Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  A beat of silence passed.

  “I’m sorry for the pain my absence caused. I’d like to settle things with her, but how can I when she ignores me?”

  A pause followed before Thankful spoke again. “Have you considered that we felt ignored by you for five years?”

  “I’m sorr—”

  “I didn’t say that so you’d apologize. I said it so you’ll recognize where she’s coming from. You’ll need to give her time.”

  “Time I do not have.” The urgency in Samuel’s voice was clear even through the door.

  Catherine’s heart bumped hard against her chest. How much longer could she put him off when he was living under the same roof? He remained as relentless as he had ever been. Stifling a groan, she drew back the mosquito netting and left her bed, threw on a robe, and went to the door.

  When she opened it, Thankful offered a fortifying smile and slipped back into her own room.

  Slowly, cautiously, Samuel neared. “Does this mean you’re ready to talk to me? Or at least hear what I have to say?”

  “Not here.” Gabriel slept soundly most nights, but what if he stirred and heard their voices? Unwilling to risk it, she led the way downstairs and out the door, not bothering to look back as she walked, barefoot, to the river.

  Bats sprayed from a tree, swooping to catch mosquitoes in their flight. At the end of the dock, she sat, arms wrapped around her knees. Samuel lowered himself beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. A galaxy of fireflies twinkled around them.

  Catherine glanced at him. “You want me to help you escape south, to the British headquarters at Crown Point or Albany, but that’s not going to happen.”

  “Not true.”

  “Very true,” she countered. “I sent a team of porters south two days ago. It was the last to go this season. You missed it. So, you see, we have nothing to discuss.”

  “I don’t want to go south, Catherine. I need you to take me to Quebec.”

  A charge went through her at the word. She lowered her legs, toes skimming the water, and turned to face him. “Quebec! But why?” Surely there was no more dangerous place on the continent for him than that city. All of Canada’s military forces were concentrated there, along with their native allies.

  He bent his head toward hers, though no one was near to hear them. “I learned some things in Montreal, and more from overhearing Fontaine and Moreau talking. I need to get the information to General Wolfe.”

  She stared at him. “You’re a spy.” Her tone invited him to refute it.

  His chin jerked away from her. “I never set out to be. But what I know now cannot be wasted. It could end the war, Catie. I tried to tell you.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she measured the set of his jaw, the conviction in his voice. “What kind of information?”

  Loons called to one another in the span of Samuel’s hesitation. “A proper access point for Quebec City, for one. Wolfe has been jabbing at the city for months with nothing to show for it. If he doesn’t get a foothold soon, winter will freeze him out of the water, and he won’t be able to try again until next year.”

  Moonlight wrinkled on the river. Water lapped against the bateau, and the rope that tied it to the dock creaked as it stretched and slacked. Catherine pulled her braid over one shoulder so that it coiled in her lap, and she threaded her fingers through the plait. “You want me to help you tell the British general how to attack the capital of New France.”

  “And soon. Before the wheat harvest has a chance to fortify the Canadian and French troops inside the city. You heard what Captain Moreau said, didn’t you? They’re running out of food. The time to attack is now, when their morale is low, their bodies are weak, and they may agree to a quick surrender rather than a drawn-out fight and siege. The sooner I can go, the better, but I need your help to get there.” Pleading rasped his voice. “Please. You’re the only one I trust.”

  Clutching the dock, she felt the board’s rough edge bite into her palm as she leaned on it. “What makes you think I’ll do as you ask and not deliver you into the hands of your enemy?”

  “Because I know you. We are older, and much has changed, but not the core of who we are. So yes, I still trust you with my life, as I did before.”

  His hand found hers, and at once she was whisked to years gone by. She knew these hands. She knew the texture of his skin, the sweep of his thumb over her knuckles. She even knew he would squeeze them tightly before he released her.

  “I hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. If it eases anything, you were not alone in that pain.”

  Time grew languid and lazy, pulsing fireflies the only indication that it advanced at all. There was nothing but breath between them, and yet they remained worlds apart. “Then tell me.” She licked dry lips. “How did you recover?”

  If he had not, wouldn’t he say so now that they were together again? Her blood throbbed in her temple, her ears, the hollow of her throat.

  He squeezed her hand and let it go. “I put aside my own desires.”

  She turned her face away to hide her reaction. Indeed, he had put aside Catherine completely.

  “And I ask you to do the same,” he pressed, “for I know the idea of helping me unsettles you. But this place we find ourselves in now is far bigger than the story of two ill-fated lovers. There is so much more at stake.” He cupped a firefly loosely between his hands, and its glow seeped between his fingers. “Think of what this war is costing your people. The Massachusetts Bay Colony alone has four times the number of white residents as in all of New France.”

  The number stunned her. She’d had no idea the populations were so vastly unbalanced.

  Setting the firefly free, Samuel watched its flight. “You won’t win, and the longer the war drags on, the greater the sacrifices for all of you. Not just the soldiers, but civilians, too.”

  Yvette Trudeau came to mind, along with the refugees in her home and on the streets of Montreal. Catherine could not deny that this war demanded much of New France’s people. She wound her braid around her wrist, pondering. Wind cut across the river and swept over her, ruffling the hem of her robe.

  Samuel shifted on the dock beside her. “It’s time to end it.”

  “In favor of Britain, you mean.” Fatigue pulled at Catherine. Sliding back from the edge of the dock, she stood.

  He sprang up beside her. “You say it as though you’re loyal to the French empire just because your property falls inside the line marking New France from New York. But you’ve said it a thousand times if you’ve said it once—that line is blurred and faded. It means nothing to you. You’re a woman in the middle. You take no sides.”

  The dock shook as she put it behind her, Samuel following. “And if I take no sides, why do you think I’d choose yours?”

  “Think, Catie. What would another year of war do to Canada? Already its people starve. Yes, this wheat harvest may help, but then what? A British victory is inevitable. In the meantime, Canada suffers. What do you think will happen when Britain wins?” They reached the riverbank, and Samuel captured her hand to stop her. “All of this land becomes her responsibility. King George will not let his people starve. The blockade will lift, food will be sent, the suffering will end.”

  Catherine’s mind whirred feverishly while dew-kissed grass cooled her feet. Were these not her very thoughts just the other day? She set her jaw and pinched a mosquito from her arm.

  “Better that we end the war with one battle.” Samuel held fast to her hand, infusing Catherine with his intensity. “And with the information I’ve gleaned, it’s possible. Likely, even, if not certain. Listen.” Bowing his head toward hers, he cut his voice to a whisper. “The wheat we harvest is destined for Quebec. All you need to do is volunteer to take some cargo yourself. You know the waters north as well as you do south, do you not?”

  She did.

  “And I am your father’s slave. I will help you row. When we get near Quebec, I’ll slip away and into British lines. It’s simple. It c
an work. But only with your help.”

  Catherine teetered on the brink of indecision. She could almost feel herself being taken in, but whether by logic or some unnamed longing, she could not say. At last, she spoke. “You ask me to betray my country.”

  The excuse felt hollow, for it was true that she felt no more loyalty to one empire than to another. Nonetheless, if she were caught assisting a British colonist, the charge would be treason.

  “No.” Samuel’s tone approached a growl. “I ask you to save its people. I ask you to help stop the suffering before more of your countrymen and women starve. Will you?”

  With Samuel’s face so near, she felt a current of energy jolt through her. He did not release her hand.

  Part of her thrilled at his need for her. It was that portion she could not trust.

  It was dusk when Catherine approached the edge of Kahnawake the next day, nerves buzzing like flies on horseflesh. Bright Star had said she was staying home from the trading trip in case Catherine needed her. But would she regret her offer after this visit?

  As was her custom, Catherine entered Fort St. Louis adjacent to Kahnawake. Inside the stone wall, a cluster of soldiers in blue and white uniforms looked up from a card game as she passed the barracks. Others sat outside, polishing buttons and boots. Ignoring their stares and remarks, she headed for the Jesuit mission church.

  Shells jangled quietly from the fringed deerskin dress she wore. Gabriel hated Mohawk garb, but she had not dressed to please him. The meeting she sought with Bright Star would have a better chance of going unnoticed if she were not bedecked in French silks and lace. But that was only one reason. When she dressed Mohawk, it was easier to remember her mother.

  A single long braid hung loose behind her, brushing her back as she walked toward the steepled Church of St. François Xavier. Though she held her chin high, she looked away whenever anyone approached. There were those who would recognize her as Gabriel’s daughter and think her a fool for choosing him.

  The mission inside the fort and the village of nearly sixty longhouses sat against the river, hemmed in by fields of corn, squash, and beans. Beyond the fields were wooded slopes that led toward bluish peaks. The crests were powdered white, a portent of the coming winter.

  The silver hoops in Catherine’s ears tickled her bare neck as she swung her attention from hills to village. Though she hadn’t yet reached the boundary of the mission, she could hear the women of the Wolf Clan talking and laughing as they worked together. Singing carried on the breeze. The shrieking of children gaily scaring crows from the corn soared above it all.

  In the garden between the church and the priest’s home, purple bee balm mingled with black-eyed Susans and sunflowers. Grazing her fingertip over a velvety petal the color of sunshine, Catherine’s mind turned inward. What would her life have been like if she had stayed with Bright Star after Strong Wind’s death? She might be married and widowed by now, as Bright Star was. She might have children, or she might have mourned them and laid them in their graves already, as her sister had. Even so, she would have family. Every woman in a clan was called mother. She’d belong, even though she was only half Mohawk. After all, they adopted white British settlers without a drop of Indian blood into the village completely.

  A priest emerged from the church, engaged in a heated discussion with Grey Wolf. Timothy Laughing Creek walked behind his father, a tricorne hat trimmed with gold braid set rakishly atop his head.

  “But the Six Nations have undisputed rights to those lands.” Grey Wolf slapped the back of one hand into his palm. “They are our hunting grounds, and the French army just gave them away, when they promised to keep the British far from here.”

  The priest raised his hands. “I do not pretend to understand the workings of military strategy.”

  A scowl darkened Grey Wolf’s countenance. “I understand a lie. And so do you. I say those who lie cannot be trust—” He spotted Catherine and stopped.

  The priest followed Grey Wolf’s gaze, then hailed her with a brown-spotted hand. “Catherine? Catherine Duval?”

  Timothy pushed the hat back on his head so he could see and ran over to her. “Guess what I found!”

  She tapped his hat. “I believe that what you found, someone else has lost. Captain Moreau?”

  “I found it outside a cabin. On the porch, but still. If he wanted it, he would have been wearing it.”

  In Kahnawake, most items were for communal use. Personal belongings were kept beneath a person’s sleeping ledge inside the longhouse. From Timothy’s perspective, he hadn’t stolen this hat, but that wasn’t how its owner would see it.

  “Care to trade?” She pulled from her pocket a small handful of glass beads, which he was pleased to accept.

  When Grey Wolf called his son to his side and strode away, the priest gave her his full attention.

  “Father. It has been a long time.” She nodded to him, holding Moreau’s hat in her hands.

  “A very long time, indeed.” His clerical collar stuck to his sweat-filmed throat. “Have you come for confession?”

  She never had, and she never would. Uncomfortable at Kahnawake, and with a river between her and the many churches of Montreal, she’d grown more familiar with Thankful’s view of God, Protestant though it was. A God she could talk to anytime, anywhere, without needing a sachem or priest.

  “I’ve come to speak to Thérèse Bright Star,” Catherine told him. “But I’d rather not disturb the village. Do you suppose—that is, I cannot recall if you walk among them.” The question beneath the statement was whether his presence would be more welcome than hers.

  “I do. Will she be expecting you?”

  “She will come when you tell her I’m here.”

  “Of course she will.” He bowed to her and strode away, the hem of his black robes sweeping the dust behind him. Catherine watched his slightly stooped form retreat, then ducked inside the church to wait.

  It smelled of incense, old hymnbooks, and wine. Glass flasks hung empty now but would be filled with fireflies for vespers, their light a fair substitute for oil the church did not have. Wampum collars decorated the altar, reminders that this was no ordinary Catholic parish. Few Kahnawake had left behind their old religious traditions completely, preferring to mix their beliefs of the Great Spirit or Supreme Being with the priests’ teachings of Jesus. Many Kahnawake refused to restrict their worship but gamely added Jesus into the same category with ancestors and a great number of inferior deities.

  “Catherine?” Bright Star stood in the doorframe, hair smooth and shining. The day’s last wan rays paled around her. “There is trouble?”

  Tricorne in hand, Catherine moved toward her and led her outside with a word of thanks to the priest. “Shall we walk by the river?”

  The quiet clinking of shells and beads accompanied the sisters as they made their way through the gate in the stone wall surrounding the mission. Only when they reached the pebbled bank did Catherine speak. “I’ve been talking with Samuel.”

  The hawk feathers tied to the ends of Bright Star’s braids fluttered in the breeze. “What does he say of his mistakes?”

  As concisely as she could, she unrolled for her sister the story of Joel’s death and Samuel’s reaction to it all those years ago. “He could have come back. I would have welcomed his return. His guilt need not have kept him away,” she finished.

  Bright Star folded her arms. “But you understand his dilemma. You could have returned here, too. Was it your guilt that kept you away? Or the shame from a choice poorly made?”

  This was what came of confiding in her sister. “How can you ask that, when you were the one who told me to stay away?” Irritation edged Catherine’s tone.

  Her sister’s response was a dense and reproachful silence, her mouth a straight line on her face.

  “I didn’t come here to argue about our past,” Catherine said tightly. “Samuel Crane needs to leave.”

  “So let him leave.” Bright Star’s feelings
about Samuel had never been veiled. It was clear she had no sympathy to spare for his choices. Just as she had none for Catherine’s.

  Frustration building, Catherine tapped Moreau’s hat against her leg. “I want to, but it’s not that simple. The French soldiers staying with us shackle his ankles and make him harvest wheat during the day. He might escape at night, but he wouldn’t get far without help. Besides the fact that he doesn’t know the land and the river, his English accent will betray that he’s not French straightaway.”

  Bright Star swatted at a mosquito on her arm. “What is this thing you are saying? And what is it you do not say?”

  “He wants to go to Quebec. By river. His plan is for me to volunteer to carry some of the harvest by bateau to Quebec, and he, as Papa’s servant, would help me row.”

  Bright Star bent and scooped up a smooth stone. She turned it over in her hand, rubbing her thumb along its rounded edge before tossing it into the water. Ripples expanded around the place it sank, unseen. “That is his plan. What is yours?”

  “I want him gone.” The words sounded foreign to Catherine even as she said them, but they were no less true for that. “Having him so near is not good for me.” She’d made her peace with Samuel’s abandonment, but his return eroded her progress. He was quicksand. The more she struggled, the more she sank into memories and feelings that were better left untouched.

  Bright Star’s lips cinched, drawing faint lines around her mouth. “Gabriel will not be pleased his slave has slipped through his fingers a second time. You would risk this? You would travel alone with this man, though it may cost you?”

  A sigh swelled in Catherine, then broke as she whispered, “This is why I came to talk to you. I don’t want to be alone with Samuel, especially not for such a journey.” Either she would change her mind about helping him and leave him stranded, or old longings would return, only to be denied again.

  Her sister’s gaze was frank. “You want him gone. He can’t go alone. But you don’t want to be the one to take him. Is this correct?”

  Catherine shaped her hand around one corner of the hat. “I need him to leave as much as he wants to go.”