Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  The remaining miles home passed too quickly. Outside the stable, Sam took Thankful from Catherine, but instead of setting her down to walk, he just held her in his long, lean arms. The girl’s head flopped onto his shoulder.

  “Seems a shame to wake her, doesn’t it? I reckon she’s been traveling a week or longer on precious little food.” He pulled a leaf from the girl’s tangled hair. “She’s so scared and sad. She has no idea if she’ll ever see home again, or if she’d be better off forgetting what she knew so she can survive in this strange land.”

  Twilight deepened to a royal purple, a velvet drape that covered the entire sky save for the silver crescent cut of the moon. Catherine dismounted and led Lady back to her stall, then took off the saddle and blanket.

  Sam stood in the doorway, watching. “But she’s so young, she’ll heal before most do,” he added.

  “And you, Samuel?” She thought back to when she’d first met him almost two years ago. He’d had no one to speak his language to him then, to assure him he’d find his way. “Are you young enough to heal?”

  His lips curved in a wan smile. “As it happens, just now I feel rather old.” He hefted Thankful’s weight on his hip. “And getting older all the time.”

  “I believe that’s how it works,” she teased, rubbing down Lady with smooth strokes. “But are you . . .” She wanted to ask if he was better now that a few years had passed since his capture and ransom. She wanted to hear that he was fine now, that living on their property was better than being adopted by his captors. Better than being scalped.

  The turn of his chin stopped her. How could he be at peace about this, when she still mourned her separation from her mother’s people, and it was she who had removed herself from them? A mosquito droned near her ear, and she swatted it away, wishing she could as easily send the ache from her spirit. She tallied the sum of what she had forsaken: customs, traditions, family.

  Catherine secured Lady in her stall, making sure she had fresh hay and water, then left the stable, Samuel and Thankful alongside her. “Let her sleep, then,” she said, resolving to preserve as much of Thankful as she could. The child would learn French, but Catherine would be sure she kept her English, too. Samuel would keep it alive on her tongue, and they could both teach Catherine better. They would pray in the way they saw fit, never mind the Popish laws. Thankful would keep her name.

  Quietly, Catherine relayed these decisions to Samuel as he carried the child up to the house. “I will not strip her of all she is and remake her in another’s image. Will you help? With the English and the prayers of your people?”

  “With that and more. Whatever she needs.” The earnestness in his dark eyes confirmed the truth of his words. Whatever you need, they seemed to say. She believed him. Here was a bridge between them, when before this there had been a river with stepping-stones too widely spaced. This child needed them both.

  It felt like they were a family, the three of them drawn together in strange ways, though it was inevitable that they would break apart. At least Catherine could brace herself for when Thankful and Samuel returned to their people.

  There was no light in the house when they reached it. Inside, Catherine lit a lamp and led the way upstairs. If Thankful had been awake, Catherine would have given her a bath first, but the day had been long enough. Quickly, Catherine set the lamp on her bureau, pulled a quilt from inside to make a sleeping pallet on the floor, and topped it with a feather pillow.

  Samuel knelt on one knee, then lowered Thankful down to rest. She curled onto her side, knees brought up to her chest. On an impulse, Catherine dug in the back of the bureau drawer and pulled out an old doll Strong Wind had made.

  “Is that you?” Samuel asked, voice full of wonder.

  A smile spread on Catherine’s face. “Once upon a time.” The doll was a few inches taller than the length of her hand. The body was made of dried cornhusks, the hair of black woolen yarn that reached the doll’s knees. Unlike French dolls, this one had no face, and its dress was not silk but soft kid leather, fringed, belted, and beaded with white and blue.

  “She should have it.” Catherine tucked the doll into Thankful’s hand and watched her fingers close around it. “A girl should have a doll. Something to hold on to.” Propping a fist on her hip, she cocked her head as she regarded the child. “She should have one that looks like her. I will make her one soon.” Satisfied, she covered Thankful with a sheet to keep the mosquitoes off her skin.

  “Have you done this before?” Sam waved his hand over the sleeping girl. “You’re good at it.”

  This time, her smile was slower to come. “Thank you,” she told him. “I’m glad you came.”

  The knob in his throat jutted sharply as he swallowed, but then his face relaxed into smooth planes and angles. The glow from the oil lamp turned his hair into spun gold. “I left my tools in the grass. The dew will rust them if I don’t take care of them.” With a final glance at Thankful and a quick nod, he left her chamber and trod down the stairs.

  When she heard the front door open and shut, she went to the open window to watch him go. He hadn’t put five paces behind him before Gabriel came out of the trading post wiping his mouth and met him between the two buildings. Gripping the windowsill, Catherine leaned forward to listen.

  “You were in my house,” her father began. Shadows cloaked the scene, but she heard the hard edge to his tone. “Alone with my daughter.”

  Samuel didn’t respond.

  Dread tingling through her limbs, she left Thankful, gripped the lamp, and flew down the steps with it. The door squeaked and slapped the frame behind her. “He did nothing wrong, Papa, I swear it.” She launched the words ahead of her, praying they’d ease his suspicion.

  Gabriel turned, the whites of his eyes gleaming, and the night air chilled the sweat on her skin. “Where have you been? What was I to think when I came home this afternoon to find tools on the ground and the horse gone?”

  Was this a protective instinct? Perhaps she should have been grateful for this sliver of sentiment, but as she marched toward him, defiance swelled and buzzed in her head until she felt drunk with it. “Where have you been?” The question slipped out without thought or measure.

  A hard slap across her mouth told her she must have spoken in Mohawk. She touched her tongue to the blood in the corner of her lips but stood her ground, crossing her arms.

  “I told you,” he snarled. “Save that savage talk for the customers in the trading post.”

  Samuel moved as though he would step between them. His lean body grew taut, arcing like a fishing cane. Catherine caught his eye and jerked her head. This was not his fight.

  “I saw Flying Arrow today.” Gabriel’s voice, low and cold, splashed over her. “He told me about the trade. That’s good money. I didn’t see the scalps in the post, so you must have them.”

  “I don’t.” Catherine willed her voice not to shake. Fireflies throbbed and crickets chirped in a high-pitched whine. The air pulsed and thrummed in rhythm with her thudding heart.

  “You took them to Montreal, then. That’s where you two have been?” A moth pinged against the lamp’s glass chimney, then fluttered before Gabriel’s face. “Fine. I’ll take it now. The money they brought.”

  Catherine shrank beneath his scrutiny. Her father was not a tall man, but his displeasure could dwarf her, make her feel like a child again. The lamp wavered, and the small flame bobbed as she withdrew into the corner where the stable met the house.

  Gabriel neared. “You did take them to Montreal, did you not? The both of you?”

  Sam’s lips drew thin and pale. “Yes, sir. We did.” In two strides he was beside Catherine, his right shoulder overlapping her left. When his fingers brushed hers, she clutched them. His hand was callused and dry and strong.

  “And you traded the scalps for cash?”

  Catherine pushed a strand of hair from her face. “Yes.”

  Gabriel held out his hand, palm up. “Then I will take it now
. Or did you suppose you would steal it from me? Keep it all for yourself?”

  “Of course not!” Heat washed over her. Wishing she could tear the extra layers of fabric from her body, she tore the truth from her lips instead. “The money is gone, Papa. I used it to pay a ransom. For a child.”

  Shock registered in his eyes. He glanced at Samuel, then appraised Catherine once more, interest kindling in his expression. For hadn’t she merely mimicked her father’s actions in ransoming a British colonist? Gabriel had benefitted from the arrangement, yes, but she’d always suspected a streak of compassion had urged him to purchase Samuel from his captors.

  The sky had deepened to the grey of wet river rocks. It felt hard and cold and too close. “A boy?” Gabriel asked. “With a trade or skill?”

  Samuel gave her hand a firm squeeze, and she was grateful, once again, for his presence.

  The oil in her lamp ran out. The light guttered, then dimmed and died. “A girl,” she said at last.

  Gabriel knocked the lamp from her hand. “Another girl! What on earth do I need with another girl, when the one I have is so insubordinate? This is your Mohawk blood. We must help you remember who makes the decisions in this household.” He reached back toward something hooked in his belt. A switch, perhaps, or a rod to be laid across her back.

  Sweat rolled down Catherine’s temples and slicked her palms as she jerked free of Samuel’s hold, steeling herself to make no noise. It was another test of endurance, and Strong Wind had borne no coward. Women of Kahnawake did not cry out when babies left their bodies. Neither would Catherine cry out when her blood left hers.

  Turning her back, she squeezed her eyes shut and expelled the air from her lungs. Pulled it back in through her nose.

  “You wouldn’t.” Samuel’s voice, muffled by the rush in her ears.

  Bracing herself against the house and stable, she heard the crack before she felt a searing across her flesh. Biting down on the pain, she whirled in shock to face her father. Her dress flapped open to the summer air, and her skin felt warm and wet.

  In the dark, the whip looked like an eel slithering from his palm.

  “Stop.” Samuel threw back his shoulders. “You can’t do this. She’s not livestock. She’s not your slave!” His voice cracked on the word, betraying the boy inside the young man.

  Gabriel mocked him for it. “But you are.” He flicked the whip and smiled.

  Horror at his meaning filtered through Catherine. He was a shell of the father she loved. Rum had stolen his senses, while pain and fear had chased away hers. She had no idea how to reach the good that still remained buried inside him.

  Sam held up his hands in surrender but blocked Catherine from Gabriel. “You’ve been drinking, monsieur. You’ll hate yourself in the morning when you realize what you’ve done.” His French was broken here and there, but the meaning was still clear. “Put it down, sleep it off.”

  Gabriel roared. “You don’t tell me what to do! You were bought with a price, and then some, thanks to your foolish attempt to run away! I own you!” He snapped the whip at Samuel, who tried to catch it with his hand, but it was too quick. His palm glistened darkly where the lash had striped the skin.

  “Papa, don’t!” Catherine cried. “I accept my punishment, but let him go. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  Her father angled toward her, waving his abbreviated arm through a band of mosquitoes. The end of his unpinned sleeve dangled limp. He growled. “You care more for his flesh than for your own? What were you doing in your chamber alone together? Have you defiled yourself?”

  “No! No, Papa, he didn’t touch me!” Blood trickled down her back.

  “You lie!” He reeled the whip back over his shoulder.

  Catherine turned her face to the wall, gritting her teeth. She heard a menacing snap, then another, but felt nothing. A sharp intake of breath sounded in her ear. Sam’s arms braced on either side of her. He stood at her back, absorbing the blows that were meant for her.

  A scream struggled up her throat but collapsed when another crack split the air.

  Sam fell to his knees. With one yank on her waist, he pulled her down, too, and arched himself over her curled-up form. His limbs shook as they covered her. “Stay down,” he whispered, while his blood spilled instead of hers.

  Chapter Nine

  August 1759

  Dawn lifted the fog from the swollen St. Lawrence River, but not the fatigue from Catherine’s body. After Samuel humiliated Gabriel at dinner last night, she had slept only fitfully, one ear tuned for any hint that her father might take his revenge. He hadn’t. Not last night, at least.

  The soil was a sponge beneath her feet as she made her way to the dock. There would be no harvest today, no working in the field alongside Samuel, and for that Catherine was doubly grateful. As she waited on the dock for the porters to arrive from Kahnawake, she felt confident Moreau and Fontaine would remain abed since the wheat was too wet to cut. The French soldiers would call it treason to trade with New York. Catherine simply called it business.

  The fleece of clouds thrown across the sky glowed orange. A kingfisher burst from the cattails near the shore to dive after some prey in the water. Then, almost noiselessly, a bateau glided in from the west carrying Bright Star, four Mohawk women, and Joseph, though he had never been part of this trade before.

  “Good morning,” Catherine greeted them as they rowed near enough to hear. The women’s hair shone with grease, their neat plaits embellished with ribbon and feathers. Around each neck hung a sheathed knife atop their stroud tunics, and beneath each buckskin skirt were leggings. Greetings were brief, for they all knew what to do.

  Instead of coming alongside the dock, they beached their vessel on the shore and climbed out. The four women aside from Bright Star each had shoulder bags decorated with beads and moose hair, which no doubt held rations. Working together, all six Mohawk turned the bateau over and carried it above their heads to the creek behind the trading post, shell and metal jewelry making a kind of music as they moved.

  “Thank you for making one more trip this season,” Catherine ventured once the bateau was situated on the creek shore, ready to shove off as soon as it was loaded. “I understand this is a busy time of year with the harvest.” But she also knew these women would earn good money for this job, and the communal fields of corn, beans, and squash would be tended by many others in their absence. This income would mean much to their families at a time when there was little security to be had. “I know the current war makes the trip riskier.”

  One of the women, Chases-Clouds, pulled out her tumpline and tapped it against her leg. Copper hoops glinted in her ears. “We’ve done it before,” she reminded Catherine. “We angle westward in New York to stay out of the fray.”

  Truly, they were all capable and experienced, so Catherine had no qualms about sending them, especially with Bright Star along.

  The women trod the path from the creek to the trading post thirty paces away and into the storeroom, where they attached their tumplines to the ninety-pound bales of furs. Catherine did so, as well, so that each woman need only carry two bundles from the trading post to the bateau. A series of small creeks and portages would take them from here east to the Richelieu River, which would lead them south toward New York State.

  Once the vessel was loaded, Catherine stood on the bank to give final instructions to the women while Joseph kept watch for any unwelcome visitors who might disrupt their plans.

  Catherine coiled her tumpline and dropped it into her apron pocket. “You remember the route.”

  Fair Flower recited it as easily as though it were a list of items to buy at market. “Richelieu River, Lake Champlain, Lake George, portage, Hudson River, Mohawk River, Schenectady. We know the way as well as I know the veins mapping the back of my hand.”

  As she spoke, Silver Birch and Sweet Meadow watched Joseph admiringly. Little wonder. Since war and disease had come to Kahnawake, there were three unmarried women to every singl
e male, and Joseph had yet to be paired with a bride.

  A dragonfly with glassy-paned wings perched on the edge of the bateau. “Yes, good,” Catherine said. “And the name of the merchant you’ll deal with?”

  “Van der Berg, the elder or his son. We’ve done this before, Catherine.” Clearly eager to begin a long day, Chases-Clouds beckoned the other women into the vessel. Fair Flower, Sweet Meadow, and Silver Birch climbed in and took up their oars. Chases-Clouds and Bright Star pushed the vessel farther into the creek, and then Chases-Clouds climbed in.

  Bright Star waded back to shore.

  “What are you doing?” Catherine’s gaze darted between Bright Star and the other porters, who pushed their oars against the creekbed until they were in deeper waters.

  “Not going.” Creek water streamed from the fringe on Bright Star’s leggings and into the grass.

  Joseph joined them, his chiseled face revealing nothing.

  “Not going?” Catherine repeated, but the departing bateau was answer enough.

  Shadowy half-moons hung beneath Bright Star’s eyes. “Those women have navigated this route more than once. They know the portages, the path, the merchants. They know what prices are good and what to bring back, which most likely will be a combination of oysters, rope, and weapons. Van der Berg knows these women as well as he knows me by now. I trained them myself. They will not disappoint. Trust them, as I do.” A sentiment rarely expressed by one so bent toward suspicion.

  “Are you ill?” Worry snaked through Catherine as she studied her sister. Sickness took more of the People than anything else, it seemed.

  Bright Star’s cheekbones angled sharply beneath her skin. “Staying suits me.” The lines on her brow seemed permanent, aging her well beyond her twenty-eight years. It was not just sun and wind but grief that had drawn them there.

  How lonely she must be, mere months after her late husband’s death in the war. But it was not a subject they spoke of. Catherine wished she knew what thoughts lay behind those brown eyes. Did Bright Star miss Red Fox terribly? Was she numb to it by now? Had she been hardened to loss long before this? A sister should know these things.