Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  Bright Star’s eyes flashed. “He has hurt you?”

  “Not in body.”

  “But in spirit, his presence brings you pain.” Slowing her steps, Bright Star looked toward the lowering sun. “What will he do in Quebec?”

  Catherine stilled, planting herself by the river that could take him there. “His aim is to help end the war completely, if he can reach his general soon enough with critical information. I confess, I favor the idea of the war being over, regardless of the victor.”

  Her sister’s smile was rueful. “France wins. Britain wins. The result for the People will be the same. We will be discarded like a used-up weapon. Do you not agree?”

  “Then better to have it over with soon and stop losing your warriors to the fight.”

  Bright Star cast her a sidelong glance, then resumed walking along the river with the grace she’d inherited from Strong Wind.

  “Do you miss him terribly?” Following her, Catherine edged toward the subject of Red Fox, unsure if her sister would welcome it. Bright Star was not in the habit of sharing her feelings. At least not with Catherine. “You could tell me, if you’ve a mind to,” she added, chafing against the silence.

  “I miss many people.” Bright Star rubbed at a spot on her sleeve with a concentration Catherine saw right through. “Red Fox was a decent man. He provided as well as any husband could. But he was not a replacement for Thunder, the husband of my youth. I did not expect it of him, either. It would have been unreasonable. Unfair.”

  The air sat like warm, wet flannel on Catherine’s skin. “I understand. Just as you could never replace Raven and Gentle Breeze with captured British children.”

  The instant sharpening of Bright Star’s features took Catherine’s breath away. “So you have told me, many times.” She spread her hands wide, palms up. Empty. “And so, childless I have remained, even after two husbands. Yet you have your British captive, when you’ve never been married once.”

  The heat prickling Catherine’s scalp had nothing to do with the weather. Bright Star knew full well that Catherine had sent letters in search of Thankful’s family every time they went to Albany together. The search was fruitless. “Do you fault me for this?”

  The question was a door between them. Catherine beckoned to Bright Star to walk through it, to share whatever resentment or sorrow she bore alone. Instead, her sister turned and walked away, slamming the door soundly shut.

  Feeling punished, Catherine followed. “Silence cannot be your answer to everything.”

  Bright Star notched her head over her shoulder. “And giving free rein to your tongue and feelings should not always be yours.”

  Was it any wonder they still had not bridged the chasm yawning between them? And yet her sister was here, her very presence testament to her earlier offer of aid. She was a riddle Catherine always failed to solve.

  At length, Bright Star’s voice lifted from the hidden places of her thoughts. “I have a thing for you to consider.”

  Catherine hastened her step to walk alongside her.

  “It has been some time since we have been to Saint-François and Trois-Rivières. Perhaps I could strengthen our friendships with the People there, then continue toward Quebec, as close as it suits me. I could bring some wheat so they will let me pass. If Samuel is dressed as a white Indian, people would not question us. They will be too happy to get the food. It would be up to Samuel to get himself where he desires to be when we part ways.”

  By the time Bright Star had finished her astounding proposal, they stood between the walled-off fort of St. Louis and the Kahnawake village of longhouses. Smoke from the cookfires drifted, carrying the smell of fish and corncakes and drying meat. Dusk softened the points of trees on the hills behind.

  “You would do this for me?” Catherine asked.

  “I said only perhaps. I said it is a thing to consider, nothing more. But first, tell me this one thing. Do you trust Samuel Crane enough to send me alone with him?”

  Catherine pressed her sister’s hand between hers. “I trust him, and I trust you. It is myself I do not trust.”

  Chapter Twelve

  June 1754

  Five Years Ago

  Fireflies winked at Catherine as she made her way to the creek, the grass beneath her feet a carpet of cool silk threads. Hair unbound, she hung her towel on a rhododendron bush and waded into the water in her shift, a bar of soap in hand.

  Faint sounds of celebration rang out from Kahnawake, made louder as they carried on the creek. Singing, shouting, drumming. Last night her sister of twenty-three summers had wed a new husband, this one twice her age, and the celebrations continued still. Being there last night had been enough for Catherine, though. She’d been invited, and yet she didn’t feel as though she belonged. Red Fox was a warrior, brave in battle, and had the scars to prove it. Rumors of a new war against the British colonies were as many as the grains of sand beneath Catherine’s toes. Both Red Fox and Joseph, now fourteen, had already been raiding British settlements on behalf of France.

  Meanwhile, Catherine continued to nurture trade with merchants in Albany, and the two people she held most dear were British captives she could not imagine life without. Neither could she forget that the horrors that had brought Thankful and Samuel to her were French-sanctioned and carried out by Indian allies. Standing in the creek between two banks, she felt the pull between New France and New England, between Kahnawake and Montreal, between her father and her siblings.

  Wading deeper into the water, Catherine sank below the surface entirely. Even submerged, she could feel the drumbeats from Kahnawake beat a tattoo on her chest. Only when her lungs screwed tight did she rise again for air.

  Then she saw him. Naked save his breeches, Samuel jumped from the bank into the creek with the grace of a dog falling in. Her laughter drew his notice.

  Smiling, he moved toward her, and she to him, until they were only a few feet apart. Behind him, night’s curtain unfurled slowly, blotting a lavender twilight from the sky. But it did not hide the fact that Samuel had grown into a broad-shouldered man six feet tall who had nearly reached the end of his bondage. Neither was Catherine the girl he’d first met, the one starved for her father’s love.

  Standing up to her ribs in the water, her wet hair hanging in front of her shoulders and floating on the creek’s surface, she felt no shame at all and wondered at it.

  “Thankful is asleep?” Sam asked.

  Taking a handful at a time, she scrubbed her hair with soap. “Yes. It went easy with her tonight, and with my father, too. But my sister, I’m afraid, will be very tired come morning.”

  Samuel turned toward the noise of celebration. “I wondered if they were making ready for another raid.”

  “Not this time.”

  With languid movements, he sluiced water over his limbs and chest, then scooped sand from the creek bed and scrubbed his skin. “You don’t seem pleased for her.”

  Catherine rubbed the soap along her arms. “She longs for children more than anything. Red Fox may give her many things, but I suspect he may not give her this. She would scold me for saying anything about his age, though. She would say that I am old to be unmarried, with twenty summers behind me.”

  Samuel rinsed sand from his shoulder. “Does she love him?” Crickets chirped from the grassy bank.

  “No. Love did not keep my parents together, so she says she would rather leave her match to the clan mothers to decide.”

  Samuel dunked his head under the water and came up again, blinking. “And you? Will you marry for love or in a match your father will make?”

  Suppressing a laugh, she swished a hand through the water, pushing a raft of bubbles away. “He would offer no dowry. Besides, he needs me here. He wouldn’t want me to leave him.”

  “You speak of Gabriel’s wishes. I’m asking about your own.”

  The far-off drumming echoed the hammering of her pulse. “What I wish is irrelevant.”

  “It is relevant to me.�
� Samuel stepped closer, until the ends of her hair swayed up against his chest. His fingers entwined in the inky strands, slowly tugging the bubbles free. “Tell me, Catie.”

  “Konoronhkwa.” I love you.

  His lips slanted to one side. “In a language I can understand.”

  So forceful was the beat of her foolish heart behind her shift, she wondered that he could not hear it. “You have a little more than a year left before your ransom will be paid off.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Swallowing, she took a step back. “You will be free to leave, to go back to your brother and the land where you were born. You can do what I cannot. You can belong somewhere truly, in body and spirit.”

  Samuel’s gaze drilled into hers. “Tell me what you want.” He stepped closer, and the water lapped between them.

  “War is coming. We all know this. You will want to be on the side you believe in, not the side that has taken so much from you.” She paused.

  “If you don’t answer my question, I shall have to answer it for you.” His hand came around the back of her neck, and she nearly dropped the bar of soap.

  Catching her breath, Catherine curled her toes into the sand to anchor herself in place while the rest of her seemed weightless in the water, ready to drift into Samuel. Darkness thickened as night finally dropped its hem. Fireflies throbbed, and the bold rhythms from Kahnawake seemed to pull to the surface all the longings she’d meant to bury.

  “My wish is that when you have the freedom to go, instead you will stay,” she said. “With me.”

  Samuel bent his head to hers. “Need a carpenter, do you?”

  “No, Samuel,” she said in English to please him. “I just need you.”

  His lips met hers, and his strength wrapped around her, lifting her feet off the sand. Without thought, she gave herself up to the pleasure of wanting and being wanted in return. The soap slipped from her fingers, and her hands swept over his water-beaded shoulders and up into his hair. “Konoronhkwa,” she whispered against his ear, then kissed his cheek, his mouth.

  Maybe it was the night, or the silver glow of the moon. Maybe it was the Mohawk wedding dance thrumming against her chest and through her veins. But what she felt in that moment was instinctual. Something primal and pure and fierce. If this was a love match, she wanted it. She wanted Samuel with a strength of desire that made her bold and left her weak, all at once.

  Her long hair swirled and tangled around them in the water. “Je t’aime,” he said, and she believed him, his many kindnesses standing tall in her memory. She couldn’t name the date it had happened, but over the years they had grown together, bonded by more than mere circumstance. When she laid herself down to sleep at night, it was his face she most wanted to see come morning.

  Samuel’s hands dipped into the creek and found the hollows of her waist, pressing her muslin shift to her skin. His touch was possessive, but tenderly so. With her fingertips, Catherine traced the scars on his back from her father’s whip. Sam was her protection, her shelter, her joy and hope.

  “I require no dowry, and I have nothing to offer save my unending devotion. But if you would have me, Catie, I would be yours, as long as we both shall live. And I would count myself favored and blessed.”

  “I would have you,” she heard herself say, and watched the smile bloom on his face.

  He kissed her lips once more, but held her firmly apart when she yearned to mold herself to his embrace. Taking her hand, he stepped back, putting air and water between them. “I will speak to your father, and we will wed soon, for I see no reason to prolong it.”

  And it would be for love. At last, she would belong to another in a way she hadn’t truly felt since her mother’s death. She would know what it was to be cherished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  August 1759

  Bareheaded, Captain Pierre Moreau was waiting for Catherine when she returned to the house. He flinched at the sight of her, and she felt the blood mount in her face. “Captain Moreau.” She extended the tricorne to him. “I believe this belongs to you. It made its way into Kahnawake.”

  He stepped closer, peering at her through the half light of evening as he took the hat and tugged it onto his head. “Is that you, Catherine? I didn’t recognize you. Why are you dressed as a savage?” Perhaps it was only surprise in his voice, but she could not help but hear suspicion or disgust. “Why did you go to the Mohawk village?”

  She spoke quickly, anxious to retire before her father saw her. “I went to Kahnawake to visit with my porter about some trade. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to retire.”

  Moreau climbed onto the porch and barred her entrance to the house. “The woman we met our first day here. Thérèse Bright Star. You resemble her, do you know that? Aside from your blue eyes and scent of lavender soap. As I recall, she carried a strong animal odor about her person. Do you dress like them because you find that French gowns intimidate? I imagine there is a benefit in lowering yourself to their level when you visit. As Christ did when he came to earth.”

  Catherine bristled. “If you please, Captain. I will see you in the morning for the harvest.”

  “Stay a moment. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that British military captive your father purchased. Crane, isn’t it? There’s something about him, the way he carries himself. Not submissive enough for a defeated man or prisoner. I get the distinct impression he’d rather not be here.”

  She didn’t bother to hide a laugh. “Hardly a secret, I should say.”

  A chuckle puffed through his nose. “I suppose. In any case, with the harvest being so paramount to Quebec, I must be vigilant and at least raise the question. Do you have any reason to suspect he may try to slow down the harvest, interfere in some way? I’ve been waiting to speak to your father about this, but he doesn’t seem to be here. So, if you please, what is your assessment of Crane’s character?”

  Catherine schooled her features into a show of innocence. “The fact that he isn’t happy to be in our service isn’t a stain upon his character. In fact, what kind of man would be just as pleased to be enslaved to an enemy host as he was to fight for his country? Show me a soldier like that, and I’ll show you a double-minded man who can’t be trusted.”

  Her pulse thrummed in her ears. She’d said too much, too quickly.

  “Hmm.” Moreau narrowed his hooded eyes at her, mouth quirked as though unconvinced. “This entire business of ransoming military captives and allowing them to walk about is something I’m still getting used to. I know it’s common enough here, but it’s unheard of in France. Prisoners belong in prison, and that’s all there is to the matter. I daresay I’d rest easier if such were the case here, too.”

  The evening air cooled and colors dimmed, muting a patch of flowers next to the porch. Catherine’s hands turned clammy at the mention of prison. It was a filthy place where inmates wasted away. Vermin had more to eat there than the men crammed into the cells. She reached down and plucked a flower by the stem, rubbing the petals between her fingers.

  “I did wonder, since you mention the harvest,” she began. She must tread carefully here and not give herself away. “The transportation of the wheat to Quebec. Will you require the service of my porters? They are more than capable of rowing the waters with bateaux full of precious cargo.”

  Captain Moreau’s mouth pulled down in lines that bracketed his chin. “You’re kind to offer. But no, ma belle, my orders tell me that schooners are coming to take the grain away in bulk. Can you imagine how many bateaux it would take to carry all the wheat and flour?” He laughed shortly. “I do thank you for the offer. But once the wheat is cut and some of it milled, we’ll be on our way and require nothing more of you people.”

  Catherine’s heart sank like a stone in deep water. If they weren’t using bateaux and had no use for porters, how could Samuel escape unnoticed? “When do you suppose that will begin? The shipment of the harvest via schooners.”

  Turning, Moreau l
ooked toward someplace unseen, his beak-like nose in sharp relief against the door he blocked. “Next week, if all goes well, and no more rain delays us.” He pulled a timepiece from his pocket and buffed his thumb over its face. A nervous gesture, as if every moment must be counted. “No, it will be next week no matter what. The men in Quebec cannot wait longer, and I’ll not have their deaths on my conscience.”

  Slurred singing snapped Catherine’s attention toward a rustling in the woods. Gabriel stumbled out from among the trees, bottle in hand. Fresh from drinking with Gaspard Fontaine, no doubt. He cut short his song when he spied her.

  “Let me by,” Catherine told Moreau, but it was too late. The flower she’d picked dropped to her feet.

  “Halt!” Gabriel yelled. “What’s this about?”

  Catherine longed for the shadows to shield her as her father covered the distance to the porch.

  He appraised her. “The very likeness,” he muttered. “Why would you do this to me?” He swayed up the stairs, and Moreau caught his elbow to steady him, tucking his timepiece away.

  “What do you mean, monsieur?” the captain asked.

  “Dressing exactly like Strong Wind. Her mother,” he said to Moreau, who now looked on with understanding. “Yes, she’s half savage. And fully bent on reminding me of the greatest mistake of my life, it seems.”

  The empty bottle thumped to the floor as he dropped it to grab her shell necklace in his fist instead. With one yank, he broke the string that looped around her neck, and shells clattered across the porch. Catherine’s hands flew to her ears to remove the silver hoops before her father could grab those, too.

  “You’re a half-breed?” Moreau spoke the term lowly, as if it were foul language.

  To Catherine, it was exactly that. She could not count how many times she’d heard it whispered behind porcelain-white hands, accompanied by girlish giggling. Invariably, recognition followed, as if her deficiencies suddenly made sense in light of this revelation.