and my safety because of what they believe? Please, Elder Brother. They believed that the League of the Longhouse would prevail forever, and that it would remain together as long as the Council Fire burned. But the Floating Heads put out the fire and the League has been broken. What is more, Skenadoa, we of the Longhouse always counted on the two white confederations to be balanced against each other—and now they are allied. Olivier—”

  “Olivier?”

  “Olivier D’Egremont. A French officer,” Molly continued. “He told me that the French and British now call each other friends.”

  “He speaks truth,” Skenadoa said.

  “Tell me,” Molly said. “With the French and English yoked together, what role is left for the People of the Longhouse? What is it that the Tadodaho wants me to protect? No, I wish to stay in my own home, with my family and the people I am protecting.”

  “That is not the answer they want to hear.”

  “But it is the answer you will give them.”

  “Actually,” Skenadoa said, “you may have to do that yourself; you must tell the clan-mothers who have come to ask for your protection.”

  “You did not say that the clan-mothers were here.”

  “You did not ask,” Skenadoa answered. “They are ready to see you . . . ” he looked from Molly to the baby in her lap. “Whenever your time permits.”

  With her baby settled in a nap, Molly left the house and walked down the hill to the refugee camp. There was a crispness in the air, a hint of fall; she felt the presence of all four of the forms of Ga’oh, the wind spirits, but they were subdued and quiet, as if they did not want to enter here. As she passed them, both men and women greeted her with a word or a glance. She still felt somewhat uneasy with the attention and respect, but knew that she had earned it with her newfound powers.

  She found the clan mothers sitting with a large group of refugee women in a flat area some distance from the enclosing wall. The women were in close conversation, but they fell silent as Molly approached.

  “Degonwadonti,” one of the visiting clan mothers said. “We had thought to come up to the great house.” She gestured toward the house on the hill.
<
br />   “There is no need. The baby sleeps. Best to talk in public.”

  “You know why we are here.”

  “Skenadoa told me. Did he tell you about my reluctance?”

  “He has not spoken to us.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Molly stepped forward and sat in a place that had been left empty. “Let me explain it to you.

  “I do not know why the Great Spirit has given me any power, or what I am to do with it—other than to protect my people.” She spread her hands, gesturing toward the refugee camp all around her. “But I do not know whether I am bound to this place, or whether the power is bound to this place.”

  “It is in you,” the leading clan mother said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We see it in you,” the woman answered. “You have the power wherever you go.”

  “You see it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this a power brought by the broom-star? You know this to be true?”

  “Not all power came from the broom-star, Degonwadonti,” the clan mother said. “I, Osha, have led the Heron clan for many seasons, and the Great Spirit gave me the eyes to see from a young age. I can see the mantle of power on your shoulders, Degonwadonti, and it will serve you wherever you go.”

  “This is my home.”

  “The world is your home, Younger Sister. You owe—”

  “I owe,” Molly interrupted, “I owe my duty to my family and my clan. I owe respect to the memory of Sir William Johnson and the son he left me. I did not choose to be where I am, and I am ready to return to quiet.”

  “The world has changed, Degonwadonti. You must—”

  “I must?”

  Osha sighed. “No one is alone in the world,” she said. “You are right to say that the world has changed. Of course, it has. The whites have lost their world and are here to stay. They will make better friends than enemies now that they are not at war with each other.